The Art of Love

by Gayla Twist

“Because,” he says, widening his eyes at her, “he'll do an episode featuring Bouche. I mean, if I ask him to.”

  “That’s really great, Aziz,” I tell him. “But I don't see how it will save my job.”

  For some reason, this embarrasses Aziz a little. There’s a hint of pink under his dark skin. “I'll tell Trent that I'll only set it up if he gives you your job back.”

  I am stunned. I am truly astonished. I mean, I knew Aziz and I were friends, but this is definitely above and beyond the call of friendship. “You'd do that for me?” I gasp.

  “Of course.” Aziz tries to play it off like it’s nothing. “But I can't tell you exactly when Mike's going to show up. It's supposed to be a ‘surprise’ and all that. So you have to make sure the specials are extra great every night.”

  “Yes, of course. Not a problem. That’s fine. I can handle it,” I say, way too eager to even sound remotely cool. I can’t believe he is doing this for me. It’s just way too amazing. “Is there anything he really goes for, food wise?”

  Aziz thinks it over. “He likes the unusual. Something he doesn't see every day. I mean, he’s been doing the show for a long time, so it’s hard for him to get excited about most specials anymore.”

  “I can do that,” I say, nodding my head about a hundred times.

  “And don't forget about desserts,” he adds. “He reviews those, too, and Mikey’s got a big sweet tooth.”

  “Oh...” My brain flashes to Carlos being held hostage in some darkened apartment by his new girlfriend. But I can’t say anything. This is a huge favor from Aziz, and I don’t want him to regret it. “I can do desserts,” I assure him. “And I super, really appreciate this, Aziz. I mean, I really do.” I realize I sound like one of the sisters from The Brady Bunch, but the words are already out of my mouth, so there’s nothing I can do about it. “I owe you one.”

  “Anything for you, Sue.”

  Dahlia is looking back and forth between us, and for some reason, this makes Aziz extra pink under the collar. He gets to his feet and makes for the door. “Well, I’d better get going. It was nice to meet you, Dahlia.” He flashes a quick smile in my direction. “Catch you at work tomorrow, Sue. I’ll talk to Trent first thing.”

  I get to my feet and hurry after him. “See you tomorrow, Aziz. And thanks again!” I call as he heads down the walkway.

  I can’t believe it. I can’t believe Aziz just pulled my bacon out of the fire. I will owe him forever for this one. I mean, seriously, how do you repay someone for a favor like that? I shut the door and turn to see Dahlia lounging on the couch with a Cheshire cat smile playing across her lips. “What?” I ask.

  She cocks a questioning eyebrow at me and broadens her smirk.

  “Huh?” I still have no clue.

  Dahlia raises the other eyebrow.

  I cotton on to what she’s thinking. “Aziz?” I say, raising my own eyebrows, but in surprise.

  “Why not?” Dahlia asks. “You don’t find a man who’s that good looking and who’s that nice very often. In fact, almost never.”

  “I know,” I tell her, feeling foolish just plain thinking about being with Aziz. “But we're just friends. And besides, what am I supposed to do with a guy like that? He's too pretty to date,” I explain. “I'd feel like a schlub whenever we went anywhere.”

  Dahlia shoots a look toward the ceiling to express her conviction that I really am just plain hopeless.

  “Hey, by the way,” I mention. “What was up with you when I introduced you two? I thought you preferred the ladies?”

  “Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “Even I can recognize that as a genuine hunk o' man.”

  Chapter 16

  "If in the midst of difficulties we are always ready to seize an advantage, we may extricate ourselves from misfortune." ~ Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  It’s a miracle! I’ve been given a reprieve. Of course, if I screw up then I’m out on my tail without a letter of recommendation. But Aziz has given me a chance to turn near defeat into victory. Being featured on an episode of The Specialist is a pretty big deal, and it definitely has the potential to bring Bouche into the national spotlight in a way that all the word-of-mouth in the world can’t achieve. But this means everything I do has to be perfect all of the time.

  Trent is beyond thrilled. He’s even sent me a magnum of champagne with a note of apology for losing his temper. No, not just regular size, but a magnum. The price tag is still on the bottle, and it is literally half the amount of my paycheck each week. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw it. I have to assume he paid for it from his personal account and isn’t something he’s counting as a Bouche expense. That would be unconscionable given the current state of the hotel’s finances.

  The note with the bottle reads:

  “Sue,

  I know Toulaine is going to be thrilled with everything you do. I know I am. Please forgive me for my small fit of temper the other day. I didn’t mean to gas on… I hope this little bottle makes up for it. We’ll have to drink it together some time very soon.

  In admiration,

  Trent”

  Suddenly, I’m feeling pretty damn encouraged about my campaign. Yes, the gas attack was an almost certain defeat, but with Aziz’s help, I feel like victory is within my grasp. I wish Trent would be more specific about when we’re going to drink the champagne, though. A magnum takes up quite a bit of space in any refrigerator, and I’ll have to be vigilant if I want to thwart any looting by my troops.

  As the days progress, I’m trying very hard with the specials. I have to dance the fine line between appealing and creative and not all that pricey to create. Not an easy balance. I start out with some specials I know I can handle, assuming Toulaine isn’t going to show up the very next day after agreeing to make Bouche a feature. I can easily fill the menu with things like "Honey-roasted quail with porcini mushrooms and truffle oil." Porcini mushrooms and truffle oil to be used sparingly, of course. I can also list specials like "Roasted natural pork medallions with a walnut crust and tarragon sauce" with some confidence. Delicious, if I do say so myself.

  Everyone’s a little freaked about the mass gassing, so they’re all working hard and keeping their heads down. By some act of divine intervention, we haven’t felt much blowback. I think this is in part due to the fact that people are too embarrassed to admit they had the farts so bad it drove other patrons out of a restaurant. I also think we’re benefiting from the fact that it happened during the first seating, when it’s usually seniors who show up to dine. They’re not accustomed to taking out their hostilities on the Internet. Still, we’ve received a few one-star reviews on Yelp that are dragging our average rating down. None specifically spell out their grievance, so that’s lucky, but here is my favorite:

  “Don’t Know What the Stink is About

  I’ve heard so many people raving about Bouche lately that my wife and I decided to make a reservation to find out what the stink was all about. And boy did we find out in a big way. I’d rather sit next to a stinky fat woman wearing a cloud of cheap perfume than ever go into that place again. We couldn’t even make it through our appetizers before we had to make a run for it. Two words of advice for the owners: ‘Better Ventilation!’

  PU”

  It’s been a few days since what the staff is calling “The Mass Gas Attack,” and I’m sweating over four burners of a stove when I notice that Antoine is lurking behind me. I really wish he wouldn’t lurk. And also that he’d get to work. He’s the only one who hasn’t been inspired to put in the extra effort. “What do you want, Antoine?” I finally ask, wiping sweat from my brow on my sleeve.

  “Why are you still here?” He narrows his eyes at me with suspicion. “I hear Monsieur Trent fired you?”

  I really don’t intend to share my business with Antoine, so I just say, “Guess you heard wrong.”

  “I know what it is,” he decides. “I know you must have tried to blame zhis gas attack on Antoine.”

  There’s
obviously a strong streak of paranoia in our saucier, but I’m not in the mood to deal with his nonsense. Instead, I just tell him, “Get over yourself.”

  I’m so busy in the back these days that I only find enough time to sneak forward once and observe the reaction of diners eating their meals. When Donna picks up her order for a two top, and both have ordered one of the specials, I slip through the swinging doors to see what they think.

  It’s two well-groomed men in California casual, whatever that means, but they’re both smiling when the plates are set in front of them. They break off their conversation abruptly to dig into their meals. I can see the face of the one with brown hair as he takes his first bite of the mushroom and wild nettle risotto. He closes his eyes and savors the moment. “These mushrooms are incredible,” he says after observing a moment of silence.

  The blond, whose face I can’t see, obviously agrees with him. “It’s so complex. I mean, it’s risotto. I like it, but you know, don’t really expect… well… this,” he exclaims, shoveling a second large forkful into his mouth.

  I am tired. Very tired. But this kind of off-the-cuff review puts a spring in my step.

  Days start blending into days, and I feel like all I do is cook, then sleep, cook, then sleep. That’s okay, though, because I am letting my creative juices flow. The specials have been getting rave reviews on Yelp, and the desserts are picking up speed. Carlos has been delisted from MIA and is now definitely KIA. Like a coward, he didn’t even come in to get the sack. He sent his new girlfriend to pick up his check. I refused to release it because I really have no idea if she’s his girlfriend or just some random chick that knows he doesn’t work at Bouche any longer. This brings an angry phone call from Carlos demanding his pay. I give it to the girlfriend but also let her know, “You can do better.” I’m not sure if she believes me because that’s something every woman has to figure out on her own.

  The lip gloss lesbian grooming tips have all gone out the window. I barely have time to bathe, let alone make sure my makeup is flawlessly applied. I’m spending so much time over a hot stove that I’ve started wearing a white bandana across my forehead instead of my chef’s hat. And forget about trying to make my hair look at all flattering. I’ve started wearing it in a topknot, speared with a couple lacquered chopsticks to keep it in place. A little trick I picked up from the terracotta warriors of Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s army.

  A few days later, June shows up for her shift and is surprised to see me already working hard on the dessert menu. She actually stops to ask, “Are you living here now?” When I don’t bother to answer her, assuming she’s being rhetorical, she feels the need to add, “Seriously, you're always here.”

  Paolo has just shown up and throws his two cents into the conversation. “Is true. She here at the night. She here in the morning.”

  I’m covered from head to foot in flour and dough. Chicago is having a mini–heat wave, so that means the Bouche kitchen is hotter than hell. About an hour earlier, I couldn’t stand it anymore and ripped the arms off my chef’s jacket. I can always sew them back on later when cooler temperatures roll around. But right now, the last thing I need is two of my employees standing there gawking at me, telling me I’m working too hard. My temper bubbles over. “Well, maybe if I wasn't the only one with a work ethic, I might be able to go home once in a while!” I bark, chucking a glob of dough at them. They dodge the dough but continue to gape at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Seriously,” I snarl at them. “What are you standing around for? Get to work!”

  My one pleasure of the day is sneaking into the dining room and watching the patrons as they try their food. Like when our dessert special was a pile of chocolate-covered strawberries with tufts of whipped cream, all sitting in a puddle of chocolate sauce. That literally had a table of three women squealing and clapping their hands with delight. One of the women couldn’t get over it. She kept looking from the dessert to the server and saying, “This is what we ordered?” amazement plastered across her face. That made me feel good.

  ***Kiki***

  I catch Aziz looking at me, but not like he’s checking me out; it’s like he wants to tell me something but isn’t sure if he should. I like Aziz. He’s handsome; he’s charming; and he has wonderful manners. If he only had more ambition than being a sommelier at a fine restaurant, I’d give him some serious consideration.

  “What’s going on, Aziz?” I decide to break the ice for him. “Is there something you want to talk to me about?”

  “Well.” He tips his head to one side. “I’m not sure.”

  “Okay, well let me know when you’re sure,” I say and turn to head for the bar. I’ve found that when people are all hesitant to do something or tell you something, the best way to pry it out of them is to cut them off and act like you’re not all that interested.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll just tell you,” Aziz says. “But you’ve got to promise not to tell your staff. It’s important that this be kept a secret.”

  “I promise,” I say without hesitation. I can always judge later if my promise needs to be kept.

  “Be subtle about it, but it would be really good for Bouche if everyone turned up tomorrow looking their best.”

  I always insist the servers look their best, but I’m curious why he feels the need to mention it. “Why?” I ask. “What’s going on tomorrow?”

  Aziz scans the area to make sure no one is eavesdropping, lowers his voice, and says, “Well, you know that show The Specialist?”

  ******

  At the end of the day, I am bone weary. Being the first one in and the last one out really takes its toll on you. I will never understand why people fantasize about owning their own restaurant. Stumbling into the employee locker room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I literally look like I’ve been rolled in flour. If Toulaine doesn’t show up soon, I am going to pass away from exhaustion.

  For some reason, I can’t find my car keys, which I like to have in my hand before I head to the employee parking lot. I start digging in my locker more and more frantically, all of my stuff spilling out the door. My favorite copy of The Art of War bounces out and crunches my toe. It hurts, but I’m really too tired to bother swearing about it.

  Bending to pick up the book, I realize my car keys are actually in my hand. “I have got to pull it together,” I tell myself.

  That’s when I become aware that someone else has entered the locker room and is standing behind me. I hurriedly shove the book in my locker before spinning around. “Kiki,” I exclaim. “What are you still doing here?”

  “I hear we're expecting a special visitor any day now,” she says, for once actually sounding friendly.

  “Whah...?” I’m caught off guard. Aziz had told me not to tell anyone about Toulaine featuring Bouche. I guess The Specialist likes it when people are genuinely surprised rather than just acting. “Uh... Who told you?”

  Kiki smirks like I should already know. “Aziz told me all about it.”

  My eyes bug a little in surprise, and there’s nothing I can do to hide it. “He did?”

  “Sure.” Her eyes become all sultry. “Aziz and I are very...” she fake searches for the right word, “close. Didn’t you know?”

  “Oh,” I mumble. No, I didn’t know. I just assumed Aziz had better taste then that. But men are very visual, frequently not realizing they’re dating a total bitch for months at a time. “I didn't… uh… No, I didn’t know.”

  “He asked me to help you out,” she tells me. “Give you some makeup tips. You know, so you look good for the show.”

  The thought of Aziz thinking I need help to look presentable for the show makes me blush to the core. I know I haven’t exactly been a fashion plate for the past couple of days, but I have been working eighty or ninety hours a week. That barely leaves time for the commute and a few minutes of sleep.

  But then my spider-sense starts tingling. It is Kiki, after all. I wouldn’t trust her to save me a seat, much less save my career by mak
ing me look presentable for TV. “Forget it, Kiki,” I say. “I already know how to put on makeup.”

  “I know. Someone gave you a few tips. And what you wear looks fine for being in a kitchen.” It’s hard to believe, but this is Kiki actually trying to be chummy, almost like a normal person. “But you're not exactly camera ready.”

  “Oh?” I can’t stop my hands from flying to my face. I hate how self-conscious she can make me feel.

  Kiki sighs and puts one hand on her hip. “Listen, Aziz made me promise not to tell anyone, but chances are pretty good that Michael Toulaine will be here tomorrow.”

  “He told you that?” I can’t conceal that I’m surprised and, to be honest, a little hurt. It’s not like we’re dating or anything, but if he was going to tip Kiki off, you’d think he’d tip me off as well.

  “Sure.” She gives a little sniff. “Like I told you, we’re close.”

  I don’t know what to say to this. Maybe Aziz really did send her to help me out. Maybe Toulaine is going to show up to film tomorrow, and I’ll look all washed out and tired when I’m supposed to be showing the world what a great place Bouche is to dine.

  Kiki rolls her eyes with impatience. “Let me just show you a few tricks so that you look okay on film. But I’m not promising miracles or anything. Just so you know.”

  Nope, still not buying it. Believing Kiki isn’t going to turn around and stab me in the back is like believing a scorpion in my boot isn’t going to sting me. “No offense, Kiki,” I tell her, “but why exactly should I trust you?”

  “First of all, I used to be a model,” she says, impatience hanging in her voice, “so I know what I'm talking about. And secondly,” she shrugs, “I promised Aziz I'd help you out, and to tell you the truth,” she leans in all confidential like, “I’d do anything for that man.”

  “Um... You would?” I gulp.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  If I thought there was one chance in a million a man like Aziz would go for someone like me, then I probably would. And putting romance aside, he’s been an amazing friend, even when I was digging my own hole to jump in.