by Gayla Twist
My hands fumble through the blossoms seeking that little white rectangle. Tearing open the envelope, I yank out the card and read:
“Please hire me back. I miss you.
All of my love,
Elliot”
My stomach clenches, and I feel a little sick. I’m not sure if it’s disappointment or revulsion. Why is it when you want a man to send you flowers, he never even thinks about it, but when you never want to hear from him again, that’s when the bouquet arrives?
Elliot has been the furthest thing from my mind since my first day as acting chef de cuisine. I’ve literally blotted him out. Of course, there were his charming phone calls to keep dragging him back to the surface of my consciousness, but after hanging up the phone, thoughts of him slipped away again just as quickly.
I stand there, slightly stupefied, staring at the card. A survey of my emotions shows a combination of feelings, the most readily identifiable being guilt. Here Elliot is feeling bad, and I’ve completely forgotten about him. Also, anger. Is a bouquet of stupid roses supposed to erase an entire year of his bad behavior? Like I’m supposed to melt and say, “Oh! Flowers? Of course, I forgive you for cheating on me and being a giant dill hole.” Think what he’d expect if he ever coughed up a real gift like a piece of jewelry? There’s also revulsion. And this emotion easily eclipses the first two. Does he really expect me to be that big of a doormat? Would I ever get back together with Elliot?
No! Absolutely not! Positively never! Not in a million years. Better to be alone than to be with someone who treats me badly. If I’ve learned anything, I’ve at least learned that lesson. I don’t ever want to see Elliot again. Not even as friends. Not even the accidental encounter at the grocery store. I don’t think I’ll even be able to date some guy whose name starts with an E for at least a decade.
But what do I do with the bouquet? The flowers are beautiful, and it’s not their fault dating Elliot was a total waste of an entire year of my life. But I can’t keep getting down on myself for past mistakes. Moving forward with my life is my only choice. And not repeating such a colossal blunder in the future.
I can’t bring the flowers inside, though. The thought of seeing them every time I enter a room, or their cloying smell permeating every square inch of my condo... No, that would bring up too many angry, resentful memories. I’d be better off pitching them in the dumpster.
It takes a while for Dahlia to answer the door after my knock. She is clad in an expensive-looking cotton jacket and loose-fitting, Marlene Dietrich–style black pants. I have to wonder, are these the clothes she wore to work, or did she come home and change into this gorgeous ensemble? Are these her casual, lounging around the house clothes? My lounging clothes are made out of a lot more sweatshirt-type materials and fleece.
Dahlia leans in the doorway, one hip cocked. “Flowers. For me?” she asks, batting her eyes at me. “How sweet. But seriously, Sue, I only think of you as a friend.”
I knew she’d have some kind of saucy remark after seeing me outside her door with a bouquet, so I just skip to the explanation. “Elliot sent me these, and I really don’t want them. They’re so pretty, I thought maybe you’d like them instead.”
“Sure.” She opens the door wider and nods me in. “Who knew your ex had two nickels to rub together. I never would have guessed him to be the dozen roses type.”
“He wasn’t when we were dating,” I explain.
“Just a desperate plea to win you back?” She closes the door behind me.
“A classic case of too little too late.” I place the vase in the center of her dining room table.
“Well, they have no bad memories for me, so thanks.” Dahlia adjusts the blooms more to her liking. “How goes the campaign? Any updates from the front lines? Did your four-star general ever show up to save the day?”
Chapter 19
I think it’s pretty clear that I am obsessed with my job because it’s my day off, and all I can do is think about work. I’ve spent the morning working on new menu ideas. I even caught myself tuning in for a couple of episodes of The Specialist before I remembered that I didn’t have to study it anymore because we’d already filmed the show. Then, after I’d washed my chef togs, I suddenly realized I have absolutely nothing to do. I mean, there is stuff I can do. I did used to have friends outside of the restaurant industry, but a lot of them only have weekends off, and a free Saturday or Sunday is a rarity in my field of employment. I start to feel pathetic sitting around my condo on such a beautiful day, so I throw an apple, some cheese, a bottle of water, and a sun hat into a bag and head for the park.
Being outside with the grass and the fountains and kids playing in the sunshine is almost disorienting. I didn’t realize how much time I’ve been spending at Bouche. I know I did it to start dating Trent, but now it’s almost like I’m dating the restaurant. I feel so pathetic.
I eat my apple and wander around like a Victorian deaf-mute who has no way to communicate with the world around me. I need to join some kind of club or team or something. Make some friends that don’t know to parboil broccoli rabe for sixty seconds. I actually envy the people working in a taco truck. Yeah, they’re busy, but they also seem to be having some fun in their little aluminum can. Plus, they’ve got that big window open, so they’re practically outside. I’ve been so deeply engrossed in beating Kiki to get a life that I no longer have a life.
It’s the next day, and I’m back at work, of course. Kiki’s in the dining room talking to a ridiculously well-dressed woman in her twenties. There doesn’t appear to be a region of the woman’s body that hasn’t been groomed into submission. But she’s also weirdly featureless, like all those scrubbings and peelings and waxings and tiny adjustments of plastic surgery have erased anything interesting about her. Kiki is clutching a clipboard securing a pile of paper on which she is making copious notes as she is fawning all over the flavorless slave to fashion.
“Everything is going to be perfect,” Kiki’s babbling. “Perfect for your perfect day.”
“It better,” is the reply. The woman speaks in a strangely hushed falsetto like she thinks she’s Daisy Buchanan. “My daddy's paying you a lot of money, and he doesn't like it when I'm disappointed.” Okay, now I’m thinking she’s more like Veruca Salt. As an adult, who still refers to their “daddy”?
“You won't be. I promise,” Kiki assures her.
“What’s going on?” I ask Donna, who is lurking near the kitchen entrance giving both the other women the evil eye. I nod toward Kiki’s friend. “Who’s that?”
“Chandra Lake,” I’m told.
Donna’s answer doesn’t exactly clear anything up for me. “Who?” I ask.
“She’s the original daddy’s girl. Her father started HonkYourHooters.com, and now Chandra runs around spending his money and trying to pretend like the family business isn’t actually porn.” I can see Donna’s anger visibly bubbling beneath her skin, but I really have no idea why. Yes, a family fortune amassed off of getting naïve young women to fondle their boobs for the camera isn’t exactly a noble endeavor, but unless Donna was lured into such stupidity at a tender age, I can’t see how it affects her.
“What’s she doing at Bouche?” I ask. “And why is Kiki drooling all over her?”
“Chandra fired her wedding caterer yesterday, so now she's planning a last minute reception at Bouche,” Donna explains.
“Seriously?” I don’t think I could ever throw cash around like that, even if it was for my wedding. But I guess when your parents have made a ton of money in a pretty seedy way, you don’t have many concerns on how you spend it.
“Sue!” Kiki barks, beckoning me over. She snaps her fingers in the air a few times like I am under her command.
“What?” I shout back from across the dining room. Just because Kiki’s in the mood to grovel to some porn-backed debutante doesn’t mean I am.
“Miss Lake wants to meet the chef, and you’re supposed to be the chef, aren’t you?” Kiki snarls.
I can tell she’s furious that I didn’t dash right over. But still, it is my job, so I begrudgingly head in that direction. Donna trails behind me, and I wonder why she’s so interested in this whole thing.
Kiki turns back to Chandra Lake. “This is our acting chef de cuisine, Susan Sun. She just did a feature for The Specialist on the Eat Food Network.” I know it has got to be killing Kiki to say anything nice about me, so she must be working really hard to impress this Chandra person.
Chandra begins to extend her hand for me to shake and then thinks better of it, withdrawing it quickly like I’m too vile for any type of contact. I’ll never understand someone like this. She doesn’t want to touch my bare hand, but she’s okay with me preparing the food for her wedding?
“It’s nice to meet you.” My good manners kick in even though she doesn’t appear to have any of her own.
“Hi, Chandra,” Donna says in a tight voice from over my left shoulder.
Looking vaguely in that direction, Chandra says, “Do I know you?”
This causes Donna to expel a bitter laugh. “Don’t be such a bitch. You know damn well who I am. Or have you snorted so much coke you can’t remember high school?”
Chandra makes a face. “You’re staff, Donna. I don’t speak to staff.” Then she turns her back to both of us and continues to speak to Kiki.
“I’m late for my spa treatment,” Chandra says after checking the time on her cell phone. “We’ll go over the rest of this later.”
“Thank you, Miss Lake!” Kiki calls after her.
“Wow, Kiki.” This is a new side of her personality that comes as a complete surprise. “I've never seen you kiss so much butt before.”
Kiki waves the paper-ladened clipboard in the air. “It's not kissing butt. It's called landing a major client for Bouche.” She sneers at me.
I’m surprised Donna is still standing there after what that Chandra chick said, but she’s somehow swallowed her pride. She extends a hand toward Kiki’s clipboard. “Do you want me to enter her order into the system for you?”
Kiki snatches the clipboard away as if Donna were actually lunging for it. “Are you kidding? Like I'd trust you with the password. This is a huge deal. If this wedding goes well, then I can write my own ticket.”
“Ticket to what?” I ask, but Kiki is already walking away with her nose in the air.
Donna releases another small, bitter laugh. “I don't know why she's acting like that. Everyone and their sister knows the password to all catering orders is ‘sugarbaby.’ I mean, you knew it, didn’t you?” After shooting me a significant look, she too walks away.
What in the hell is up with our crazy wait staff?
The word sugarbaby is stuck in my head all day. I mean, what should I do with that kind of information? And how does Donna know it? And why did she share it with me? I have to physically force myself to walk away from the Bouche computer; the temptation to test the password for the catering files is just too strong.
I find myself confiding in Dahlia again when I get home. We’re getting to be regular pals with the late-night gossip sessions. I tell her all about Kiki’s groveling and Chandra’s rudeness.
“I know Chandra,” Dahlia tells me as she settles on the couch, a glass of white wine in her hand. “Not closely, of course, but whenever I’m in the same room with her, she always comes off as strikingly self-absorbed.”
“Yeah, and weirdly snooty,” I agree. “I couldn’t believe how incredibly bitchy she was to this one server, Donna. I mean, doesn’t she know not to be rude to the people who bring you your food? Think how much spit she’s probably eaten over the years.”
“I’d rather not.” Dahlia shudders. “And so why was this Donna person made a target?”
I tell her about what happened and how afterwards Donna said what she said involving the password. “So…” I hedge. “What do you think of that?”
“What do you mean?” she wants to know.
“I mean, if you were me, what would you do with the password information? Would you… exploit it to your own advantage?”
“I don’t know.” Dahlia leans back on the couch and takes a sip of her wine. “I know she’s a bitch, but Chandra’s not who you’re fighting. She would be collateral damage in your war on Kiki.”
“True.” I have thought about that.
“And you straight girls can get pretty psycho about wedding stuff. Do you really want to be the person that messes with some other woman’s perfect day?”
Chapter 20
"You can be sure of succeeding in your attacks if you attack places which are not defended. You can insure the safety of your defense if you hold only positions that cannot be attacked." ~ Sun Tzu, The Art of War
The sleeves are off again, and I’m back to working ridiculous hours in the kitchen as the wedding comes barreling down on us. I thought maybe Trent would try to see me after our moment on his desk, but that apparently isn’t the case. And it’s not like I have time to see him, anyway. Still, I think I’m closer to winning him over than Kiki, as long as the food for the Lake-McHale wedding far eclipses any other aspect of the reception. Plus, Trent encouraged me to get even more creative with the regular menu, and I am taking him at his word.
Just the regular cutlery provided by our knife sharpening service isn’t doing it for me anymore. A lot of chefs have their own personal knives that they bring in to use, but I’ve done one better. I figured out that I’m at my creative best when I’m using some of the Chinese edged weapons that I’ve collected over the years. Hacking off a hunk of meat with an ancient blade somehow makes me feel like I’m unleashing my inner power. It’s not the best way to preserve antique things, but I haven’t brought in my best pieces.
I can feel June watching me as I slice off pieces of roast with my saber. “Um, Sue? What are you doing?” she finally asks me after I’ve cleaved several pieces.
Her judging eyes were annoying enough without this verbal interruption. “Creating,” I bark at her. “What are you doing?” I’m trying to imply something here, possibly about all the work that still needs to get done, but she doesn’t pick up on it.
She comes back at me with, “Watching the temporary chef de cuisine as she slowly loses her marbles. I’ve got to admit, it’s pretty entertaining.”
I line my blade up with the meat and prepare for another swing. “Well, stop screwing around and get to work!” I take a mighty whack at the meat to emphasize my point, and she hurries away without another word. I think I’ve startled her a little, but I don’t care. Why should I be the only one busting my ass around here? Don’t we have more customers than we’ve had since the late nineties? Haven’t I saved everyone’s job? The least they can do is show a little gratitude by actually working.
With so much new business, I’ve started buying extra things for the restaurant and really reaching for new and creative ways to present the menu. I love sneaking into the dining room and watching as people who’ve never explored the culinary world much past a gourmet burger experience food in a whole new way for the first time. Actually, watching people enjoy their food is the only thing that seems to make me feel happy at the moment.
I slip out to the dining room to spy as one of our waitresses brings out two new dishes I’ve just added to the menu and delivers them to a couple who look like they’re on a big adventure in a restaurant that’s way fancy compared to what they’re used to. I can’t remember the waitress’s name. She’s more a catalog model rather than a supermodel, but still damn pretty.
The couple look up in surprise as their server sets down two inflated silver pillows in front of them. They’re actually made of the same material as when you buy an expensive bouquet of balloons, but in pillow shape and without the helium.
The man and woman spend a moment taking in the pillow that has been placed in front of each of them. Then the man finally gets up the nerve to ask, “What's this?”
“It's an aroma enhancer,” the waitress explains as she balances their
entrees on the top of the pillows.
The man cocks a questioning eye in his wife’s direction to make sure this is not some new chick thing that she already knows about. Gauging that she is also confused, he continues with, “An aroma whah...?”
“What are we supposed to do with them?” The woman has found her voice. She spreads both hands, palms up, in a bewildered gesture over her pillow. “Take a nap?”
“They’re filled with the scent of different herbs customized to each of your meals,” the server tells them as she releases the valve on each pillow. “They'll slowly deflate as you eat, infusing the air around you with fragrance. It’s using your sense of smell to heighten your sense of taste for a unique dining experience.”
“Hmmm...?” the woman says as she sniffs her first whiff of her customized pillow.
“Well, what do you know...?” The man’s eyes are round with disbelief. I can tell by his expression that he’s eager to go to work tomorrow and let his buddies know about his adventurous dinner experience. He’ll be the talk of the water cooler.
It’s almost instantly the day of the big Lake-McHale wedding. I guess when Chandra Lake fired her original caterer at the last minute, she really did do it at the very last possible minute. I’ve barely had time to order the food from Kiki’s printout. She’s been repeatedly adamant that the food has to be perfect. “Of course, it’ll be perfect,” I tell her. I don’t understand why she thinks I’d serve anything else.
I have to wonder, who was the caterer that was fired and why? That’s a risk I probably wouldn’t be willing to take so close to my wedding date. I guess Chandra knew she had enough money to throw around that it wouldn’t make a difference. She’s probably one of those spoiled socialites who thrive on drama in their lives because they have nothing else to keep them busy.