The Art of Love
Page 19
I don’t know how many wedding receptions we’ll book in the future, but for all the years I’ve been at Bouche, Chandra’s was only our third, so I’m not sure how much that’s a factor in the restaurant’s bottom line. And reservations have actually gone up since Miss Lake started her rampage. I think she’s gone so rabidly over the top that people want to judge for themselves how insane she actually is. The real boon to Bouche is that The Real News ran a story on Chandra’s meltdown at the wedding.
The Real News is one of those weekly publications that make their money running unflattering photos of a celebrity’s thighs while at the beach or by claiming the Loch Ness Monster is actually living in the New York sewer system.
Well, either one of the professional wedding photographers decided to make a little money on the side or someone managed to slip in a camera despite the heavy security because less than a week after the epic catastrophe known as the Lake-McHale wedding occurred, The Real News ran the headline, "Crazed Bride Goes on a Rampage!"
The central image on the cover of the issue is of a giant Chandra Lake in her designer wedding gown throwing a flute of champagne at a cowering tiny groom in a tuxedo while wedding guests in the background flee. The man has obviously been photoshopped in because he looks nothing like the person Chandra actually married. The image has become a bit of a local meme here in Chicago with people doctoring the photo even more so Chandra is throwing barrels like in Donkey Kong or using Godzilla’s radioactive breath to take out the groom. There are quite a few of the images taped up around the employee locker room, which I should probably take down but instead I just ignore.
The Real News article doesn’t ever mention Bouche by name but references us several times as “a swank Chicago restaurant” or “a Chicago hotspot where the fashionable go to dine,” so that’s been extra good for business because locals know it’s us.
Despite all Kiki’s efforts to blame the kitchen, and me in particular, for the reception fiasco, there’s no proof that anyone did anything wrong besides follow her instructions. There’s been a lot of speculation as to why Kiki wasn’t fired on the spot. Most people believe it had something to do with the two hours she spent in Trent’s office with the door closed. I prefer to believe that’s just something that’s portrayed in entertainment as happening and is not something Kiki would offer or that Trent would accept.
It’s early afternoon. Aziz and I are sitting at Bouche’s bar sipping wine and sampling food. I’m half tipsy, but that’s not unusual for me after a glass or two of wine. We’re talking about pairings and trying small bites of different food flavors to see what combinations really would enhance the wine and the meal. The suggestion was generated by Aziz as a new way to build a menu from the ground up. It’s not a bad idea, and we’ve been slowly expanding Bouche’s wine list as we book further and further out with reservations.
I’m sitting with a handsome and charming man; we’re sampling delicious food and expensive wine; he’s actually being nice to me. The scene would all be perfect if it weren’t for the fact that this particular man is “close” to my arch nemesis. I tell myself to just let it go and enjoy the moment, but for whatever reason, I can’t. “So how are things going with Kiki?” I find myself asking despite all my intentions not to say anything.
Aziz gives me a bit of a funny look. “Fine. I guess...?”
“She's still working here,” I bring up as casually as possible, “so that's good.” I wonder if Aziz has heard the rumors on how Kiki managed to salvage her job. I wonder if he has any idea that she and I are fighting because we both want to date Trent.
Instead of looking angry or upset, Aziz shoots me a coy look. “Yeah, she's pretty lucky. I guess she and Trent worked something out.”
Weird. You’d think he’d find something like that upsetting, but he appears to be joking about it. I will never understand men.
“Listen,” Aziz says, his voice dropping a little in volume. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for quite a while now, and it’s not exactly work related.”
“Oh,” I’m surprised. “Okay.” Maybe he wants advice on the whole Kiki thing. But then, why turn to me. I’m the last person who should be advising anyone on relationships.
Just then, Donna, who has been skulking around the entire time we’ve been sampling, finally walks up to us and says, “Hey, Aziz, do you mind if I talk to Sue alone for a minute?”
“I guess.” Aziz doesn’t appear exactly happy with the interruption. He gets to his feet, vacating his chair for Donna. “But, Sue.” He turns to me before walking away. “I really want to have this conversation. Can we talk later?”
“Of course,” I tell him.
Donna takes a seat and then just kind of looks at me. I really have no idea what she wants, and she’s making me a little uncomfortable. Once it becomes obvious that she’s unwilling to start things off, I try to get things rolling with, “So? What's going on?”
Donna takes a deep breath and says, “So, I guess Kiki’s still working here.”
“Apparently.” I shrug.
“Any idea how she pulled that off?” Donna inches her stool forward a little as if she’s expecting me to reveal some top secret information.
I shake my head. “Not really.”
Digesting this, Donna says, “She does have her ways.”
I really have no idea what’s going on, and I can feel the wine from my sampling with Aziz. I really need a tall glass of water. If Donna wants to tell me something, I wish she’d just cut to the chase. “Is there anything in particular you want to tell me?” I ask.
“Kiki and I have known each other since the fourth grade,” she says.
“Oh?” I knew they’d known each other for a long time..
“Yeah, we've been friends for a really long time.”
“Really?” I can’t help but wonder. Friends doesn’t seem to be the right word to describe their relationship. It’s probably the wine talking, but I feel the need to add, “Because, no offense, but she treats you like crap.”
“True,” Donna admits, “but she's the one that got me my job here.”
“I guess that's pretty nice,” I say, but it doesn’t seem like much of a favor to hire someone and then treat her like your whipping boy.
“Not really,” Donna tells me. “In a way, she had to.” She breaks into a jackal’s grin. “She’s kind of afraid of me.”
Afraid of Donna? That really is weird. “You’re kidding,” I can’t help but exclaim. “Why would she be afraid of you?”
Donna drops her voice and gives me a knowing look. “She's afraid of what I know about her.”
Okay, all this hinting and sly speak is getting pretty weird, but I find myself asking, “What do you know?” I mean, that’s why she’s here talking to me, right? She wants to tell me.
“Well...” Donna looks down at the bar. “I really shouldn’t say.”
“Then don’t tell me.” I shrug. I’m not going to beg her for gossip, even if it’s something I can use to win my war with Kiki. I make like I’m getting up from my stool.
“Okay.” Donna puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me. “But you can’t tell anyone.”
I nod, still wondering what Donna is up to. If she doesn’t want anyone to know then she should just keep her mouth shut. Still, my curiosity is piqued and, although I’m sure what she’s about to tell me isn’t that scandalous, it would be good to have extra ammunition against Kiki in my arsenal.
Leaning forward, Donna cups her hand to her mouth and starts to whisper.
As I’m driving home for the evening and have the leisure to think things over, I am at a loss what to do with the information Donna has given me. It’s pretty darn bad. The idea of seeking council from Dahlia even makes me a little uncomfortable. I mean, the more people that know, the greater chance it has of spreading. It’s the gossip equivalent of a nuclear bomb. Is deploying something like that ever justified? I’m sure if word got out, Kiki would definitely leave Bouch
e and possibly even the planet. But am I the kind of person that does that to somebody else? It would be a pretty ruthless thing to do.
Chapter 22
"The enemy's spies who have come to spy on us must be sought out, tempted with bribes, led away and comfortably housed. Thus they will become converted spies and available for our service." ~ Sun Tzu, The Art of War
The next morning, I find myself daydreaming of Escoffier’s return. Not because I enjoy being shouted at with a French accent on a daily basis, but it would be nice to work less than an eighty-hour week. Or at the very least, it would be nice to be paid for all the hours I work. I know I started this whole war with Kiki to break out of my bad habit of dating losers and actually land a quality guy, but I feel like I’ve lost sight of my goal, and now all I’m doing is battling a co-worker when, in a world where Trent didn’t exist, we would actually all be on the same team. The whole rumor about how Kiki kept her job isn’t helping my attitude. I mean, if it’s true, then Trent is a lot creepier than I want to know about. That and the fact that there’ve been some photos of Trent with a very expensive-looking woman in On Chicago magazine’s gossip column lately that have me feeling like a bit of a dupe. I’m busting my ass to save his company, and he’s squiring some rich socialite around town.
Still, business is booming at Bouche, and I’m proud of that. If people want to dine here, they have to make reservations weeks ahead of time. I’ve been more creative with food in the last few weeks than I have in my entire life. I’m thriving and wilting and starting to go sour all at the same time.
Trent is obviously not Chicago’s biggest playboy because he doesn’t know how to read women. When I arrive at work, June hands me something sealed in an envelope. “Linda brought this down for you,” she says with a smirk. If his executive assistant made the delivery then the note must be from Trent.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to act nonchalant as I take the envelope. I stroll toward the locker room at a casual pace, but my heart is pounding like I’m about to be shown what’s behind curtain number three, and there’s a good chance it’s a brand new car. My fingers caress the envelope, and I can tell by the quality that it’s from Trent’s personal stationery, not some bulk-purchased business envelope that Linda uses to send out mundane correspondence. This is good because it did flash through my mind that I was getting a personal pink slip, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the case.
Once I’m away from June’s prying eyes, I flick my nail under the corner of the envelope’s flap and tear it open. Yes, I was right. It’s letter-pressed paper from the desk of Mr. Trent Winchell himself and written in a steady hand with what I’m pretty sure is one of those modern fountain pens.
“Dear Sue,
I know it’s last minute, but would you possibly be able to join me for a wine tasting at K2 tonight? I would love to hear your expert opinion on what they have to offer. That, in addition to your charming company, would make it the perfect evening.
The event starts at eight o’clock. Send me your reply via my secretary.
Hoping to see you,
Trent”
Is there any possible way I can get the desserts going, make sure everyone knows what they have to do for dinner, rush back to my condo for my little black cocktail dress plus all the trappings necessary to execute a high end date, and be ready to go by eight o’clock? It seems impossible, but there’s no way I’m going to miss out on my first actual date with Trent to one of the hottest restaurants in the city just because of the restrictions of the space-time continuum. The Bouche kitchen staff will just have to step it up. They’ve gotten a little too co-dependent anyway, assuming that I’ll do the lion’s share of the work. This is a big opportunity with Trent, and I’ve got to make it happen.
I’ve been cracking the whip on the staff, and everyone is working hard. Everyone but Antoine, of course. He has been watching me for half the day, and it’s starting to get on my nerves. I have no idea what is making him so twitchy. If he wants something, I wish he’d just ask for it instead of being all stalkery about it. Finally, I catch him watching me for the millionth time, and I wave him down from across the kitchen and gesture that he should come over to where I’m prepping some marinade for a portion of beef. “What’s going on, Antoine?” I ask as he reluctantly approaches.
“Nothing.” He jerks the corners of his mouth down and flinches his shoulders at me. “Why do you ask me zhis?”
Okay, he’s going to play games. That’s fine. “I just feel like there’s something on your mind, and I was wondering what it is.”
“No, zhere is nothing,” he insists. “I was just admiring your cooking technique.”
“Okay, if that’s all it is, fine.” I really don’t have time to wheedle whatever it is he wants to say out of him.
“Zhat was very smart what you did with zee wedding reception,” he says after a moment. “Antoine was impressed.”
“The food?” I ask, a little suspiciously. It’s unlike Antoine to dish out compliments unless there’s some kind of motivation behind it or he’s complimenting himself.
“No, no.” He chuckles. “I mean what you did with changing zee menu.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, turning my attention back to the marinade which, come to think of it, is probably something the saucier should be doing.
He gives me an exaggerated wink. “I understand. Play it zhat way if you insist.”
“I really don’t have any idea what you're talking about,” I tell him, “but I'm glad you came over. I've been meaning to talk to you.”
Antoine raises his eyebrows and lowers his eyelids. I’m not sure how he does it or what emotion it’s supposed to convey. “You have?” he asks.
“Yes. I wanted to thank you for doing such an excellent job while Chef Escoffier's been away.”
Antoine pulls the corners of his mouth down and shrugs one shoulder, tilting his head to the side to tie the whole gesture together.
I lean in to confide in him, lowering my voice. “I mean, if we're being honest, you're a much better chef than me.”
I can tell Antoine is trying to play it cool, but he is obviously flattered. “I would not say much better.”
“Let's face it,” I sigh. “When Escoffier chooses his permanent replacement, I'm sure it’ll be you he names as his heir.”
The saucier expands his chest, all but preening under this comment. “Yes, maybe I have heard something like zhis.”
In contrast, I deflate a little more. “I envy you, but I don't envy you. Being in charge is tough.” I lean forward to confide in him “You wouldn't believe the problems I've had to deal with. It's one crisis after another.”
Antoine pretends to look around the kitchen. I can tell I’ve got him hooked. “Yes, I am sure it is very hard. But it seems zhat zhere is no crisis today.”
“Sure.” I roll my eyes and then say through lips clenched as tight as a ventriloquist’s, “as long as the board of health doesn't shut us down.”
“What?” Antoine ejaculates at ten times the volume of the words I’ve just spoken. “Is zhat true?”
I scan the room to see if anyone is listening. A few people have glanced in our direction, but nobody seems overly interested. “Shhh! You don't have to broadcast it,” I scold him in hushed tones. “But yes, it's kind of true.”
Antoine's eyes bulge. “Really?” he says in a loud whisper. “For why?”
“Well,” I say out of the corner of my mouth. “Let's just say there may or may not be some rat droppings that may or may not have been reported to the health board.”
The Frenchman is absolutely stunned. “Sacré bleu!” he exclaims, which I didn’t think French people ever said in real life. “Impossible. Escoffier, he always make sure zhat Bouche is without zee dirt. How did zhis happen?”
“Antoine, you can't tell anyone,” I tell him, sounding a bit panicked. “I mean, this is really serious. I shouldn’t have even told you.”
Antoine pastes on his tru
st-me face. I’ve seen it before, and it never inspires much trust, but it’s too late because I’ve already spilled the beans. “Of course, Suzanne. I completely understand. I am with you for zhis.”
I sigh, a bit limp with relief. “That's good. I really appreciate it, Antoine. The guy is supposed to inspect tomorrow, so we've got to make sure Bouche is spotless.”
“How do you know zhis?” Antoine squints at me. “About zee guy and when he comes?”
“My guardian angel tipped me off,” I say with a wink. For someone like Antoine, that’s all the explanation he needs, which is good because it’s all the explanation he’s going to get. Now, I just have to worry about if he’ll be able to keep his big mouth shut.
I have to bust my ass, but I’m clad in the little black dress that the lip gloss ladies persuaded me to buy and waiting for Trent in the lobby by seven-thirty as instructed. I can’t believe I’m finally going on a date where I don’t have to stress about the guy showing up in an “ironic” T-shirt. It’s an incredible feeling. I’m assuming I don’t have to worry about Trent’s table manners, either. I once had a date where the guy literally harpooned his entire steak with a fork. I caught him ripping pieces off of it with his teeth like a wild dog. When I asked him what he was doing, he said in a bit of a defensive voice, “This is how I eat my steak,” like it was my fault for questioning him. Elliot was a lousy boyfriend, but at least he knew the rudimentary uses of cutlery when out in public. With Trent, I bet my table manners are probably worse than his. And if things go well and we have numerous dates after this first one, I’m going to have to figure out what to do with my wardrobe. I’ve only got this one dress that is of the caliber to be out on the town with a Winchell.
Thirty-five minutes later, I’m still waiting for Trent. How hard is it to grab an elevator to be somewhere on time? I guess I’m the dope for thinking that just because a man is successful, he isn’t going to leave me waiting around. I’ve been busting my butt all day to make this date, and he can’t even be on time. It’s infuriating. But at least Trent is an executive with an important job, unlike Elliot who was always late for absolutely no reason. Oh yeah, except for that last month or so where he was cheating on me and apparently needed to get a little action before taking me out on my birthday. At least, I know Trent probably isn’t upstairs banging someone in his office.