by Gayla Twist
“Gwenn’s, I think,” Aziz tells me.
Fortunately, Gwenn is heading for the kitchen, so I don’t have to hunt around for her. “Gwenn, are you serving table twenty-eight?” I ask, once she’s in range.
“Yeah,” she confirms. “Why?”
I’ve heard the members of the Van Dyke staff do not like to be recognized by too many people. Something about how they need to maintain anonymity to preserve an objective review, so I have to be a bit vague with Gwenn. “There’s a little man over there that just came in. Make sure he gets really good service tonight. I'm talking perfect. Okay?”
“Okay…” The supermodel waitress tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder and shoots a look back at the table. The tweedy man doesn’t make much of an impression on her. “What's going on? Is he some famous author or something?”
“I can’t tell you right now, but you got to trust me that this is important. Just take care of him.”
I guess my dire sincerity is pretty clear because she comes back at me with, “You got it,” with no more questions asked.
Okay, I admit it; I should just leave him alone and trust that between my staff and my cooking skills, the guy will have a wonderful meal. But I can’t. I can’t stop dancing around like a cat walking across a freshly painted floor. I mean, come on. I can’t be the first chef to realize a high-end reviewer is in her restaurant. So I send over some complimentary appetizers that I hope are to his liking.
Gwenn sets a plate of food on the man’s table, tosses him one of her most appealing smiles, and says, “These wild boar sausage meatballs are complimentary from the chef.”
“Oh, my...” the little man says, peering at the steaming food.
I’m so glad Gwenn is his server. She knows how to turn on the charm, which I’m sure will only enhance the flavor of the food for the tweedy gentleman. Some big hick in a cowboy hat tries to wave her down with, “Uh... s'cuse me, ma'am?” but Gwenn seamlessly ignores him. I love her so much.
I guess Aziz can’t keep still either because he personally brings over the half bottle of wine the man ordered. He’s at his debonair best when he says, “I think you'll find the flavor of currants will heighten your appreciation of the pork.”
The man at the next table, purportedly from Texas, is apparently used to being the center of attention wherever he’s from because he calls out to Aziz, “Hey, buddy? If you could spare a minute...”
“I’ll send your server over,” Aziz says with a clipped smile.
Our target is tucking into his food with relish, so I think so far we are doing well. He’s all but glowing with the attention he’s receiving from the best looking of our already good-looking staff. I even send Pedro over as the most charismatic of our busboys to clear away the dishes as needed, which he does with aplomb. I don’t know if gossip of our Van Dyke man has spread amongst the staff or if I’m just giving off a don’t-screw-this-up vibe, but everyone is bringing their A game.
I really wish I hadn’t ripped the sleeves off my jacket again. I definitely need to have a fresh, tailored chef’s coat ready at all times in my locker for these types of emergency situations. June’s coat is fairly clean and the closest to my size, so I borrow it to go into the dining room and introduce myself.
“I’ve never tried wild boar before,” the reviewer tells me. “It’s not as gamey as I expected.”
I’m sure that there has to be more than a few restaurants on the planet featuring wild boar, but I don’t want to correct him, so I say, “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”
“And who knew nettles could taste so good?”
I am glowing with the man’s compliments. He can’t stop talking about how much he’s enjoying the food. My head is swelling so much I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull off my hat. “Just something as simple as the peas in my salad were amazing,” he’s telling me. I can practically feel the Van Dyke in my hands right now.
“Thank you.” I beam. “At Bouche, we try to stay as organic as possible, and I think you can really tell that with the flavor of the food.”
I have my back to the next table and the needy cowboy. He’s still trying to grab the spotlight with, “Excuse me, ma'am. Are you the chef ‘round here?” I guess I’m bent over in a half bow as I talk to the Van Dyke reviewer because the cowboy reaches over and taps me on the near butt. The near butt is the region very close to your butt but in a grey area so you’re not quite sure if you should be offended or not. I shoot him a dirty look, but I’m not about to let him ruin my schmoozing, so I don’t turn around to tear him a new one.
I keep talking over the guy, hoping he’ll take the hint and just leave me alone. “We focus on buying locally with all our fruits and...”
“Ma'am!” The cowboy has actually goosed me on the butt. Right in the middle of the restaurant. I can’t believe it.
I feel rage swelling through my entire body. It’s not just the rage of being prodded by some rude cowpoke. It’s the rage of being overtired and overworked and underpaid. It’s the rage of being used by Escoffier and Trent and Elliot and every other dill hole on the planet. It’s the rage of some blowhard in a stupid cowboy hat thinking that he’s entitled to literally poke me on the ass because he somehow is under the delusion that he’s the most important thing on the planet, when he’s really just another random schmuck. I swing around and yell at him, “What?”
The cowboy gestures toward his plate. “I'm having some trouble getting my head around my meal, and I just wanted to ask you about it.”
I am furious. This hayseed has just interrupted the most important conversation of my life because he doesn’t understand his dinner. It’s unbelievable. Using powers of restraint that I didn’t even know I had, I say through clenched teeth, “You ordered the steak house steak. Steak. House. Steak house. What could be more obvious?”
“Yeah, but...” the man stammers. Before him sits a beautiful little architectural masterpiece. Slices of Kobe beef stitched together with chives and filled with mashed potatoes to form a tiny little house complete with chimney. “I mean, my opinion isn't everything, but why does it look like the home of a carnivorous Hansel and Gretel? I hate to say it, but maybe you've gone a dish too far.”
Now I’m losing it. I can feel myself losing it, and I want to stop, but the voice screaming inside my head to stop does nothing to prevent me from saying, “A dish too far?” in an incredulous voice. “You think I’ve gone a dish too far?” I can’t believe my ears. Hayseed thinks I’ve gone a dish too far. It’s incredible. I know everyone is entitled to an opinion, but when you’re a complete ignoramus, it’s best to hide the fact by keeping your mouth shut. And that’s probably good advice for me as well, as far as keeping my mouth shut, but this fool has embarrassed me in front of the most important customer I’ll ever have in my entire life, and I just can’t restrain myself. “You tourists,” I growl, letting all the distain I’m feeling fill my voice.
“Huh?” The cowboy is surprised that I would dare stand up for myself.
“You come into town for some fat-men-with-big-hats convention and you want to brag about eating in a fancy restaurant,” I find myself saying, even though everyone in the restaurant is listening, and I’m sure at least half of them are from out of town. “But you have no idea what good food is. You have no concept of haute cuisine.” The Van Dyke reviewer is listening, too. I know it’s a mistake to be so rude in front of him. But he’s been to millions of restaurants. I’m sure he understands my frustration with ill-mannered people and their complete ignorance of haute cuisine.
“Now, I wouldn’t say that,” the cowboy interjects.
But there’s no stopping me now. The stress, the long hours, the backstabbing, Trent’s imitation of an NBA player on a road trip, all of it is boiling over and pouring out my mouth. “It wouldn't matter if I served you fillet mignon or a piece of old shoe leather,” I tell him. “You couldn't tell the difference.”
The cowboy looks at me absolutely stunned. He’s probably some fat
cat who has never had anyone stand up to him in his entire life. I feel elated showing him what it’s like to be the one on the receiving end of a rant. “So why don't you do everyone a favor,” I tell him. “Eat your steak and keep your ignorant opinions to yourself.”
Much to my surprise, the cowboy doesn’t have an aneurism or anything like that. He maintains his composure and says, “Excuse me, ma'am, but I don't think you understand.”
His comment just provokes me. “What?” I sputter. “What could I possibly not understand?”
“I work for Thomas Van Dyke,” he explains. “I'm here to review your restaurant.”
I can’t even think about it. My brain refuses to acknowledge what I just did. There’s nothing I can say and nothing I can do to make it any better. Even if his steak house steak is the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, there’s no excuse for the horrible things I’ve just said to him. So, instead, I just turn and run.
“Oh... God. I can't believe I just did that. Oh, God...” I’m clutching my hands to my face as I burst through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
Instead of working, the entire Bouche kitchen staff is gathered in a cluster for some reason. I’m so caught up in the embarrassment of my own stupidity that it doesn’t even really register what they’re doing. I just want the comfort of a few friends telling me that, even though I’ve made the world’s largest jackass out of myself, it isn’t the end of everything. “You guys,” I blurt, focusing in on June, Aspic, and Paolo, who I probably know the best. “You'll never believe what I've just done. It's just too horrible.”
June is holding a book. That small detail slowly filters into my brain. And the book looks alarmingly familiar. “Let me guess,” she says, in a very snippy voice. She opens the book and references one of the pages, “Did you use the busboys to ruin the clothing of the wait staff?” She flips to another page. “Or did you purposely stain everyone's teeth purple to make us all look like idiots?”
“What?” I stare at the book she’s holding, and I’m just not taking it in. My head is throbbing from my life-altering blunder with the reviewer for the Van Dyke awards, and I’ve got no bandwidth to deal with anything else. But I have to deal with this other thing, this ugly thing before me. June is holding my copy of The Art of War, which I was keeping, like a fool, in my locker. “No!” comes flying out of my mouth. “I...” trying again to make my mouth work. Finally, I manage to croak out, “You don't understand.”
June is fuming. Steam is practically coming out of her ears like a kettle that’s about to whistle. “Oh, I think we do.” She waves the book in the air like a TV evangelist brandishing a Bible. “Kiki showed us your little playbook here. I think we all understand.” She glances toward the rest of the Bouche staff, who all look pretty angry. “You used us. All of us. To make yourself look good and screw over Kiki.”
“Yes. Why you no like Kiki?” Paolo wants to know. “She a nice girl.”
Kiki is a nice girl? I know none of them have any idea of the true depths of her evil character, but how can anyone honestly think Kiki is nice. She’s not even that southern debutant surface nice. “No, she's not!” I yell at him. If they only knew.
Then Antoine, of all people, feels the need to say in this totally outraged voice, “You are not zee nice girl, Suzanne. You used zhis book to become zee chef de cuisine even zhough you know I am better for zhis job.” Of course he thinks this whole damn thing is about him.
“That's not it,” I say, more to the crowd than to Antoine. “I wasn't using you. Any of you. Not for the job. I mean...” And here’s where I flounder because I was actually using them.
“Then why were you using us?” June glares at me. She waves the book in the air again. “Why are there all these notes?”
I let my shoulders slump. I really don’t want to explain. It’s too embarrassing and really makes me look like the freak that I guess I actually am. Suddenly, I’m just so very tired. I feel like all of the fight has been wrung out of me. But everyone is looking at me and expecting an explanation, so even though my voice is cracking and I can feel my nose and eyes are starting to burn, I say, “It wasn't about the job. And I'm really sorry if you think I used you, but I wasn't using the book for work. Not exactly.”
“What were you doing, then?” Aspic asks, his button eyes for once looking like a thunderstorm.
I’m ashamed. I’m just so ashamed, but I might as well confess. “I was using it as kind of a dating manual,” I mumble.
“What?” June can’t believe her ears.
This is so humiliating, but I take a deep breath and say in a slightly louder voice, “I was using The Art of War to try to date someone.”
“Who?” June demands.
Oh, this is so just the worst, most humiliating part. “If I’m being honest,” I tell them, “it’s Trent Winchell.”
Chapter 26
I stumble into my apartment defeated. Why did I bring The Art of War to work? Why did I shoot my mouth off in front of the man from Van Dyke? Why did I think dating Trent would be a good idea? I am obviously the world’s biggest idiot. The looks of betrayal on the faces of the staff. They trusted me, and I used them to try to land a date with a rich guy. It sounds too pathetic for words. I’m feeling so low, I collapse on the couch and bury my head in my hands.
“Knock, knock,” Dahlia says, peeping through my still slightly open front door.
No, facing her is impossible. She has to go. I really need to be alone with my humiliation. I look at her through the cracks in my fingers and say in a muffled voice, “I can't, Dahlia... I just... Everything is so awful. Please, just leave me alone.”
Of course, Dahlia completely ignores me and lets herself into my condo. I notice she has a folded newspaper tucked under her arm, and part of my brain wonders why she isn’t worried about getting ink on whatever expensive designer nonsense she’s wearing. “What's wrong?” she asks, and in Dahlia’s defense, she does look genuinely concerned.
It’s the genuine concern that does it. Tears spring into my eyes, and there’s no way to fight them back down. “Well, let's see,” I say in a light tone, even though my voice is catching. “I totally screamed at some guy from the Thomas Van Dyke awards who was there to review Bouche. Kiki found my copy of The Art of War in my locker and showed it to everyone. And it had all my notes in there and everything. So now the entire staff hates me. And I'm pretty sure I just lost my job because I don’t think I can ever go back there.” I swipe away the hot tears rolling down my face. “Is that enough for you?”
Dahlia furrows her brow. “Why would you keep your copy of The Art of War at work?”
“Because I'm a total moron,” I almost shout. “Okay? Is that what you want to hear? Is that good enough for you?”
Dahlia reaches out and rests a hand on my shoulder in an attempt at a comforting gesture. It’s a very awkward thing for Dahlia to do, but somehow the effort of her making such a gesture stabs at my heart even more. “I can't believe Kiki went through my locker,” I wail, slumping further on the couch. “And then showed my book to everyone at Bouche. What a bitch!”
Dahlia gives a sideways glance and lifts a corner of her mouth. “She might not be the only one.”
“Hey.” I pick up on her meaning immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on.” Dahlia shakes her head at me. “You're not exactly Snow White in this scenario.”
She’s right, of course, but she seems to have forgotten a key ingredient. “You helped.” I sniffle.
“I helped because I thought it was hilarious,” Dahlia tells me. “I didn't know you were going to go all psycho on her or anything.”
This strikes a nerve. “I didn’t go that psycho on her. She did stuff that actually hurt people. I never did anything like that,” I say, even though I know I sound overly defensive.
“Whatever you’ve got to tell yourself,” Dahlia says quietly.
I can’t believe now Dahlia’s turning on me. She’s the one tha
t was encouraging me to use The Art of War to begin with. So I played a few dirty tricks. Big deal. It’s not like anybody really got hurt. I mean, not physically. And besides, I was fighting Kiki. The only person she cares about in the entire universe is herself. I was actually doing Bouche a favor by messing with her. She’s the one that took it too far. “Yeah, well Kiki messed with the wrong bitch,” I say, not even caring if Dahlia thinks I’m evil. Who is she to judge me?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.
“I found out something about Kiki,” I say, remembering Donna’s juicy bit of gossip. “Something that will totally ruin her life at Bouche. Hell, once I let this cat out of the bag, Kiki will probably have to move out of Chicago.”
“Um...” Dahlia is staring at me with concern that I’m trying to ignore. “You might want to re-think that, Sue. I mean, I was all for this little experiment initially, but is it really worth ruining someone's life?”
“Why should I care?” I demand. “She ruined mine.”
“Are you sure about that?” Dahlia asks. “I mean, is what she did to you really worth turning around and trashing her?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then where does it stop?” Dahlia asks, folding her arms.
“Where does what stop?”
“When do you guys stop clawing at each other? I mean, is it after one of you hides the other’s body in a dumpster or what?”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this out of Dahlia. She, of all people, knows the shitty things Kiki has done to me. And I thought we were friends. “What?” I demand. “Are you turning on me now, too?”
“No.” Dahlia keeps her voice calm even though she’s obviously angry. “I'm just telling you there's a line that you shouldn't cross.”
This really pisses me off. “Why should I care when Kiki doesn't even know a line exists?” I ask. “I'm telling everyone what I know about her, and you're either with me or you're against me.”
“Fine.” Dahlia shrugs as she starts heading back toward the door. “I'm against you.” Before she leaves, she pitches the newspaper she’s had clamped under her arm at me. “One last thing,” she says. “There's an article in there you might want to read.”