The Queen of Minor Disasters

by Antonietta Mariottini

  Looking at them makes me think of Drew. What went wrong? We were supposed to be that couple. I shake the thought from my head and channel my inner Gina. We will be that couple. If everything goes according to plans, we will be that couple.

  As if on cue, my cell phone vibrates in my pocket so I step out front of the restaurant. It’s so loud in there that it would be impossible for me to talk on the phone, plus, if it is Drew, I want to hear everything he has to say. I take a deep breath and look at my phone. It’s my mother.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hello,” she shrieks. I hold the phone away from my ear a bit. “What’s wrong with your brother?”

  “Which one?”

  “Lorenzo. I just called him to tell him we’re not coming down this weekend and he almost hung up on me.”

  “Why aren’t you coming down?”

  “Your father doesn’t want to deal with traffic. We’ll be down on Tuesday. What’s wrong with your brother?” she repeats.

  “He’s not having a good night.”

  “Why, what’s going on?”

  “I think Chuck is leaving us,” I say.

  “What?” she screams.

  “Mom, I’m not sure. I gotta go. I’ll call you when we finish up.”

  At the end of the night, after I pay all the waiters and the dishwashers have mopped the kitchen, Lorenzo comes out of the kitchen. Lucy and I are sitting at our usual table, drinking the leftover wine from the night. I told her about Chuck, so she understands when my brother plops down in the chair. He’s taken off his chef coat and his t-shirt is soaked with sweat.

  “How many people did we do?” he asks.

  “One fifty-seven.” I say. “Tomorrow we already have one sixty-four on book.”

  “Great,” he says sarcastically.

  “What did Chuck say?” I ask.

  “He got the job at the Villa. They called him right before he came into work.”

  “When’s he leaving?” Lucy asks the question I’m scared to. I smile at her and take a sip of my wine.

  “Tomorrow’s his last night.”

  I can barely swallow. “What?”

  “Yeah, they need him to start right away. He has to.”

  “That’s so messed up,” I say in shock. “He should at least give two weeks’ notice. That’s standard.”

  Lorenzo looks at me as if I should know better. There are no standards in the restaurant business. Still, it’s hard to be mad at Chuck since he’s been such a good employee.

  “He has to take the job,” Lorenzo says. “It’s good for him. Steady all year round. Plus he gets health benefits and paid vacation.”

  One of the hardest parts of having a seasonal restaurant is finding consistent help. No one wants to only work for three months out of the year, so you run the risk of having a revolving kitchen door, hiring chefs for only one season, meaning you have to train someone new each year. We’ve heard horror stories of restaurants having to break in new chefs, only to realize, mid-July that they’re not any good. So far we’ve been lucky that Chuck has stuck with us. In the winters he’s helped out part-time at La Cucina. He didn’t say much when we told him my parents sold the place, but I guess that’s what prompted him to look for other jobs. Still, I’m scared of how the rest of the summer is going to go.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask.

  “I guess I’ll ask the Russian guys if they know anyone. I can train someone fast.”

  Every summer, a group of students from Russia comes to the Island to work. We always hire a great crew from Russia to wash the dishes and bus tables, but we’ve never had a Russian kid in the kitchen. It doesn’t seem like a good solution to me, but for now, it’s the only one we’ve got.

  “I’m sure it’ll all work out,” Lucy says looking at Lorenzo.

  “Whatever.” He stands. “I’m going home. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

  “See ya.” I wait until I hear the back door shut. “I’m worried,” I say to Luce.

  She takes a deep breath and sighs. “I know. It’s going to be really hard without Chuck.”

  “Who’s gonna do the cakes? Lorenzo can’t train a Russian guy to do those.”

  “Do you have the recipes?” she asks.

  “Yeah, they’re all written down in a binder in the office.”

  “So why don’t you do them?” She flashes me a smile.

  Lucy knows me better than anyone in the world, and knows how much I love baking. I’m always the first one to bake a birthday cake for my friends, or cookies for customers on Halloween; it all ties into Food Therapy. But baking for fun is one thing. Doing it professionally is a whole different ball game. “I’d never be able to.”

  “But some Russian kid can?”

  We both laugh picturing Ivan in an apron, whisking eggs and sugar together.

  “Just try it Stella. What’s the worst that can happen? You fail. Who cares? You can easily buy some good cakes to serve. But if you’re good at it, this could be something big for you. It can be a career.”

  I smile and take a sip of wine. Why is it that a best friend can bring out the potential in you? “You’re right. I’ll try it.”

  We sit for a few more minutes, finishing our wine. “Want to get another bottle so we can sit on the deck,” I say getting up. I collect all my paper work and put it in my bag.

  Lucy looks down. “I’m actually gonna stay at my aunt’s tonight.”

  Ok, she definitely didn’t mention this before.

  “My cousins texted during the night. They’re all down.”

  “Oh,” I say disappointed. I guess that makes sense. It is Fourth of July weekend. Sort of anyway.

  Lucy waits while I gather my papers from the office. I slip the binder full of recipes into my bag just before shutting off the light. After I lock the front door, we go in separate directions. I don’t know why, but it bothers me that she didn’t invite me to hang out. She’s such a big part of my family, yet I barely know hers. I think of calling Drew, but stop myself before I can. Instead, I call my mom and tell her all the details about Chuck as I walk home.

  Mario shows up early the next morning. “I’m here to save the family business,” he says as he opens the door to our house. I’ve barely had two sips of my coffee and can’t handle his sarcasm. I knew he was coming though. When I called my mom last night and told her the situation she thought it best to send Mario down. Out of all of us, he is the only one who could help Lorenzo in the kitchen. Even though he didn’t go to culinary school, he knows the menu inside and out, and can easily prepare any dish on it.

  I can tell Mario’s already unhappy about the situation, so I try to remain positive.

  “Want some coffee?” I ask.

  “How about a valium?” he says and lugs his suitcase up the stairs.

  I roll my eyes and continue flipping through the recipe binder. I remember typing all of these up after our first summer, when Lorenzo handed me various scraps of parchment paper with recipes scrolled all around. We figured if we catalogued them it would be easier to train the kitchen staff. The pictures of all the food proved to be a great help to the wait staff as well. But there are fewer recipes in it than I remember, and I try to get a mental picture of our dessert tray to see if everything adds up. There’s the chocolate cake, crème brulee, tiramisu, cannoli, and ricotta cheesecake. I wonder what kind of desserts Chuck’ll make at the Villa. I hope they give him set recipes to follow and stifle his creativity. I close the binder and turn on my computer, searching for some new desserts to introduce to the restaurant.

  That’ll show Chuck.

  By eleven a.m. I’m dressed (in an actual dress, not gym clothes, you never know who can pop in) and on my way to the restaurant. Tomorrow starts my new career as pastry chef extraordinaire, so I want to pick Chuck’s brain before he goes.

  Recipe: Ricotta Cheesecake

  Yields 12 servings

  Just one of the many desserts I know I can make.

  Don’t be scar
ed to try this one ladies, if you mess up, who cares? You can always buy something to serve.

  3 pounds whole milk ricotta

  1 quart whole milk

  10 eggs

  2 cups sugar

  1 lemon zest

  1 orange zest

  1/4 cup flour

  1/2 cup graham cracker crumbs ( finely ground)

  butter for greasing the pan

  1) Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

  2) Grease a 12” spring form pan and dust with graham cracker crumbs.

  3) In a large bowl, beat together ricotta and sugar until smooth. Slowly pour in the milk.

  4) Beat the eggs in a separate bowl, then slowly pour into the ricotta mixture.

  5) Add citrus zests and flour to the ricotta mixture. Stir to incorporate.

  6) Pour the batter into the prepared pan.

  7) Wrap aluminum foil around the sides and bottom of the pan so it doesn’t drip in the oven. Place on a baking sheet.

  8) Bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes, then lower the oven to 350 and bake for an additional 30 minutes.

  9) Give it a light shake, if the cake still appears too liquid bake for an additional 10 minutes.

  10) Remove from the oven and allow to cool completely before removing from the pan.

  11) Refrigerate until ready to serve.

  12) Dust with powdered sugar immediately before serving.

  Chapter 7

  Mario is a terror in the kitchen. He questions everything that Lorenzo says and the two of them have already gotten into dozens of fights (three of which were loud enough to be heard in the dining room. Granted, it was before service, but still). Honestly, I don’t know how Lorenzo is dealing with it. Every night it’s like I’m holding my breath, waiting for Lorenzo to throw him out. Of course, then he’d lay into me in the dining room. He’s already started to micro-manage my wait staff.

  And if that wasn’t bad enough, the temperature outside reached 102 degrees and has stayed that way for the past three days. I read in the newspaper yesterday that it’s the hottest it’s been at the beach in forty-seven years. The air is on, but it’s already warm in the restaurant and no one’s even here yet. I can only imagine what it’ll feel like with sixty people crammed in here. I fan myself with my hand.

  Truthfully, I think the heat might be radiating from me. I’ve been so miserable lately.

  There’s been no word from Drew and we’re going on four weeks now. I’ve stuck to my guns and haven’t called him (unless you count the other night when I was stressed and accidentally reached for the phone and called him. It was like an automatic response to stress or something, but I hung up before he could respond, and anyway, it was an accident).

  Lucy thinks my plan to get Drew back is ridiculous, but what does she know about relationships. Let’s be honest here. Lucy’s never really had a boyfriend so she’s not one to be dishing out advice.

  “Will you just forget him?” she says when she comes into work. “You’re miserable and it’s not making it easier on any of us.”

  This infuriates me.

  Why do I always have to be the happy one around here?

  Why does Mario get to waltz in and be the big mean boss?

  How come Lorenzo gets away with yelling at the waiters?

  I’m not hurting anyone. I’m just not smiling like normal. At least not until the guests come in.

  If there’s one thing I’ve gotten to be very good at over the years it’s acting. My father taught me to never let the customers know you’re upset. “If they see that,” he says, “the dream is over.”

  My dad has this theory that people go out to eat to escape their problems, their worries, and their everyday. When they enter a restaurant, they step into a dream world where they’re kings and have complete control.

  It makes sense if you think about it. At a restaurant, you get to choose what you want to eat, have other people prepare it, serve it to you, and clean up after you.

  Which is exactly why I’ll plaster a smile on my face from 5:00 to 11:00 tonight.

  Even if Drew doesn’t call me.

  Some therapists might call this “repression,” but I call it getting through the night, and if that means I’ll be lying on a couch in a few years, talking about my childhood while some shrink takes notes, so be it. Lucy thinks that one day I’ll just explode, but that’s not likely.

  I can’t even imagine the look on people’s faces if I just started screaming and throwing pasta in the middle of the dining room one night.

  Not that I would ever do that or anything. Talk about ruining the dream.

  “What are the specials tonight?” I ask entering the kitchen with a pen and paper in hand. We open in ten minutes, so the waiters need to know this info, like now.

  “We only have one,” Lorenzo says with a smile. “Penne all’ arrabbiata. Angry penne, just for you.”

  He and Mario laugh and I storm out of the kitchen.

  Stupid brothers. They think they’re so funny.

  I fume as I stand by the hostess podium. I get nine more minutes to brood and I’m using every last second.

  “Did you get the specials?” Dante asks. I look to see the rest of the waiters gather by their station, pens in hand. They’ve sent a family member to try to talk to me.

  “Get them yourself,” I snap. Dante scowls and walks past me. I watch him enter the kitchen. A few minutes later he’s in the back, telling the waiters the specials of the night. As soon as he finishes, he switches on the music and dims the lights, signifying that we are now open for business.

  I take a deep breath and smile.

  As the night drags on, the heat continues to rise. I’ve lowered the air down to forty degrees, but the meter is still reading eighty-two. That’s twenty degrees cooler than the outside air, but still not enough to make a comfortable dining experience. Each year, about a hundred thousand people gather on the Island for the Fourth of July, and everyone uses their air conditioning on full blast. This year is the worst yet, as the temperature is forcing the electricity into overdrive.

  At around 7:00 the lights flicker. It’s just a momentary lapse of power but is enough to send a hush through the noisy restaurant. I look around and see people fanning themselves with their cloth napkins, wiping sweat from their brows. I don’t think anyone has ordered the penne all’ arrabbiata; who needs the extra heat on his plate?

  That’ll show Lorenzo for trying to make fun of his only sister. His twin.

  But I start to worry that maybe it’s too hot. Last year, Mario suggested back up air conditioners, but the project was too expensive so my parents decided against it. They should have listened. Instantly, I imagine a customer revolt, where people decide to all walk out together, and the restaurant is left empty. The phone rings.

  “Stella,” Stacy, the owner of Sea Breeze says. She sounds frantic.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Is your power out?”

  “No, it just flickered a little but it’s back on.”

  “Ours has been out for forty minutes,” she says in a panic. “I think we need to close.”

  Every restaurant’s biggest nightmare is losing power during service. Not only will they lose the business of the night, and get a bad reputation for canceling their reservations at the last minute, but they’ll also most likely lose all of their inventory. I know they have a huge walk-in fridge and matching freezer, probably stocked with thousands of dollars’ worth of food.

  “If you need to use some of our ice, feel free to come by and take it from the machine,” I say. Our ice machine is located in our refrigerated storage off the kitchen. It has a separate door to it so they could come in, unnoticed. “I’ll unlock it for you.”

  “Maybe I will, at least for the expensive stuff,” she says. I imagine her making a mental list of filet mignons and king crab legs. “There’s one more thing,” she continues. “Our best customers, Mr. and Mrs. Klean, are coming in twenty minutes. They’re with a party of six.
Can you squeeze them in?”

  It’s strange that I never heard of the Kleans. We generally share the same clients since our restaurants are only three doors apart. I scan my reservation list. I’m actually overbooked, and squeezing in a six is nothing like squeezing in a two. But I feel bad, imagining what would happen if we had to cancel on our best customers at the last minute.

  “Ok,” I sigh. “You can send them over. I’ll figure something out.”

  “Thank you so much,” she says, sounding relieved.

  I try to reorder my reservation list and tell the waiters to rush everything along. If they move quickly enough, and if people don’t linger, I should be okay. I’m nervous because we have no waiting area, so if things don’t work out tonight, people will have to wait outside in the sweltering heat.

  The Kleans arrive to find their table all set. They’re in their early fifties and look like Island Royalty. He’s tall with sable hair and not a speck of grey. His skin is bronzed and he wears casual khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt. She’s petite, just slightly taller than me, and embraces her height by wearing flats. Her peach Capri pants offset her deep tan, and her silky blonde hair is pulled into a tight bun. She wears a tight white t-shirt and a yellow cashmere sweater tied over her shoulders despite the heat.

  “It’s warm in here,” she says under her breath.

  Take off the cashmere, girlfriend.

  The rest of their party is dressed similarly in Ralph Lauren Polo. One man wears navy blue shorts with tiny whales embroidered all over them, thus proving that money certainly doesn’t buy taste. Honestly, there should be a law saying that no male over the age of six is allowed to wear shorts like that.