The Queen of Minor Disasters

by Antonietta Mariottini

  “Lower your voice,” my father says sternly.

  “Sorry.”

  “Your mother and I talked about that, we know it’s going to be hard for you guys but you’re young. You’ll figure something out.”

  Is that really his explanation? We’ll figure something out? That hardly seems fair.

  “What if I don’t?”

  “You will. You’re exactly like Grandmom Stella. You’ve got her spark.” My dad’s eyes moisten. “You can do whatever you want Stella. You’ll always be a success.”

  I’ve never heard my dad talk like this and I feel myself getting emotional too.

  Our food arrives just in time. We eat quickly, and in silence. I’m comforted by my dad’s words. I just hope he’s right.

  On the way back to the shore, I decide to ditch my master plan and just give Drew a simple call. The last time we talked wasn’t so successful, but my dad is right. I can do whatever I want. Which means that I don’t need some elaborate scheme to get Drew back. I just need to be my amazing self.

  The phone goes right to voicemail.

  I try three more times during the drive, and each time is the same. Honestly, you’d think a big marketing executive would keep his phone turned on.

  On my last try, I decide to leave a voicemail. “Hi Drew,” I say casually. “It’s Stella. I just wanted to say hi and see if maybe you wanted to come down the shore. It would be so great to see you. It’s been so long and I think we have a lot to talk about since that night…”

  Damn. The voicemail cut me off.

  I call right back and leave a second message. “Hey. I must have gotten cut off or something. Anyway, give me a call.”

  That could have gone a little better, but oh well.

  Even though it’s a Wednesday, there are twenty-seven messages, so by the time I finish checking them and returning the calls, it’s past five and people are starting to come in.

  I seat the first two top in the front section, and then walk towards the waiters’ station to talk to Lucy. She’s not there.

  “Where’s Lucy?” I ask Ryan.

  He points towards the bathroom so I walk back to the hostess desk. The smell from the flowers is so strong that it’s making my head spin. Funny, I didn’t notice that yesterday.

  By 5:30 there’s already a crowd at the door. The restaurant fills up quickly, and I’m running around trying to make sure everyone is fed, happy, and working efficiently. Lucy has been sluggish and avoiding me all night, but I’m too busy to care.

  “Can you rush the entrées to table thirteen?” I say to her as we pass each other near the desserts.

  “I’ll try,” she says and hurries into the kitchen. I follow her to make sure she’s calling in their order.

  She walks right past Lorenzo on the line, and moves through the kitchen like a whirlwind. In the dish area, where Ivan and Stefan are scrubbing pots and pans, she leans into the trashcan and throws up. They cringe and look away.

  I don’t believe this. If she wants to have a boyfriend and not tell me about it fine, but I’m also her manager, and I won’t tolerate her showing up hung over.

  Stefan runs to fetch water and by the time he gets back, Lucy straightens up. She accepts the glass from him and wipes her mouth with a towel.

  “Nice,” I snap sarcastically. “Drink too much vodka last night?”

  She shakes her head and bends towards the trashcan again, ready for round two.

  I leave her there and walk through the kitchen. “Fire Lucy’s table thirteen,” I yell to Lorenzo. “And when she’s done vomiting I’m sure she’ll pick it up.” I walk past the line and out to the dining room floor.

  Her three tables are all at different stages of their meals. Table eleven is eating appetizers, table thirteen is waiting for entrées, and table fourteen is ready for dessert. I pull Brittany aside. “Do you have a minute to show table fourteen the dessert tray?”

  She shakes her head and continues walking. “Sorry.”

  I rush to the dessert area and grab the tray out of the fridge, slamming the door a bit too loudly. I take a deep breath, collect myself, and walk towards the table. They decide on cannoli, which are, of course, the most complicated dessert, and as I walk the tray back to the fridge I get even madder. I fill their cannoli with sweet cream in seconds, piping it into the shell with precision and speed. Then I dust powdered sugar over the pastries and deliver the dish. “Enjoy your dessert.” I smile before storming back to the kitchen.

  Lucy is sitting on a dish rack, a wet kitchen rag on her head. Lorenzo is standing next to her, talking to her in a low voice.

  “Are you done?” I ask.

  She looks at me with watery eyes.

  “Can you deliver the food to table thirteen?” my brother asks me.

  “Sure. I’ll do it because Lucy is too irresponsible to do her own work. Anyone else need me to do something? Why don’t I just start cooking too?”

  I grab the hot plates off the line and nearly burn the skin off my fingers. “Shit,” I scream.

  “They’ve been sitting there for five minutes,” Mario snaps.

  I grab a napkin to guard my hands. “Yeah well if someone wasn’t hung-over, I’m sure they’d be out on the table by now.”

  I kick open the swinging door and walk towards the table.

  “These plates are extremely hot,” I say placing the food in front of the guests with a smile. “Please be careful.”

  The man asks for cheese and I tell him it’s on its way. I motion for Frankie to bring some and walk back into the kitchen.

  Lucy is standing up, walking towards the back door. Lorenzo is still with her.

  “Where’s she going?” I yell.

  “Home. She’s sick,” my brother answers.

  “What the hell? You’re just going to walk out on the restaurant?” I say to Lucy.

  “She’s sick,” Lorenzo yells at me. Why is he defending her?

  “Well you better go to your aunt’s then,” I scream at her. “Because I don’t want any of your germs around my house.”

  I walk back into the kitchen and through the swinging doors to the waiters’ station. “Brittany, I need you to pick up table thirteen, Ryan you take fourteen. Lucy went home sick.”

  “Great,” I hear Ryan mumble. Even though he’s worked with us for three years, he’s not accommodating and not that fast. He’s on thin ice as far as I’m concerned. I would give Michelle and extra table but she already has the biggest section of the night, and I can’t load her down. Instead, I take tables ten and eleven. Somehow I’ll manage to juggle the phones, the door, and wait on two tables.

  The rest of the night is a blur, but I survive.

  We all do.

  The restaurant looks like it’s been through a battle, but when you’re one man down, you don’t worry about keeping clean. The waiters’ station is strewn with linens falling haphazardly out of the hamper. The bread bags are spilling crumbs onto the floor, and one empty coffee pot is burning on its warmer. The dessert area is even worse. The cakes, which I normally cut for the servers, are either broken or toppling and there’s chocolate sauce all over the tiles and grout. Espresso grinds spill from the grinder and all the plates need to be restocked.

  I sigh heavily. We’re in for a long night of cleaning, which is the last thing I want to do after the day I’ve had.

  Now that all the guests are gone, I have a minute to think. Was I too hard on Lucy? We used to show up hung over all the time, and we’d always cover for each other. Still, she never left before, and her walking out tonight was a bleak reminder of her new attitude this summer. Obviously she doesn’t care as much about our friendship as I thought she did. Now I’m convinced. She has a boyfriend and she cares about him more than me.

  I scrub the tiles with a hot wet rag but the chocolate just smears into the grout even deeper, making brown streaks. I walk to the kitchen to get some soap. Lorenzo’s standing near the stove, counting the tickets from the night. He looks up at me.r />
  “Why do you always have to be such a bitch?” he asks.

  “What was I supposed to do? Be happy that a server walked out on the restaurant?”

  “She was sick. Do you want her throwing up in the dining room?”

  “She wasn’t sick, Lorenzo. Don’t be dumb. She was hung over.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes I do. She doesn’t stay at our house anymore. She probably has some loser boyfriend and stays with him every night. I can just see it. She’s probably out drinking until four in the morning.”

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” my brother says and throws his tickets in the trash. Why does he keep defending her? Doesn’t he see that a real friend would never walk out on the business?

  “How do you know?” I snap. “She’s my best friend.”

  “Really?” he shouts. “Then why don’t you act like it? If my best friend treated me the way you treated Lucy tonight I’d never talk to him again.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure your best friend wouldn’t treat you the way Lucy has been treating me all summer.” I turn my back to exit, forgetting about the soap.

  “Ok, Stella. You’re always right,” my brother says as I exit through the swinging door. “No wonder Drew didn’t want to marry you.”

  Why am I at fault here? Suddenly, I’m the bad guy? I wasn’t the one who drank too much and then threw up in the kitchen. I wasn’t the one who walked out on her friends and their business. No, instead, I’m the one who picks up the messes, who reorganizes, who keeps a smile plastered on her face so the customers don’t know how hard it is to play hostess, waitress, and manager all at once. Tears are falling from my eyes in fat wet drops that fall on the tiles I’m trying to clean.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the flowers sitting on the hostess desk. I walk towards them and sweep my arm across the table, knocking them off. The glass vase shatters on the floor and the flowers, once beautiful, look twisted and old among the water and shards of glass.

  Recipe: Maryland Crab Cakes

  Yields 8 large or 20 mini

  1 pound jumbo lump crabmeat

  2 eggs

  1/4 cup mayonnaise

  2 tablespoons Old Bay seasoning

  1 tablespoon Dijon Mustard

  2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

  1/2 teaspoon crushed white pepper

  3/4 cup breadcrumbs

  1) In a large bowl, beat together the eggs, mayonnaise, Old Bay seasoning, Dijon Mustard, Worcestershire sauce, and white pepper.

  2) Gently fold in the crabmeat and breadcrumbs (add the breadcrumbs 1/4 cup at a time. If it looks too dry, don’t add all of the breadcrumbs).

  3) Shape the mixture into balls.

  For fried crab cakes:

  1) Roll the crab cakes in breadcrumbs to coat.

  2) Heat 4 cups of vegetable oil in a large pot. To make sure the oil is hot enough, drop a pinch of breadcrumbs into the mix. If it bubbles up, you’re go to go. If not, wait a few minutes and test again.

  3) Gently drop 3 crab cakes into the oil. Fry until browned on all sides. Lift them out and place on a paper towel lined plate to absorb excess oil. Repeat until all the crab cakes are fried.

  4) These are ideal for sandwiches.

  For Baked crab cakes:

  1) Let the crab cakes rest in the fridge for at least 30 minutes before cooking.

  2) Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

  3) In a medium sauté pan heat 1 tablespoon butter and two tablespoons extra virgin olive oil.

  4) Gently sauté the crab cakes until lightly browned on all sides.

  5) Place crab cakes on a baking sheet.

  6) Bake for 10-15 minutes, until warmed through.

  7) These are ideal as entrées.

  Chapter 11

  I don’t talk to Lucy for the next three days. She calls Lorenzo to say that she’s still sick, and he tells me to schedule another waiter, which I gladly do. Maybe I was wrong about her being hung-over but what was I supposed to think? She’s been so shady this whole summer that I could only assume the worst. I’m pretty down about our fight, but still won’t call her to apologize.

  She should be the one to call me, since she’s been acting weird lately.

  Since the fight with Lucy, everyone has been acting pretty strange. Lorenzo won’t even talk to me, Mario is quiet, and the other waiters are all looking at me as if I might explode at any minute. I must’ve shocked them all when I threw my flowers on the floor. I still don’t know what came over me, but honestly, it felt good.

  To make matters worse, Drew never called and after three days, it’s pretty obvious that he’s not going to. When I called Gina and told her what I did, she told me I basically ruined all chances of getting him back according to our plan.

  But what the hell does Gina know anyway? Just because she’s engaged doesn’t make her the freaking Dali Lama of dating, for God’s sake. There must be something else I can do to get Drew back.

  This whole mess is my dad’s fault. He pumped me up with his bullshit pep talk about me being like my grandmother. In truth, I’m nothing like her. If I was, I’d have it all figured out by now.

  To avoid reality, I’m here at the restaurant, throwing myself into this whole baking thing.

  Believe it or not, it is the highlight of my day. I love the hours between 9:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. when I’m here, in the kitchen making pastries by myself. When I’m engulfed in work, I do a great job of not thinking about Lucy, or Drew for that matter. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t ever need to see either one again.

  Ok, maybe I do miss Lucy, a little. But if she doesn’t want to be my friend, then we must not have been so close to begin with.

  And as for Drew, well, I’ll deal with him later.

  Every day as I bake, I listen to music off my brother’s greasy iPod, which has been in the kitchen since we opened the doors, with speakers hanging around the kitchen area. You know how Lorenzo loves his music, and he’s got a great collection on this thing. Today I’ve chosen Ligabue, Italy’s most beloved Rock and Roll icon.

  Or at least, he’s my favorite.

  I blast the Italian rock, sure that none of our deliveries will arrive until at least 11:00. It’s only 9:30 so I know I have a few hours to myself.

  One thing I love doing when I’m alone is dancing. I’m pretty horrible at it, but that’s the fun of it. It doesn’t matter if I look crazy when I’m all alone. And thank God I’m alone today because in my cut off jean shorts, white tank top, and red bandana, I must look like a cross between Daisy Duke and Axl Rose. My apron, which hangs past my knees, completes the look with its smeared chocolate stains.

  The song “Piccola Stella Senza Cielo” – “little star without a sky” – comes on and I turn the music up. Sometimes I feel like this song was written for me. I am exactly that, a little star without a sky, especially now that I pretty much have no future.

  In college, I was an English major with an Italian minor, which almost ensured that I’d be jobless at twenty-seven. Plus, the fact that I haven’t done any work in my field since graduation five years ago doesn’t help my case. If I saw my résumé in an inbox, I’d delete it too. So I’m stuck in the restaurant business, which is, ironically, exactly what I’ve been trying to escape all my life. The whole reason for going to Fordham was so that I wouldn’t end up waiting on tables, yet the minute I graduated, I went back to work for my parents, donning my famous black apron and non-slip work shoes.

  And now here I am on the other end of the spectrum, all alone in a kitchen. If you want to know the truth, this is the real restaurant life. It’s not pretty dresses and smiling guests; it’s just a girl, a stick of butter, and a cup of flour.

  I’ve mastered a few of Chuck’s cakes, and even invented some of my own, but I just cannot call myself a pastry chef until I’ve mastered these profiteroles. They’re sort of haunting me. But I’ll show them who’s boss. I’m all prepped and revved up. And I spent tw
o hours watching profiterole demos on YouTube last night. That’s right, I’m armed with knowledge from Julia, Wolfgang, and even Anthony Bourdain (my kitchen crush).

  I dice the stick of butter and add it to a small saucepan. When all the butter melts I add a cup of water and a cup of flour and stir the hell out of it.

  The music is so loud that I don’t hear the knocking on the back door, or the swing of the spring as it opens. I’m singing along at full volume when I hear someone yell, “Hello?”

  I jump back, a little startled. And then I see him. Roberto Lancetti is standing in the kitchen holding two brown bags full of dinner rolls. Oh God.

  “Hi,” I say coolly. “You can put the bags over there.” I point to an empty work table and then turn back to my batter, which has totally thickened.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he smiles. He sets down the bags and moves towards me.

  I try to give him the cold shoulder but he can’t take a hint.

  “You like Ligabue?” he asks and points to the iPod.

  “Yep.” I’m trying to hear the dough sizzle against the sides of the saucepot, but it’s not happening.

  “Do you understand the lyrics?”

  “You’re not the only person in America who understands Italian,” I snap.

  “Whoa. Sorry.” He turns to leave and instantly, I remember the flowers. That was pretty sweet of him, even if they were out of pity. And let’s be honest, Drew never sent me flowers and we dated for three years.

  “Hey wait,” I shout. He stops and turns toward me. “Thanks for the flowers.”

  He shoots me a puzzled look. “What?”

  “I said thanks for the flowers that you sent. They were nice.”

  “I didn’t send you any flowers,” he says and walks out.