The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles (Delectables in the City Book 1)

by Joslyn Westbrook

  Hopefully.

  My iPhone’s distinctive ringtone jolts me back into a state of reality. And of course it’s Sebastian beckoning via FaceTime.

  “Yes?” I say as his jolly face appears on the screen of my phone.

  Sebastian seems to be surveying my surroundings. “Yep. I had a feeling your ass was stalling. Get in there, woman! Go assess the hell out of that place.”

  He knows me all too well. A perk, and at times, a disadvantage of having a perfectly astute BFF.

  “I will, Sebastian.”

  “What’s the holdup anyway?”

  I pause to think of a reasonable excuse for my hopelessness. “Nothing really. I’m just enjoying TriBeCa.”

  “Mmm-hmm. I thought you could use some encouragement. So, go on. Get in there. Like now. Okay?”

  I nod, even though I’m not in total agreement.

  “Alright then, sexy. I’ll catch ya later.” He blows me a kiss before magically ending his FaceTime intervention.

  After taking in a few calming deep breaths, I finally walk into Knight and Daze.

  “Are you meeting someone here, or will you be eating alone today?” says the not-so-friendly young girl as I approach the hostess station in the restaurant lobby. She appears to be about sixteen or seventeen with pink streaks in her already platinum-blond hair, a prominent studded diamond attached to her nose, and an attitude that screams rebel. She offers no smile and seems to be annoyed by my existence. As if I’m an interruption to her life.

  “No, I’ll be dining alone today.”

  She shrugs her shoulders and hands me a menu. “Alrighty then. Follow me. I’ll seat you.”

  As directed, I trail behind her rudeness through the lobby and into the restaurant’s main seating area. The entire place looks dark, cold, and old, mimicking something a tad medieval.

  She seats me in a corner booth, in front of a large bay window, bypassing at least two-dozen empty tables. It appears I’m their only customer—a red flag observation that concerns me. Why aren’t they busy?

  “So, I’m Olivia. I’ll be your server today.” She flings her overgrown bangs off her face. “You want some water?” she asks, her mouth full of chewing gum.

  “Um, sure. And coffee. May I have coffee too, please?”

  “Yeah, but that may take a few minutes. No one really orders coffee this time of the day so I’ll have to ask them to brew a fresh pot,” she says before walking away from my table toward what I assume is the kitchen.

  I send a quick text to Sebastian.

  Me: Okay. I’m inside and it’s not off to a dynamite start.

  Moments later he replies.

  Sebastian: Brilliant. May you find pleasure in helping him get his shit together. xo

  Seconds later, Miss Rude Girl returns with a glass of water. “You know what you want yet?” she says, her eyes glued to activity outside of the booth’s window. There are at least five other restaurants across the street—all quite busy with patrons dining on exquisite-looking patio tables. As she peers out the window, her eyes light up as a child’s does when they see snow for the first time.

  “Not quite. I’m still deciding. What do you recommend?”

  “Um, me? Oh well, I really haven’t had much to eat here lately. But I hear the pan-seared salmon is good. And it’s part of the lunch menu available until 4.”

  “What else comes with the pan-seared salmon?” I ask, trying hard to get past her lack of great customer service skills.

  “Baked potato and vegetables,” she says after popping a large bubble of gum. “Oh and a small side salad,” she adds as if it’s an afterthought.

  “Okay then, I’ll have that. Butter and chives on the side, please.”

  “No problem. I’ll have them start that now. I’ll be back with your coffee too. Oh and I hope milk is okay. We are apparently out of cream. Again.” She takes my menu and marches toward the kitchen.

  After Olivia returns with my coffee and walks back toward the hostess station, I remove the brand new journal and pen from my BookBender bag and begin taking notes.

  * * *

  Knight and Daze Grill and Bar

  Service: abrupt

  Decor: stuffy

  Menu: insipid

  Overall appeal: not a damn thing

  * * *

  As I note my introductory assessment, thoughts veer back to my last visit here. Has nothing even changed?

  After about twenty minutes, Olivia delivers my food. “So, here’s your food. If you need something else just holler.”

  “Thanks Olivia,” I say as she walks toward the hostess station.

  I stare at the plate of food in utter disbelief. It does nothing to suggest this is something one would expect from a restaurant once deemed five-star. And besides being barely lukewarm, the pan-seared salmon is bland and genuinely unappealing. How can one advertise pan-seared when it’s missing the actual sear? The baked potato is probably the best item on the plate as the vegetables are mushy and frail looking. And the salad? Overly wilted and brown. I don’t even attempt to drink the coffee—I don’t like coffee with milk.

  Ugh.

  No wonder this place is empty. I mean, who would want to eat here? Anyone would be better off eating a TV dinner at home.

  I place my napkin on top of the plate, pushing it to the edge of the table, hoping to get Olivia’s attention.

  She approaches, “Done already?”

  “Yes. I suppose I’m not as hungry as I thought I was,” I say convincingly.

  “Oh. Okay then would you like to take it to-go?” she asks, seeming to be genuinely concerned.

  “Um, no thank you. I’ll just take the check now.”

  Olivia nods, takes the plate into the kitchen, and returns a few minutes later with my check. “I forgot to ask you if you’d like some dessert.”

  “Oh no. I couldn’t. But thanks anyway.”

  She smiles and places the check on the edge of the table.

  “Olivia, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Does it get busy here? Like the restaurants across the street?”

  “Us? Busy?” She holds her hand over her mouth as though she’s trying hard to stifle a giggle. “Uh, no. Not for a while now. You’re the only customer we’ve had all day.”

  “Oh I see. Well, thank you.” I smile and pay, using the cash Sebastian provided earlier.

  By the time I arrive back home, I am welcomed by the tantalizing scent of bacon and find Sebastian in the kitchen cooking.

  “Hey, sunshine. Care for some bacon and eggs? I had this unrelenting craving for breakfast. I’m making my bad-ass bacon, mushroom, spinach, and cheese omelette.”

  “Breakfast for dinner? Sounds perfect.”

  “I take it you didn’t eat much at Knight and Daze?” he asks, cracking eggs into a glass mixing bowl. He’s wearing a blue and white Move over Martha Stewart apron I got him for Christmas a few years ago. Sebastian loves to cook and the bacon, mushroom, spinach, and cheese omelette just so happens to be his specialty.

  “No. The food was entirely inedible. Cold and bland,” I explain, grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge.

  “Ooooh. Gross. No wonder Jonathan’s come to Manifique for help.”

  “Right. And the hostess was incredibly rude. I felt like I was a mere interruption to her day.”

  Sebastian shakes his head in disbelief as he cuts up spinach into bite-size pieces.

  “Seems like nothing has changed. In fact, I get the impression things have worsened since my last visit.”

  “What was your experience like last time? Do you still have that review?” He cuts up mushrooms and the bacon into bite-size pieces.

  “Yes, its in a file on my iPad. Want me to read it to you?”

  “If you don’t mind,” he says as he artfully prepares our omelettes.

  I retrieve my iPad from the living-room coffee table, nestle onto the barstool, take a long sip of water, and gear up to read Sebastian
the review I gave Knight and Daze Grill and Bar last April.

  “You ready?”

  “Yep. Go for it, ” he says as he places our delectable-looking plates of omelettes onto the counter and parks himself on the barstool next to me.

  I take a bite of the omelette and begin reading Sebastian the review.

  * * *

  Knight and Daze Grill and Bar - My Less Than-To-Be Desired Encounter.

  A weekend set aside to partake in TriBeCa Film Festival activities was to be kicked off with an elegant meal at the well-esteemed, five-star glory, known to locals as Knight and Daze.

  Admittedly, I didn’t set forth on this venture donning my ‘food critic’ hat. It was just me—Penelope Monroe—the TriBeCa tourist. However, I would not be doing a service by letting anyone walk into this dive-in-disguise without being candidly forewarned.

  Of all of the words I can use to summarize Knight and Daze, there is only one word that sticks. P-O-O-R.

  P - as in Punk’d. I could not help thinking Ashton Kutcher was lurking somewhere behind the scenes with a film crew recording a debut remake of Punk’d. Surely that had to be the only reasonable explanation for the unbelievable candid-camera-like experience.

  O - as in beyond Overrated. I mean I was expecting gold on a plate. But instead, was served seaweed over a bed of bitter sticky-ness. Oh wait, was that supposed to be a Black Pepper Crusted Ahi Tuna Steak over a bed of Shrimp Risotto? Total Epic Fail.

  O - as in Outrageously overpriced. I reluctantly paid fifty-five bucks on the mishmash they called elegant cuisine—after I strongly considered performing a juvenile dine and dash. Although, if I did that and got caught, my jailhouse meal would have been better received. Probably.

  R - as in the ultimate Repugnance. Need I say more?

  The two-hour experience left me feeling jilted. Like a beautiful bride left hanging at the altar. But go if you must. That is if you feel the need to witness where not to eat. To be honest, I’m not sure how Knight and Daze Grill and Bar came to receive its merited rating. It’s far from five stars. Perhaps a one star? But only by default—it is located in pristine TriBeCa, after all.

  If by reading this, I have saved you from this travesty—you’re welcome. Glad I can be of service.

  Until next time—Cheers to you and yours!

  There is a short pause as Sebastian finishes off the last bite of his omelette.

  He looks at me wide-eyed and says, “Hot damn, woman. No wonder he fucking hates you.”

  * * *

  The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles - FaceBook Page

  July 25, 2016

  A mind-cleansing stroll down the streets of Manhattan last week led me to Restaurant Row and into a tiny treasure known as FlashBurger.

  Don’t let the name fool you. It’s not your average burger joint. In fact there is nothing average about this cream of the burger crop. FlashBurger is world-class—Burger Therapy—a new edition to the ‘For The Soul’ series. Yep that’s right—Burgers and Fries For The Soul.

  And respectable organically-savvy therapy is their licensed area of expertise. I mean everything on the menu is organic and oh so natural. Even the beverages.

  There’s only one word needed to rightfully summarize my lunch:

  Mmmmmmm-licious.

  So go today, if you can. Or tomorrow. Or whenever you’re in need of something therapeutic—or thera-FOOD-ic?

  The eats, staff, and ambiance, of FlashBurger is a five-star remedy.

  Cheers to you and yours!

  Part Two

  “Life gives you lots of chances to screw up which means you have just as many chances to get it right.”

  Carrie Bradshaw - Sex in the City

  Chapter 9

  “I fucking hate her.”

  Those are the first four words that shoot out of Jonathan Knight’s mouth, like a loose cannon, upon our initial introduction.

  At least I can only assume he’s Jonathan Knight by the brazen inscription of the letters J-O-N-A-T-H-A-N sewn onto the top upper left corner of the white chef coat he is befittingly sporting. We haven’t quite made it to the actual introduction. You know, the less impromptu one I rehearsed at least one-hundred and thirty-six thousand times over the past few days, including on the subway ride to TriBeCa this morning.

  The one that should have included me walking into the back office of Knight and Daze, coming face to face with Jonathan, my hand extended for a firm, restaurant consultant-like handshake.

  The one in which I was ingeniously prepared myself to say, “Hello, I’m Kennedy Prescott (my fake, clever under-disguise name), it’s a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to working with you on reaching your restaurant image improvement goals.”

  The one I wholeheartedly imagined would have started off nothing at all like this.

  Nor did I conceptualize Jonathan to be the handsomely hunky type with wavy, dark hair, entrancing blue eyes, perfectly shaped lips, and just enough facial hair to be alluringly pleasing to my eyes.

  No, when I devised this extremely unpredictable moment, I mentally casted Jonathan’s cameo role to be played by an old and stuffy brute with oily hair, a scruffy beard, a few missing teeth, and a protruding beer belly. Not Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious.

  “I’m sorry? You hate her? Um, who?” I finally manage to render, underarms sweating through my white oxford button-down shirt. Thank God for Degree antiperspirant.

  I nervously adjust the black oval-framed eyeglasses Sebastian commissioned me to wear, citing “they add a spark of smarts to my appearance”.

  Spark of Smarts? Makes me instantly think back to Bring It On and those ridiculously flamboyant Jazz Hands.

  Jonathan looks up briefly from his desk chair, as he nonchalantly leans back, his legs resting comfortably across the top half of the small oak desk as his eyes hold a hawk-like gaze to the iPad he’s holding. He looks at me again—a double take—and quickly shifts his legs and feet to the stained concrete floor, fumbles his iPad onto the desk, and rises from the now noticeably squeaky chair to a respectable stance.

  I suppose he didn’t fully realize I stepped into his office.

  “Um, excuse me.” He clears his throat. Immediately, I can’t help but notice his voice has a sexy edge to it with a delectable bite of New York sassiness. “Who are you?”

  “Hello. I’m Kennedy Prescott.” I step over to his desk, extend my hand out for a firm restaurant-consultant-like handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to working with you on reaching your restaurant image improvement goals.”

  I mentally pat myself on the back, especially pleased those words came out as rehearsed. Despite the fact my voice probably mimicked an assiduous robot. Practice kind of makes perfect.

  He slips his hand from my handshaking death-grip, moves from behind his desk, and approaches me.

  As he invades my personal space, my senses can’t help but capture the captivating smell of body wash, cologne, and…cilantro, perhaps?

  “Hi there.” He chuckles slightly. “I’m Jonathan Knight and I too am pleased to meet you… Kennedy, you said?”

  I nervously bop my head yes and fold my arms, not quite sure what to do with them. “Um yes, Prescott. Kennedy Prescott.”

  “Cool name, ” he says and produces a half smile, as though he’s imagining something sinister.

  I swallow the miniature lump in my throat and ask, “So, who is this her you hate?”

  He shakes his head as if he’s trying to wake up from an illicit daydream. “Oh that. Just pay it no mind. I was only thinking out loud. I had no idea you were here actually.” He walks back over to his desk and grabs his iPad. “How did you get in here anyway?”

  “A gentleman was leaving out of the back door. A vendor, I assume? I just walked right in. I’m sorry about that…I um…I didn’t mean to intrude.” I say, feeling as though I’ve been a bad student who has been sent to the principal’s office.

  Jonathan sits down on his desk chair and looks at me questionably.
“That was Manny, my produce vendor. And you’re here early. I wasn’t quite expecting you for at least another twenty minutes. But no worries. I’m really glad you’re here.”

  I smile, acknowledging his statement. Then I steal a moment to take in my surroundings. In all the years I have spent obsessing over food, never have I stepped foot in the back of the house. The behind-the-scenes or central command center in a restaurant. It’s like the backstage area of a Broadway play. And right now, I have a VIP pass. I try hard to conceal my excitement by maintaining a cool and collected pokerface—which, by the way, I also rehearsed.

  “Penelope Monroe,” Jonathan says, jerking me out of my back-of-the-house groupie mind-trip.

  And did he just say Penelope Monroe? As in me?

  Wait. Does he know who I really am?

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Okay, wait a minute. Whatever you do, don’t panic. No need to stop, drop, and roll up on out of here…yet.

  “I’m sorry?” I say, taking a chance I heard him incorrectly.

  “Penelope Monroe. She’s the her I hate. I was talking about Penelope Monroe when you walked in.”

  I stand here facing him in utter disbelief. I mean I only suspected he hated me, but hearing him say it—

  “You do know who she is, right?”

  Awkward.

  “Um yes, I’ve heard of her.” I mumble, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks.

  “Here. Look at this.” He abruptly stands, still holding his iPad, walks over to where I’m standing and emphatically shows me my own Fifty-Two Week Chronicles Facebook Page. “She posted this today. FlashBuger? Can you believe it? How can FlashBurger get a five-star rating and I get—”

  He stops talking, takes a deep breath, runs his fingers through his sexy hair, and tosses his iPad back onto the desk.

  “You uh, follow her Facebook page?” I ask in an effort to stifle the mood.

  “Yep. We all do. Chefs, I mean. We all follow her and that Gregory Hambrick guy. Anyway, you know what I really want from you?”

  “What?” I ask, feeling as though I’ll do anything he wants as long as he stops talking about the real me to the fake me.