by Adriana Peck
“Hey,” I say hopefully. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Mason gives me a half-smile. “Thanks, Rosa. I’m glad you’re here,” he adds before going out the back.
I’m left alone in the back of the restaurant.
Twenty-One
Carly and I meet up at a café not too far from the Porto. Funny how your life can go in circles like that. Coffee date here, coffee date there. I swear, I’ve never had this many cups of coffee in a week, ever. On the way there, I pass by the Restaurante Porto for old time’s sake. Looks like Gambio’s tucked away in his back office, the place looks abandoned for now. It’s not set to open for another six hours or so anyways.
She’s waiting for me there when I get to the café, a tall coffee already in hand. The place is a mainstream chain of coffee houses, and everything’s disgustingly corporate. There’s perfect leather chairs, studio jazz music playing overhead as minimum-wage teenagers hustle to get the nine-to-fivers their caffeine fix.
“Hey,” I say, sitting down at the table across from her.
“Hey,” Carly smiles. “I don’t have long, but I’m glad we had a moment to sit and chat.”
“No problem,” I say flatly. “What’s up?”
“After we talked yesterday, I couldn’t help but feel like we left a couple of things unsaid.”
“Such as?”
“Well, are you seeing anyone at the moment? There was that girl with you, she isn’t your girlfriend, is she?”
I hesitate. Rosa and I’d been out a few times, sure, but girlfriend? I don’t know. If she were here, she’d get mad if I said I was single.
“We’re seeing each other, yes.”
Carly shakes her head and tsks. “I see you can’t stop from shitting where you eat,” she says. “Funny how that works.”
I scoff. “I’m sorry, aren’t you the one who showed up out of the blue to place of work? After, what, two years of radio silence? But, sure, I’m the bad guy.”
Carly nods. “Now you’re getting the big picture,” she says sarcastically. “Actually, I thought you’d be more grateful. You never texted or called or anything, or even tried to get in touch.”
It takes a lot of self-control not to scream. I take a deep breath, count to five in my head in an attempt to calm myself down. I should be grateful for her coming back after all these years? Really?
“I tried calling you. It never went through.”
Carly shakes her head. “No, you didn’t. I didn’t do anything to your number.”
I’m not in the mood to argue. We’re already back to our same old ways. “Well,” I say, standing up, “it was great to see you again, Carly. Take care.”
“Wait!” she says, grabbing my jacket sleeve. “I do have something to offer you, actually. Reviews. From real critics. I’m at Deporte Magazine, the journalism department. I just thought you should know.”
I stop, turn to face her. “You’re at Deporte City Magazine?”
Carly nods slyly, taking a sip of her coffee. “Want to sit back down?”
Fine. I take a seat, cross my arms. “Tell me about reviews. You can get them for us?”
Carly nods again. “I can have someone there opening night.”
“Can you give me a number to contact them, or—?”
She cuts me off. “They won’t be able to talk to you before reviewing your restaurant, I’m sure you’ll understand. I can’t even tell you who they are. Conflicts of interest and all that jazz.” She crinkles her nose as she says the final word, and I realize just how annoying I found the habit. I really don’t miss her, but now I’m finding out Carly has something I desperately need.
Reviews for my opening night, no less. Anyone who’s ever tried and failed to open a restaurant usually lacks reviews (good reviews, I should add) when they open. Nobody wants to try the new place in town without hearing about it first.
“Okay, then,” I nod. “So I can’t contact them beforehand. So you’ll be in touch?”
Carly smiles. “Of course. You can expect to hear from me soon. You still got the same phone number as before.”
I grit my teeth to avoid snapping at her. “Yeah, same number.”
“I’ll be in touch, then.”
◆◆◆
After I leave the café, I touch base with Rosa. She’s already contacted most of the trainees and scheduled interviews for tomorrow. Great. We’ll have a working staff by the end of the week.
“Mason?” she asks me just as we’re wrapping things up. “How did things go with Carly?”
“Fine,” I reply honestly. “She’s still a mess, one that I wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole if I didn’t have to.”
“If you didn’t have to?”
“She can get us reviews for opening night. She’s with Deporte Magazine now. I need to keep in touch with her to get the ball rolling for our opening. It’s the only way we can stay in business.”
“Okay,” Rosa says, but something in her voice tells me it’s not really that okay. “Let me know if you need me to do anything.”
“Thanks,” I say, and we hang up.
The rest of the week is a blur. I don’t hear anything from Carly, and now we’re just four weeks out from the grand opening.
By the time Rosa and I touch base on Monday, we’ve found me a staff. Jerry Johnson is among the new trainees, along with a few others that are there to greet me when I come in Monday afternoon. Rosa has a menu she’s marked up with some Americana basics. No matter what kind of restaurant we end up opening, we’re going to need them trained on food preparation 101.
During our days, we train the new staff to work the menu and all the basics about keeping the restaurant running. We teach the trainees the basics of what we expect from prep, opening and closing, health codes, too—after all, somebody’s gotta teach them to wash their hands and the veggies before you chop them. That fun stuff that nobody likes to talk about until the health inspector’s barging through the door, you know. Yeah, we’re not getting closed down the first week to a health code violation. I’ll be damned if customers get sick on my watch, either from bad food or from bad Gambio-tier jokes.
As Rosa shows the new staff how to slice a chicken breast evenly, I can’t help but watch her eyes as they light up with passion. It’s inspiring. I didn’t know how much I needed her to help me run things here. It’s amazing how attached you can grow to somebody in such a short time without expecting it. Hell, I don’t think I wanted it at first all that bad. Life at the Porto was just so miserable I didn’t get a chance to really see Rosa for who she really is.
After she finishes her recipe instructions for the day, I gather the staff for a pep talk before we break for the night. It’s getting late, and I can tell the new trainees are getting restless. I don’t know what’s getting them so tireless, after all, they’re getting paid to be here for training.
“Team, gather ‘round,” I say as I wave my arms for everyone’s attention. Everyone turns to face me, Rosa included. I shoot her a sly wink, one that I’m positive the entire staff noticed. “I just want to say a few things before we break for the night. You’re all doing a great job learning, and I’m appreciative of all the things you guys have been bringing to the table. Let’s all give Rosa a round of applause, too. She built this menu for us, and I wouldn’t be here without here. Seriously, guys, round of applause.”
The staff claps for Rosa, and I see her blush.
“Now, we’re opening in just under four weeks. That’s right. Twenty-eight calendar days. We’ve still got a lot to do, and a lot of ground to cover. We need to make a schedule, build your stations if you’re going to be a server, and I should probably get some papers for you guys to sign for taxes. I don’t think I had you guys sign anything like that, right?”
“You mean our W2s?” Johnny, one of the dishwashers, pipes up. He’s a skinny kid, no older than sixteen, with sandy-brown hair and a look of eagerness that can’t seem to wash off. I like him for his energy, but he’s no
Benicio.
“Yeah, those. Thanks. Anyways, we’ve got a week to get our shit into gear. So I want to see all of you bright and early tomorrow, six a.m.. We’ve got to finish getting that lobby into gear.” Everyone breaks, and Rosa and I are soon left alone together in the kitchen.
“So, Carly’s a no-go, then?” Rosa smiles at me. “I was worried the two of you were going to get back together.”
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t worry about her if I were you.”
Rosa looks over at the pantry suddenly, and I laugh at the obviousness of her gesture. She looks back to me, cocks an eyebrow and grins. I grin back.
Oh yeah. It’s on.
◆◆◆
After we emerge, we button up our shirts and share a laugh. Something tells me that Rosa’s a little uneasy about the whole Carly situation. I figure I should talk to her about it all before we’re open for business, so as we’re gathering our things to head our separate ways to our separate apartments for the night, I try to squeeze a word in. As I’m standing by back door, I ask Rosa if she has a second.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“How are you feeling about things?” I try to force out.
“About…things?”
“About the restaurant. And…about us, I guess.” I try to hide my panic as best as I can. These conversations certainly aren’t easy for me, but I need to know that everything’s okay between us. Before Carly shows up with a reviewer, and before we open the front doors and start a real career here together.
“Well, if you really want to know, I’m worried about you and Carly.”
“What do you mean?” I freeze up. She’s right to worry. Carly and I were together for a long time back at the Porto. And Rosa knows everything about her now.
“I mean, you two have your history. That’s okay. But I just worry when she’s getting involved in your livelihood. In our livelihood. I work here too, you know? And I don’t want her grudge against you—if she has one—to ruin whatever good thing we have going here.”
I shake my head. “You won’t have to worry about her,” I say reassuringly. “She’s a hot mess. A mess of hot garbage, if you know what I mean.”
Rosa laughs. “Well, keep the garbage out of the pantry, okay?”
And now I laugh, too. “I like our spot. We’ve got four weeks to enjoy it, I guess. As long as the staff doesn’t catch us.”
“I think we’re going to have to find a new space once that pantry’s full of food,” Rosa adds. “But I think we’re old enough to find a new space together.”
I smile. “Your place, or mine?”
“Easy tiger, one day at a time.” Rosa’s smile is intoxicating, and I watch her as she walks out the front door, leaving me to lock up alone. We’ve got four weeks of this. Our back and forth banter, having gone from angry bickering to optimistic flirtation keeps me looking forward to hearing her voice again. And our trips to the pantry can’t come soon enough.
I miss her already.
Twenty-Two
The four weeks go by in a heavenly blur. Mason and I duck into the pantry every night when the staff is gone for the day. We don’t hear anything from Carly. I’m pretty sure Mason forgets about her in a week, because he goes back to his new more smiling self after a while. I’m glad.
Our trips to the pantry happen nightly. After the staff’s gone, we shack up for the night, careful to avoid damaging the piles of food that are slowly getting added to the stockpile daily. Bread flour, yeast, sugar, salt. The basics are in here first, and trucks by the day deliver us the essentials. Meats, eggs, vegetables. The works. It’s a joy helping Mason unload the truck every day and watch as the pantry and fridges stock up fuller and fuller.
Before I know it, the day comes. Mason’s restaurant opens tonight, I can hardly believe it. It's all flown by so fast, and I can't help but feel incredibly nervous for what’s going to happen to us this evening.
As we finish unloading the final crate of food from the truck, Mason receives a call from Carly. He tells me to wait one second as he answers his phone.
“Hello?”
Mason pauses, nods, and says “Okay.”
There’s another pause. “Sure. We’ll set a table aside for him. Okay. Okay. Thanks, Carly.”
And Mason hangs up.
“That’s it,” he says. “We’ve got a critic booked for tonight.”
“You have a name or anything for the reservation?” but Mason shakes his head.
“I don’t even know what they look like,” he says. “They’ll just tell us they’re with Deporte City Magazine, I guess. And then we’ll serve them food, and then they’ll review us.”
I sigh. “Well, at least we know they’re coming.”
“Thanks to Carly, I guess.”
Two hours before the doors are set to open, Mason gathers the staff for a quick prep-talk.
“Critic’s coming. You all ready?” and our team nods in unison. “Good. Let’s get at ‘em.”
That’s all we’re going to get tonight. It’s now or never.
Johnny is getting his dishwashing station ready with hot soapy water and sanitizer. Alec is prepping onions and garlic, as Donna works on spreading flour over every countertop surface that needs it. Chefs Jeremy and Dan are getting salads ready for the appetizers. I’m getting everything else ready as the rest of the kitchen staff scurries about, prepping the courses for the evening. Mason wrangles the waiter. Jerry Johnson’s here getting ready, slicking his hair back and taking deep breaths as our first official customers line up outside. Our bartender, Alex, wipes down the bar and gets all the cocktail glasses ready. For the full two hours everyone works in perfect sync. I’m positive we can handle anything tonight throws at us.
I peer outside and take a look at the patrons waiting for us to open for the first time, and when I see the line building up I gasp. There were more people outside than I could count. I saw a line wrap around past the edge of our building. Mason was not expecting a night this big whatsoever, so when I tell him, I’m sure he’ll freak.
Mason’s in the lobby, meticulously cleaning every table he can before the doors open in fifteen minutes.
“Mason,” I say. “Look outside.” He does, and he gasps when he sees the line wrapping around the edge of our building. He can’t believe it, and neither can I. “We’ve got this, right?”
“Right,” Mason says nervously. I know he believes in us, but I can’t help but sympathize with his nervousness. After all, a rough night tonight would mean bad news for business. The opening night is usually the most important one, after all, first impressions are everything in the service industry. And we’ve got a mysteriously anonymous critic on the way, which will certainly spice everything up even more.
Five minutes until the doors open, Johnny the dishwasher has a panic attack in the back. A few of our staff rush to console him: Donna and Jeremy are with him, comforting the boy. Not a good sign, but at least it’s just the dishwasher cracking under pressure and not the owner or one of the chefs. I look over to Mason, who’s counting down the drawer for the tenth time. I’m sure we have enough cash to make change for every single customer in the line outside, but I’m not going to tell Mason that. I let him keep counting, it looks like it’s making him feel better, anyways.
Two minutes to doors open. Mason finishes counting the drawer again, and I’m finishing getting all the tablecloths laid out with silverware and glasses at every place. The gang of servers are looking over the menu and specials one last time to commit everything to memory.
One minute. Mason and I share a look of worry, optimism, and fear all wrapped up into a moment of eye contact. His look says “I hope we can do this,” and I share his feelings exactly. Cautiously optimistic.
Mason unlocks the doors and welcomes the customers in. Alexandra, the hostess, begins to seat people in various sections as the gang of servers pour out from the back to greet their first tables at Sebastian’s Eatery.
There’s no going back now.
The night is rougher than I would have ever imagined. After thirty minutes of being open, I hear a yelp coming from the kitchen. It’s Donna. An oven exploded, absolutely trashing the poor chicken breast that was inside. The whole unit’s pouring out black smoke, and I rush to get the fire extinguisher as I get the staff away from the oven. Fortunately, there are two ovens in the kitchen so we’re not out of luck just yet, we’re only getting slowed down. I do my best to keep to my station, churning out dish after dish. I know everything on the menu by heart now, and keeping myself focused and busy seems to be the only way I can hang onto my sanity tonight.
Ten minutes later, however, a pipe bursts, sending the kitchen into chaos again. Jeremy calls for Mason from the back of the kitchen, and I look over to see Johnny curled up into a ball on the floor as a hot water pipe spews steaming water upwards just behind him. Mason runs to the back, grabs a wrench, and tightens the pipe in an attempt to curb the flow of water. It works, but Johnny’s too upset from the experience to work, so Mason sends him home. We’re down our only dishwasher. Part of me wishes we could call Benicio now, but I know he’s still at the Porto taking abuse from his Uncle Gambio. There’s no way he’ll jump ship now.
Mason and I still hold out on hope that the mysterious critic will show up, giving us all a common goal to work towards. As the night goes on, we find ourselves speaking in snappy tones, fragmented sentences becoming the norm. No chit-chat tonight. I hand the servers dish after dish, as I sense Mason growing more and more frustrated from working out in the crowded lobby. He can’t field the critic, can’t ask if someone’s going to print a review about us in the morning. So every plate we push out has to be perfect.
Things aren’t squeaky clean back here in the kitchen, either, as I try to keep Chef Jeremy and Chef Donna on task. They’ve never worked a rush like this before, so I can tell I’m having to play the role of emotional anchor for the inexperienced staff that constantly doubts themselves. The only way to get through a dinner rush is to survive, and a lot of these young people on staff don’t know that.
