by R. J. Blacks
“That’s your department. Make one up by tomorrow, and I’ll have it printed by Thursday.”
“So there’s a chance we can open on Saturday?”
“I don’t see why not,” he says.
CHAPTER 22
Opening a restaurant is one of those things that seem easier than they actually are. Just putting together a menu can be an experience of daunting proportions. First off, it’s not good enough to just know how to make the meal; you have to work to a ticking time bomb. Those customers sitting at the table are hungry, and getting hungrier by the minute. They’re not willing to let you, the cook, spend your sweet time experimenting with alternative ingredients. They want their meal fast, and if they don’t get it, they’ll be telling their friends to pass on your new place of business. That’s one of the reasons American restaurants serve the salad first, instead of last, which is the custom in Europe. It takes the customer’s mind off his hunger and gives the kitchen some breathing time. In Europe, the dinner clientele are less concerned with time as dinners are expected to last several hours.
Then, even if you happen to be a gourmet chef, you need the right ingredients at the right time. And the more variety you add to the menu, the more food items you need to stock, which brings up another knotty problem. Food has a very short shelf life so you better use it up or it’s just like throwing money in the trash. The ideal menu would appear to the public to be quite diverse, but in fact utilize much of the same basic ingredients. That way, your capital outlay is reduced and it simplifies the maintenance of your inventory. Fortunately, the clientele we hope to attract are the steak and seafood type which allows me to fulfill the requirements of the kitchen with a somewhat modest pantry. I put together a list of all the foodstuffs a good kitchen should have, and then, work backwards from there, writing down all the meals I could dream up using those basic ingredients. I spend the evening refining the list and by noon, the next day, I’m ready to give Fargo the proposed menu.
“What do you think,” I say.
Fargo takes the list and looks it over.
“If you can make all this, we’ll have a winner.”
He hands the list to Will.
“I hope we’re not getting in over our heads.”
“Let’s not advertise right away,” I say. “That will keep the crowds smaller and give us time to get organized.”
“Good idea. I agree,” Will says.
“This needs to go to the printer now, or we’ll miss our schedule,” Fargo says, as he takes back the menu, folds it up, and then rushes out the door.
I make myself a sandwich out of the leftover turkey and stroll out to one of the high-back Cape Cod chairs on the porch. As I gaze at the horizon and enjoy my lunch, it suddenly occurs to me that the excitement from the recent construction has distracted me from doing what I originally came here for, to pursue my PhD. I was supposed to contact Dr. Parker in a week and I’m three days overdue. Funny she hasn’t called me.
I finish up my sandwich and then dial her number. The phone rings a couple of times and then she answers.
“Hi, it’s Indigo,” I say.
“Oh, Indigo. Is it a week already?”
“Sorry to bother you, but... do you have the lab tests yet?”
“The lab tests? Oh yes, on the water samples. Well, I ran them through and nothing unusual came up.”
“Nothing unusual? Some of those samples had a distinctly metallic taste.”
“Could be from iron oxide. Nothing abnormal about that.”
“Would you mind if I looked at the printouts?”
“Not at all. I’ll email them to you.”
“Didn’t you want to keep this confidential?” I ask.
“That’s right, I did, almost forgot. Tell you what, when you bring me more samples, I’ll have the printouts for you. By the way, when do you want to meet again?”
“I kind of hoped those samples would tell the whole story, lead me to the next step. I’m disappointed.”
“Disappointments and false leads are the lifeblood of science. They drive more research. You should know that.”
“Yes, I’m aware of it. It’s just that... well, I was so sure those samples would reveal something.”
“Don’t get discouraged. Get back out in the field and keep bringing me samples. We’ll get to the bottom of this eventually.”
“Thanks,” I say, and then bid her a goodbye.
As I put away the phone, anxiety creeps into my conscience. Something didn’t seem right. The enthusiasm she exalted at the earlier meetings seems to have evaporated. What could have changed? Has she been found out?
This is completely unexpected, and having no new samples, I find myself at a standstill. If the restaurant had been merely a diversion, a stopgap measure to keep me from imminent poverty, it has now gained a new level of importance. The analysis is taking longer than expected, and has no end in sight. Without a source of income, my money would eventually run out, and I’d be in worse shape than before. I would have to leave the area to find employment, and my research, the only chance I have to vindicate myself, would come to an end. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with an obsessive sense of urgency. Whatever it takes, the restaurant must succeed. I must give it my all. I can’t let it fail!
Fargo returns and he’s all wound up.
“Come on, get in the jeep. I want to show you something. You too Will,” he says.
“What is it?” I say.
“A surprise.”
We all pile into the jeep and Fargo races down the dirt road to the main highway. He pulls into a parking lot in front of a corrugated steel warehouse. We exit the jeep and follow him through the front door. A large man in jeans and a tee-shirt approaches us.
“Okay if I show them?”
“Sure Fargo, help yourself.”
Fargo leads us through a door into the back area, a supermarket-size room filled with restaurant supplies of all types. Fargo zeros in on a group of about twenty tables and a pile of matching chairs.
“What do you think?” he says.
“Well, the wood matches the decor,” I say.
“How much,” Will asks.
“They just came in, told me two-thousand.”
“Two-thousand for all of them?”
“Only if we take them today.”
“I say go for it,” Will says.
“Indigo?”
“They’re nice, yeah, let’s do it. How do we get them home?”
“He’ll deliver them. Come on, let’s go tell him.”
We wander back to the front office and Fargo closes the deal. Back at the restaurant, we spend the rest of the day washing the floor and cleaning up the place. And then, the next day, at 9:00 AM sharp, the truck shows up as promised. It backs up to the service door and two men unload the tables and chairs into the dining area. Fargo tips them and then they drive away.
We spend a couple of hours arranging and rearranging the tables until we find a layout that pleases all three of us. I stand back to admire our work.
“What about curtains... and blinds?” I ask.
I see Fargo roll his eyes.
“If you want curtains, that’s on you.”
I pick up what I need at a mega-discount store and Will does me the favor of putting them up. Fargo surprises us later with a carload of Indian crafts like baskets, dream catchers, tomahawks, wampum, blankets, jewelry, and paintings. Will adds them to the walls giving the place a decidedly Native American look. And then Fargo takes a large stuffed alligator head out of a box and places it next to the cash register. He takes the dish with the after-dinner candies and places it into the wide-open mouth.
“Kids will love it,” he says, causing me and Will to laugh.
The menus arrive on Thursday as promised and the food on Friday. As the food truck backs up to the service door, I suddenly realize this is not like stocking your home refrigerator. The amount of food is enormous, enough food for hundreds of people, and the task of organizing it tak
es us the better part of a day.
Saturday rolls around and we open promptly at 6:00 AM hoping to catch the early morning crowd. I wait in the kitchen manning stoves and food processors in anticipation of a plethora of orders and Will stands by the front door working double duty, as maître-d and server.
But no one stops in. Although the new sign was up, none of the guests knew the restaurant would be open and everyone had already eaten breakfast during the drive in. The rest of the day yields no business, the folly of not advertising, but then, in the late afternoon, some of the returning guests stop in to trade fish stories and brag about their catch for the day. The business is not exactly brisk, but it’s enough to keep Will and I busy and test our skills.
Fargo meanders in and engages his guests in some exaggerated stories about battles with alligators and survival in the swamp and they seem glued to his every word. When the last guest has departed, he gives me a look that tells me he’s curious about how much we made.
“About $250,” I say.
“We need to advertise,” he responds.
“Listen, we have an awful lot of food, more than we need. What do you say we invite all your buddies over on Sunday for a free meal?”
“A free meal?”
“Well they helped us out... and I don’t want the food to go bad.”
“Are you up to it?”
“It’ll be a test,” I say, and so it is. About a hundred people show up, including wives and children, and some are even dressed in Native American garb. The whole experience gives me an excellent opportunity to test the dynamics of the kitchen. When you’re minding thirty cheeseburgers, twenty steaks, and a dozen servings of seafood, all at the same time, you have to make sure nothing gets burnt or undercooked. It’s a daunting task, but my experience at Sid’s serves me well. I get not a single complaint from any of the guests although I’m sure it has something to do with the fact the food is free. Will seems comfortable with his role as server and it’s good practice for the real thing on Tuesday. We all decided to stay closed on Monday since it’s Fargo’s day off and there won’t be any customers around anyway. It would become our day of rest.
I peek through the tiny window that connects the kitchen with the dining room and see children playing Indian games and Fargo chatting with his friends. He seems to be enjoying the atmosphere of having his own people around and is finally fulfilling the dying wish of his mother, to maintain and propagate the culture of his people. Overall, the banquet is a huge success and business continues to be brisk aided by a new sign Fargo has added to the old one out on the main highway.
A week later, Will rushes into the kitchen and tells me there’s a guy from the State of Florida in the lobby and he wants to speak to the owner. The first thing that comes to mind is our permits are not in order or the health inspection didn’t go well. I meet him in the lobby and he tells me the Department of Tourism is doing a new brochure and they want to include us because of our Native American significance. Best of all, it won’t cost us anything. Naturally, Will and I are elated and tell him so. The man has us sign a release giving the state permission to advertise our place of business, and then, asks me and Will to pose by the stuffed alligator with the candy dish in its mouth. He takes a picture of us plus a few more of the dining area and the grounds outside.
A week and a half later I get this brown manila envelope in the mail and inside are a dozen multi-colored brochures. Surprisingly, our restaurant is featured right on the front. A note inside tells me they’re printing 100,000 of them and distributing them to rest stops and motels from Florida to North Carolina. I show the brochure to Will and it’s obvious he’s delighted.
“Look, it says ‘Proprietors’ under the picture of you and me right here on the cover. I guess that makes us pretty important,” he says.
“Indeed it does,” I say.
Business doubles and then doubles again and we hire three additional servers, an assistant cook, and a greeter to manage the long lines on the weekends. We are now bringing in several thousand dollars a day and use the extra money to repair the dock, get a dozen canoes, landscape the grounds, add some picnic tables and a playground, and build a wading beach which is lined with a steel fence to keep out alligators. Will is proposing we build an addition and Fargo is close to giving his approval.
It’s now the end of January, and after expenses, we are each realizing a profit of several hundred dollars a day. It’s not exactly a fortune, but it does ease our former anxiety and gives us the security we so yearned for. One day Will surprises us and shows up with an SUV. He tells us he always wanted one and bought it from the guy that sells us food. It was such a good deal he couldn’t pass it up.
And then, as I lay in bed after a tiring day, I get this uneasy feeling something bad is about to happen. I don’t know what could have prompted it, after all, the restaurant is going well, I’ve been giving Dr. Parker water samples on a regular basis, and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. By all accounts, life is good and getting better all the time.
But things were very different when I was a young girl growing up. My life consisted of struggles and setbacks, and in spite of my optimistic attitude, after every success I was always presented with one more hurdle to tame.
Many years later, when I studied physics, it occurred to me that Newton’s Third Law of Motion “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction” ruled not only rockets and the planets, but also human lives. I saw a pattern: “For every advancement there was an equal and opposite encumbrance.” It instilled in me this weird feeling that somehow I don’t deserve this happiness, that hardship is my destiny, and this is just the calm before the storm. I try to forget about it telling myself it’s only from the stress of working eighteen-hour days, and then, after a few days, my melancholy passes.
A week goes by, and then, one afternoon, Will saunters into the kitchen.
“Need anything from the food store? Tribal Council’s tonight and we’re out of Fry Bread.”
“Can’t think of anything,” I say.
“Okay, I’ll be back before dinner,” he says, and then drives away in his SUV.
An hour later, one of the servers enters the kitchen and tells me there’s a guy at a table asking for me.
“He told me he was an old friend. Just wanted to wish you luck with the restaurant,” she says.
I wonder: Could it be Logan... or one of my friends from the university? I peek through the window, but don’t recognize the back of his head. I wipe off my hands and stroll into the dining area. And then, when I turn to face him, my heart races at top speed as I realize I’m being confronted with my worst nightmare.
It’s Damon.
I think about running back into the kitchen, but it’s too late; he’s already seen me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he says.
“I’m not your friend.”
“Oh, come on. Are you going to hold that against me?”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Your picture. I saw it at a rest stop. Recognized the blue hair.”
“Eat your meal and leave,” I say, and turn to walk away. He grabs my hand and I snap it away from him.
“Don’t touch me or I’ll have you arrested.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I came to apologize. That wasn’t me back there. My girlfriend had just cheated on me and I was drinking to ease the pain; okay, I drank too much. I’m not usually like that. Just tell me you’ll forgive me so I can have some peace.”
“If you want forgiveness, go to church,” I say, and then rush back into the kitchen. I watch him finish his dinner and see him toss some money on the table as he gets up to leave. The waitress picks up the check and the money and then rushes into the kitchen.
“He left me a twenty dollar tip,” she says.
“Don’t let that fool you. He’s trouble.”
“I think he’s kind of cute.”
“I know how to handle men, always have.”
“For your own safety, please, stay away from him.”
“Maybe you’re saying that because YOU want him.”
“I’m saying that because I don’t want you dead.”
“Alright! If you feel that strongly about it.”
The waitress cleans off the table and puts the tip in her pocket. Will walks in, and in a panic, I relate to him the whole story about Damon.
“There’s not a lot we can do,” he says. “He hasn’t broken any laws.”
“Can’t we file a police report?”
“What evidence do you have? I doubt they’d take it seriously.”
“But he’s out there, free as a bird, and I’m here, a sitting duck.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him. Don’t go anywhere without telling me first.”
I avoid the customer parking lot by day and ask Will to escort me after dark, but I always get this uneasy feeling he’s out there somewhere, spying on me. Even though I haven’t seen or heard from him in over a week, the tension is overbearing and wearing me down. I find myself waking up screaming with frequent nightmares. Even Fargo, who can sleep through a hurricane, is jarred by my late-night outbursts. And then, a couple of days later, he hands me a handgun. I look it over and see writing on the side. It says: Ruger 9mm.
“What’s this for?” I say.
“Just in case.”
“I don’t know how to use it. It scares me.”
“Come on,” he says, and takes me to a shooting range. He shows me the basics and after an afternoon of practice I’m able to consistently hit the target at ten yards.
“I think you’re good enough to protect yourself,” he says, and then we stop at the police station on the way back to get the necessary permits for a concealed weapon. Initially, I keep the gun close to me, in a drawer in the kitchen. But then, after two weeks go by and there’s no sign of Damon, I place it in the PT Cruiser, safely locked in the glove compartment, so I don’t forget it when I’m driving alone.
Another week goes by and the nightmares subside as I return to my former self. I wonder though, perhaps he was telling the truth and really did just want to apologize. Maybe he’s a decent guy at heart and just got caught up in a bad situation he couldn’t deal with. In any event, I’m pretty sure he got the message and has left the area.
