by Jenny Nelson
“So how’s it going?” He flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his T-shirt and ran his hand through his hair several times. “Everyone feeling good?” His leather-soled shoes tapped the floor, and he jingled the keys in his pocket. “Big night tonight. Huggy Henderson’s coming in. You guys know who she is?”
Georgia opened her mouth, then shut it.
“A big-deal socialite. A friend of mine. I made the reservation for her myself, so make sure you do her right. Table nine.” He squeezed the waitress’s shoulder and winked, then walked away.
He hadn’t looked at Georgia once. When the review hit, he would fire her. She was sure of it.
Georgia attacked her dinner prep more aggressively than usual. As she saw it, there were two kinds of chefs. First, there were the cerebral types, who cooked with an intellectual, almost academic, bent. They cooked with precision and accuracy, studying a particular ingredient’s effects in multiple settings before introducing it into their kitchen. These chefs loved the science of food. Fastidious in their pre-prep prep, they knew with 99 percent accuracy that a dish would turn out well. Then there were the chefs who worked from the heart. Who were furious when a dish fizzled, chopped angrily at the food as if it were their enemy, but on a good day could coax such sensuous, sublime flavors from a paltry potato and a handful of herbs that no diner would suspect its humble origins. When they hit, they hit big. But when they fell, it was like a sequoia cracking open in the redwood forest.
Georgia belonged to the former (she was, after all, her father’s daughter), but that night she let her anger at Glenn, at Marco, at Mercedes, and even at Mercedes’s presumably unsuspecting daughter give way to a fervor she normally kept in close check. The line cooks fed off her intensity, each station playing its part in the unspoken choreography that defines a stellar night. Miraculously, no one was in the weeds; the roundsman, who stepped in wherever he was needed, did his job seamlessly; orders came up on time; the front and back of the house were perfectly in sync. The dining room—diners, servers, bartenders, hostess, even the coat-check girl—sparkled with energy.
Georgia placed four small plates on the pass-through and called over her favorite waitress. “Send these to Huggy Henderson, table nine, with my compliments.”
“Wow. The potato-and-caviar treatment,” the waitress said, checking out the plates. “She really must be important.”
If sitting on a handful of the city’s most prestigious boards and routinely appearing in the party pages meant she was important, then, yes, Huggy was important. Beyond that, Georgia liked her. Meeting the imperious woman with the Preppy Handbook–style nickname had been the highlight of a couple of low days. As if on cue the new pimple on Georgia’s chin started tingling, a pesky reminder of her Chubby Chippie binge.
Bernard walked back into the kitchen and tapped her shoulder. “Georgia. What are you guys doing back here? That dining room is on fire.”
“I had to do something.”
Ricky stretched his head around the door to catch a glimpse of the dining room. “He’s not kidding, Chef. You gotta check it out. Table eight’s about to go at it on the table.”
“Must be the oysters,” Georgia said.
That night, she unilaterally struck Oysters Marco, her least favorite dish, from the menu. Instead she served what she jokingly called Oysters Roc-a-fella, a slight twist on the famous Antoine’s Restaurant original, subbing cress for spinach and adding chopped fennel and a splash of (now legal) absinthe. The recipe was a tip-top secret, but Georgia had known it for years, thanks to a former colleague who’d once worked at Antoine’s and who’d recited it to her as if it were a Shakespearean sonnet. After, he’d professed his undying love and devotion to her, and after that he’d face-planted into a bowl of remoulade. She hadn’t seen the cook in ages, but the recipe she remembered.
A waitress walked to the pass-through. “The very important Huggy Henderson is requesting your company. I know Marco doesn’t go for this, but I thought maybe this one time.”
“Go for it, Georgia.” Bernard gave her a polite shove. They both knew her fate at Marco was as good as sealed.
Huggy Henderson held court at table nine, a corner banquette bathed in a soft glow. Far enough from the bar and the server station to seem almost intimate, yet central enough so fellow diners couldn’t help but crane their necks to see who graced the table at which they’d never be seated, it was the undisputed best table in the house. Huggy wore a South Sea pearl-coral-and-diamond necklace that hit directly above her collarbones, and a creamy cashmere cardigan with scalloped edges. Her hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and her ears were festooned with quarter-size pearls rimmed with pavé diamonds that matched her necklace. She was, as Glenn’s mom would say, the original Mrs. Got Rocks.
Georgia smoothed her hair, slicked some gloss across her lips, and straightened her white chef’s jacket. There wasn’t a whole lot she could do to improve her appearance. She marched through the dining room, eyes straight ahead, hoping she didn’t look like a girl heading for the guillotine, which was how she felt. She wouldn’t miss these at-table appearances, rare though they were. Some chefs loved them, basking in the spotlight, beaming as they sauntered through the crowd of adoring diners. Not Georgia. She was delighted when Marco told her he believed the chef belonged in the kitchen and the front of the house was his and the managers’ domain. Marco didn’t go much for anything that took the limelight from where he felt it rightfully belonged: on himself. In this case, Georgia happily agreed with him.
Placing her hand on the back of Huggy’s polished nickel chair, Georgia smiled at her two companions, noting an empty place setting. “Hello, I’m Georgia Gray. I hope you’re all enjoying your meal.”
“Georgia. How lovely to see you.” Huggy held out her hand. “Don’t you look wonderful in your smart white chef coat. I was just telling my family how we met yesterday at the bakery. What a fortuitous encounter.”
“Wasn’t it,” said Georgia.
“Tell me, dear, a friend of mine at the Daily says you’ll be reviewed tomorrow. Is that so?”
Georgia bit her lip. “I’m afraid so, Huggy. We believe Mercedes Sante was in last week, so the review should be out tomorrow.”
“Afraid? Afraid of what?” said a dapper man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and thick black eyebrows. “That was the best soft-shell crab I’ve ever had.”
“I’m glad you liked it. It’s one of my favorites too.” The crab was a seasonal special, and a big crowd-pleaser.
“Lawrence Henderson. Her worse half.” He motioned in Huggy’s direction and chuckled. “Good to meet you, Georgia. Allow me to introduce my son, Andrew.”
Andrew’s face was chiseled and sharp, but his espresso-brown eyes were soft, sort of like Sally’s. “Nice to meet you, Georgia. The food is delicious. Everything is.” His voice was mellow and rich, and his ripe mouth turned up at the corners. He gestured to the table with an open palm, his eyes crinkling. Georgia was smitten.
“Now, Georgia, you needn’t be afraid of this review. The food is simply heavenly, although all this lacquer and mirror”—Huggy gestured to the white lacquer bar, which was backed by mirrored shelving holding multihued bottles—“is a bit much. But trust me, dear. It will be a good review and you’ll be even more of a star than you already are.” Huggy beamed as if Georgia were her very own creation.
“Gee, thanks, Huggy. But I’m not so sure of that. We’ll see what happens.”
Huggy pulled out a calling card from her quilted Chanel clutch. “In case you lost my other card. Please, dear, should you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”
Georgia accepted the card. “Thanks, Huggy, I will. It was nice to meet you all.” She looked at Andrew for just a second longer than necessary, then left the table, grinning at a waiter as she passed.
Despite her doomed career and disastrous relationship, Georgia felt a flicker of joy. Marco was firing her. The entire city would soon read a terrible review that would
likely mention her name half a dozen times. And yet, Andrew’s eyes were so… nice. And that voice. Maybe she could do the single-girl thing after all. Feeling almost giddy, she sailed toward the kitchen, stopping shy of the door. She turned for one last look at the table, just in time to catch a stunning brunette in a strapless dress rush over. Andrew’s sister? After blowing kisses to Huggy and her husband, the woman half bent, half stooped next to Andrew, planting a kiss squarely on his mouth. Not a chance.
Georgia looked down at the hand clenching Huggy’s card and was momentarily blinded by the glittering diamond on her left ring finger. The reality of her life settled in like a bad summer cold. Of course a guy like Andrew had a girlfriend, maybe even a wife. Besides, she was still engaged to Glenn. Though their breakup seemed more a matter of when than if, they were still engaged and she had the hardware to prove it.
“What’s up with you, Chef? Is everything okay?” Ricky asked. When Georgia didn’t respond, he continued, “I guess having a big night will do that. The waitrons said their tips are insane and they want to take us out for drinks after close.”
“That’s sweet of them, Ricky. But I think I’ll make it an early night and go home. I don’t really feel like going out.” Her emotions were pogo-ing all over the place and she could barely make sense of them. Andrew’s soulful gaze and sexy mouth had triggered such instant elation it made her wonder. One smile from some random, taken guy and she’s running and dancing for joy? She raked her fingers through her pouffy hair, a cardinal sin for both chefs and curly girls, but sometimes impossible to resist.
At midnight Georgia was at last able to call it a night. The restaurant had its most successful night ever, hitting 256 covers, and an average ticket well over a hundred bucks. How ironic that it would soon be over. Seventies disco blasted through the kitchen as the crew drank their shift drink and readied themselves for more at the bar next door.
Ricky danced over to Georgia, hip-checking her as the song ended. “You sure I can’t convince you to come out? It’ll do you good.”
“Don’t think so, Ricky, but thanks. I have a much needed date with my second-to-last sleeping pill.” She wouldn’t be able to sleep without it. She swung her bag over her shoulder and started walking out. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Have fun on your date,” he called after her.
Halfway through the dining room she bent down to smell the flowers spilling onto the bar, cupping a particularly perfect peony in her hand. When she reached the door, she paused, turning for a last look at the restaurant. “Arrivederci, amici,” she said to no one. She pushed open the door and exited into the cool night.
The digital clock shouted 6:03 like a tabloid headline. Georgia sat up and stretched, rubbed her eyes. Judgment Day, aka The Day Georgia Got Forked, arrived earlier than most, and she cursed her internal clock for being so punctual.
Her feet touched down on the kilim carpet her parents had bought for her on a trip to Turkey, a culinary school graduation gift. Georgia had been surprised by how much she liked it and had decorated her slightly ethnic room around its faded blues, reds, and greens. The bed and bedside tables were ebonized bamboo, the walls were painted a deep eggplant, and an etched-glass lantern hung from the ceiling. The bookshelf was stuffed with cookbooks, novels, and Glenn’s beloved biographies and history books, spillover from the shelves lining the living room.
Two photographs sat on her dresser. One was of Grammy sitting on the dock at Silver Lake, her curly hair hidden by a flowered bathing cap, her legs crossed in front of her like Esther Williams. The other was of Georgia and Glenn at his sister’s wedding, in a sterling Tiffany frame the couple gave to the wedding party. His arm was thrown over Georgia’s shoulder, his smile open and off-center, as if he’d just heard a funny joke. Togged out in his tux, he looked Rat-Packer suave. Georgia wore Lo’s diamond drop earrings, a strapless black dress, and had treated herself to a blowout, so her hair fell down her back in smooth waves. Her smile was genuine, but her eyes looked just beyond the photographer. She didn’t recall having the picture taken, and when Glenn had asked what she was looking at, she couldn’t honestly remember.
She pulled up the shades and watched the sun begin its slow ascent over the East River, a sliver of which was visible from her bedroom and living-room windows. Water views, the ad for her apartment had boasted, and she had laughed when the Realtor pointed to the swish of muddled army-green water all but hidden between two towering buildings. Because she had spent childhood summers at Grammy’s cabin on Silver Lake, even that tiny slice of water offered comfort in the then still unfamiliar city, and she rented the apartment on the spot.
On weekday mornings she liked to watch the mammoth barges—what little she could see of them—traverse the river, wondering where they had come from and where they were going. Such an unlikely Manhattan scene, she had remarked to Glenn on one of only a handful of weekdays she could remember waking up next to him. He was home, sick with the flu, and wasn’t interested in boats or their stories, or how easy it was to forget the city was an island.
She slipped into sweats and flip-flops, chugged the glass of water on her bedside table, and left her apartment. With un-brushed teeth and hair, and five bucks in her pocket, she padded down the silent city streets, Sally plodding faithfully by her side. Turning in to the twenty-four-hour bodega, she braced herself for the worst. The Daily sat right next to the New York Times, a place of honor it didn’t deserve. But Mercedes’s restaurant reviews were, if not the most respected reviews, then at least the most read and were single-handedly responsible for more failed restaurants than the citywide smoking ban years back.
“Good morning, miss.” The young Indian owner smiled at her as she held up the newspaper and handed over a bill. “You’re up early today,” he said in a charmingly clipped accent, recalling her face from occasional late-night ice cream outings. He gave her the change. “Have a good day.”
“Thanks. I’ll try.”
Back at her apartment, Georgia sat down at the repro Chippendale dining table, scarred by decades of Gray family use, and rifled through the newspaper until she hit the lifestyle section. There it was, for all the world to see: half a fork. In case anyone might mistake it for a full fork, the art department had added the fraction ½ in front of the tiny half-fork graphic. It couldn’t be any clearer. She bit her lip to stop it from trembling. “No fucking way,” she whispered before folding back the page.
If you, like the rest of this city, have been desperately trying to score a coveted reservation at Marco, the latest and inexplicable darling of the downtown restaurant scene, you may want to reconsider. Your time could be better spent slurping a tallow milk shake and a plate of wiggly fries at the corner diner. (And given the restaurant’s astronomical prices, the bill, and possibly even the food, will be a lot more palatable.) From the ticky-tacky décor to the haughty service to the largely subpar food, Marco is a must miss that the fickle see-and-be-seen crowd will surely vacate for hotter (or perhaps cooler) pastures soon.
One redeeming quality of this velvet-roped-nightclub-cum-restaurant is a marginally interesting wine list, but with sky-high prices and markups upwards of 400%, it clearly caters to the flat-out loaded social and Hollywood-by-way-of-SoHo set who care not that a mediocre bottle of wine could easily set them back a Benjamin (or two or three).
Georgia felt like throwing up. This was worse than anything anyone expected.
As for the food, will someone please tell chef Georgia Gray salt is not a flavor unto itself but a flavor enhancer? Assertive salting is one thing, but Gray takes it to another level entirely. Some of her dishes taste as if they’ve been dunked in the cold Atlantic Ocean and then hung out to dry in a curing shack. Others are simply inedible, as in the venison, the texture of which recalls leather shoes that have been tap-dancing in the rain a little too long. Guinea hen, an iffy proposition even in more capable hands, fails to impress, floating as it does in a pool of glassy beurre blanc and lifeless baby root veget
ables. Oysters Marco, the specialty of the house, according to our uppity, unsmiling waitress, resembles a slippery mass of Silly Putty flavored with cheap, overly acidic balsamic vinegar and the ubiquitous fistful of salt. My four companions and I egged each other on à la Fear Factor to suck down the esophagus-obliterating concoction, and none of us were successful.
The menu is not entirely without merit, and daily specials ably showcase Gray’s mastery of cooking simple rustic fare, particularly in the pasta department. A bresaola and pecorino taglierini, decorated with spring peas and ramps, is tasty and satisfying, and the special risotto, purple asparagus and artichoke with a healthy dose of Asiago cheese and crunchy caramelized shallots, offers a palate-pleasing meld of flavor and texture. Polenta with wild-mushroom ragout, updated favorably with tangy sheep’s milk cheese, is earthy, velvety and downright good. Gray is clearly in her element with these peasant-inspired dishes, and my advice to her is to stick with them. Desserts are across-the-board insipid, bland and boring. If you must satisfy a sweet tooth, go for the house-made gelato.
Unfortunately, with 85% of the menu missing its mark, a blindly inattentive waitstaff, ambience that recalls a past-its-prime Atlantic City casino, and prices that surpass those at the city’s genuine culinary treasures, I cannot in clear conscience bestow even one full fork on Marco. Perhaps owner and former chef Marco Giado should scamper off, tail between his legs, and hone his skills in a less competitive market before attempting to play with the big boys of the Big Apple.
Georgia reread the review three times before crumpling it up and throwing it on the floor. From that moment on she would forever be known as the half-fork chef, inextricably linked with the most seething review written in the history of restaurant reviews.
“Fuck,” she said, loud enough to rouse Sally from her nap. Georgia stared at the balled-up newspaper, wishing she could make it burst into flames, then walked into the bedroom and changed into running gear. On her way out, she kicked the newspaper ball, then snatched it up, holding it between her thumb and index finger like a bag of doggy poop. “Come on, Sals,” she called. “Let’s get out of here.”
