“Calamari is squid. And octopus is…octopus.”
“Oh.” She paused. “I don’t get it.”
Six hours later, my first shift was over. I had somehow managed to avoid going into the kitchen, thus avoiding the temperamental French chef.
“First night done. How do you feel?” Aidan asked.
I pretended to check my body for wounds. “Okay, I think. I’m not bleeding out. Most people were really nice.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Except for my first table. Horrible human being. And she tipped 16.35%. If you’re a terrible person, you should have to tip more. To ensure good karma.”
“Good luck enforcing that,” he said.
“And then there was the girl who didn’t know the difference between calamari and octopus.”
“You keep a straight face?”
“Barely.”
He laughed. “Up for a celebratory drink?”
I raised an eyebrow. “With you?”
“Who else?” he demanded.
“Blurring those lines, are ya?”
“If you’ll let me,” he said. Two customers were on their way out and Aidan momentarily turned his attention away from me to wish them goodnight. While he was distracted, I skipped downstairs to change clothes. It was important to keep my distance.
“Good job tonight,” Natalie said, slinging her large purse over her shoulder. She was gorgeous and lithe—she had the body of a dancer. Her black hair was twirled up into a fancy bun and her half-Asian heritage was striking. She also still looked amazing and fresh. I was greasy and hungry.
“Thanks,” I said.
“What train do you take?” she asked.
“The L.”
“I take the F. Wanna walk to 6th with me? Grab a slice of pizza?”
I smiled. “Sure, sounds good.”
We headed up the stairs to the main floor and Natalie waved to Aidan. “Bye, Aidan. See ya later.”
“Bye,” he said, his eyes darting to me.
Did I detect disappointment on his face?
“God, he’s so hot,” Natalie muttered when we were outside, headed for greasy, cheesy perfection.
“You think so?” I asked, feigning nonchalance.
She looked at me like I was an alien from planet Blind. “Jesus, that guy…he’s so sexy. And nice.”
“Such a rare combo.”
“Seriously. I’m contemplating making a move. I know he’s our manager, but he goes out drinking with us all the time. Maybe I should make a drunk move?” She looked at me. “You’re judging me now, aren’t you?”
I forced out a laugh. “No, not at all.” Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry for pizza—a knot of jealousy had invaded my stomach.
“Hey, you know what, I totally forgot I need to get home,” I said. “Can we grab pizza another time?”
Natalie nodded. “Sure. See ya later!”
“You ready?” Zeb asked.
“No,” I said. “I can’t do this.”
He rested his hands on my shoulders. “You can, and you will.”
“I don’t know the menu well enough.”
“Not true. You passed your food test. You even got the extra credit question right.”
“I’ll fuck up.”
“Probably,” he agreed. “But you did fine this week.”
“Saturday nights are not the same as Mondays and Tuesdays,” I argued. “Even I know that.”
“Pull it together, woman! It’s just food. You’re not curing cancer. People don’t die from us doing our jobs…not if they have EPI pens.”
I took a deep breath.
“Good. Now slap a smile on your face!”
My lips pulled into a grimace and Zeb shook his head. “Not like that—that will scare people. You’ll be okay. I’m right next to you if you get in the weeds.”
The rush lasted three hours. Customers just kept coming. By 11:00 PM I was exhausted, my feet hurt, and I could barely find the energy to speak. I was in desperate need of a drink.
“You okay?” Jess asked me as I handed her my stack of table receipts for the evening.
I managed to nod.
“Poor thing. You’re rendered speechless.”
I nodded again, more vigorously this time.
“The bar next door is one of our local haunts. They always hook us up.”
“Who always hooks us up?” Zeb asked, setting his checkout down in front of Jess.
“The bartenders at Johnny’s.”
“Ah, yes, double pours, but they only charge us for one. Awesome burgers, too.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this at the beginning of my night? So I could have something to look forward to?” I asked, my tongue finally able to form words. My head was buzzing from all the stimuli.
He grinned. “You had to make it through your first Saturday to be indoctrinated.”
“I’m getting a burger with the works.”
“Bacon?” Zeb asked.
“Duh. I’m so not kosher.”
“You coming after you close?” Zeb asked Jess.
“Nope. I got a bottle of wine and hot man waiting at home for me.”
“You’re so domestic it’s gross,” Zeb said.
“I know,” Jess said with a wide grin.
I changed clothes quickly and grabbed my stuff, waiting for Zeb at the front of the restaurant. We walked next door, finding a long wood table and quickly placing our drink and food orders.
“You okay?” Zeb asked.
“Yeah, but Katrina still won’t talk to me.”
Katrina was the scary Russian waitress who had once been on the Olympic shot put team. Or so people liked to say. I had no idea if it was true, but the girl was intimidating and she scared the shit out of me.
Zeb laughed. “Yeah, she won’t talk to you for the first three months. Not until you prove yourself and that you’ve got staying power.”
As the restaurant closed, more of our co-workers trickled into the bar. Aaron, a bartender from Antonio’s, pulled up a stool to the table Zeb and I were sitting at.
“How’s it going, Tracksuit?” Zeb asked him.
“Worst nickname ever,” Aaron said.
“Your fault, but seriously, I’m a fan of the last one—the white one with red piping. Where’s Nat?” Zeb asked.
“She went home. Said she had a headache,” Aaron answered.
I liked the staff. We were all around the same age bracket within five years. No one was married or tied down except for Jess, our GM, but she was cool—even if she was an adult.
I had never felt less like an adult.
Aidan sauntered in, his button down shirt open, revealing a white undershirt.
“Damn, he is hot,” Zeb breathed.
“That seems to be the general consensus,” I admitted.
“You don’t think he’s hot?”
“Not my type.”
Lie, lie, big fat lie.
“I wouldn’t mind a make out sesh in the wine room with him,” Zeb said.
“Ew. I’m eating here,” Aaron grumbled.
“You might have to fight Natalie for him,” I said. I suddenly had a vision of Natalie and Zeb using Italian sausages like swords and fighting gladiator style for Aidan.
“I can take that skinny Asian chick. And make Aidan question his sexuality.”
“If anyone can make a man question his sexuality, it’s you,” I said.
Zeb brightened. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
“I’m going to go over there now while you girls talk about cute boys,” Aaron said, picking up his half eaten burger and going to hang out with the kitchen guys at another table.
“How long has Aidan worked at Antonio’s?” I asked.
“Two years,” Zeb answered. “Did you know the place was kind of failing until he came along?”
“Really?”
Zeb nodded. “Julian was running shit into the ground. He thought because he was the chef, that meant he understood how the front of the house was supposed to be run. Aidan t
urned it all around, kept Julian contained in the kitchen. Guests love Aidan and server tips got so much better in general.”
“Wow, so he’s like a restaurant savant?”
“Pretty much. He never has to write anything down to remember it, and he’s really good with numbers.”
“Huh.” I thought he was just the quintessential hot guy. Now that I realized there was more to him…
“He ever hook up with an employee?”
Zeb shook his head. “No, sadly. Not even a hostess.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?”
“No.” His eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking?”
Thankfully, Aidan came over and plopped down in an empty seat next to me, sparing me from having to come up with a good lie. “Good job tonight,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“You held your own.”
“Yeah, she did,” Zeb said. He raised his glass, saying loudly, “To Sibby!”
“To Sibby!” our co-workers cheered.
“Where are you going?” Zeb demanded as I stood to leave. “We’re just about to do shots!”
“I’m exhausted,” I said, which was partially the truth. I’d been drunk once around Aidan, and had barely held on to my willpower. I didn’t want to risk being drunk around him again and giving in this time.
Zeb replied, “Wednesday night is my birthday. I’m having a party at Barcade. The one in Brooklyn. Eight p.m.”
“Brooklyn, huh? I’ll be there.”
Chapter 6
Prosciutto [pro-shu-toh]:
1. Cured ham (from the leg).
2. “No Ma’am, it’s not a vegetable, fish, beef, or kosher.”
I was back at Antonio’s on Tuesday, fully recovered after my first Saturday night. Natalie and I were in the courtyard room together, waiting for the night to start. We polished wine glasses as we watched a table of nine guys being sat at the long community table.
“I really don’t want to take them,” she said. They looked like they were about my age, and I wondered if it was a frat boy reunion—they were all dressed in khakis and blue button downs, all looking the same. A pack of bros. I couldn’t tell them apart if I wanted to. Weird.
“Why not?” I asked.
“They just look like—well—”
“Frat-tastic?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll take them.”
“You will?”
I nodded. “I haven’t taken a bigger party yet, and it’s a slower night. I should learn, right? Besides, I speak frat boy. I got this.”
After I brought the bros water, the alpha bro at the head of the table demanded, “I wanna order drinks.”
“Sure,” I said, pulling out my pad and pen.
“Four Kettle tonics, four Kettle on the rocks, and one sangria.”
“Sangria?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” Alpha Bro said.
“Sure, Bro, whatever you want.” As I dropped off their drinks, I shamelessly listened to their conversation, not that they cared there was a female in their midst. If I had any doubt that they were frat guys, I didn’t after hearing them talk about the women in their lives. People said the most personal things in restaurants, mistakenly thinking they were in a private setting. One bro was talking about hooking up with two women in the same night. His friend-bro elbowed him and then gestured to me with his chin.
“Sorry,” the bro said, not at all contrite.
“It’s cool. I did that with two guys last weekend. You ready to order?”
The table of nine bros blinked stupidly, not sure if I was serious or kidding. I let them wonder as I took their order: fried calamari and caprese salads for starters, followed by six chicken Parmesans, and three spaghetti and meatballs.
So original.
Sometime in the middle of their appetizers, they switched from discussing women to chatting about their stock portfolios. I wanted to bang my head against the brick wall of the courtyard, but I managed to restrain myself.
“Can you split the check nine ways?” Alpha Bro asked, gathering up nine credit cards.
I felt my left eyeball twitch. “Sure.”
Thank God it wasn’t busy. As they left, I gathered up their signed credit card slips, making sure I had all of them. I didn’t want to have to forge their signatures.
“How did you do with your first big party?” Jess asked me after they left.
“Okay.”
“How were they?”
“Bro-tastic. I had to listen to them objectify women and then discuss their investment portfolios. Oh, and then split the check nine ways since none of them actually have money to cover the bill. Jackasses, all of them.” I looked at the receipts and sighed. “Damn it.”
“What? Shitty tippers?”
“Just when I think their mothers would be completely ashamed of them, they prove me wrong. They all tipped twenty-five percent.” I shook my head. “This is proof you can never judge a bro by his khakis.”
“What beers do you have on draft?” the man asked.
“Pork Slap Pale Ale, Laguinitas IPA, Bittburger Pilsner, and Easy Blonde Ale.”
“Well, I liked easy blondes before my wife, so I’ll go with that.”
I looked at the man’s wife who was sitting across from her husband, smiling and shaking her head. I laughed. “You actually take him out in public?”
She chuckled. “I know, right?”
They reached across the table and held hands. If I were in a far less bitter place, I would consider telling them I thought they were super cute. But at the moment, all I wanted to do was throw things at happy people. It probably wouldn’t help my tip if I beamed them with bar olives.
I dropped off their drinks and then took their order. After I gathered up their menus, I watched them gaze at each other with affectionate expressions.
I went to my next table of two young twenty-somethings, a couple seemingly on a date. I watched as the girl posted photos of the restaurant, the table, the guy she was with, and everything in between on Facebook, instead of talking to her boyfriend. I never realized how much time some people spent absorbed in their electronic devices.
“Y’all ready to order?” I asked.
The guy smiled, relieved to have someone to finally talk to. “Y’all? Where are you from?”
“Atlanta.”
“I’d like to order,” the girl snapped, looking up from her phone.
“Okay,” I said, not at all letting her attitude affect me. It wasn’t my fault her boyfriend liked my drawl.
“I’ll have the Brussels sprouts, but I don’t want them sweet.”
“Okay. I can do those without the maple syrup.”
“Good. And no butter. Only olive oil—and make sure they’re crunchy. That’s all,” she said and went right back to her phone.
I nodded and then looked to the guy. He was gazing at me with a slight smile on his face. Pretty obvious he thought I was cute.
“For you, sir?” I asked.
“I’ll have the salmon.”
“Great. How would you like it cooked?”
“Huh?”
I blinked. “Your fish. How would you like it cooked?”
“Sorry, I zoned out. Medium rare please.”
“Sure, I’ll bring it out as soon as it’s done.”
When the time came, they split the check. No surprise: the girl left me an eight percent tip, but the guy, he totally came through for me: thirty percent and a phone number.
Maybe next time she’d stay off her phone.
I was in the middle of frosting the homemade birthday cake I’d made for Zeb when my phone rang.
Mom.
I hadn’t spoken to her or my father since I’d gotten laid off and broken up with Matt. I silenced the call. She left a voicemail, but I didn’t listen to it. I’d call them back when I had a new life plan. It could be a while.
After I finished frosting the cake and managed to get it all over my shirt, I went to change for the night out. I was headi
ng to a dive bar in Brooklyn that had old school video games, like Pac Man and Centipede, for people to play, so it wasn’t like I needed to wear heels or a skirt. Not that I would’ve worn that stuff anyway.
I wasn’t good at the dressing-up-like-a-girl thing. Makeup was a nuisance, contacts were a hassle, and a flat iron—why singe perfectly good curly hair? My eyebrows were sculpted and I shaved my legs and armpits. That was as good as it was going to get.
I knew my limitations.
Hating my line of thought, I cut it off immediately and put on a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt, black skinny-leg jeans, and my well-loved red Converse sneakers.
I grabbed the aluminum covered cake and my purse and was out the door. I caught a cab easily, and since I was only going to Williamsburg and I lived in Greenpoint, I figured it was worth the cheap ride. Maneuvering public transit with a cake would’ve been a nightmare. I could’ve walked, but exercise wasn’t my style.
I found my co-workers in the back of the bar. They were already loud and laughing, and I felt a smile drift across my face. Most of them had been at Antonio’s for years, and even though I was new, I felt like I already fit in with them.
“You came!” Zeb yelled in excitement, raising his bottle of beer to me.
“I said I would,” I said, setting the cake down on a scarred table. “Sorry I’m late. I had to make you a cake.”
“You made me a cake?” he screamed in drunken excitement.
“It’s your birthday, right? People get cakes on their birthdays.”
Apparently, Zeb liked to drink on his birthday. He was already trashed and in the crook of Kirk’s arm. Kirk was our weekend service bartender, a stoic guy who rarely said a thing. I guess he was cute in that silent kind of way.
“I’m gonna grab a drink. Need anything?”
Zeb gestured to his nearly full bottle of beer. “Nope. I’m good.”
“What? You’re not gonna offer to buy me a drink?” Aaron asked.
“I don’t buy drinks for men who wear tracksuits,” I teased.
“You haven’t worked long enough at Antonio’s to be able to mock me,” Aaron protested.
“Yes, she has,” Zeb interjected with a grin.
While I waited to snag the bartender’s attention, I felt a body press next to mine and turned to find Aidan leaning in close to me.
Tales of a New York Waitress (The Sibby Chronicles Book 1) Page 5
