“Why? How?”
“Restaurant life bleeds over into real life. Waiting tables is like war. Your co-workers are there with you in the trenches, you get close.”
“Are you sure you’re not a theater major? You sound pretty dramatic.”
“I’m gay.”
“Same thing.”
Zeb didn’t smile. “No secrets.”
“You mean people aren’t trustworthy?”
“I mean, things always have a way of coming out. So don’t do anything that you wouldn’t want the entire staff knowing.”
I became exasperated. “There’s nothing coming out. Nothing happened with Aidan. He’s a good guy who made sure I got home okay.”
“I saw the way you looked at him the night of my party.”
“What way was that?” I demanded.
“Like he was a plate of duck fat fries.”
Yum. The fries, I meant.
“But I also noticed how he looked at you.”
A stupid girly excited thrill shot through me. “You were drunk. You don’t know what you saw.”
He shrugged. “Denial is good.”
“I’m not denying anything!”
“Whatever you say.”
“Can we go to work now, please?”
I slid along the slippery kitchen floor, nearly losing my balance as I dropped off a pile of dishes to the dishwasher. The guys behind the line threw dirty pots into crates; the dishwashers collected them and all but tossed them into the massive sinks. The clatter of plates and silverware was downright jarring, and I was still adjusting to the noise level of the restaurant. Working in an office setting had been so quiet. The hum of computers and low phone conversations was all anyone ever heard.
But a restaurant?
Oy.
All the people. So. Many. People. All the time, all around. Bumping into customers, tight service stations with co-workers. I wasn’t used to having so many people in my space—not four nights a week. It was a lot to process.
I was headed out of the kitchen when the French chef, Julian, stopped me by placing his big, burly body in front of me. I nearly ran into him and his starched white chef coat.
“Ah!” I yelped and jumped back.
“You selling fish?” he asked.
I nodded.
“How much?”
I blinked. “Uhm, couple of branzino. A salmon or two…”
“Tuna!” he barked. “How much tuna?”
I tried not to quake. Julian was intimidating. “No tuna. Not yet.”
“Sell tuna, or you be sleeping with the zucchini.” His eyes bored into mine.
“Sleeping with the zucchini?” I murmured in confusion.
Julian didn’t blink. He looked like an enraged bull. His face was red, and I was convinced he was about to have an apoplectic fit at any moment. “Sleeping. With. The. Zucchini.”
“Okay, I understand,” I said even though I didn’t. I scurried out of the kitchen. At least he hadn’t thrown a plate at me to get his point across.
I approached the deuce that had set their menus aside and were conversing over their bottle of wine.
“Any food questions?” I asked.
The middle-aged woman looked at me. “How’s the tuna?”
“So good,” I stated quickly.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You wouldn’t just be saying that, would you?” the gentleman asked.
I pointed to my face. “Does this look like the face of a liar?”
The gentleman smiled. “In that case, we’ll both have the tuna.”
I collected the menus and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Tonight, at least, I wouldn’t be sleeping with the zucchini.
I stared at the fake-tanned woman holding the check. She was Oompa Loompa orange. Gesturing with her hands, her face was screwed up like an infant who hadn’t gotten its way and was about to cry big fat snotty tears.
“This is outrageous,” she continued. “I’m not paying for the pasta.”
“I don’t understand,” I said in confusion.
“The pasta was terrible.” She raised her eyebrows as she waited for my response. Her friend sitting across from her hid her face like she was ashamed to be out to dinner with such a kvetcher. And yet, she wouldn’t rein in her friend.
“But—”
“I demand to speak to a manager.”
I nodded. “Okay.” I headed to the host stand where Aidan was changing out the grimy dessert menus. “I have a problem.”
“Animal, vegetable, mineral?”
“Animal.”
“Julian? I heard him giving you a hard time about tuna.”
“Not Julian,” I said. “Angry customer. She said she’s not paying for the pasta.”
“Did she say what was wrong with it?”
“Wrong? She ate the entire dish.”
“Is there anything left in the bowl?”
“No.”
“Did she try to send it back before now?”
“No.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Oh, that I was.”
“I’ll handle it.”
I grinned. “You’re the best. All hail The King.”
“I like the sound of that.”
He was sexy when he was in crisis solving mode.
“What table?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Stay out of sight,” he said.
“Roger that.”
I hid in the service station by the bar, but I had a view that allowed me to see and hear the table. Aidan held the empty plate in his hand, nodding at whatever Oompa Loompa was saying.
“I understand that, ma’am,” he said with just enough deference to make me wonder how he did this job without going homicidal on someone. Maybe he was just even keeled. I was beginning to think that I wasn’t really a people person. In fact, I believed working in the service industry was giving me a social anxiety disorder.
Oompa Loompa snapped, “But the dish was terrible!”
“Ma’am,” Aidan cut her off, “this is a restaurant. We would have been glad to bring you something else if only you had told us you didn’t like it. But you ate the entire dish. There’s nothing left. You ate it, you bought it.”
The women dug around in their purses and threw down cash, grabbing their belongings and muttering on the way out. Aidan picked up the cash and brought it to me.
“I didn’t get a tip, did I?” I asked.
He looked sheepish. “Nope.”
“Totally worth it,” I said with a grin.
“How is everything?” I asked the table of four.
I received a lot of head nods and thumbs up because everyone was still chewing. It was better than verbal confirmation. One guy dabbed his mouth with his napkin before looking up at me.
“What bourbons do you have?”
“Maker’s, Knob Creek, Jim Beam, Jim Beam Rye, Jack, Gentleman Jack, Woodford Reserve, Michter’s, George Dickel, Bulleit, Bulleit Rye.”
“No Wild Turkey?”
“No Wild Turkey.”
“Why not?”
My brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you have almost every other bourbon under the sun, but you don’t have Wild Turkey?”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I stayed silent.
Bourbon Guy clearly wasn’t finished as he went on, “Can you get me Wild Turkey? I just want Wild Turkey on the rocks.”
“Uhm—”
“I saw a liquor store down the street. Can’t you just pop on over there and get me a mini bottle?”
“I can’t leave the restaurant, sir.” The dining room was full and we were in a middle of our rush. “But I’ll be glad to get you something else from our bar.”
“I don’t want anything else,” he huffed, acting like a child, picking up his fork and shoveling in another bite of food.
“Okay,” I said meekly, skulking away. I headed towards the bar, wanting to hide from the ang
ry customer.
“What’s wrong?” Zeb asked when he came over to pick up his drinks.
I told him about Bourbon Guy. Zeb rolled his eyes and called out to Kirk behind the bar. “Gimme a shot of Maker’s.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m telling him we found a rogue bottle of Wild Turkey. Ten bucks says that guy won’t know the difference.” He stalked towards my table, carrying Maker’s on the rocks. Thirty seconds later, Zeb was back, grinning in triumph.
“Pay up,” he said.
Chapter 8
Saltimbocca [sal-tim-boh-ka]
1. Veal wrapped in prosciutto and sage. Literally means jumps in the mouth because it’s so good.
2. Jump into my belly. Now.
The next night, I was folding a stack of napkins when Jess, the GM, came into the dining room, holding a clipboard. “Sibby, can you come here for a second?”
I set a folded napkin aside. “I didn’t do it.”
“Do what?” she asked.
“Whatever it is you want to accuse me of,” I teased.
“You’re not in trouble.”
I followed her into the semi private room that sat ten—twelve, if the guests were skinny girls. I sat in the booth and stared at her. “What’s up?”
“You’ve been here a little over a month and I just wanted to check in with you.”
“Oh, my review, huh?”
Jess smiled. “Something like that. You seem to be doing okay. Fitting in?”
I nodded. “The staff is really great. Katrina still won’t talk to me, but I’m not taking it personally.”
“You shouldn’t. She was here before me, and she didn’t speak to me for three months.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“Julian has nice things to say about you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “The chef has nice things to say about me?”
“Okay, nice is too generous a word. More like, he doesn’t want to wring your neck like a chicken. Your tip average is good, your check average is good.”
“So, everything is good.”
“Everything is good.”
“One question,” I said.
“Shoot.”
“The kitchen guys call me flakita. Any idea what that means? I don’t speak Spanish.”
Jess laughed. “Yeah, I have an idea.”
“Am I going to be offended?”
“Maybe. Flakita means ‘little skinny’.”
“‘Little skinny’? Like, I’m not one or the other, I’m both?”
She smirked. “Are they flirting with you?”
“Yes.”
“Are they giving you free food?”
I squirmed. “Yes. Cookies, mostly. Though, now that I think about it, it’s probably because they think I’m too freakin’ skinny.”
Our meeting ended and I headed back to the floor. Only two tables had been seated during my brief meeting and Zeb had taken both of them. Antonio’s was a pooled house, so it didn’t matter what section the customers sat in, we all got a share in the tips. We were all team players. ‘Team player’ was a word thrown out a lot at Antonio’s.
“Slow start today,” I commented.
Zeb nodded. “Yep. And you know what Jess says when it’s slow? ‘If you have time to lean, you have time to clean.’ Oh, and fold napkins.”
“I’ll make a napkin fort,” I promised. “Want to play a game?”
“Do I.”
“Can you speak in an accent?”
“A Midwestern one.”
I grinned. “I’ll raise you a Midwestern accent with a British one. And if you speak in the accent to your tables, I’ll buy drinks at Johnny’s tonight.”
“You’re on.”
“Hi, how are you?” I asked, as I approached the lone chubby man at the table.
“Diet coke,” he replied without glancing at me.
I paused, waiting for him to get off his Blackberry to look at me. Finally, he stopped staring at his phone.
“Should we try that again?” I asked.
Chubster raised his eyebrows, appearing surprised.
“Hi, how are you?”
“Uhm. Good? You?”
I smiled sincerely. “I’m great. Thanks so much for asking. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Diet Coke. Please,” he added.
“Absolutely.”
I turned and nearly danced towards the bar. “Did you just do what I think you did?” Zeb asked.
“What do you think I did?”
“You corrected that guy’s manners.”
“Yep.”
“But you—he—”
I smiled at him. “You’re in awe of me right now, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “You get away with murder. I think it’s because you’re small and cute. Like a little woodland creature. You can’t be mad at a little woodland creature.”
“Yeah, but customers think you’re hilarious when you’re being Queen Bitch. They have no idea you’re actually judging them.”
“Yeah, well, people are stupid.”
After a quick drink at Johnny’s, I trudged home. The night had started off slow without promise, but then the customers came like a swarm of locusts and I’d been running for three hours. The smell of fried oil and shrimp hit my nose, and I wondered what my neighbors were cooking. And then I realized it came from me. My clothing was saturated with the stench.
I liked my co-workers and the money, but did I have to smell like a deep fryer?
Stripping out of my clothes, I headed for the bathroom. I showered quickly, donned a pair of pajamas and was in the process of looking through the fridge for food when my buzzer buzzed.
It was 11:00 PM on a Thursday night. I hoped it wasn’t Matt.
The buzzer buzzed again.
“Hello?” I said through the intercom.
“It’s Aidan.”
“What are you doing here?” I said.
“Can I come up?” he asked without answering my question.
I bit my lip. I hadn’t seen him at the restaurant for a few days—he’d been off. Sighing, knowing I’d regret it, but really wanting to see his smile, I buzzed him up.
I opened the door, only then realizing I was still in my matching, juvenile pajamas. They were comfortable, and I didn’t care that they were pink cotton and had Care Bears on them.
But now, my manager–slash–sometimes spooner was seeing me in them.
The shame. Oh, the shame.
“Nice jammies,” Aidan said, leaning against the doorway, dressed in faded jeans and a white t-shirt.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I wasn’t expecting company. Why are you here?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“I could’ve been at work.”
“I make your schedule.”
“That’s creepy.”
He laughed.
“Well, I feel a little better about the stalking thing. I could’ve been at Johnny’s with Zeb.”
“I took a chance.” He sighed like he was tired. “You gonna let me in, or what?”
“What will you give me?”
“Chinese food.”
“Chinese sucks.”
“Then Thai.”
I moved out of the way and let him in. “Wine?”
“Sure, thanks.” He plopped down on the couch.
I got out a corkscrew and opened a bottle of Two Buck Chuck.
“That’s your idea of wine? I’m offended.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Two Buck Chuck gets the job done.” I handed him a glass. “Were you really in the neighborhood?”
“Sort of. I was in Williamsburg.”
“Ew, why?” Williamsburg. Hipsterville, USA. Then I remembered I was a hipster—but at least I lived in Greenpoint.
“Caleb and I were at a friend’s bar. Newly opened. We went to show our support.”
“That was nice of you.” I sat next to him and took a sip of my wine. “How is Caleb?”
“Still talking about Annie. He took a vow of celibacy.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe it.”
“He’s quite pathetic, isn’t he?”
“Very,” Aidan agreed. “Come on, you have to help me help him. We should trap them in an elevator together.”
“That is a purely romantic comedy moment—and Annie hates romantic comedies. She’s been known to watch them on mute and make up her own version of how things go.”
“That actually sounds fun.”
“It is. Especially when we’ve been drinking.”
He smiled. “Should we go ahead and order food?”
“Thai placed closed half and hour ago,” I said.
“And you let me in anyway? Interesting…”
“Drink your wine,” I said. “I’ll heat up leftovers.”
“Leftovers?”
I grinned. “Annie came over the other day and made meatloaf and mashed potatoes. You know, if I was smart I’d marry her and be done with it. We’d get tax breaks and I’d get good food.”
“There’s an idea.”
“I’m hanging out with Annie next week. Monday night. Probably somewhere in your neck of the woods. If I text you, you and Caleb can casually ‘run into us’.”
“You’re crafty.”
“The craftiest,” I agreed. “You can’t sleep over.”
“Not this again,” Aidan groaned.
“The last few times we’ve spooned I was drunk. It didn’t count. I don’t plan on getting hammered, so spooning is out of the question.”
“Sober spooning is better than drunk spooning.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“I’m really not. Sober spooning with me will change your life. Not as much as sober sex, but I’m willing to go at your speed.”
“You’re either really charming or really sincere.”
“Am I wearing you down?”
I sighed. “Totally. You can stay.”
“You’re really hot,” Aidan said.
I blinked and looked down at my pink pajamas.
“Okay,” he amended, “well, maybe not at this moment, but you’re hot. I thought you were hot the night we met.”
“Yeah, a hot mess,” I interjected.
“You’re funny and weird, and I like that you have no idea what you want out of life.”
Tales of a New York Waitress (The Sibby Chronicles Book 1) Page 7
