When they first set up the filing system, Britt had had the idea to try to configure it so that descriptions could be sent to a portion of the servers’ tickets but would not print out with the final bill. The idea was to eliminate a step, precisely the sort of efficiency that kept a restaurant lean and quick. And it might have worked quite nicely except for a glitch that left the notes on the bill, forcing Britt to be summoned by a woman with silver hair in a brutal little knot at the back of her head, who opened her billfold and read aloud, “‘Likes to talk, but not to server.’” He’d had to buy her table an additional round of cognac to smooth it over, and afterward Britt and Leo had accepted the need for a less efficient filing system and an additional procedure even on the busiest nights—whatever it took to safeguard their guests from knowledge of themselves.
The blue card for Camille was no help at all. Britt stood at the maître d’ podium, watching Helene rearrange flowers and the servers nudge place settings into alignment, and opened her file. Often dines with business (?) colleagues, it noted. Omnivore. And that was it. The servers she’d dealt with were as baffled by this woman as Britt was.
Britt stepped away from the podium, shutting down the blue card, as Helene returned. “How many covers tonight?” he asked, solely to redirect his own attention. He knew how many.
“One twenty-nine,” Helene said. “Good night.” She paused to look around the room—at the bar, Alan was holding a jar of cocktail onions to the light—and then gave a satisfied nod. Helene was as small and neatly turned out as a carved figurine, with a short, chic flutter of dark hair and a superhuman tolerance for high heels. She had returned from two weeks in France with a smattering of sun-induced freckles across her nose and a cool polish on her tableside manner.
“Who did the blocking?” Britt asked. The computer program handled the basics for booking reservations, but he insisted that a live brain reexamine the books each evening as well.
“Alan,” Helene said, “and he did a nice job too, I have to say.” Both of them glanced discreetly over at the bar. Alan had pointedly set out two place settings at one end and was now refusing any acknowledgment of Britt and Helene. “I think he got some of his friends to book the bar,” she added.
Britt nodded but said nothing. Overall he preferred to leave territorial spats to the participants. Like Leo, he felt it was undignified and unnecessary for the owners to get involved. “What’s the deal with Camille Lewis?” he asked. “Her blue card is no help, but she’s been coming in a ton.”
Helene eyed the reservation list. Camille was on it with a two-top for eight thirty. “I have no idea,” she said. “I’m trying to get a handle on her myself. She’s very easygoing, I can tell you that.”
Britt nodded, a bit embarrassed to have asked. He shouldn’t be, he knew—it was his business to ask about guests who had all but declared themselves regulars—but he feared some new interest showed in his expression. Helene was eyeing him, alert as a rabbit, her dangling earrings vibrating with attention.
“I’m going upstairs to chat with Leo,” he said, and, ever discreet, she simply nodded.
Upstairs was where they kept a small library of cookbooks and culinary guides, two rooms filled with dry goods, and climate-controlled wine storage. In the dressing room the later shift of servers and backwaiters had arrived. David was standing in a white undershirt and unbuttoned black pants, ironing his shirt for service while around him several servers twisted their hair into knots or looped ties around their necks. They saluted Britt as he passed.
Leo was in their office, which perched over the front dining room. Two desks faced each other, one Britt’s, one Leo’s. Leo was concentrating on the computer screen. “What’s up?” he said without turning.
“Just checking in,” Britt said.
Leo glanced up and considered Britt for several seconds. “Helene may be too chic,” he said.
“Chic is good.”
“Chic is good, intimidating not. People go to bigger cities for that.”
“I’ll ask her to warm it up a notch,” Britt said, and Leo nodded, satisfied.
“You want to grab dessert tonight?” he asked. “I’ve been checking out this kid at Hot Springs. She’s a little up-and-down, but she might have something.”
“Sure,” said Britt. “Just let me stick around till the eight-thirty turn.”
“Invite her if you want,” said Leo.
“Who?” Britt said stupidly.
“This Camille person you keep hovering over. You’d better change things up. At some point she’s going to tip you for something and then you’re fucked.”
“You’re right,” Britt said. “I can’t quite figure out who she is.”
“That’s what dinner’s for,” said Leo. Britt nodded and stood there, waiting to see if Leo had divined anything else up here in his aerie, but Leo flipped over an invoice with a decisive thwack, said, “They’re nuts if they think we’ll pay four hundred a case for that Oregon plonk,” and ignored him until Britt headed back downstairs.
WHEN CAMILLE APPEARED A COUPLE OF hours later, the night was in full swing. The bar was three deep and Alan was neglecting his patrons in order to mix an elaborate nineteenth-century cocktail under the direction of a guest who was obviously making it up as he went along. The newest backwaiter was zooming around with a generally hunted aspect, and Helene was striding between the tables, pouring water, whisking away soiled napkins and crumbed plates, and calming people by virtue of her faint scent of laundered linen and her very presence. Britt delivered a cognac and glanced up to see Camille through the scrum near the door: a swirl of brown hair, the white flash of an incisor. He made his way back to the maître d’ station, where Camille, color in her cheeks from the chill outside, was shrugging off her coat. He was looking forward to seeing what peculiar assortment she had collected this evening and—galvanized by Leo’s prediction—whether it would be easy to extricate her from them for dessert, for champagne, for some late-night wandering.
She waved, and Britt smiled and extended a hand as he neared, because the opened hand could do anything, really—it could become a kiss on the cheek, it could be a simple clasping of her hand, but either way it was a clear invitation and yet a thoroughly appropriate welcome, an approach he had perfected long ago. And so it was all the more disconcerting when she did in fact lean into him for the briefest and silkiest of cheek brushes, and even more so when this motion revealed behind her Britt’s brother Harry.
Britt nodded at Harry, who could be counted on to understand a delayed greeting when a woman was there, and returned his attention to Camille. “It’s been too long,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “I tried out that Italian place on Sommers, which I probably shouldn’t tell you.”
“Not at all,” said Britt. “How was it?”
“Prefab.” Camille glanced behind her.
“This is my younger brother, Harry,” Britt said, and Harry and Camille both laughed.
“I know,” she said. “We’re having dinner.”
“Oh,” Britt said. “Well. I didn’t know you knew each other.”
Britt was rather warm inside his suit now. Was this development helpful or not? Out of his work boots and paint-splattered jeans, Harry was looking altogether presentable. He had trimmed his beard, appeared to have gotten a haircut, and had finally found a decent suit long enough in the limbs.
As the three of them made their way to a table by the front window, Britt heard his own voice saying various things, but he had no idea what any of them were. He seemed to be recommending the pasta. When Harry and Camille were seated, Britt stood for a moment gazing down at them in the avuncular way in which he often regarded Harry, which was, catastrophically, now directed at Camille as well. Then he told them to enjoy and departed for the kitchen to inform Thea that his brother was in the house.
Thea was expediting, standing with her feet planted well apart, hands braced on the stainless steel counter before her, observing the lin
e cooks at work. She wore houndstooth pants, a white chef’s jacket that tied like a robe instead of being buttoned or double-breasted, and the surgeon’s cap she preferred to the house baseball cap with the restaurant’s logo on it. She believed the surgeon’s caps were more effective, and they did somehow contain the untamable headdress of dark brown curls that was the bane of her existence. People touched her hair compulsively, unable to believe the spirals weren’t formed of metal filings or some resinous material; when they reached up for her hair, Thea would go as still as a cat and endure it. She was sturdy and long-limbed, broad-shouldered and slim-hipped as a swimmer.
On the line she radiated a steely calm that had taken some time for the kitchen to adjust to after Kenneth. At first many cooks had been unaware that they were being chastised for an uneven sear or an insufficiency of acidity. They thought she was commiserating. Where was the name-calling, the hoarse roar, the flash of the spatula Kenneth had wielded, ridiculously yet effectively, like a chef’s knife? Yet this misapprehension worked in her favor: the understanding of their failures surfaced later, over cigarettes and bourbon at Mack’s, the shithole bar around the corner, where around one a.m. a cook would often go quiet and stare at his knees in humiliated comprehension. When they returned the next day they found Thea already in the kitchen beside a vat of some vegetable awaiting their attention, a reminder that in the end they were there to peel, mince, blend, or sear, to be yeomen and craftsmen, whatever she asked them to be, and slowly they settled in and reoriented themselves to the kitchen as the seat of a controlled burn instead of a constant apocalypse. Britt had taken tremendous pleasure that first month after Kenneth’s ouster, watching Thea bring the kitchen staff in line one by one, like a game of psychological Whack-A-Mole. She had done it without raising her voice or losing composure; she had done it all by subtext.
Britt also found her rigid and distant—he was always thrown off by an uncharmed woman—but he trusted her with everything, and in a way he felt the two of them had the same job. Britt might be part owner, but to some extent he and Thea both executed Leo’s vision, internalized his tastes and hatreds and sensitivities, and smoothed their respective staffs into the same mold.
He was just about to let her know which table Harry and Camille were at when Thea looked beyond him and smiled. Britt turned, expecting to see Leo, but instead found it was Harry, strolling right through the kitchen doors to shake Thea’s hand and kiss her high on the cheekbone.
Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “Am I in the way if I say hello?” he asked. “Leo said it was okay.”
“Not at all,” Britt said. “It’s good to have you back here again.”
Harry was nodding, taking in the kitchen. He raised a hand in the direction of Suzanne and Jason. “Nice to see you guys,” he said.
“You too,” they said in unison. Britt frowned, wondering where they’d met.
“I’m dying to get my hands on that lamb,” Harry told Britt. “And the foie. I don’t think I’m going to be able to get away with serving that anytime soon. You guys can do those really high-end things over here. Maybe if I keep it casual it’ll hide the learning curve.”
“I’m not even all that big a fan of foie gras,” Britt said. “I feel like we kind of have to serve it. You’ll get more flexibility.”
Britt had always thought of Harry as the freest one of all three, unhindered by the same nervousness or expectations their parents had had for Britt and Leo. And so Harry had been gone for a decade, his extensive education punctuated by stints at the Alaskan salmon cannery, an organic farm, a high-end food store, and finally a restaurant on a tourist island. Meanwhile Britt had toiled in a PR firm and Leo had worked his way through restaurant after restaurant. Harry returned for Leo’s wedding and for a commiserating lost weekend when Leo divorced. Over the years photos had arrived: Harry looking like a serial killer in bloody coveralls at the cannery, or on a boat before a glacial backdrop, his hands thrust beneath the flared scarlet gills of a great silver salmon. He clustered with a group of rumpled scholars before a grand stone library in Ann Arbor or stood, hands on hips, in a field where two spotted goats nosed at his denimed knees, his red hair lifted by the breeze. He was no sap, though; those goats had been braised with juniper berries and thyme not long afterward.
Britt had realized guiltily that he’d ceased paying close attention to these missives, nor had he kept up with answering them. By the time he replied that the farm sounded great, Harry was eating raw salmon straight out of the Alaskan waters, then had landed a research grant for his dissertation. All that resourcefulness made Britt feel old and staid.
But then again, Harry had never appeared to have a long-term plan, either, and Britt was discomfited by the suspicion that Harry’s path to opening his restaurant was just a little too random. Britt didn’t believe in randomness; he did not believe in serendipity. He felt a dark turn of uneasiness every time he really thought about Harry hoping to save the waterfront and awaken the city’s palate all at once. Britt was afraid Harry had gotten the impression that there was some single obscure trick to opening a restaurant, as there was to unhinging a mussel. It wasn’t like making a few great meals or decorating one pleasant room. Leo had drilled that into Britt before they’d opened Winesap, because back then Britt had been more of a newbie than Harry was now. But Britt had approached it with lists and spreadsheets and research, because although he found it important to appear effortless in all things, few things truly were.
Maybe Harry had a pile of spreadsheets and research at home that Britt didn’t know about. He was a scholar, after all.
Out in the dining room Britt could see the vivid blur of Camille’s dress. “So how do you know Camille?” he asked.
Harry smiled mysteriously. “Oh, you might call it a professional relationship through one of my investors,” he said. To Thea he added, “She’s a knockout.”
Thea nodded. “I know,” she said, “I saw her résumé.” Harry and Britt looked at her in confusion, but Thea only shook her head, disappointed in them both. Jason handed her a plate of rabbit ragù, and she inspected it before finishing it with a fresh grating of Parmigiano-Reggiano. She snapped a damp towel from her belt and wiped a smear of sauce off the plate, marked the dish on the ticket, and reached for a fish plate from Suzanne. Most of the time she was quiet, but now and again she noted a plating that displeased her, a mirepoix on the verge of being unrefined. Thea was not charmed by rusticity or idiosyncrasy.
“I was going to take her out for sushi,” Harry was saying. “I wanted to introduce her to this place I just found with the most incredible toro. Did you know most toro is days old, and it’s thawed? It’d shock you, man, it really would. Anyway, I think my guy has a line on some black-market toro or something—you should see his little unmarked restaurant door. This tuna is like heroin. It’s like sea heroin. I think she’d love it. But I haven’t been here in so long, I couldn’t go somewhere else first.”
“It’s been a while,” Britt agreed. “Since Kenneth? No, that can’t be right.” But he was distracted, thinking that Harry knew the secrets of Camille’s desires and tastes, while Britt, after months of observation, was still grasping sadly at details. Britt glanced down at the line, where a halibut and a venison had joined the rabbit ragù and been wiped clean by Thea, finished with a drizzle of olive oil, and capped with a metal dish cover. The backwaiter had left a scattering of breadcrumbs near the cutting board, and Britt brushed them into an empty basket and stashed it beneath the counter. He turned back to Harry just as Alan came bustling into the kitchen to retrieve his dinners.
“Completely purposeful,” Alan was saying. “Finally she seats the bar, knowing perfectly well I’d get slammed. Where’s the brittle?” Thea silently handed him a plate with a shard of salty pistachio brittle to accompany the venison. It had to be placed on the plate immediately before serving or else it softened up. Harry was eyeing the brittle closely as Alan remembered himself, said to Thea, “Thank you, chef,” and da
shed away.
“Salted brittle?” Harry asked thoughtfully.
Thea smiled. “It’s actually pretty savory.”
Harry crossed his arms and bent forward. “How do you do that? Brittle is sugar.”
“I know!” Thea said. “It took forever to get the proportions right. Our pastry chef actually came up with it. Well. Former pastry chef. Anyway, it’s not that there’s no sugar, it’s more that it’s so caramelized that you perceive the salt and nuttiness and roastiness. But also there’s the tiniest bit of dried currant. Tarts it up.”
“You should try it,” said Britt.
Harry said, “I’d love it. I don’t know if Camille’s a venison person.”
“I think she’s had the venison here before,” Britt said.
Harry peered back into the dining room. “She’s gorgeous, don’t you think? I’m still looking for an in. Maybe tonight. Maybe some wine.”
“You know what?” Britt said. “Let us take care of ordering tonight. Don’t even bother looking at your menus.”
“Really?” Harry said. “We’d love it. I mean, I want to try the venison—”
Britt interrupted him smoothly. “Not one look. Go relax, and we’ll plan it all from here.”
Harry’s eyes darted between Thea and Britt, a tentative smile working at his mouth. “Okay, then,” he said. “That’s fantastic, you guys. Thanks.” He gave Britt a winning smile, punched him on the arm, pointed a finger at Thea, and said, “You. Me. Brittle. Later,” and then headed back out to the dining room. Britt watched him go, feeling guilty but also faintly relieved to have a little control again after the careening sensation he’d had when he’d seen Harry with Camille.
Bread and Butter Page 4
