by Gayla Twist
What Kiki doesn’t realize is that what causes her to be able to hear what’s going on inside the office enables us to hear what’s going on in the hallway. That’s why, when she is startled by a second eavesdropper in the hall, she does nothing to lower her voice, instead exclaiming, “Antoine! You scared me. Why are you always lurking?”
Antoine is Escoffier’s pet. Probably because they are both from France. He is small in build, keeps his dark hair slicked back with some kind of pomade aide that makes him smell like a gardenia, and always wears an expression of being mildly indignant. He's the saucier at Bouche and therefore feels he's better than the rest of us.
Ignoring Kiki’s question, Antoine demands, “What is going on in zhere?”
I can almost hear Kiki’s shoulder lifting with indifference. “How should I know? Hopefully, Miss Goody Two-shoes is getting canned.” Kiki doesn’t like me, and I have no idea why. She hasn’t liked me since the moment she set eyes on me, and I have seriously done nothing to offend her.
I don’t know what it is about me, but I am the kind of female that pretty, bitchy women hate. It’s always been this way. Even in middle school, when girls are at their most powerful, I was targeted by the mean girls on the first day of classes to be excluded and made fun of for no obvious reason. And the harder I tried to make the queen bees of the school like me, the more they hated me. It took me all the way through my junior year of high school to give up and stop trying. It didn’t make them hate me any less, but at least I wasn’t tying myself up in knots in fruitless attempts to please them. For whatever reason, my life has been like that ever since. There’s something about me that makes mean girls turn up the mean. I guess it’s a personality flaw I have to accept. Although, to be honest, it really bothers me.
“Close zee door, and zee two of you be gone!” Escoffier bellows from where he sits. “Get away from here! Zhis is a private meeting!”
The door is immediately yanked completely shut, and I can hear Kiki’s high heels clack, clack, clacking quickly down the hall. Escoffier cocks an ear and listens. The hallway is silent. After several moments, he gestures toward a broken chair. “Sit,” he commands like he’s training a poodle.
I settle cautiously on the chair, expecting it to collapse under me at any moment—it’s in such bad shape. It’s a castoff from the dining room that Escoffier can’t bear to throw away. “What can I do for you, Chef?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I hate myself for sounding so accommodating, but like I said, it’s my nature, no matter how much I fight it.
Escoffier sighs, knitting his fingers and adjusting his bandaged foot to a more comfortable position. “As you know,” he begins, “I need to take some small time away to see for my... how you say...?” he struggles for the word in English. “Goot?”
“Gout?” I translate. “Uh, yes. That's right. Gout.” I say it with more conviction. There have been rumors flying around the kitchen about the cause of Escoffier’s foot pain. Gout has been suggested but more in a joking way. It used to be called the rich man’s disease because only the rich could afford the expensive meats and wines necessary to induce the problem, but now it’s more of a poor man’s disease as processed foods take their toll on people who can’t afford to eat better. In Chef Escoffier’s case, I have to imagine his foot becoming swollen and painful is from too much fine dining rather than too many trips to the drive-thru.
“Yes, zee goot.” Escoffier taps at his bandaged foot with his cane then immediately regrets it, wincing in pain. For a moment, I see a tired old man and not the tin-pot dictator that terrorizes the Bouche kitchen on a daily basis. I feel bad for him.
Escoffier clears his throat. “While I am away, I want you to be zee one who takes my places. You will be my temporary,” he stabs his finger in the air with a flourish, “chef de cuisine.”
I am thrilled. I am beyond thrilled. To be chef de cuisine, to be in charge of running the entire kitchen, even temporarily, is a huge deal. It’s actually quite the honor. “Me? Really!” I exclaim. I know I sound like a teenage girl that’s been unexpectedly crowned prom queen, but there’s no way I can stop myself. “You want me to be the chef de cuisine? That's...” I can’t even think what it is. “That's wonderful!”
Bouche itself isn’t open for breakfast or lunch. Those two meals are served by the Bocca Café on the second floor, which is really just a glorified coffee shop that serves bagels, croissants, sandwiches, and other easily transportable food so business people can cram something in their faces before dashing off to their next meeting and tourists don’t have to kill an hour before they return to exploring the wonders of Chicago. So I wouldn’t be handling the smaller meals, but still, being chef de cuisine on top of my regular duties during Escoffier’s absence means I’ll be in charge of absolutely everything in the back half of the restaurant. I’ll do the ordering; I’ll do the menu planning; I’ll manage the staff; I’ll be practically living at the restaurant. This thought gives me pause, and I screw up my courage to ask, “It does mean a lot more work and a lot more hours.” I can practically feel myself flinching as I dare to ask, “Does it come with any kind of pay increase?”
Chef Escoffier’s eyes bulge, and his complexion goes red, so I immediately amend my question to, “I mean, a temporary one?”
But it is too late; I’ve launched Escoffier into a tirade. “I come to you,” he begins. “I give you zhis honaire, and all you can sink about is monay?” His face has gone from red to practically magenta, and I know I’ve really put my foot in it this time. Escoffier hops to his feet, even though it’s obvious that it causes him great pain, and bangs the table with his open palm proclaiming, “I am offended!”
I am pretty much mortified. I can’t stand when Escoffier yells at me, especially when it’s one of his full-blown tantrums. Plus, I really do want to be the temporary chef de cuisine. It is a huge honor and will be good for my career. But I know if I don’t say something quick, Escoffier will take it back and bestow the honor on someone he views as less money grubbing. “No, no, no! Don't be offended!” I plead. “It was a stupid question. I would love to be the temporary chef de cuisine while you're resting.”
Escoffier calms down slightly, his face fading to just a brilliant pink. “Zhat is bettaire.” He reseats himself and eases his bandaged foot back onto the desk. “Do I need to train you?” He narrows his eyes at me. “Or can I trust zhat you have zee training already?”
Saying I need any training would be the end of my chances to run Bouche, so I hasten to assure him, “You’re a wonderful teacher, Chef. Just observing you is like a crash course in culinary management.” This is a total lie. Observing Escoffier is like a crash course in work avoidance through bullying and temper tantrums, but I’m obviously not going to say that. “I’m sure I can figure out anything I don’t already know.”
“Bon,” he says. His face is now almost a normal color. “You will start immediately. I leave for zee treatments tomorrow morning.”
I gulp. It seems like he could have given me more than a day’s notice, but it’s pretty typical that he hasn’t. Of course, I say nothing. I’m not going to re-aggravate the lion after just getting it settled down with a gazelle to gnaw on.
Escoffier shifts a little in his chair to show that something is still bothering him. I rack my brain trying to figure out what it could be. Finally, he says, “You may zhank me now.”
“Thank you,” I blurt, feeling embarrassed that I didn’t think to say it myself.
After allowing me to fuss over him a little, showing my gratitude, I am told that I may leave. This is fine by me. I barely have any time to primp before Elliot is meeting me at the bar. It would be quite the twist if I was to keep him waiting for once, but I somehow doubt he would take it with any grace. Most guys don’t like it when their own bad habits are thrown back in their faces.
As I leave Escoffier’s office and hurry down the hall, I have a weird feeling, like when you know someone is watching you, and you realize it’s
the creepy guy sitting across the aisle on the bus. I look over my shoulder and just catch the figure of Antoine slipping into Escoffier’s office, pulling the door closed behind him but not completely shut so that it doesn’t make a sound. I should have guessed that he was in the hallway the entire time I was talking to the chef. Thinking as well of himself as he does, I’m sure he’s convinced it’s his right to eavesdrop. Well, two can play at that game. I sneak back over to the door, my rubber clogs practically silent on the tile floor.
I stand to the side so Escoffier won’t catch a glimpse of movement in the three-inch gap between the open door and the wall. He’s very sharp eyed when he wants to be. The saucier’s visit is obviously unexpected because Escoffier sounds annoyed when he asks, “Zhere is a problem, Antoine?” The two of them always address each other in French when they are in the kitchen, so I find it peculiar that they use English when they are alone.
“I hear you make Suzanne zee chef de cuisine,” Antoine begins, his voice a little choked with emotion. “I am your saucier! But you do not give me zhis honaire. You have no love for Antoine!”
I’m sure if Antoine were offered “zhis honaire” he would be pitching a fit that it doesn’t come with an increase in pay. Then again, maybe if Escoffier put Antoine in charge, he would get a temporary increase.
Escoffier gives a low, indulgent chuckle. “Ah, Antoine, you must see it is bettaire for me if I leave Mademoiselle Suzanne in charge.”
Antoine does not see this. He immediately demands, “But why? She is just some prep cook. She has no talent for zee food!”
I hear Chef Escoffier slap his desk for emphasis. “And zhat is why, my friend. Suzanne is like zee little dog zhat has been trained to do tricks.” I feel my face heating up. This does not sound complimentary. Escoffier continues. “She will not change my menu. She will not fight for zee job once I return. She will only make zee sad eyes and hope for zee treat.”
I want to crawl in a hole. I seriously want to just disappear off the face of the planet never to be seen again.
I can hear the pride in Antoine’s voice when he says, “And you know Antoine will not behave like zhis!”
Sounding all chummy, Escoffier says, “Zhat is true. Zee day I retire, you will be zhere to make Bouche your own. But until zhat day, I cannot trust you to return zee keys to my kingdom when I am ready.”
So that’s why I was put in charge. Not because Escoffier thinks I’m the best person to run Bouche in his absence, but because he knows I’ll be no threat to him when he returns. I have never felt more pathetic in my entire life. I am so angry and hurt that I literally have to fight back tears, which makes me feel even more pathetic.
I can just imagine Antoine puffing out his little chest as he says, “Ah, now I understand. Escoffier, you are zee mastaire.”
That’s all the information I need. I hurry down the hall, not even caring if those two bastards hear me running off.
***Kiki***
I don’t know what it is about Sue that irritates the hell out of me, but she’s just so annoying. There’s this stink of pathetic about her, always trying to please everyone, always trying to be so nice with her simpering little face. “Can I help you with that? Can I do this for you? Can I tie myself up in knots to please you? Can I contort myself into any shape possible just so you’ll like me?” It really gets on my nerves.
What makes a grown woman grovel that much? I bet she was the girl in high school that was always baking brownies to share during lunch and offering to help the popular boys with their homework. What she doesn’t get is that the more you do for a guy, the more he’ll just sit back and let you do all the work. You have to demand performance from a man if you want to be treated well. Otherwise, he’ll just get lazier and lazier, expecting you to do everything.
The thing is, by being such an accommodating doormat, she makes things harder for the rest of us. Guys think, “Well, Sue was always happy to cook me dinner and clean my apartment and wipe my butt. This must be the way all women should behave.” Well, I’m not buying into that sucker’s game. If a guy wants me to treat him nice, then he’s got to treat me nice. Those are the rules for dating. Why the hell doesn’t some groveling simpleton like Sue realize that? Sometimes, I just want to shake her by the shoulders and yell, “Grow a spine, already!”
Chapter 3
I really don’t want anyone to see that I’m upset, so I pull it together the best I can before hurrying through the kitchen to the employee locker room. I can feel June’s, Aspic’s, and Paolo’s eyes on me as I rush past. They are still prepping food, and I hate that a part of my brain tries to calculate if I have a spare twenty minutes to lend a hand.
June calls after me with, “Sue? Is everything okay? What did Escoffier want?”
I slow my steps because I don’t want her following me into the locker room again and pressing to see if there really is anything wrong. “Nothing, really,” I half mutter. “He made me the temporary chef de cuisine while he's treating his gout.”
I hear gasps of surprise from Aspic and Paolo. June exclaims, “That's fantastic! Congratulations!”
“Yeah, really good, Suzannah,” Paolo adds.
I try to shrug it off. I’m too ashamed of why I was given the position to take any satisfaction in it. “It's only temporary,” I tell them. “And I’m not going to get more money or anything.”
“Suzannah, I am so glad,” Paolo tells me. “We were worried.”
“Worried?” I wonder. “Why were you worried?”
“We thought maybe you were getting the old eighty-six,” Aspic adds, his voice low and rumbly from infrequent use.
I can’t conceal that I’m surprised by his comment. “Really?” I exclaim. “Why would he fire me?”
Paolo gestures toward Aspic with his thumb. “It is Bouche.” He usually takes over and does the talking for the big man when there are more than a few words to be said. “She no do so good. Aspic, he hear Mr. Trent say Bouche no make good money.” Trent Winchell is the great grandson of the man who started the Winchell way back in the day.
“Oh...” This surprises me a little. I knew Bouche wasn’t exactly booked to maximum capacity every night, but I didn’t think we were to the point where it was necessary to lay off staff. We all contemplate the impending loss of our jobs.
“Hey, let's not worry about that now.” June tries to brighten the mood. Turning to me she enthuses, “Congratulations! You're going to be chef de cuisine. That’s huge. Think how good that’ll look on your résumé once we’re all kicked out of here.”
Paolo turns to Aspic, lifting his chin at the giant, “Aspic, where you have your flask? We will have a toast, yes?”
Aspic always keeps a rather large flask concealed on his person. I have no idea what he keeps in the flask. It’s clear in color and reminds me vaguely of lighter fluid. I’m not a big drinker to begin with, so I try to avoid partaking from Aspic’s flask whenever I can, but this doesn’t feel like a time when I can bow out graciously from imbibing.
June gathers up the cleanest of the employee glasses from the locker room. When a coffee mug is cracked or a water glass gets a chip but isn’t quite broken, it’s moved to the employee water cooler in the locker room, where we lowly employees are allowed to drink from them. Of course, no one ever washes what they use.
Pulling the sizeable flask from his hip pocket, Aspic pours a healthy dollop of whatever it is into all four cups, and we each take one. Everyone is smiling at me and looking happy. I suddenly feel better. So what if Chef Escoffier thinks I’m a trained dog that he can manipulate? I like working at Bouche, and I like my work friends. I’ll make the best of things. Besides, June’s right, being the temporary chef de cuisine will actually look quite good on my résumé.
June raises her glass, and the rest of us join her. “To Sue. Happy birthday.” We all clink cups, but before we can drink, she adds. “And to us. Soon we may be out on our rears and standing in line for unemployment, but for the next couple of wee
ks, with Sue in charge, we're going to have a blast.”
The smile melts from my face. The warm and fuzzy feeling I’d had only a few seconds ago evaporates. They don’t care about me. They care nothing about my temporary promotion. All they care about is that with Escoffier gone, they’ll be able to goof off and not work as hard. They think working under me means a mini-vacation.
Everyone swills down what’s in the mugs but me. I only pantomime doing it. Not that anyone notices. I head for the locker room explaining, “I’d better hurry up and get changed, or I’m going to be late for Elliot.” On my way, a quick flick of my wrist neatly disposes of the foul-smelling liquid into a handy sink.
I’ve busted out my green floral dress, applied far more makeup than I normally wear in real life, squeezed my feet into heels, and accented myself with jewelry. I’m about as fancy as I can get using the limited resources available from the closet back at my condo. I sit at the Bouche bar by myself nursing my drink for the longest anyone in history has ever nursed a drink. It’s a good thing I know the bartender. The far end of the bar is crowded with people having an extended happy hour, but the two seats next to me are open like a social DMZ, providing a protective barrier so that my solo loserdom doesn’t infect anyone’s good time.
I check my watch for the hundred and sixty-third time. It’s almost eight o’clock. I am literally going to strangle Elliot as soon as he gets here. This time I mean it. It’s my birthday. He promised he wasn’t going to pull this crap anymore, and he’s over two hours late. I hate him.
Some fool, unaware that he is putting himself at risk of contracting a strong case of loser, sits in the vacant chair two away from me. Next thing I know, a wrapped bottle about the size of a pint comes rolling along the bar in my direction. I look up to gaze into the eyes of one of the handsomest men in Chicago, if not all of North America. It’s Aziz, Bouche’s sommelier.
