The Saturday Night Supper Club

by Carla Laureano

  Her peace was short-lived. Carlton Espy had been here, the troll. Of all the legitimate restaurant reviewers in Denver, a scale on which he could barely register, he was both the most controversial and the least likable. Most people called him the Howard Stern of food writing with his crass, but apparently entertaining, take on the food, the staff, and the diners. Rachel supposed she should be happy that he’d only questioned her James Beard Award rather than criticizing the looks and the sexual orientation of every member of her staff, as he’d done with another local restaurant last week.

  The thing Dan didn’t seem to understand was that slights and backhanded compliments from critics came with the territory. Some seemed surprised that a pretty woman could actually cook; others criticized her for being unfriendly because she didn’t want to capitalize on her looks and her gender to promote her restaurant. She had never met a woman in this business who wanted to be identified as “the best female chef in the city.” Either your food was worthy of note or it wasn’t. The chromosomal makeup of the person putting it on the plate was irrelevant. End of story. Tell that to channel seven.

  As the clock ticked past nine, the orders started to slow down and they finally dug themselves out of the hole they’d been in since seven o’clock. The post-theater crowds were coming in now, packing the bar on the far side of the room, a few groups on the main floor who ordered wine, appetizers, desserts. The last pick left the kitchen at a quarter past eleven, and Rachel let her head fall forward for a second before she looked out at her staff with a grin. “Good job, everyone. Shut it down.”

  Ovens, grills, and burners were switched off. Leftover mise en place was transferred to the walk-ins for tomorrow morning. Each station got scrubbed and disinfected with the careless precision of people who had done this every night of their adult lives, the last chore standing between them and freedom. She had no illusions about where they were headed next, exactly where she would have been headed as a young cook—out to the bars to drain the adrenaline from their systems, then home to catch precious little sleep before they showed up early for brunch service tomorrow. By contrast, Rachel’s only plans were her soft bed, a cup of hot tea, and a rerun on Netflix until she fell into an exhausted stupor. At work, she might feel as energetic as she had as a nineteen-year-old line cook, but the minute she stumbled out of the restaurant, her years on the planet seemed to double.

  Rachel changed out of her whites into jeans and a sweatshirt in her office, only to run into Gabrielle in the back corridor.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute, Chef?”

  Rachel’s radar immediately picked up the nervousness beneath the woman’s usual brusque demeanor. Changed out of her work clothes and into a soft blue T-shirt that made her red hair look even fierier, Gabby suddenly seemed very young and insecure, even though she was several years older than Rachel.

  “Of course. Do you want to come in?” Rachel gestured to the open door of her office.

  “No, um, that’s okay. I wanted to let you know . . . before someone figures it out and tells you.” Gabby took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I’m pregnant.”

  Rachel stared at the woman, sure her heart froze for a split second. “Pregnant?”

  “Four months.” Gabby hurried on, “I won’t let it interfere with my work, I swear. But at some point . . .”

  “You’re going to need to take maternity leave.” In an office setting, that was hard enough, but in a restaurant kitchen, where there were a limited number of cooks to fill in and new additions disrupted the flow they’d established, it was far more complicated.

  Gabby nodded.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Rachel said finally. “And congratulations. You’re going to make a wonderful mother. I bet Luke is thrilled.”

  Gabby’s words rushed out in relief. “He is.”

  “Now go get some sleep.” Rachel’s instincts said to give her a hug, congratulate her again, but that damaged the level of authority she needed to maintain, made it harder to demand the best from Gabby when she should probably be focusing more on her baby than her job. Instead, Rachel settled for a squeeze of her shoulder.

  Andrew was the last to head for the back hallway, leaving Rachel alone in the kitchen to survey her domain. Once again, it gleamed with stainless-steel sterility, silent without the drone of vents and whoosh of burners. It should probably bother her more that she had no one to go home to, no one waiting on the other side of the door. But Rachel had known what she was giving up when she set off down this career path, knew the choice was even starker for female chefs who had to decide between running their own kitchens and having a family. Most days, it was more than a fair trade. She’d promised herself long ago she wouldn’t let any man stand between her and her dreams.

  Camille, Paisley’s front-of-house manager, slipped into the kitchen quietly, somehow looking as fresh and put together as she had at the beginning of the night. “Ana’s waiting for you at the bar. I’m going to go now unless you need me.”

  “No, go ahead. Good work as always.”

  “Thanks, Chef. See you tomorrow.”

  Rachel pretended not to notice Camille slip out with Andrew, their arms going around each other the minute they hit the back door. The food service industry was incestuous, as it must be—civilians didn’t tend to put up with the long hours, late nights, and always-on mentality. There had been plenty of hookups in her kitchen among waitstaff and cooks in various and constantly changing combinations, but they never involved Rachel. On some points at least, she was still a traditionalist—one-night stands and casual affairs held no appeal. Besides, she was an owner and the chef, the big boss. Getting involved with anyone on her staff would be the quickest way to compromise her authority.

  Rachel pushed around the post to the dining room and crossed the empty space to the bar. A pretty Filipina sat there, nursing a drink and chatting with the bartender, Luis.

  “Ana! What are you doing here? Did Dan call you?”

  Ana greeted Rachel with a one-armed hug. “I worked late and thought I’d drop by to say hi. Luis said it was a good night.”

  “Very good night: 215.”

  Ana’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s great, Rachel. Way to go. I’m not going to say I told you so, but . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, you told me so.” Rachel grinned at her longtime friend. Analyn Sanchez had been one of her staunchest supporters when she’d decided to open a restaurant with two Denver industry veterans, even though it meant leaving the lucrative, high-profile executive chef job that had won her a coveted James Beard Award. And she had to give part of the credit to the woman next to her, who had agreed to take on Paisley as a client of the publicity firm for which she worked, even though the restaurant was small potatoes compared to her usual clients.

  Luis wiped down an already-clean bar top for the third time. “You want anything, Chef?”

  “No, thank you. You can go. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

  “Thank you, Chef.” Luis put away his rag, grabbed his cell phone from beneath the bar, and quickly slipped out from behind his station. Not before one last surreptitious look at Ana, Rachel noticed.

  “Do I need to tell him to stop hitting on you?”

  “Nah, he’s harmless. So, Rachel . . .”

  Once more that gut instinct fired away, flooding her with dread. “You’re not here for a social visit.”

  Ana shook her head. “Have you seen the article yet?”

  “The Carlton Espy review? Who hasn’t? Can you believe the guy had the nerve to come in here tonight and say, ‘You’re welcome’? As if he’d done me some huge favor?”

  Ana’s expression flickered a degree before settling back into an unreadable mask.

  Uh-oh.

  “What is it? You’re not talking about the review, are you?”

  Ana reached into her leather tote and pulled out a tablet, then switched it on before passing it to Rachel.

  Rachel blinked, confused by the header on the web page. �
�The New Yorker? What does this have to do with me?” The title of the piece, an essay by a man named Alexander Kanin, was “The Uncivil War.”

  “Just read it.”

  She began to skim the article, the growing knot in her stomach preventing her from enjoying what was actually a very well-written piece. The writer talked about how social media had destroyed civility and social graces, not only online but in person; how marketing and publicity had given an always-available impression of public figures, as if their mere existence gave consumers the right to full access to their lives. Essentially, nothing was sacred or private or off-limits. He started by citing the cruel remarks made on CNN about the mentally disabled child of an actress-activist, and then the story of a novelist who had committed suicide after being bullied relentlessly on Twitter. And then she got to the part that nearly made her heart stop.

  Nowhere is this inherent cruelty more apparent than with women succeeding in male-dominated worlds like auto racing and cooking. The recent review of an award-winning Denver chef suggesting that she had traded sexual favors in return for industry acclaim reveals that there no longer needs to be any truth in the speculations, only a cutting sense of humor and an eager tribe of consumers waiting for their next target. When the mere act of cooking good food or giving birth to an “imperfect” child or daring to create controversial art becomes an invitation to character assassination, we have to accept that we have become a deeply flawed and morally bankrupt society. The new fascism does not come from the government, but from the self-policing nature of the mob—a mob that demands all conform or suffer the consequences.

  Rachel set the tablet down carefully, her pounding pulse leaving a watery ocean sound in her ears and blurring her vision. “This is bad.”

  “He didn’t mention you by name,” Ana said. “And he was defending you. You have to appreciate a guy who would call Espy out on his disgusting sexism.”

  Rachel pressed a hand to her forehead, which now felt feverish. “Anyone with a couple of free minutes and a basic understanding of Google could figure out who he’s talking about.” A sick sense of certainty washed over her. “Espy knows it, too. Without this article, his review would have died a natural death. He should have been thanking me.”

  Cautiously, Ana took back her tablet. “I’m hoping people will overlook the details based on the message, but just in case, you should inform your staff to direct media requests to me.”

  “Media.” Rachel covered her face with her hands, as if that could do something to stave off the flood that was to come.

  “Take a deep breath,” Ana said, her no-nonsense tone firmly in place. “This could be a good thing. You’ve told me about the difficulty women have in this business, the kind of harassment you’ve put up with to get here. Maybe this is your chance to speak out against it. You’d certainly get wider attention for the restaurant, not that it looks like you’re having any trouble filling seats.”

  Rachel dropped her head into her folded arms. What Ana said was right. It would be publicity. But despite the old saying, it wasn’t the right kind of publicity. She wanted attention for her food, not for her personal beliefs. To give this any kind of attention would be a distraction. And worst of all, it would make her a hypocrite. Playing the gender card for any reason—even a well-meaning one—went against everything she stood for.

  “No,” she said finally, lifting her head. “I won’t. I’ll turn down all the interviews with ‘no comment’ and get back to doing what I do best. Cooking.”

  “I thought you’d say that. I’ll issue a statement to that effect. Just be prepared. Reporters can be relentless when they smell an interesting story.” Ana hopped off the stool. “I’m beat. Call me if you need me.”

  “I will.” She hugged Ana and watched her friend stride out the door, five-inch heels clicking smartly on the dining room’s polished concrete floors. Rachel didn’t move from her perch at the bar, though she was glad that Luis was already gone for the night. He would take one look at her and pronounce her in desperate need of a drink. The last thing she needed to do was send herself down that unwitting spiral again.

  Instead, she would head to her office in the back as she always did, look over the pars that Andrew had calculated for her that morning, and pay the stack of invoices waiting in her in-box. Work was always the medicine for what ailed her, even if she was hoping that for once, her gut feeling was wrong.

  Because right now, her gut told her everything was about to go sideways.

  Chapter Two

  MORNING CAME FAR TOO SOON. Rachel sat in the driver’s seat of her Toyota SUV, staring at the back door of her restaurant and summoning up the energy to climb out of the car.

  She was getting old.

  That was the only explanation for how she felt now, as sore and aching as if she’d been run over by a bus. Back in the day, she’d not only been able to work a fourteen-hour double shift, but she’d proceeded to party with the rest of the kitchen staff until the wee hours, catch a couple hours of sleep on someone’s sofa or in her car, and do the whole thing again the next day.

  Clearly, her body had gotten the memo that she’d just turned thirty and thrown the switch.

  “Come on, Rachel. Woman up.” At seven o’clock, she was already the last person in, the rest of the crew arriving early to prep for Sunday brunch, which started at ten thirty. Since they didn’t take reservations on Sunday, the line would start forming outside the front door by nine and not stop until midafternoon.

  If she were honest with herself, Sundays were the only part of her old life that she missed. Each Sunday until she turned eleven, she and her mom would dress up to attend service at their little white church in Hartford, munching donut holes from the bakery on the way and trying not to get powdered sugar on their clothes. She’d sit beside her mother in the pew and listen in rapt attention to the bearded pastor, wondering if that’s what Jesus had looked like. Afterwards, they’d splurge on lunch and browse the expensive boutiques downtown, even if they couldn’t afford to buy anything. It had truly been a day of rest, and those days together were virtually the only memories she still cherished of her childhood.

  But those Sundays had ended long before she started cooking, and now a full day to herself felt like a distant dream. Rachel wrenched herself from her recollections and dragged her aching body from the car, then stumbled to the back door, where she could already hear sizzles and clatters coming from the hot line.

  She shoved her sunglasses onto the top of her head and stopped first at the pastry section, where her baker and best friend, Melody Johansson, was hard at work.

  “Morning,” Rachel said quietly. “Everything good?”

  Melody glanced up quickly from the sticky buns she was glazing, then did a double take. “You look awful.”

  “Thanks. I needed that.”

  Melody laughed. “Another hard night here?”

  “Is there any other kind?” Rachel squeezed Melody’s shoulder before moving on to the prep cooks, who were already hard at work at the rear stations. She paused at the walk-ins, where Andrew was going over the stock with the clipboard. “Where’s Gabby?”

  Andrew looked up, his expression answering before his words. “She hasn’t shown up.”

  “Call her and find out what’s going on. And then meet me in my office.”

  He gave a respectful nod. “Yes, Chef.”

  She retraced her steps to the office, her haven and a monument to her type-A nature. In every kitchen she’d worked, the chef’s space was a wreck, a jumble of papers and coats and books. Hers was almost sterile in its cleanliness, a collection of cookbooks and kitchen manuals lined up behind her on the wood shelves, the paperwork sorted neatly into a multitiered in-box, the labels on the containers in the drink cooler all facing the same way. The closet containing the staff’s coats was neatly organized, each cook’s garments lined up on rods between retail rack tags with their names, beside it a bin for dirty ones to be picked up by the uniform service.
A little spot of orderliness in the chaos, yes, but it also set an example for her staff. She’d never be able to lecture a cook on working clean if her own space weren’t pristine.

  Rachel pulled a Gatorade from the mini-fridge by the door and twisted off the cap as she collapsed into the desk chair. Half a bottle later, she was feeling a bit more like herself. Definitely too old for these hours. She’d taken the lack of sleep and long days in stride when she hired on to her first fine-dining restaurant in New York, wore them as a badge of courage, even. Now, she wondered if she was just taking years off her life. And to think as a lowly line cook, she’d thought the executive chef had the cushiest job in the kitchen.

  At least she had a couple of minutes to herself before the madness set in. Rachel fished a thick green journal from her bag and opened it to the frayed ribbon bookmark.

  And sat, pen poised above the page, mind completely blank. It usually wasn’t this difficult to think of something.

  Finally, she scrawled beneath today’s date: Sunny mornings, even when I don’t have long to enjoy them.

  Melody slipped through the door and set a cup in front of her. “Double Americano.”

  “Bless you.” Rachel lifted the cup, ignoring the singe of hot liquid on her tongue, and enjoyed the warm trail it created down her throat and chest. Impulsively, she jotted Strong coffee on the next line, then snapped the book shut. “What’s that?”

  Melody set a plate in front of her. “Chocolate-almond brioche.”

  “New addition?”

  “Experiment.” Melody settled into a chair across from her as Rachel tackled the bun.

  Like everything else the baker did, it was nothing short of amazing. Rather than being a cloying, overly sweet morning bun, the chocolate was subtle and bitter, laced with almond and a hint of espresso. Sophisticated. “It’s excellent. How many do you have?”