The Saturday Night Supper Club

by Carla Laureano

  “It’s the Wild West out there, you’re saying,” the host said with a laugh.

  No, that wasn’t what he was saying, but he couldn’t contradict the host without looking like a jerk. “It’s definitely lagging behind real life in terms of monitoring and mores, yes.”

  “Clearly this is a subject you feel strongly about, given the definitive tone of your piece for the New Yorker. How, then, do you feel about the fact that it’s spurred a movement that has taken on quite the opposite effect?”

  Alex’s thoughts stopped short and tumbled on top of one another. “Excuse me?”

  “I take it you haven’t seen Twitter today? The WeBelong hashtag?”

  He still wasn’t following. “No?”

  “Well, for your benefit and that of our audience, apparently Chef Rachel Bishop of Paisley restaurant in Denver—” in case there was any question of how to track her down and bully her more, Alex thought—“made an offhand remark to a reporter in response to your article, which has spawned . . . oh, looks like in excess of ten thousand posts under the hashtag #WeBelong, defending women’s rights to work in traditionally male-dominated fields.”

  Alex felt like he had entered the Twilight Zone, where everything looked and sounded familiar but nothing actually added up. “That’s precisely what I meant to defend in my piece.”

  “And once more, it seems that social media has unintended consequences,” the interviewer said smugly. “That’s all we have time for today. For more observations on the trials and tribulations of life in the digital age, look up Alexander Kanin’s Mis-Connected, available wherever books and e-books are sold.”

  Alex hung up, a hard kernel of cold forming in his stomach. After prayer and consideration, he’d decided the damage had already been done and he had an obligation to his publisher to promote the book the best he could. At the very least, it would give him the opportunity to reiterate the point he’d been trying to make in the first place. So what was this movement to which the host had referred?

  He slid his laptop toward him on his desk and flipped up the lid, then opened Twitter to search for the hashtag in question.

  His heart fell a little further with every post. Some of them were little more than shows of female solidarity in difficult professions—EMTs, military personnel, scientists—but others were downright vicious, taking personal stabs at Rachel Bishop. He couldn’t figure out what had started the attack until he followed a link to a video of the exhausted-looking chef throwing a few words over her shoulder before she climbed into her car.

  “They don’t have the dedication and skills to succeed. They shouldn’t be there,” she said. The next shot showed her slamming the car door.

  Her cadence made it clear they had edited bits from a longer sentence. This was what passed for reporting? True, Squawker was yellow journalism at best, but it only served to emphasize the way sensationalism had overtaken any sense of responsibility.

  And how one small video could somehow go viral, spawn its own hashtag, and turn into an international movement overnight.

  No, this was because of a sexist, crass review that would have gone unnoticed had he not dredged it up and spit it out onto a national stage.

  This was his fault.

  Alex dropped his head back and stared helplessly at the ceiling. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t meant for this to happen; it was still a direct consequence of his actions. The irony of an anti-bullying article beginning a particularly vicious round of bullying was not lost on him.

  The worst part was, he knew what it felt like to be targeted—one only had to go online and read the comments on his work by those who said he’d misappropriated his Russian heritage for a buck, that he was perpetuating harmful stereotypes even though his gently satirical stories about his family had been approved by that same family before publication.

  Right when it seemed like his publishing career was dead, someone else’s controversy had brought it back to life, and now he was benefiting from it. But what else could he do? Viral was exactly that—the story was already far beyond his control.

  “Whatever decision you make, be sure you’re doing it because it’s what God would have you do.”

  He’d already determined that he had an ethical obligation to his publishers to promote this book, but now the nudge to his spirit was too strong to ignore. He had to talk to Rachel Bishop. He had to ask her forgiveness.

  She would probably run him over with her car, though, if he tried to catch her outside the restaurant, and she wouldn’t thank him for interrupting in the middle of dinner rush. He’d have to catch her before.

  He pulled up a reservation app on his cell phone and found Paisley. Booked solid for the next week. Clearly, the controversy hadn’t hurt reservations.

  The listing showed they opened for dinner at five thirty on Tuesdays. He’d have to arrive early and hope she’d be willing to talk to him.

  Decision made, he shuffled his notes in front of him, trying to focus on the next interview and the preapproved questions they would be asking him. Instead his mind kept straying back to that weary woman trying to get away from a shark with a microphone. His apology might not count for much, but he still had to try.

  * * *

  Alex arrived at the restaurant a few minutes after five. He parked in an absurdly expensive lot and strode down the sidewalk toward the narrow, glass-windowed space, wedged between a trendy boutique and another restaurant. High-rent area, he thought, suited to the upscale dining concept that defined Larimer Square. Lots of pressure to succeed.

  The front door opened and closed with a subtle whoosh, sealing off the street noise and leading him into a small reception area. The restaurant was bigger than he thought from the outside, stretching back toward the open kitchen, which was still shy of its full complement of cooks. The ones who were there were clearly men. No one who could be the executive chef.

  “May I help you, sir?” A stylish young woman spotted him from across the room and glided across the polished concrete floors to meet him.

  “I’m looking for Rachel Bishop,” he said. “Is she available?”

  Her expression shuttered, and something akin to outright suspicion registered on her face. “Are you press?”

  Technically, he could probably claim the title. He shook his head. “No.”

  “I’m afraid that Chef Bishop—”

  “I’ll take this one,” a feminine voice said, and the hostess practically crumpled in relief. She backed away while the pale, freckled blonde moved toward him with every bit as much suspicion as the first woman. Apparently, Rachel’s staff was protective of her privacy. Somehow that made him feel better, knowing that she had people watching her back.

  “How can I help you, sir?”

  “I’d like to speak with Chef Bishop if she’s available.”

  The woman studied him for a minute. She looked like kitchen staff—her long-sleeved black shirt was rolled up to the elbows and dusted with smudges of flour, as was her pin-striped apron. But there was something proprietary about the way she narrowed her eyes, as if his inquiry were a personal affront.

  “Why do you need her?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m Alexander Kanin. I feel like . . . I owe her an apology.”

  Emotions flickered across the woman’s face, finally settling on something like disdain. “I would say you owe her a lot more than that. Rachel Bishop is no longer associated with Paisley.”

  He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “She left. Sold out to her partners yesterday.”

  He wiped a hand over the lower half of his face, not sure what to make of this. Had she quit because of the scrutiny? Or had she been forced out?

  “You’re a friend of hers?” he asked quietly.

  The woman gave a single nod.

  “Then I want you to know this was never my intention. The opposite, in fact. Do you know where I could find her so I can tell her in person?”

  She laughed, a tinge of bitterness lac
ed through the sound. “Trust me. You don’t want to talk to her right now. You’d be taking your life into your own hands.”

  “As I well deserve. What if I’m feeling particularly suicidal?”

  She stared at him stonily.

  He sighed again. “Listen. I understand that she’s angry. I’d understand if she spit in my face. But I was raised to take responsibility for my actions, whether she’s willing to forgive me or not. If you don’t help me, I’ll find her some other way.”

  The first crack appeared in the woman’s facade, and she seemed to be considering. “Fine. Tomorrow. Six o’clock at the food truck pod in RiNo. You know it?”

  “I know it well. Thank you . . .” He trailed off, arching an eyebrow.

  “Melody.”

  “Thank you, Melody. And if you wouldn’t mind not tipping her off—”

  “Oh, trust me. I’m not telling her anything. And I’d appreciate you not saying I’m the one who set this up. She’d never forgive me.”

  “Agreed. Your involvement will never come up. I appreciate it.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She turned and walked away, seeming to have an angry conversation with herself as she left. He felt a bit of disquiet at her earlier words. So Rachel was a bit of a spitfire, was she? Well, he shouldn’t be surprised. The kind of drive that motivated a woman to own her own restaurant at thirty was usually associated with a strong and determined personality.

  Hopefully Rachel Bishop would hear him out, give him a chance to explain. She didn’t have to forgive him. He didn’t really expect her to. But he wouldn’t be able to rest until he somehow made amends.

  Chapter Six

  SHE WAS WALLOWING.

  Rachel knew she was wallowing, but she couldn’t help herself. For the first time in almost fifteen years, she had woken up with nowhere to go. Her day had no structure. She watched the clock tick up and thought about what she should be doing at the restaurant: looking over the inventory, concocting the day’s specials, checking in with all her cooks.

  Her cooks. She’d hired them, mentored them, pulled a few from prep positions at other restaurants because she recognized their potential. Her departure would most likely mean a promotion for Andrew, at least temporarily. She had been thinking he needed another year, maybe two, before he was ready to run his own kitchen. This was an accelerated promotion she wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for.

  As much as she would like to believe the rest of the staff would walk out in protest, she knew the truth. They needed the jobs, and in the end, they were more loyal to their careers and their wallets than to any one person. She didn’t blame them. Right now, pacing her condo with the shades drawn, she’d have given nearly anything to go back in time and reconsider the decisions that had led her to this point. It was fine to stick to her ideals as a chef when it didn’t cost her anything; now those ideals were all she had left.

  Tired of her own angst, Rachel finally collapsed on the sofa in front of the TV with a pint of ice cream and watched competitive cooking shows, a particularly masochistic way of passing the time. All the while she ignored the flashing light on her cell phone that indicated messages. As if the Twitter harassment hadn’t been enough, the phone calls had started coming in from reporters and talk show hosts before the sun even came up. All wanting a statement, all wanting to perform an autopsy on her career before their voracious audiences.

  How painfully ironic that her attempt to keep the focus on her food had turned into a glaring personal spotlight. She couldn’t even muster the self-righteous zeal to defend herself. Not when deep down, she wondered how much truth was contained in those horrible accusations. She had been foolish to think she could make this work. Foolish to believe that in the end, she would be anything more than a failure.

  No. She pressed Stop on that recording before it could begin playing as an endless loop in her brain. She wasn’t a failure. The check, now lying on the coffee table, crumpled from its place in her pocket, proved that. She’d made a profit, a healthy return on her investment. Maurice might think he’d been doing her a favor, but she’d earned that money. She’d laid all the groundwork to make the restaurant a success, and it would continue to be, assuming that Dan could keep it together. If it started going to seed, would Maurice step in? Despite kowtowing to Dan’s will, he was a good guy and an excellent chef, but he was from a different era: a true veteran of the French brigade kitchen, with its hazing and grunt work and military-like mind-set. Whereas Rachel had been trying to build a different sort of atmosphere in which her cooks could grow and advance, and hopefully leave to open their own restaurants someday. She had tried to be a mentor as well as a boss, if never their friend.

  A little past seven o’clock, a knock at her condo door jerked her out of the light sleep she’d fallen into. She opened the door and nearly melted into tears again when she saw Ana and Melody standing at the door. Ana was holding a familiar bag from her favorite Thai restaurant, Melody a pink bakery box tied with string.

  “We thought you might need pad Thai, followed by cupcake therapy,” Melody said.

  Ana pushed past Rachel to the kitchen, where she plunked the bag on the counter. “You haven’t been moping around here all day, have you?”

  Rachel closed the door behind them and looked down at her T-shirt and sweatpants. “I’m decompressing.”

  “You’re feeling sorry for yourself.” Ana was soundly in tough love mode, something Rachel was not nearly ready for. Melody seemed to understand that, because she pinched Ana’s arm and whispered something furiously in her ear.

  “Sorry,” Ana said immediately. “I’m not used to you like this. You’re usually the one telling us to pull it together.”

  “I went from co-owner of a restaurant to unemployed in less than twenty-four hours,” Rachel said. “I need time to process.”

  Melody was pulling bowls from her shelves while Ana opened boxes. Together they transferred the noodles to dishes, found lacquered chopsticks in a drawer, and brought the food out to the living room. Melody set down the bowl on the coffee table, then lifted the check. Her eyes widened. “You didn’t tell us they paid you out this much. This is almost enough to open another restaurant!”

  “It’s barely enough for a food truck,” Rachel said. “It took three times that to open Paisley.”

  “And if I recall, you weren’t thrilled with the Larimer space,” Melody said. “You wanted to open in Platt Park or River North, do something edgier, hipper.”

  “I like the way Paisley turned out,” Rachel said. “It was still my vision. Still my menu. At three times the price, of course, but that clientele expects it.”

  Melody didn’t say anything, just levered pad Thai into her mouth with chopsticks.

  “Wait. You think I sold out. You think I caved on my vision for the restaurant because of Dan and Maurice’s input.”

  “No,” Melody said. “Not sold out. You were forced to compromise.”

  “Compromise is the same thing as selling out.”

  “Compromise is how the world works,” Ana said from across the room. “No one gets everything they want. Not in their career. Definitely not in love.”

  “Ooh,” Rachel said. “You had another date. How did it go?”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “So are you. What was wrong with this guy?”

  Ana shrugged. “Nothing. We’re going out again this weekend.”

  “Wait, someone actually made it through the first-date gauntlet?” Melody said. “Why aren’t you more excited?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a nice guy. There’s nothing wrong with him. At least I couldn’t find a reason to not go back out with him. But it’s just—”

  “There’s no spark?” Melody suggested.

  “Yeah. No spark. But sometimes that comes later, right? All the guys I’ve dated because I was instantly attracted to them turned out to be total jerks in the end. My radar is seriously broken.”

  “I don’t know. It sounds like settl
ing to me,” Melody said.

  Rachel maneuvered pad Thai around her bowl. “Maybe that’s better. At least you can keep your common sense intact. It’s only when people fall madly in love that they suddenly lose their minds.”

  “Yeah, yeah, marriage is a trap.” Melody rolled her eyes, but they’d had this discussion too many times for there to be any heat behind the words. “Doesn’t mean you can’t go out, have some fun, see what’s out there.”

  “Yeah, ’cause the bar scene is teeming with decent guys not looking for a hookup,” Ana muttered.

  For reasons Rachel couldn’t fathom, Melody elbowed her and gave her a sharp look. Ana blinked and then added, “But then again, it’s an alternative to Internet dating, which as we know hasn’t worked out so well for me either.”

  Rachel looked between the two of them, her eyes narrowing. They were plotting something. They’d never showed much interest in her love life before. Were they thinking that she would somehow get over her grief at losing her restaurant if she had a man in her life? If so, they didn’t know her at all. Men only complicated matters. They never made them better.

  Melody clapped her hands together. “Okay, this is what we’ll do. You get one more day to mope. And then you’re going to get it together, take a shower, put on something cute, and go out with us. We’ll pick you up tomorrow at five thirty, so make sure you get in all your feeling-sorry-for-yourself before then.”

  “On a Wednesday night? Aren’t you working?”

  “No. I quit.”

  Ana stared at her. “And you’re just now telling us that?”

  Melody shrugged. “I hadn’t planned on quitting right away. I figured Rachel could use a spy on the inside. But Dan started trying to tell me how to do my job. I told him this was the way I always did it, and you were fine with it. He said things were going to change now that he was in charge, and I told him they could change without me.”