by Gayla Twist
Pedro lets out a loud, derisive laugh. “Why not?”
I level him with my best glare before saying, “Because times are tough, and finding a job isn't as easy as it used to be.” I let that sink in for a moment before adding, “Not even in food service.” This causes some murmuring amongst the crowd, but I know I have their attention. “You may not realize this, but the Winchell is about to tighten its belt.”
“Really?” an incredulous male voice asks from the crowd.
“You’re kidding,” another person feels the need to comment.
“Ay, it's true,” Paolo responds to the crowd in general. “I hear this,” he assures them. “The people, they talk.”
From my elevated position, I can see almost everyone’s face, and people are starting to look worried. Yeah, a restaurant gig is a lot of work, and Escoffier does yell a lot, but it’s better than trying to find another job in the new world economy. I reel them in a bit more by saying, “And Kiki is now the temporary restaurant manager. I personally heard Mr. Winchell give Kiki permission to make budget cuts wherever she sees fit.”
As one of the people who openly give Kiki a hard time, June rolls her eyes. “Hello unemployment.”
Pedro nudges the busboy standing next to him and says, “That Kiki is a real…”
Before Pedro can finish his thought, I cut him off with, “But! I'm the acting chef de cuisine. I can protect you,” I tell them. “I can watch out for your jobs.”
The murmurings from the crowd become more positive; people like the idea of having their jobs protected. “You are a good girl, Suzannah,” Paolo calls up to me. “You would do this for us?”
“Yes,” I say, in all seriousness, “but I expect a few things in return.”
Paolo frowns. “What you want?”
Now I have them. They are all definitely paying attention. Not that all of them are on my side—not yet. There are still several skeptical-looking faces in the crowd. But I can see a clear path to winning them over.
“I want you to work hard, and I want you to be loyal,” I tell them, as if this is easy to extract from any group of employees. “If I say something needs to be done, then you do it, no questions asked.” Several of the busboys exchange looks, and I can tell I’ll lose them if I don’t sweeten the pot. “I want people to be able to be proud that they’re working here. I want to take Bouche and turn it back into the award-winning restaurant that it used to be thirty years ago. I want to make it so that when you’re out cruising the bars and some cute girl asks you what you do for a living and you say you work at Bouche, she’s all keen because she thinks maybe you can get her a table.”
This, the mostly male crowd finds more appealing. I can feel them start to swing more in my direction. “Ay, that sound pretty good.” Paolo nods at his buddy Aspic.
If I’m going to keep them, now is the time to call in a missile strike. “This way when Kiki starts hacking at the budget, I can say that absolutely no one can be cut from the kitchen staff. And I can back my point to Mr. Winchell.”
“Good plan,” June calls out to me.
“Yes, I like this,” Paolo agrees, his head bobbing vigorously.
It’s time to plant my flag and declare myself their leader. “So? Do we have a deal or not? You work hard and do what I say; I make sure you keep taking home a paycheck and are proud of where you work. Who's with me?” I ask.
“It might work.” June shrugs.
“I guess,” Pedro agrees.
“Yes.” Aspic gives me a smile that is mostly eclipsed by his luxurious mustache.
The crowd is with me but not nearly enthusiastic enough for my tastes. I climb from the chair onto a prep table and ask again in a louder voice, “Who’s with me?”
“I am,” June tells me.
“Me, too,” calls Pedro.
“Do you want to keep your job? Do you want to be able to put food on the table? Do you want to work at one of the best restaurants in Chicago and therefore one of the best restaurants in the world?” It always helps to give our town a little plug when you’re trying to get anyone to do anything. “I said,” I practically bellow, “who’s with me?”
“We are,” the Bouche kitchen staff say as one.
I have one foot propped up on a pot, and I pump my fist in the air. “Who’s with me?”
“We are!”
I am Napoleon leading his troops into battle. I am George Washington crossing the Delaware. I have my army, and I am ready to wage war.
“All right, then. If you want me to save your jobs, then no more goofing around. Let's get to work!”
To my surprise and delight, the crowd scatters, everyone rushing to catch up with what they should have been working on for the past half hour. But still, I have them. They are mine. As long as they think I can save their jobs, which I’m pretty sure I can, then they are under my command.
I climb off the table and get to work myself. Unlike Escoffier, I actually have work to do outside of bullying employees. My words have really inspired people because within ten minutes, the whole kitchen is humming like a finely tuned machine.
Trent comes striding purposefully into the kitchen looking quite angry. He glares around the room but is brought up short by the fact that everyone is hard at work. I walk up to him, a quizzical expression on my face. “Did you need something, Trent?”
“Um…” He is obviously confused. “No, it's just...” He looks around the room again.
“Yes?” I ask in the most accommodating voice I can muster.
“I heard a rumor that no one was listening to you and that there wasn't any prep work getting done,” Trent admits. “That's obviously not the case.”
“A rumor?” I cock my head to one side.
“Well... you know...” he says, evasively. “Someone might have said something...”
I have a pretty good idea who that someone might be. But I’m not going to get into that with Trent. Instead, I say, “Anyway... I’ve been working on some new menu ideas, if you're curious.”
“Sure.” Trent is relieved that all is well, so he is amenable and gives me a smile.
Perfect. Being alone with Trent in Escoffier’s office is all part of my plan. I smile back at him. “Give me just one minute.”
When I was a senior in high school, I had this major crush on a guy named A.J. who was a freshman in college. His friend was dating my friend, so a flock of us high school girls descended on his fraternity almost every weekend. A.J. was tall and skinny with floppy brown hair. He wore argyle socks with moccasins when he played the drums in the fraternity’s house band. I know it sounds kind of dorky, but I found it adorable. A.J. seemed to like me, too, and we flirted quite a bit over a couple of weekends. Then one Saturday night, the guys planned a campfire. It sounded perfect. I fantasized all week about cuddling up to A.J. and experiencing our first kiss. And he had specifically said he was looking forward to seeing me there.
Around the campfire that Saturday, things were going according to plan. A.J. had saved a spot for me, and we were sitting so close our shoulders were touching. I knew it would be only a matter of time before our lips would be touching. That was until Angie took a seat on the opposite side of him. Angie was a friend of a friend, visiting from out of town. She was only fifteen so definitely not someone who should have been at a college party, but she was a hard fifteen. You would have never guessed her age just by looking at her. I greeted Angie and, just to be polite, introduced her to the boy who I anticipated would be my boyfriend by the end of the evening. Within ten minutes, and I’m not exaggerating here, Angie and A.J. were making out heavily. For weeks, I’d been flirting with this guy and, within the time it takes to brew a pot of coffee, Angie had sashayed in and snagged him right out from under me. I was so humiliated and hurt that I ran off into the dark and cried by myself for a good hour. No one even bothered to look for me.
That was the first time I had liked a guy and had some other chick steal him out from under me, but it wasn’t the last. H
igh school, community college, culinary school—there’s just something about me that screams, “Hey, come take my man.” But those days are over. I am no longer the doormat of love. I remind myself of my new credo as I seek Pedro in the kitchen.
I see Pedro joking around with one of the dishwashers and pull him to one side. “Pedro, can I count on you for a little undercover work?”
“Under the covers work?” His dark brown eyes sparkle with self-amusement.
“No.” I’m not in the mood for his high school flirting. “Espionage. I need you to do a little spying for me. Think you can handle that?”
“Sure.” I can tell by the sly smirk on his face that the idea of a covert operation intrigues him. “What do you want me to do?”
“Kiki’s in the dining room, and I’m sure she’s talking to the wait staff. Just go out there and pretend to be cleaning something. Listen to what she has to say and report back to me.”
“I can do that.” He is confident.
“I’m sure you can,” I tell him. “Just be careful she doesn’t realize you’re eavesdropping.”
Pedro is obviously pleased with being sent on a special mission, so I send him off and return to Trent, leading him to Escoffier’s office for an intimate conversation over my ideas for new appetizers. By tattling that I was incompetent, Kiki thought she was going to pull one over on me straight out of the gate, but she definitely underestimated me and sent Trent straight into my clutches. Score one for my side.
Trent and I squeeze into Escoffier’s office, but instead of sitting of the opposite side of the desk from me, Trent inches his chair around so we can both simultaneously look at the piece of paper where I’ve roughed out a few new ideas for the Bouche menu. I’ve made sure to take my hat off and fluff up the front of my hair when Trent wasn’t looking. If we’re going to be squashed together, I might as well try to look as attractive as possible. Trent is pretending to read what I’ve written, but I can tell he’s checking me out from the corner of his eye.
“I think if we try a few new a la carte items and add something creative to the daily specials, that should get things started,” I tell him.
“Impressive,” Trent replies. “Sounds like you know what you're doing.”
“Did you think I didn't?” I try to act surprised, but I’m really just being coy.
Trent gives me a lopsided smile and says in a husky voice, “I never said that.”
Our eyes meet. He’s just so darn handsome, I can feel myself sweat being near him. I fight off the feeling that I’m not good enough for such a debonair man and keep looking at him. He keeps looking at me. I have no idea where this is going, but it seems like it’s going somewhere good.
“What are your plans for dinner?” he asks.
I look down at the paper I’m holding, somewhat confused. Didn’t we just discuss my plans for dinner? “I’m just starting out slow,” I tell him.
“Slow is good.” He nods.
“I need time to come up with some recipes and figure out what’s cheap but also in season. I should have some new entrees going by next week.”
“Sue.” He chuckles a little to himself. “I wasn’t still talking about the menu. I meant would you like to get something to eat?”
Oh, my God! He was asking me out, and I am so dense I didn’t even realize it. I want to crawl under the desk with embarrassment. But no, that was the old me. The new me gives a playful little laugh. “Sorry. I was just so focused on work.” I give a casual wave of my hand toward my scribbled notes. “I would love to have dinner with you, but it’ll have to wait until my night off. I mean, I am the chef de cuisine around her.”
There are footsteps in the hallway, and I hear someone approach the open door. “A-hem...” Pedro clears his throat.
Trent is instantly on his feet and heading for the exit. Damn it! I haven’t told him when I’m free, and I don’t want to do it in front of staff. It doesn’t seem to matter anyway because Trent is out the door. He does pause long enough to call over his shoulder, “Good job here, Miss... um... Sue. I'll leave you to it.”
Pedro, leaning in the doorway, waggles his eyebrows and smirks at me. Ignoring him, I ask, “What'd you find out?
“Well...” he begins.
Intelligence report from Pedro. Direct transcript:
Pedro: Okay, so I pretended like I was scrubbing down a few tables. Kiki didn’t even notice I was there.
(That doesn’t sound too unusual. Kiki doesn’t like to recognize people who are lower on the socioeconomic food chain than she is. Sending a busboy had been a good choice.)
Pedro: So she’s got everyone lined up out there. The waitresses and bartenders and everybody. You know, like in the military where they make everyone stand there like when a general is inspecting his troops.
(I know what Kiki is wearing from our delightful encounter in the lobby. It’s her usual combination of high hemline and plunging neckline. Most of the front-of-the-house employees are required to wear white shirts or blouses, depending on gender, of course, and black skirts or pants, although heaven help a female server if she shows up in pants. Aziz, as the sommelier, is one of the exceptions to the dress code, although he is always dressed in some incredibly well-fitting suit. Kiki, as head hostess and now temporary manager, is the other exception, although she deploys the black mini more often than not.)
Pedro: Yeah, so then Kiki starts lecturing everybody and, let’s see if I got this right. I tried to memorize it. Something like, “The way you look, the way you dress, the way you act, the way you speak. All of these things reflect on Bouche.”
(That sounds like something Kiki would say, and I’m impressed that Pedro has done such a good job on his surveillance, but I hold off on any praise because I don’t want to interrupt his flow.)
Pedro: Kiki’s going up and down the line, touching someone’s sleeve or making a face when she doesn’t like somebody’s hair or whatever, and the entire time she’s talking. She’s saying stuff like, “I want everyone to be dressed to the nines every single night. If what you’re wearing doesn't have a designer label, then you are not dressed for work.” And then she says, “Ladies, I expect three-inch heels, minimum.”
(I don’t even own a pair of three-inch heels. And in a busy restaurant? That’s just asking to twist an ankle or chip a tooth.)
Pedro: And then one of the waitresses, I think maybe her name is Donna, but anyway, she doesn’t like this because she says, “And will you be paying for our back surgeries in our old age?” But Kiki practically loses it because then she goes, “No. If you want to wear comfortable shoes, go work at Denny's.”
(I know Donna. She’s not bad looking, but by Bouche wait-staff standards, she’s the least attractive server there. But that’s in comparison to ridiculous people like Gwenn, who is this statuesque blonde beauty who should probably just give up waitressing and become a fulltime model. Anyway, for whatever reason, Kiki keeps Donna on staff even though Donna’s the only server that’s willing to question Kiki’s authority.)
Pedro: So then she says this really weird thing. Something like, “Remember, if you don't look good, I don't look good.” I mean, like, who the hell cares if Kiki looks good?
End of transcript.
“Anything else?” I ask, as it seems Pedro has wrapped things up pretty completely.
“Not really,” he replies. “After that, she just told everyone to get back to work.”
“Hmmm...” My brain is buzzing with this new reconnaissance information. I have an idea, and it’s a good one, but it’s also kind of bitchy. The question I have for myself is this: At what point am I crossing the line from cunning to ruthless? But then I remember the ride home from the fraternity campfire. Angie was not at all apologetic for throwing herself at A.J. when she knew I liked him. “How is it my fault that he liked me better?” she kept asking to the occupants of the car in general as I slumped in the backseat unable to stop sniffing.
I also think about Kiki narcing me out to Trent
in the first hour on the first day that I take over as chef de cuisine. She obviously has no problem being ruthless, so why shouldn’t I defend myself? If Kiki and I are at war, then she is the general of the front of the house with the wait staff and bartenders as her troops. I am the general of the back of the house. Her soldiers are my enemies.
But still, I hesitate. It’s just not part of my nature to be mean to people. I almost tell Pedro never mind, but then I recall Elliot’s delightful phone call repeatedly whispering “Quitter,” and I think, the hell with it. I’m sick of dating slackers. I’m going to date up for once in my life, and I’m going to do what it takes to be on that plane with Trent, headed for the Bahamas. “Pedro, I need you to do something for me, and it might sound a little mean.”
“What is it?” Pedro scrunches his brow.
I draw a deep breath. I am about to do something that goes completely against my nature. As a matter of fact, it’s bitchy. Super bitchy. But I am determined to do it anyway. Sue the Nice Girl needs to be killed off, and this is a very good way to bury her so that Sue the Woman Dating Trent Winchell can ascend the throne.
I signal for the busboy to lean down, and then I whisper in his ear the plan I’ve just concocted. Pedro listens intently. When I’m finished, he doesn’t look one hundred percent on board. “I don't know,” he says. “That's pretty harsh.”
I toss my head like it’s no big deal. “So is all of us losing our jobs.” As he’s mulling this over, I add, “It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry if you don’t feel up to doing it.”
“What do you have against Kiki, anyway?” he asks.
“Nothing!” I say, entirely too quickly. But that’s obviously not the truth, and Pedro knows it. “Let's just say we have the same goal but different ways of getting there.” I meet his eyes with a confident look and add, “And my way is better.” As Pedro absorbs my words, he nods his head, and I know I’ve got him. “So you'll talk to the other busboys?” I ask.
Pedro shrugs as if it really doesn’t matter to him either way. “If you say so, boss.”
