“Lie.”
“Of course I can.”
“You can’t, Sibby.”
“Why not? When Julian tells us to push a dish that isn’t good, we lie and tell the customers it’s good and they should order it.”
He sighed. “You make a valid point.”
“Are you getting complaints about Anastasia?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“No problem, I guess.”
“Pretending to be Anastasia makes me happy. And you want me to be happy don’t you?” I made my eyes wide and doe-like.
“Don’t look at me that way.”
“I’ll bake you cookies if you keep my secret.”
“I’m no match for your cookies.”
“I’m a terrible mother,” the woman at my table said. “Look at my kids! They’re fighting over the last Zeppole like they haven’t eaten for a month.”
The two kids had chocolate sauce all over their faces and powdered sugar on their clothes, and yet the mother stared at them both so fondly.
“I think you should have them fight to death for it. Like gladiators!”
“Shhhh!” she stage whispered. “Don’t give them any ideas.”
“I’ll put five bucks on your little girl.”
The woman glanced at her son, who had to be at least three years older than the six-year-old girl. “You sure?” The mother looked back at me. “You’ve got a bet!”
At that moment, the little girl stuck one of her fingers into her mouth and ‘wet willied’ her brother. When he dropped the zeppole back onto the plate to cover his ear, the girl snatched the dessert off the plate and stuffed it into her mouth before he could react.
Sometimes, I really liked my job.
Chapter 19
Barbaresco [bahr-bah-resk-oh]:
1. Red wine produced in the Piedmont region of Italy. Often compared with Barolo, but there are distinct differences between the two wines.
2. This is the part where we talk about ‘tannins’.
“Sir,” I said calmly. “I can’t do anything about that.”
The middle-aged-man glared at me and held up his wine glass that was devoid of wine, but full of sediment. “This is outrageous.”
“Sir, wine comes from grapes. Grapes come from nature. That, right there, in your glass, is a little bit of nature.”
Because he didn’t find me humorous, he asked to speak to my manager.
Whine Guy. Definitely.
Sighing, I went in search of Aidan who was managing the floor that night.
“Aidan,” I said when I found him in the courtyard room.
“What did you do?” he teased.
“Nothing. Well, not nothing.” I shoved the glass of sediment at him. “My guest is blaming me for the sediment.”
“Well, it is your fault. You stomped the grapes yourself, right?”
I raised an eyebrow. Aidan was flirting with me. Openly. “Have you been drinking?”
“What table,” he said, ignoring my question.
“Thirty-three.” I went to contend with a few of my other tables and was at the bar grabbing a second round of Cosmos for my Long Island ladies when I heard Aidan raise his voice at Whine Guy.
“You’re going to blame my server for wine sediment in your glass? Seriously? That’s like going to the dentist and blaming him for your cavities.”
Guests turned to stare. I dropped off the Cosmos and then slid into a corner to watch the scene unfold. Whine Guy stood up, threw down some bills, grabbed his wife’s hand, and stalked out. Aidan sighed, collected the money, and came over to me.
“God among men,” I said.
“I hate seeing you mistreated,” he said quietly, throwing a smile at my table of women. They raised their Cosmos in salute to him.
“Stop it,” I said. “Stop being cute, and amazing, and perfect. At least at work.”
“What will you give me?” he demanded.
I gave him a look and raised an eyebrow.
“God, if only there weren’t cameras in the wine room,” he muttered before turning away.
“Do you guys have any questions?” I asked.
“About the menu, or life?” the man wondered aloud.
“The menu. I don’t know squat about life.”
“Neither do we. We need therapy,” the woman at the table joked.
“No worries. I need medication.”
The woman pointed a finger at me. “I like you.”
I smiled. “I like you. You guys have been the nicest table I’ve had all night.”
The guy made a face. “Let me guess. The bar wasn’t set too high, was it?”
“Not really,” I joked.
Sort of.
The table ordered three courses and an expensive bottle of wine, and then tipped very well. I wasn’t so lucky with my next table.
“It was a pleasure meeting you,” the father slurred, vigorously shaking my hand. “Oh my God, you have the tiniest hand in the entire world.”
“Yeah, I have the hands of a child,” I said with a strained smile.
The father looked at his twenty-something son. “You’ve got to feel her hand.”
I reached out to shake the embarrassed son’s hand. “That’s…a nice hand,” he said, smiling awkwardly.
“Have a good night!” I said, disentangling my grip.
“Did that really just happen?” Jess asked.
“Yeah, I can’t believe you overheard that.”
“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all night! Top five over all.”
“I made top five? Sweet!”
“I have good news and I have bad news,” Aidan said to me that night as he came into my apartment, using his shiny new key.
“What’s the bad news?”
“Bad news is we’re starting Sunday brunch. Julian bought waffle makers.”
“Oh, God. Is this why Julian has been in such a good mood? He found a new way to torture servers?” Aidan shook his head. “I’m not going to like this next part, am I?”
He sighed. “You’re our newest hire, which means you get stuck working brunch.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. But you’ll get really good breakfast food.”
“Our Sunday brunches are sacred, Aidan. Now, instead of going to them, I have to work? This totally sucks.” I sighed. “What’s the good news?”
“The good news is I’m managing.” He grinned. “We get to hang out together.”
“What about the bartender and support staff?”
“Yeah, until there’s enough business, it’s just you, me, and a few kitchen guys.”
“When does this start?” I demanded.
“This weekend. Cheer up. Just means more time with me.”
That did cheer me up.
“Two tables in three hours,” I said, beating my head against the bar. “This was a rotten idea.”
Aidan grinned as he cleaned another bottle of liquor. “You get paid to hang out with me.”
“Four dollars and fifteen cents an hour doesn’t even cover taxes. This is bullshit.”
He pulled out a deck of cards and tossed them at me.
“You’ve been holding out on me.” I took the cards and shuffled them. “What should we play? Blackjack?”
“No fun unless you’re betting,” Aidan stated.
“I’ve never played blackjack for money.”
“You’re kidding right? You’ve never been to Vegas? Or AC?”
“Nope,” I responded.
“Oh, Sibby. Get out your bus pass, we’re going to AC.”
“I need a shiny gold track suit and blue silvery hair first.”
“I know a guy.”
“Yeah, it’s Aaron.” I laughed. “Okay, gin it is.”
“Little early for drinking, Sib.”
“Pick up your cards, Aidan.”
Another hour passed and I wondered how I was going to live through the slowness of the stupid brunc
h shift. Nothing worse than being idle.
“You bitch when you’re busy, and you bitch when you’re slow,” Aidan pointed out.
“Server way,” I said. “Why did the owner think this was a good idea? We don’t have drink specials, we’re in a weird part of the city, and no one wants a heavy Italian meal at 11:00 AM. Antonio’s: the place where logic goes to die.”
“You sound like Zeb.”
“He was the one who told me that’s the Antonio’s motto.”
He looked out the large glass windows at the front of the restaurant. “I think our boredom is about to be over.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked, scooping up the cards.
“Wow, this place is dead!” Annie yelled into the empty dining room.
“Maybe Sibby should get on a table and dance, attract some people,” Caleb suggested.
“What are you guys doing here?” I demanded, jumping up from the bar stool and hugging my best friend.
“Aidan’s idea,” Caleb said.
“Thought you might be bored.” Annie grinned.
“You guys are kind of amazing,” I stated.
Affronted, Aidan said, “What about me? It was my idea.”
I pretended to bow down to him. “I’ll worship you later.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Aidan pulled out the glasses and fixings for Bloody Marys. “You guys take a seat and start drinking.”
Four hours later, brunch was officially over and I had fifty bucks in my pocket to show for it. Caleb and Annie had stumbled out of Antonio’s an hour earlier, blasted and rowdy.
“Your friend is an obnoxious drunk,” I stated.
“Not as obnoxious as your friend,” he said.
“At least they have each other to lean on,” I commented.
“All in all it wasn’t that bad, was it?” he asked.
“I made fifty bucks.”
“But you won the French toast eating contest and you got to hang out with me. We spoke in accents.”
“I should never have told you we do that.”
“Why?”
“Because your southern drawl is painful.”
“Whatever, like your British accent is believable?”
“Her British accent is totally believable,” Zeb said, sidling up to the bar as he got ready for the evening shift.
“It is not,” Aidan said.
“Is too. Last week she had an entire conversation with an English table from Surrey and they asked what part of London she was from.”
I threw a look at Aidan and said in a British accent, “I’m very posh. Okay, guys, have a good rest of your night, I’m off.”
“To do what?” Zeb asked.
“I have absolutely no idea,” I said. “I might bake cookies.” More like I’d try to sit down and write. I was actually looking forward to it. The parody of a romance novel was slowly coming together.
“You’re wild,” Zeb said.
“Don’t I know it.” With a wave, I headed out. I looped my scarf around my neck, bundling up for the angry March weather. Winter just kept looming. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and almost bumped into someone. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“Sibby?”
“Yes?” I didn’t recognize the man in front of me.
“I’m Taylor.”
“Sorry, I’m drawing a blank.”
“Matt’s Taylor,” he clarified.
“Oh, that Taylor.” I tried to move around him, but he gently put up a hand to stop me.
“Listen, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable—”
I barked out a laugh. “A little late for that, don’t you think? What are you doing here? Were you waiting for me?”
“Yeah, sorry, I’m not trying to go all single-white-male on you. I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t talk to Matt, and he’s pretty torn up about it.”
“Why?” I adjusted my stance, becoming pugnacious.
“Really? He cares about you.”
“Then maybe he shouldn’t have…done what he did.”
“I agree.”
“You do?”
“Well, yeah. But, sometimes on our quest to find ourselves, other people get hurt in the process. I wish it wasn’t the case, but it’s the truth.”
“You’re a yogi, aren’t you? You’re all Zen and shit.”
“I’m not Zen,” he promised. “I just know what it’s like to hide who you really are, to feel like you can’t really tell people for fear of judgment.”
“Are you saying this is my fault? That I’m to blame for Matt keeping his sexuality hidden for so long?”
“No, I’m not—”
“Do you know how many trust issues I have now? I might have to see a shrink to reconcile all this crap!” I shook my head. “I’ve got to go. Tell Matt… You know what, I don’t care what you tell him, just leave me the hell alone. The both of you!”
“Aren’t you worried?” Annie asked over dinner the next night. We were at our favorite Thai place in Union Square, equidistant from both our neighborhoods.
“About Taylor?” I shook my head. “Should I be?”
“He waited outside of work for you, which is kind of scary.”
“I guess. He wasn’t fearsome. Fierce, yes, fearsome, no.”
“What he said to you…”
“Yeah?”
“It was kind of valid, wasn’t it? Like, he kind of had a point.”
“You think I should talk to Traitor—I mean, Matt?”
She sighed. “He emailed me.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Wow, this week keeps getting weirder and weirder. What did he say?”
“Just asking after you, wondering why you still haven’t contacted him for coffee.”
I grunted in response.
“I didn’t reply to him. Sent it to junk mail.”
“Thanks.”
“He lost me in the break up. Not that he ever really had me.”
“We’re a package deal, aren’t we?” I teased.
“Yes, we are. Caleb has pointed that out. He said I need to pay more attention to him. Like sex isn’t enough?”
“Men.” I shook my head.
“Right? It’s like he wants to talk about stuff and I’m like, really, do we have to?”
“He writes you poetry, doesn’t he?” I joked.
She didn’t reply.
“Oh my God, he totally does!”
“You cannot tell anyone that,” Annie hissed. “Not even Aidan. Especially not Aidan.”
I grinned. “So, is it any good?”
Annie blushed. “What do I know about poetry?”
“It is! He’s a good poet!”
“Shut up.”
“You’re happy.”
“Maybe. I removed the Tinder app from my phone.”
“Whoa. Hold on. Whoa.”
“I know.”
“Hey, Annie?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s okay not to answer when I call, you know. It’s not your job to take care of me.”
She smiled. “Well, damn. Maybe I need a new hobby?”
Natalie and I met for coffee before work. I hadn’t seen her for a few days, but she looked at peace. Happy, even.
“I told Tad,” she said, stirring honey into her chamomile tea.
“And?” I demanded.
“He was really good about it. Like, so good—and calm. He was as calm as I was freaking out.” She smiled.
“So what’s going to happen?”
“We’re going to move in together and take it from there.”
“I think that’s very wise,” I said with a grin. “When are you going to tell people at work?”
“When I have an obvious baby bump. Maybe not even then.”
“You’ll tell Zeb though, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll tell him. Surprisingly, he can totally keep a secret.”
“Break the news to your parents yet?”
<
br /> “Nope. And don’t guilt trip me over that, okay?”
“No guilt here. I didn’t tell my parents for four months that I got fired and cheated on. I’m not in the position of giving advice.”
She smiled. “Let’s talk about you. What’s new with you?”
“Uhm, the guy Matt cheated on me with accosted me outside of Antonio’s.”
“Are you making shit up just to make me feel better?”
“I wish.”
She laughed. “You’re better than reality TV.”
“What’s this?” the guy asked.
“The duck breast,” I answered.
“I didn’t order this.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I ordered the duck pasta.”
“No, you ordered the duck breast,” I insisted.
“No, I really ordered the duck pasta.”
“Remember when I repeated back your order and asked how you wanted the duck breast cooked? You said medium. Why would I take a temperature on a pasta?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
We stared at each other and finally the guy said, “The duck breast looks really good.” He picked up his fork and knife and I breathed a small sigh of relief. You couldn’t have paid me enough to go back into the kitchen at that moment. Julian was having a melt down about the risotto he’d added to the night’s specials. Risotto took thirty minutes to cook and threw off the entire line. Why he decided to do this, I’d never know.
“He’s going to give himself a heart attack,” I said to Zeb when we heard Julian yelling in French.
Zeb snorted. “Don’t tease.”
“You guys ready to order?” I asked a table of four men. They were drinking a bottle of our most expensive Barolo, so I wanted to be attentive without too much suck-uppery.
“We’ll start with a few appetizers,” the ringleader said.
“Sure thing.”
“Give us an order of brajoot and mutzzarel. We’ll take an order of the fried galamat and some scarole with garlic and olive oil.” He set his menu aside. “Can we order dinner later?”
“Yep. Whatever you want.”
Even with my limited time at Antonio’s, I already knew how to translate bastardized Italian. What did they really want to order? Prosciutto and mozzarella, fried calamari, and escarole with garlic and olive oil.
Tales of a New York Waitress Page 17
