20
“I can’t believe you two ate at Paragraph without me,” Tabitha says as she buttons up her chef coat for the day.
“Not just ate, Tab...we got a private tour of the kitchen,” I feel compelled to clarify.
“How the hell did you pull that off?”
“I squeezed my boobs together when I was shadowing the expo.”
“Hmm. I guess I’ll have to try that next time.”
Into the back office barges a more intense than usual Angela.
“Guys, we need to talk.”
“What now?” Tabitha and I say in tandem.
“We’re scratching FFN,” she says.
“Well, that’s a bright idea. Said no one ever...” Tabitha replies.
“It’s not like that’s my preference. But we just don’t have the time and we definitely don’t have the budget.”
“Can we back up a sec?” I ask. “WTF is FFN? These acronyms are killing me.”
“Friends & Family Night,” Angela clarifies. “It’s a soft opening—a chance for us to work out the kinks while we comp the meals for our invitees. You know, the people who won’t go straight to Yelp or social media to bitch if their food came out too slow or if their venison was dry.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Tabitha steps in. “It’s not always about problems with the food, okay? The computer system could freeze up, we could discover an area of congestion on the floor, or one of our servers could no-show and throw the whole night off. Basically, it’s a dry run that ensures our actual opening night is not a total shit show for the public.”
“Well, then yes, let’s do it. Let’s absolutely do the Friends & Family thing,” I vote.
“You guys, you’re not hearing me,” Angela says. “I’ve run the numbers every which way and it’s not possible. We grossly underbudgeted the final touches on the kitchen build-out because the proposal Benji submitted...well, let’s just say he was probably high when he sent it.”
No. Not another thing crucial to the smooth, successful opening of this restaurant gone straight to the dogs because Benji dipped out. Seriously, at what point do we just call the governor and ask him to declare a state of emergency?
“What do you mean? What’s missing in the kitchen?” Tabitha asks.
“Take the walk-in cooler for example...we only have sixty-four inches of space to fit it before walls will need to be knocked down. Now I’m finding out that’s a very custom size. What he slated as $2,500 is actually going to be closer to six grand.”
“Jesus. And you’re just realizing that now?” I can feel my tone sharpen. My frustration is getting the best of me.
“Sorry I don’t walk around with a tape measure everywhere I go. He was a pro, I thought these recommendations were solid,” Angela says.
“Don’t you know by now you can’t trust a single thing he’s ever said or done? Now you’ve got me worried. What else is just floating around out there that you haven’t double-checked for accuracy? This is ridiculous. He was only a part of this team for, like, five total days. You had one job, Angela—to babysit him.”
“Actually, I had about 560 jobs, but who’s counting.”
“This isn’t the time for snark,” I say, fully aware of the nervous breakdown that’s developing from deep within. “It’s not a movie premier for a film that’s been in editing for two years. We’re opening a fucking restaurant for the first time. Tabitha hasn’t done this before. I haven’t done this before. And you came from a sleepy suburban spot that took all week to generate the business we’re slated to do in a single day. We need a trial run or this whole thing goes to shit.”
Angela’s eyes zero in on mine as she takes three steps toward me.
“Tabitha, can we have the room for a moment?”
Tabitha grabs a paperback copy of Lord of the Rings from her backpack and scurries out the back door.
“What the hell is your problem, Allie? Why are you being such a bitch about this? Don’t you think that if I could snap my fingers and spit out another 20K in comped food and beverage I would? The reality is...we cannot do it. Our doors open in less than two weeks. Do you know how much this whole shebang cost?”
“I’m familiar with the financials, thank you very much,” I say back.
“No, you’re familiar with the sticker price. Once we drove this thing off the lot, Craig dumped $2 million into making sure this was the most gorgeous restaurant in the entire city—hell, as far as he’s concerned, the entire nation. And also, you know, rush charges were about half of that. So if you want to hold this whole deal up until spring because you aren’t confident enough we’ll make it unless we serve free food to 100-plus people, fine. I’ll let you make that call to Craig. And if for some reason he’s suffered head trauma and says, ‘Sure, why not, let’s delay everything,’ then I’ll happily go back to Florette and keep managing my ‘sleepy’ restaurant where at least I’ll still be collecting a paycheck for six more months. You, my dear, not so much. So, love you, but you need to shut your mouth, accept reality and get it together for the grand opening, which is all that really matters anyway.”
I look at her and shake my head.
“What? What now? Just say it, Allie.”
“It’s just...I’m the assistant general manager. On paper, our jobs aren’t that different—yours and mine. Yet, for some reason, I have no say in anything. Ever. Unless it has to do with how we break the news about Benji to the media, you’ve never cared about my opinion. You just steamroll me into whatever you want me to do or say. And I’m tired of it.”
“Is that what it’s about for you? Control? You’re going to have plenty of chances to call the shots once these doors are open. But now’s not the time to right-fight with me.”
Angela gestures her hands toward herself: “Ten years’ experience.” Then gestures toward me: “Ten days—ish—experience. Not trying to downplay your contributions or anything, but you need to trust me on stuff. Look, I’m sorry that you didn’t get to dictate the fate of you and Benji. But this restaurant isn’t your relationship. It’s a business. You can’t take it out on Here, okay?”
It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to do what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it. Whether it was the liberty of having a glass of wine with my dinner, or going out with my friends and not really specifying when I’d be home, or not having to purchase cable or spend my Saturday at an NA picnic, the world has revolved around Benji since the day he came into my life. And all I know right now is I’m obsessed with being the one to drive the boat. Maybe the sheer exhaustion is taking its toll and this is just a false feeling after all. Or maybe I’m—dare I admit it?—starting to get into a groove with this whole restaurant thing and I actually want to feel like my opinions are valid or that I have good ideas.
“Can we move on, or do you want to continue to waste time and argue?” Angela asks.
“We can move on,” I resolve. Not like I have any real say (again) about whether we continue to sit here and hash it out longer.
“Now do you want to know what would actually be helpful?” she asks. “If this restaurant had plates.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Benji fucked us on plates, too?”
“Well, salad plates to be exact.”
“Wait, I thought those were ordered weeks ago. I know I processed an invoice for them.”
“They were, but I just got an email saying the ones we picked out are on back order and not due in stock for at least three months. So they refunded us—you’ll see it hit the P&L in a couple of days.”
“Alright, well, what do we do now?” I ask.
“We aren’t going to do anything. You are going to take these, though.” From her purse, she hands me the keys to her Jetta and an American Express Black Card. It’s metal. It’s Craig’s.
“You’re an authorized signer now, so just show your ID when they run the card, but try to stay under a thousand dollars. Okay?”
The weight of the credit card in my hand gives me pause.
“So, just to clarify: you’re asking me to go pick plates out...by myself?”
“What’s the big deal, Al? It’s just one plate that you’re going to get a hundred of. Choose a design that you like—they don’t have to match the main course plates, they just need to be white—and then come back with a full order. Remember, they’ve got to all be the exact same—no rinky-dink garage sales, okay?”
“And what are you doing right now, might I ask?” I’m not trying to show any hesitation about my newfound freedom, but I am curious how this seemingly large responsibility has fallen into my lap and why she’s not needling me to death about specifics (has to be this, can’t be that, make sure it’s got this, but not that, etc.).
“Tabitha’s got me all worried our floor plan is jacked now. I need to focus on the layout and figure out if any areas are going to be a server’s nightmare once our dining room is full. Send her back in when you go out, would you?”
Angela sits back down at her desk and opens up a document with the floor plan. She proceeds to drag and drop the tables like chess pieces on the screen. It’s impressive how she’s always able to revert back to business-as-usual no matter how high I let my freak flag fly.
As I climb into her Jetta, it hits me. I don’t know where to go to complete this task. Restaurant Depot? Bloomingdale’s? Goodwill? But the thought that I get to choose my own adventure is more exciting than the fear I feel about potentially getting it wrong.
* * *
“Good news, Angela,” I say as I trot in through the back door. “I got plates!”
Six inches in diameter and a perfect circle—this Crate & Barrel find features no fancy geometric angles or weird cuts. In fact, just the opposite. Simple, like the plate you’d microwave a meal on. And the best part? I came in a whopping 48 cents below my $1,000 budget.
“Yeah, and you got McDonald’s, too, apparently. What the hell, Allie? No text to see what I wanted?”
“Don’t you want to see the plates? They’re so cool, they’re like—”
“Don’t you know that every Saturday at noon I sneak out and shame-eat a Happy Meal in my car?”
“Not really. But I guess I noticed a few wrappers on the floor of the front seat, now that you mention it.”
“Please tell me you didn’t go to the one on Ogden and Lake.”
“Yeah, I did. It was on the way back. Why are we still talking about McDonald’s?”
“You’re killing me, Al. Because they always give me an extra toy at that location.”
“You’re thirty-eight years old, right?”
“Ugh. Never mind. Just go find Hector and ask him for help carrying the plates to the kitchen, will you?”
* * *
It’s late in the afternoon when my mom shoots me a text. I haven’t talked to her in a few days and seeing her name pop up on my screen is a welcome distraction from my current task: stocking the ladies’ room with tampons.
Hey Allie Boo. I’m downtown for an art fair. Can I tell cab driver 2 drop me @ Here and say hi?
Let’s be honest. I haven’t taken anything close to a break in the last three weeks, short of stopping for a greasy burger and fries a few hours ago, and I doubt Angela will harass me about slacking in the presence of my own mother. If anything, it’ll allow me five minutes to breathe.
Sure. Tell him 900 W Randolph.
A few minutes later, there’s a cute, Sally Field look-alike knocking on the window of our storefront. What used to be a retractable garage door is now a single panel of glass, completely frosted except for the word Here, which is reverse-etched into the pane.
I unlock our front door, invite her in and shut it behind me. I can feel a burst of crisp, early October air come through the foyer. This is why Angela had heated coils installed under the tile.
“Wow, would you look at this?” Mom says, eyes wide like she’s admiring the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. “It’s incredible!”
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s not quite done yet, but we’re getting there. Take a seat.” I pull out one of the stools at the bar and gesture for her to make herself comfortable. “Do you want me to take your coat?”
“No, that’s alright. I’ll keep it on the chair.”
“Allie!” I hear Tabitha’s thunderous voice coming toward me from the back office. “I need one of those tampons! Stat! I’m having a her-mergency!”
She emerges into the bar and I greet her with a silent smile.
“Oh. Hi. I’m Tabitha Johnson, chef de cuisine. Are you from the Trib?”
“No, Tab, this is my mom. Patty Simon.”
“Oh, how lovely! How do you do, Mrs. Simon? Hey, are you hungry? I’m working on a new amuse-bouche concept and I want you guys to try it.”
“She can’t,” I say. “She’s going to an art show.”
“Well, actually...” My mom shimmies the sleeve of her shirt back just enough for her to study her watch. “I have about forty-five minutes until I need to meet my friend at the Merchandise Mart.”
“Perfect!” says Tabitha with the clap of her hands. “Hang right here and I’ll bring something out in a few minutes. And, Allie?”
“Yeah?”
“Feminine products?”
“Spread out on the floor of the ladies’ room. Don’t tell Angela. I’m still working on it.”
Tabitha scampers off to the bathroom, leaving just my mom and me in the chilly bar area. At least what’s left of the sun for the day is still seeping through the front windows, which gives it a cozy feel.
“How’s it been going?” my mom asks. She takes the liberty of flattening out some flyaways from my jagged part as she waits for me to speak.
“It’s pretty nonstop,” I say, figuring that’s the most politically correct answer. “But I’m starting to get the hang of things.”
“That’s good. Any word from Benji?”
I shake my head and let out an audible sigh.
“I still think he’s out there, Mom.”
“I’m sure he is, sweetie.” I want her to say more, offer more comfort, but I also realize she isn’t entirely picking up what I’m throwing down. So I clarify.
“I miss him.”
It’s a tough thing to utter. Especially to my mom. There’s probably not another person in the world she’d rather see me hung up on less than the guy who left her daughter broke, scared and alone. But she’s loved an addict inexplicably before—her own brother. So I have to believe she’ll greet my confession with a certain amount of compassion and understanding.
“I get it. But I don’t think it’s him you miss. He’s not a good person, Allie. He’s not well.”
“Then why do I feel this way inside? Like I just cannot move on from him.”
“Because you miss the good times you had with him. And the special way he made you feel. Those are tough losses because they’re things you can’t repeat with any other person. But you’ve got to leave room in there.” She points at my heart. “For someone else to do their thing. Trust me on that, okay?”
“Alright, ladies.” Tabitha comes back with two plates, each with three amuse-bouches. “Let me know what you think. Right here we have prawns grilled in sesame oil, avocado, mango, red chilis and lime juice. Then, there’s a portobello oven-roasted, filled with ricotta, crushed garlic, chives, pine nuts, drizzled with premium extra virgin olive oil. And finally, this is a simple date filled with fresh gorgonzola and wrapped in prosciutto, drizzled with a balsamic vinegar reduction.”
“You made these?” my mom asks, genuinely impressed. “These are so beautiful. So elegant. Are you sure I’m supposed to eat them?”
“Eat and critique!” Tabitha chimes. “I need help deciding which is going to be our go-to amuse on opening night. Take your time. Bon appetit!”
She scurries off as I come around the bar and proceed to fill two tumblers with ice and water. I peer over the bar and look at the plates. They are gorgeous. No matter which one she ends up selecting for opening night, our diners are in for a major treat. There are no wimpy flavor mousses, over-the-top essences or self-indulgent gastronomical touches here. Just extremely elevated dining. I can’t help but note the glaring differences between Tabitha’s style and Benji’s.
By the time I place the cup of water in front of my mom, she has already taken her first few bites. Her eyes are closed and she’s smiling as she chews. I know she’s my mom, and she has to like Here, but I genuinely believe in this moment, she’s enjoying herself independently of her connection to the restaurant. If this is the hospitality privilege that Angela says we get just by being in this business, well, then, I’ll take it.