21
“You know what you need to do, right?” Angela asks, catching a glimpse of the complex spreadsheet open on my computer as she throws away her McDonald’s detritus.
It’s 10:00 p.m. and there are just two days left until our grand opening. Tabitha is in the kitchen organizing the shelves on her new walk-in cooler, Angela is chowing on a Happy Meal even though it’s Wednesday, and I’m dunking her leftover fries into a cup of sweet ’n’ sour sauce from yesterday’s Chinese takeout in the back office. Suffice it to say, the three of us are extremely sleep-deprived and more down to the grind than ever.
“Yup, I think so. I have the vendor list in Column A, all the quantities in B and their payment terms here. Did you know our first liquor order has to be paid up front in all cash? Like, what is this, the fucking prohibition era? We have to smuggle it in with no paper trail?”
“Yes, Allie. That’s standard.”
“It is? Here I thought you’d get all hot and bothered about that.”
“Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of other opportunities to spike my blood pressure. Like if you wait one more second to press Send on this order.”
“Don’t you want to look it over?” I ask sheepishly.
“I don’t have time to do the things I’ve asked you to do. Especially not after you’ve already done them. You’re in charge of making sure that thing is right...not me. And, seriously, if our produce guy doesn’t get the memo in the next five minutes that we need twenty-five rutabagas delivered to that alley in the next seven hours, we’ll be serving chips and dip until the angry mob shuts us down. So hop to it, Al-gal.”
I spin my chair around to put the finishing touches on my order forms and submit the first complete produce order for Here. Next up, fish. Then meat, then dairy, then almost done. Angela says once we get going, we’ll eventually hire a bar director who’ll take care of all things booze, but for now, I’ll order the alcohol—and get the cash ready—too.
Speaking of handling things, we hired an intern for social media (“You’re going to be way too busy to be live-tweeting someone’s foie gras, so don’t even think about it,” Angela had said). It’s a bit of a bummer that the one thing I know how to do, and love doing, I won’t be touching at all. But I see her point. I’ve been too busy myself to scan social media anyway.
Also, I need to focus on floor managing. It’s something we’re both set to tag-team once the restaurant is actually open but I’ve had no practice in front of patrons since the last time I helped at Benji’s North Side pop-up. I’m sure that once bodies are in the building, I’ll pick up where I left off—big smile, questionable wardrobe choices and all.
For as twisted as this all is, I actually feel for the first time in forty-three days like I got it all—except for sleep, that is.
When I go to log in to our fish vendor’s online ordering portal I see a message come through the Here email account from Benji’s sous chef, Sebastian.
Hey Allie, this is super awkward I’m sure, the message starts off. But I couldn’t figure out how to reach you. I tried stopping by your apartment last week to see if we could talk but your doorman said you weren’t picking up and probably weren’t home. Anyway, I looked up the Here website and found this email address. I’m sure you and Benji are just super busy with Here (congrats, BTW), but wondering if you know what’s up with him? I helped him with his pop-ups last month and he was really mean to me. Worse than he normally is LOL. I walked off the middle of service on the second to last night and I haven’t heard from him since. I fucked up. I shouldn’t have left him like that, especially when he promised me I’d be his head sous at Here. I’ve tried to call him and apologize, but either his phone is off or he’s just flat out ignoring me. If that’s the case, could you tell him to call me? Tell him I’m sorry? Again, I hate to bother you. I’m just worried and kicking myself for throwing away the opportunity to work at Here.
I’ve been wondering when the rest of the world would catch on to the fact that their favorite hot mess was missing in action. Still, this message catches me off guard. Benji promised Sebastian a job at Here? Now that I’ve gone through my fair share of hiring, I can honestly say...that’s not how this works. You don’t just pinky promise you’ll give someone a job at this level. Poor guy. And screw Benji and the effect he has on people wherein he can totally fuck up yet everyone else finds a way to blame themselves.
I ponder writing Sebastian back just for the sole purpose of telling him to grow a pair. To tell him to stop thinking it’s his fault that Benji’s not calling him back. But then I’d have to go into the real reason why he can’t reach him, and also the fact he’s not getting the sous job at Here.
There’s another reason—a bigger, more important reason—I can’t write anything like that back, though. Because whatever I say, even if I keep it vague, it could potentially blow the cover on what Angela has worked so hard to protect: the integrity of Here.
Plus, how concerned is he really? Enough to look up our website and send a single email? Please. I’m hardly impressed with the extent he’s gone to try to piece this Benji puzzle together. But if I say nothing at all, and he adds my silence to Benji’s, would that be enough for him to take his concern to another level? Would he call the police? Report a missing person? Put out a conflicting statement to FoodFeed and insist they demand proof of life pictures of Benji from myself and Angela? No. I don’t think he cares that much, sadly.
I toggle over to our email settings, copy and paste Sebastian’s email address and hit Block Sender.
“Are you sure?” a pop-up box reads.
I click yes and delete his email for good.
* * *
Two hours later, I’m finally done putting all the orders in. Everything is due to arrive tomorrow; truckloads of produce and proteins and pantry items all throughout the day. It seems like too much, but Angela and Tabitha assure me we’ll move it all. Their confidence might stem from the fact that the press still hasn’t been notified of Benji’s “exit,” an evasive maneuver Angela says she’s employing on purpose.
“Trust me, we wait to announce this until tomorrow, a day before, and we use the pandemonium to our advantage. People are going to want to see how we recover from getting ‘Benjied.’ They’re going to want to see who’s filling his shoes.”
“Don’t take offense to this,” I say, cognizant that Tabitha is three feet away from me. “But who’s going to go give a shit when they find out it’s her?”
Tabitha throws her hands up and rolls her eyes.
“Because, Allie, one bite of Tabitha’s truffle ravioli and it’s game over. It doesn’t matter if she’s not well-known now, she will be in about forty-eight hours. At the end of the day, if what people put in their mouths is good, then the name at the bottom of that menu will go viral. As far as I’m concerned, Bib Gourmand, James Beard, Michelin Man, here we come—with or without Benji Zane.”
“I guess I’m just worried that we’re going to get creamed by bitchy comments from a bunch of told-you-so haters.” I can hear the hint of fear in my voice. “You know, like it’s our own fault we hired a cokehead to run the line.”
As the words come out of my mouth, I realize a paradigm shift has taken place. I don’t know exactly when or why, but I catch myself saying “our” and “we,” which means I’m officially lumping myself into this whole Here thing. Just a month and a half ago, I couldn’t put a big enough wedge between me and this place. But now, whether it’s success or failure I’m worrying about, the bottom line is it’s ours.
“Two weeks ago I was about to order a fridge that wouldn’t have fit in the kitchen and you’re worrying about some internet trolls? Got news for you. We’re for sure going to get those. So make sure you come into work with your big girl panties on tomorrow.”
“Lovely,” I say as I literally add the task to my iCal.
“Trust me, those are the same people who will be first in line to see how we clean up the mess. Hey, speaking of mess, how’s your apartment post-Benji?”
Ahh...my apartment. My long-lost love. I haven’t been back to my studio for longer than it takes me to shower, do a load of laundry and clean out my mailbox every few days. In all honesty, I should probably list the thing on Airbnb so someone else can pay my rent, but god forbid whoever stays in the place stumbles upon the mother lode of Benji’s addiction I’ve yet to find. Or worse, they stumble upon him coming back to pick up his precious knife set.
So, yeah. Sleeping at the restaurant is terrible. But it beats being home alone in the official headquarters of what used to be.
Right after I surmised Benji wasn’t coming back, about the same time I started sleeping regularly at Here, I was having these intense flashbacks to the P.S. I Love You night. It was the simplest moment of my entire life, despite how we arrived at it, and I was genuinely happy. And even though we’re light-years away from that now, a temptation still exists to hold on for some hope that maybe one day, that moment could be replicated again.
Hope is the only thing that makes me feel good inside, that gives me just a little bit of a tingle. I think: if he hit rock bottom before and we were able to find smooth air, is it really that far-fetched that at some point in the distant future, we could have it all again? That he could come back and we could be even stronger than we were before? That the fantasy with the brownstone and the kids and the dog could still come true?
And if it did, would that mean I was the dumbest girl alive? Or the luckiest?
I could think about this all day, which takes away brainpower that needs to be dumped into Here if we’re going to open with any trace of success. So the only way to prevent myself from going down the Benji rabbit hole is literally surrounding myself with Here—day in and day out. Which is why I’ve been sleeping in the restaurant for the last two weeks.
“It’s fine, I guess. I haven’t done a deep clean or anything, but I’ll deal with that later.”
“Why don’t you deal with it now?”
“Because I’m in this prison cell. With you two. Come on, what’s next in the book? I’m sure if you flip to page 93 there will be something I need to do—separate all the to-go lids from the containers in the storage closet...iron the tablecloths...run background checks on all the servers...”
“You haven’t done that?” Angela’s ears perk up.
“Please, of course I have. Everyone’s kosher except one of the bartenders got a DUI in 2010 but I figured it gave him some credentials. I mean, the man knows his liquor apparently.”
“Your perspective on things never ceases to amaze me,” says Angela. “I think we’re good for now. Tabitha, do you agree?”
“You put the delivery orders in, right?”
“Yeah, every last one. Triple-checked them, too.”
“Well, then, knock on wood, but I think you can call it a day,” Tabitha says as she pounds a fist on the top of her desk.
“Wait. Are you two fucking with me? Is this a joke? Am I going to go to leave and trip over some clear fishing line or something?”
“I was looking at the list of opening duties earlier and it appears we’re caught up,” Angela says.
“I guess that’s what twenty-hour workdays will do,” I say smugly.
“What’s that I hear? Our first labor-law complaint?” she mimics back. “What time’s our first delivery, Al?”
“Seven a.m.”
“Great. Be here at six.”