24
I can now confirm that a mock service is essentially the same thing as “playing restaurant” as a kid. Only this time, we were pretending charred octopus was atop the plate, not hot dogs or birthday cake. And instead of being doting parents, Angela and I had to be tough critics, difficult customers and allergy-prone picky eaters.
It wasn’t an Oscar-worthy performance by any means, but role-playing gave us a chance to quiz our servers on ingredients, have them practice the tableside setup for key items (oysters Rockefeller, the seafood tower and cheddar smoke biscuit), and identify any areas where servers would get clogged up on the floor. Having said that, tables eight and ten are now pushed six inches farther in opposite directions to create a wider pass.
Our two new backup servers weren’t able to make it in for the trial run (something about having to go to school? God, how old are these people?), but they’ll come in tomorrow and shadow the others. We need all the hands we can get with Angela predicting each section will turn at least three times throughout the night.
It’s about 7:00 p.m. when I sneak out the back door for some fresh air and notice a box of iceberg lettuce sitting by the door. I lift the flap of the box and the lettuce is dead—totally browned and wilted—not to mention half-eaten by whatever lives under the Dumpster and between the cracks of the building.
Shit, shit, shit. I have no idea how this happened, but if I tell Angela, she’ll happily point out it’s my fault because I was in charge of the delivery. And even if I wasn’t, it’d still be my fault because I am the AGM. Angela told me that in this industry, most things that go wrong will be our fault because of the nature of our job titles. Remind me again why I took this job? Or don’t, actually.
Regardless, I need to make sure this is the emergency I think it is. So I run inside and open the walk-in fridge to make sure there are no other boxes of lettuce and that maybe this was a rogue extra that was meant to go back on Jared’s truck. There aren’t. Then I grab a copy of the menu to confirm what dish requires the iceberg lettuce. I should know this by heart, but I’m sleep-deprived and overwhelmed—more so when I see that a “Wedge of iceberg with house-made bleu cheese dressing” is up first on our list of greens. Yup, we’re fucked.
I don’t know what Step Two is, but I’m sure that Step One is destroying the evidence before Angela comes outside and notices that a basic item that’s likely to be ordered over and over tomorrow night is already eighty-sixed. So I go back outside and toss the box into the nearest Dumpster. Then, I head to my desk, where I pull up the number to Marcel & Sons, more specifically, to Jared’s cell phone. My tail is between my legs as I hear the first ring. I can’t believe I’m requiring direct access to our produce guy this early on in the game.
“Hello, ‘Allie Simon—Here Restaurant.’ Do you miss me already, or what?” he answers.
“I need lettuce,” I say, cutting to the point.
“What kind?”
“Iceberg.”
“STRAIGHT AHEAD!” he shouts in a British accent. “Sorry, that’s a Titanic reference. Anyway, I brought you iceberg this morning. Thirty-five heads of it.”
“Yeah, and I left it outside. It wilted and I think some rats got to it, too.”
“Tsk, tsk. Allie. I bring you the freshest iceberg lettuce and you feed it to rodents? Too bad we’re all sold out of lettuce. I guess you’re just going to have to go grocery store hopping and see what you can come up with at this hour.”
“Wait. Are you serious?”
“Nope. I’ll be right over with a new box. Meet me outside in, say, thirty minutes?”
I take a giant breath.
“Yeah, that works. And hey, if you run into Angela when you’re pulling up, don’t say anything about this. Okay? Just text me and I’ll be right out.”
“Permission to text? Well, then, secret’s safe with me,” Jared assures me.
I head back into the office and Angela and Tabitha are looking over printouts of the reservation list with the updated notes I added earlier.
“Anything significant change since this morning?” Angela asks.
“Not really. I moved Tabitha’s wife and mom over to the VIP list and requested Moët for them as well. That’s about it.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize Johnson, Party of Two at 7:30 was for you,” Angela says to Tabitha. “In fact, I didn’t realize you were married.”
“Happily. Going on five years next May,” she says. “I don’t wear my ring to work because if I get oil on that sucker, it’s going to slip off and get chopped up in a Vitamix. Mary would kill me. How about you, Ang? Got anyone special?”
I realize then how odd it is that we’ve been spending virtually every waking (and sleeping) moment next to each other, but I know so little about their lives outside of Here—or that such a thing exists. My ears are tuned for her response.
“Me? Nah. No time.”
“I call bullshit,” I say.
“Seriously! I don’t think I’ve dated a guy for...” She pauses and begins using her fingers as a calculator. “Man, it’s got to be like ten years or something. Maybe even longer.”
A decade-plus puts her at a time before she wound up on the streets. Unless I plan to dig in right here, right now about how that all came to happen, I better backpedal gracefully before an unknowing Tabitha probes further and accidentally unearths emotions that probably should stay put until after we clock our official first day.
“Well, you’ve got to at least have a crush on someone,” I say. “Who’s your David-Beckham-of-the-food-world?”
“Oh my god. Are we really doing this?” Angela asks. She looks irritated I’m inciting conversation about something other than employee scheduling or ramekin storage.
“Yes we are. And same question to you, Tab. But I guess, who’s your...”
“Pam-Anderson-circa-1995-of-the-food-world?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll go first. Mine’s Ross Luca of Republic.”
“You sure it’s not our produce guy?” Angela retorts.
“Or Andrew? I saw you eye-fuck the shit out of him in that preshift meeting,” Tabitha jabs.
“What? No I didn’t.” I probably did. “Who’s yours?”
“Easy. Don’t tell Mary but...Giada De Laurentiis. I could watch her feed dough to a pasta maker all day.”
“Nice. Ang, your turn.”
“We’re opening a fine-dining restaurant in less than twenty-four hours and the three of us nutjobs are sitting around the office talking about which celeb chef we’d like to bang? That’s what’s happening right now?”
“Quit being a prude and just spill it,” I demand.
“I swear, you two either need to get to work or find Jesus,” she says.
“We’re waaaaaitingggg,” sings Tabitha.
There’s a long pause. Both Tabitha and I are wide-eyed staring at Angela waiting to see: Will she crack? Will she have a little fun? Will she show us she’s human after all?
“Ugh. Fine. Curtis Stone.”
The three of us hoot and holler and high-five each other like we’re all hopped up on sugar at a sleepover party. I don’t know what’s so fun about sharing something so menial, but I do know one thing: I have craved silly fun like this for a long time now. Especially knowing that some of my most recent interactions with my normal besties (Jazzy and Maya) have been...tense. But this little charade in the back office at Here, as fleeting as it may have been, totally hit the spot.
My laughter is interrupted by a vibrating text in the back pocket of my jeans. I pull out my phone. Jared’s here.
I slither out the back as Angela and Tabitha get back to reviewing their printouts.
“Almost didn’t recognize you without your big truck,” I call as I walk toward Jared, who’s lifting a box of lettuce out of the trunk of his BMW.
“You know what they say about guys with big trucks...”
I roll my eyes. His sense of humor seems like it would scream cheese, but instead I find him endearing and cute. Dangerous territory.
“You ready for the big day?” he asks as he hands me the box.
“No. Not really. But I’ll make sure to fake like I am when those doors open tomorrow.”
“‘Fake It ’Til You Make It’ is actually the unofficial motto of this industry, you know. So I think you’ll be fine.” He gives me a wink and starts to walk back to his car.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say. “How much do I owe you?”
“Consider it a housewarming present,” he says. “Just don’t use it as hamster food this time, okay?”
* * *
Angela spent the night at Here, insisting I “should go home and get a full eight hours of sleep” when I volunteered to do the same. Out of all the restaurant terms I’ve had to learn, “full eight hours of sleep” is the one that’s been most lost on me of late.
When I left, she, Tabitha and our lead servers were blasting Queen’s greatest hits and taking shots of Fireball as they gave the baseboards another once-over with a bright white semi-gloss. They waved away my halfhearted attempts to help. Apparently it was more important for me to go home, memorize the ingredients and try to clock the first real sleep I’ve had since before I knew what an amuse-bouche was. As I tossed my keys to the restaurant in my bag, Angela’s parting words to me were: “Go forth and masturbate.”
So I did.
Don’t judge. It’s been a while since I’ve watched Lost with anyone.
There’s one other thing I did during my “time off”—and that’s text Jazzy and Maya to smooth things over.
Opening a restaurant is a sobering experience, at least it’s been that way for me. I look back on the me from weeks ago, standing in the foyer of my apartment, clutching that bottle of pills that wasn’t mine, trying to bait and switch a brunch date with my friends into a field trip to the projects. I was out of my mind. It was like I was the addict in that situation. And I wanted them to know that I recognized that and I’m sorry.
It’s now three thirty in the afternoon on Here’s opening day. My Uber driver drops me at the front door even though I told him to pull around to the alley. “That’s not safe, ma’am,” he said.
“Trust me. If I get abducted, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” I said back. He didn’t find that funny and I’m sure my passenger rating has since plummeted.
Before he drives off, I check my reflection in his tinted windows. The “five-minute French twist” I learned how to do on Pinterest is secured with a bottle of Paul Mitchell hair spray and enough bobby pins to set off a metal detector. The black, knee-length shift dress with a white Peter Pan collar feels just the right amount of professional and fun for a night like tonight and my high-waisted control-top tights are helping to keep the butterflies in my stomach at bay. As I head for the front door, my high heels click against the sidewalk exactly to the beat of my heart.
The restaurant is practically humming with barely contained energy. For the most part, I’d describe it as nervous—but not in a bad way. It’s more like how you feel getting ready for a first date with a guy you met online. He looks hot in all his pictures, his profile checks out, but you can’t be too sure he’s not an ax murderer until you sit down and have dinner and feel each other out.
The smell of fresh paint still lingers on the walls as I weave my way toward the back office. My entire staff is in constant motion. Whether polishing silverware, steaming glassware or cutting up fruit for the bar, everyone is doing something with a highly focused look on their faces—all in the name of this little place we call Here.
Despite all the work I’ve put in, the reality is still as hard to digest as it was the day Angela wrote Benji to talk about a restaurant opportunity. But it is reality, I remind myself, and one with real consequences. The memory of my $30,000 lodges in my throat for the millionth time.
God, people better like the scallops.
“Who are these for?” I ask Angela, nodding to a bouquet of lilies smelling up the back office.
“You, buttercup,” she says, not bothering to look up from the computer screen.
“Aw, thanks, Angela. You and Craig are seriously the sweetest.”
“Bitch,” she says not unkindly. She finally looks away from the monitor. “We already got your ass flowers once. The courting phase is over. Those aren’t from us. Isn’t there a card?”
I fish around for what I imagine will be a tiny white envelope. Knowing they aren’t from Angela sends a mini wave of panic through my bones. Could they be from...I’m not even going to say his name.
Allie—
“Lettuce” wish you a happy opening day.
—Jared, Marcel & Sons
“So? Who are they from?”
“Our produce guy,” I say, somewhat bewildered by the gesture.
She springs her chair away from her desk and looks at me for real.
“Okay, Allie. Eyes over here.” She snaps twice. “I know I’ve thrown a lot of restaurant jargon at you these last couple weeks, but just so you know, Rule #77 is ‘never sleep with a vendor.’ Especially not a good one. Marcel & Sons has the absolute best produce in the city and we can’t risk a bad delivery because you didn’t put out, he came too soon or whatever else goes awry in those complicated millennial relationships you guys have.”
Relationships.
The word jolts me just a bit. Short of fawning over our delivery guy’s Gap model–looking face and incredibly palatable sense of humor, I haven’t actually thought about what it’d be like to date anyone post-Benji.
It’s a slow recovery. That’s all I know.
“Please, Angela. The only relationship I’m in is the one with this restaurant,” I say to quell her concerns.
“Good. That makes us Sister Wives, then.”
She might have said it in jest, but I have to take a moment to acknowledge just how far Angela and I have come in the last forty-five days. When she first sent that email to Benji, all proper and hoity-toity, I was skeptical and predisposed to dislike her. A billfold straight to the boobs would put anyone off, right? I thought she was in it just to dethrone me from the privilege of working with the hottest man in the media.
But it’s become undeniably clear that Angela couldn’t care less whose name is on the marquee, so long as that person shares her passion, her vision and her drive. At so many points, she could have sided with Craig and convinced him to take his business elsewhere—leaving me an even bigger, broker mess than I was to begin with. But instead, she covered for me. She’s kept a handful of my deepest, darkest secrets to date—that I unintentionally insisted on breaching an ironclad contract; that my ex-boyfriend took me down financially, then physically; that I haven’t showered in days. She’s guided me, carried me, taught me and seasoned me.
She hired me.
I know I never wanted to be a part of this restaurant—at least not in a front-and-center-on-the-floor kind of way. But here I am, assistant general manager at a fine-dining establishment in the most coveted part of the city. I don’t necessarily deserve the opportunity I’ve been given—or rather, the opportunity I quasi-accidentally purchased for $30,000—but Angela has had perfect faith in me practically since the word go. Clearly, she sees something in me that I don’t yet. But I owe it to her to discover that, cultivate it and keep at it.
* * *
It’s 4:45 p.m., fifteen minutes from our first guests’ anticipated arrival. I do a mental check of the dining room preshift protocol: candles lit, chairs pushed in six inches from the table, napkins folded the same, glasses crystal clear, music low, lights dimmed, bar stools aligned at a forty-five-degree angle facing the door. Together, these things are greater than the sum of their parts. Because standing back and looking at Here as a whole, this place feels warm, welcoming. Like a total class act.
“I’ve got to admit it to someone,” Tabitha says to me. “I haven’t been this nervous on a Friday since 2001 when the first Lord of the Rings movie opened.”
“Relax, Tab. I just did a forty-point check on the front-and back-of-house and everything’s locked and loaded,” I assure her.
“So the only thing left to do is pray,” she says.
Actually, that’s not a bad first-night idea.
“Hey, can I get everyone together, please? Near the front?” I say softly to a group of ultra good-looking servers standing near us. They don’t move.
“Everyone get your asses to the front of the restaurant, please and thank you!” Angela shouts from behind me. They scatter like the cops just showed up to the party.
“Rule #34: If you need something done a certain way, you better be loud and you better be clear,” she says more quietly, just to me.
I hear what she’s saying, but it feels strange asserting myself to these people so soon. They don’t owe me any allegiance—hell, they haven’t even collected their first paychecks yet. Not to mention the fact that it’s not hard to deduce the only reason I’m even here is because my ex-boyfriend was supposed to be the head chef. Even though the details are fuzzy, people can (and do) safely assume it’s because of an entirely fucked-up circumstance that I—the girl with no experience to speak of—am now second-in-command. For anyone who cares about the industry, like really cares, this is mind-boggling and borderline offensive. I get it. Which is why I’m desperate to prove I deserve to be here. Starting now.
“Alright, everyone,” I say, weaving my hands together to keep them from gesturing awkwardly. “I just want to take a second to say how grateful I am for all of you. Forty-five days ago, this place was a shoebox. Now, from the looks of it, I’d say it’s a full-blown fine-dining restaurant, wouldn’t you?”
I don’t know if I’m expecting them to answer out loud, but the blank stares and rogue pop of bubble gum aren’t exactly giving me the confidence to continue. I swallow hard and start again.
“I know it wasn’t easy moving a mile a minute to open by October fifteenth, but here we are and the place seriously looks awesome. I am so proud of each and every one of you. You’ve helped make Here a reality. I know this is kind of cheesy, but can you grab the hand of the person standing next to you?”
Again, no one moves. I remember Rule #34.
“If I have to ask twice for simple things, we’re going to be in for a rough opening night,” I say with some bravado. “So grab your neighbor’s hand and let’s bow our heads. Now.”
Works like a charm. I see a smile play at the corner of Angela’s lips as she offers her hands to the servers on her right and left.
“Heavenly Father,” I begin. I don’t pray much, but this feels like a solid start. “We ask you to bless us all with the confidence and strength to pull off a flawless performance tonight. Keep Tabitha safe and sane in the back-of-house, and keep our front-of-house lively and sharp. We thank you for this opportunity to inspire others through food and do what we love. Amen.”
“Amen,” I hear echoed back in a smattering of whispers.
As I look up, I see headlights pulling toward our valet.
A thousand questions flash through my mind: What if that’s just the postman? Or just someone heading to their car? What happens if the power goes out later? Did I overpluck my eyebrows? I quiet the noise and make the official announcement: “First cover is arriving now. Places, everyone. Places!” I shout.
The crowd scatters and my heart flutters.
“Good evening, welcome to Here. Can we take your jackets?” Angela greets the first couple. They’re model-esque hipster types. The woman is in a polka-dot dress and high heels. She’s got a full face of makeup and brilliant smile. The man has salt-and-pepper slicked-back hair with a corduroy blazer and a bow tie.
My first thought? I would buy this porno.
My second thought? We are a place people get dressed up to go to. That’s all sorts of awesome.
“Reservation for Miller,” the man says as Angela hands off their coats to Becca.
“Absolutely. Allie, will you show Mr. and Mrs. Miller to their table, please?” Angela hands me two menus from under the host stand and taps table twelve on the YeltonXT. It turns red, meaning the table is now occupied so no one can seat another party there until the server has closed them out on their end.
“Right this way,” I say with a smile as I lead the way.
And when we arrive at table twelve—without a moment’s hesitation on my part, thankyouverymuch—I pull out Mrs. Miller’s chair and comment on what a lovely table we have for them, right by one of the windows that looks out toward Willis Tower, one of the most iconic parts of our beautiful skyline.
“Enjoy your evening,” I say before disappearing.
One down.
On my way back to the host stand, I keep my eyes peeled for someone to high-five. But I quickly realize there’s no time for celebration. A six-top has just arrived, as well as our food critic from the Sun-Times, who is ten minutes early and giving our bartender a run for his money with a new take on a deconstructed Old-Fashioned.
“Allie, let Jessica know the deuce I’m about to seat at 28 is VIP and GF/DF.”
“In English?”
“Two-top. Important. Gluten-and dairy-free.”
“Okay. Got it. But I think she’s busy right now pulling a bottle of wine from the cellar for 12.”
“Then write it on a chit and stick it in her apron,” Angela says moments before two walk-ins (don’t they know it’s opening night and we’re fully committed?!) come through the door and her smile remerges like a hyacinth in bloom.
Chit. Chit. Chit. What’s a chit? I sneak away to the coat closet, pull my iPhone out from my bra and Google it. Moments later, I have my answer. I go to the ticket machine and dispense a few inches of blank tape. On it, I write the note to Jessica.
Chit crisis averted.
“Allie, I just got double sat. What the fuck is going on at the host stand?” a server says in a hushed but frantic whisper. “Look at my section—it’s packed. I’m about to be in the weeds here.”
I glance over and, sure enough, six people have been sat within forty-five seconds, all in the wrong sections. I look up to the host stand and see Becca pressing all sorts of buttons on the YeltonXT while Angela is pouring wine at table twelve. I thought she was a pro, but apparently our computer system is way too technical compared to what she’s used to at Florette. She must know there’s a science to seating, so I’m blaming this one on technical difficulties. I’ve got to do something.
“Okay. Go greet the four-top at table fourteen. I’ll take care of sixteen, those are actually my parents. Side note: they’re huge winos.”
“Yeah, I saw that in the reservation details. They’re starting with comped Möet, right?”
“Exactly. So I’ll go say hi, point you out to them and get them started with the glasses of bubbly. I’m sure they’ll propose a toast while they have my attention, after which, I’ll put in an order for an appetizer and send the somm over to discuss what wine they’ll be starting off with this evening. That’ll buy you at least fifteen minutes. In the meantime, I’ll get with Becca and make sure you’re not sat again until their dinner tickets are in and you’re back on auto.”
“Oh my god, thank you so much, Allie. Seriously, you’re a lifesaver.”
“It’s fine, really. Remind me your name again?”
“Paul.”
“Okay, Paul. You gotta breathe, buddy. You can’t come off this nervous to your guests. Pull it together and command your table. You’re in charge now.”
The tension is coming off this guy practically in waves but somehow I’m able to deflect it, retarget it even. Angela’s training is kicking in like a wine buzz from a Sutter Home four-pack and it’s empowering beyond belief.
“Good evening, folks,” I say to my parents as I drop off two glasses of Möet. This scene is not feeling all that unfamiliar compared to the last time I oversaw their evening at Benji’s pop-up. In fact, my mom’s wearing the same Tiffany’s charm bracelet and my dad already has his iPhone out with the camera app open.
“Look at our baby girl, Bill! She’s all grown up!” my mom says.
“I would, but I’m too busy looking at this restaurant. Have you ever seen such a beautiful place?”
“Listen, I’ve got to keep checking on things, but I wanted to start you off with some champagne and say how grateful I am for your support. I couldn’t have done this unless I knew you guys were behind me at the end of the day. So thank you. I love you.”
My mom and dad hold their flutes up, look at me, look at each other and cheers their glasses. I don’t know how much more I’ll get to interact with them tonight, but having these few minutes together gives me a sense of calm and confidence I’ll take with me well beyond the time our last patron leaves. Now, with one fire out, it’s time to check on another—the literal one in the kitchen.
“Fire one octopus, one date, one beet salad,” Tabitha yells as tickets roar off the printer.
“Yes, Chef!” replies her team of cooks.
“Jessica, you’ve got to sell this polenta to twenty now. It’s dying.”
“Heard,” Jessica says as she steps up to the line, cleans the plate with a white kitchen towel and scoots off to the dining room.
“How we doing back here, Tab?” I ask through the window.
“We’re getting crushed with apps. Hector, how long on the squash?”
“Three minutes,” a faceless voice replies.
“Three minutes?! My god, what’s the holdup? Allie, I need you to expo for a few. I’ve got to get back there and step in. Food is not coming out quick enough.”
I immediately regret checking on Tabitha. Expediting has been the hardest part of my restaurant boot camp, mainly because there’s no real way to train for it. It’s like a maestro practicing conducting with a phantom symphony. How can you test your intelligence until it’s time for the big show? From what I learned watching this go down in the kitchen at Paragraph, essentially the job is this: as tickets come in, call out the orders—including any and all modifications—to the various cook stations in the back. When food comes up, make sure the plates look perfect, cleaning up any spilled sauces and finalizing the presentations with the correct garnishes.
If there was ever a time to know the precise difference between basil, parsley, cilantro and scallions—it’s now.
I take a deep breath and assume my place behind the stainless-steel table where every plate will undergo a final check before being ushered to our guests. Right here, now, is when I put my mouth where my money already is. “Fire two duck and two scallop. I need one burrata flatbread, no sage, on the fly, let’s go, let’s go!” I call out.
“Heard, Allie,” the kitchen chants back.