“Allie, I’m about to drop the check on table twenty and I found out it’s their anniversary. Can you comp a dessert?” a server asks.
“Yes, I can do that. But go get a blank anniversary card from the back office and sign it before you present the bill. And remember to put a note in their profile in the system before you clock out tonight. That way this time next year, we message them and invite them back in to celebrate. Okay?”
“Got it. Thanks.”
As I futz around on the computer adjusting table twenty’s bill, Angela comes up beside me. I glance at the clock and realize it’s been over an hour since I last communicated with her. Even though the dining room is packed, the lull in arrivals feels almost like a relief.
“You hanging in there, Al?”
“Yes, why? Is my BO saying otherwise?”
Before Angela has a chance to sniff me out, Jessica rushes up to us at the host stand.
“We’re eighty-sixed on bison.”
“What? Already? How can we be completely out of an ingredient halfway through our first dinner service?” Angela replies.
The news comes as a shock to me, too—part of which is due to the fact I actually remember what eighty-sixed means in restaurant speak and haven’t had to pull up Google to stay involved in this conversation.
“Tabitha says it’s no good. She just cut into it, and either it’s old or it wasn’t properly stored. Go back there. You’ll smell it right away.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Allie, who’s the vendor on that?”
“Leo’s Meats,” I say with zero hesitation.
“Great. Can you please leave Leo a voice mail sometime in the next five minutes and let him know he’s fired? Then find us a new provider before tomorrow. I’m going to go talk to Tabitha now and find out what the sub is going to be. You’re in charge of the front. Smile. Looks like a walk-in is headed your way…”
“Good evening, welcome to Here,” I say to the wannabe solo diner. She’s middle-aged with frizzy gray hair, quirky red-framed glasses and a floral dress. It’s a shame she got all dolled up for a dinner she won’t be able to have here.
“Hi there. I have a reservation for two for Smith, but my dining companion unfortunately had to cancel at the last minute,” she says with the hint of a twang in her voice as she writhes out of her wool peacoat. “I’m wondering if I can still be sat, even though it’s just me this evening.”
Technically, if she had a reservation and one person dropped, I really can’t turn her away. Ideally, I’d like to put her at the bar and avoid an empty chair in the dining area, but every stool is full. I’m going to have to seat her.
I consult the computer and see two separate reservations for Smith, both at the same time.
“First name?” I ask to be sure I check in the correct party.
“Bonnie,” she says.
Her reservation is flagged in the system as a potential critic. The name “Bonnie Smith” came off a little too fake for Angela’s liking and so we went ahead and assumed she’s a writer for one of the more influential food publications.
Upon seeing the note in the computer, I look up at her and ask for just another moment of her patience. And after locking eyes, even just for a split second, I, too, agree the name is a fake. But only the last name. I believe this is Bonnie Zane, Benji’s mom.
I know Bonnie Zane is supposed to be a lunatic (hey, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree)—someone with marked depression, broken skin and a raging pill problem. But this lady is poised and elegant and soft-spoken. Still, something about her familiar chocolate-brown eyes won’t let me drop my suspicion.
I know I’ve never seen a photo of her or heard her voice. I’ve just been told stories of what phone calls with her were like, which allowed me to form a picture in my head. But I’m willing to erase all of that and start fresh based purely on the feeling I have in my gut.
“Right this way,” I say, marking table thirty as red. She’ll be sat at the farthest table in the corner so as to hide the fact we have a one-off diner—a sight for sore eyes at a restaurant like this at a popular dining hour.
As I usher her back to the dining area, she walks next to me instead of behind me like most patrons would.
“Beautiful job,” she says. “I’ve been following this restaurant in the news and counting down for this very moment.”
I smile, unsure what to say.
“Traveled far, too. It’s a shame my dining partner had to drop out at the last minute,” she continues. There was never a “dining partner,” I can’t help but think.
“Here you are,” I say, gesturing to the banquette side of the table and motioning for Paul to remove the vacant chair that’s across from her.
She settles in and I place the menu in front of her. She puts her warm hand on top of mine.
“I have a great appreciation for what you’ve done, Allie. I can only imagine what it was like to have to do this all on your own.”
At that point, I know. And she knows that I know.
Not only is her identity clear to me, but so is the fact that the story Benji created about her being some absentee mom is most likely fabricated. Or at the very least, unfounded. All I see sitting here is another pawn that was part of a ploy to get me to amp up my empathy. And maybe that’s why she’s here. To show her unspoken support for a fellow woman who has been Benjied herself.
At that point, Paul is on his way back from removing the chair and is going to soon seek answers to the booze, time and water questions from this lonely patron.
“Enjoy your evening, Ms. Zane,” I whisper just before Paul swoops in.
* * *
It’s 1:15 in the morning. Our last guest left at 12:30 a.m. after being slightly overserved by our heavy-handed bartender, Brian. Since then, our servers have been working hard to finish their sidework—preassigned duties that must be completed before anyone gets cut to go home. When a server completes their designated task (coffee machine is cleaned, teas are restocked, silverware is polished, roll-ups for the bar are folded, etc.), they find me or Angela to check their station and then they can be dismissed if it looks like they didn’t totally half-ass it. We’re down to our last two, who happen to be the detail-oriented Jessica and Paul, who probably just feels like he owes me a solid after his near mental breakdown earlier tonight.
Meanwhile, the dishwashers are scrubbing everything down and Tabitha’s team is wrapping and containing all the leftover food. I’m currently posted up on a stool at the bar, where we’ve flipped on the lights at full power. Damn, it’s bright in here.
With a calculator in hand, I’m figuring out the server tip-out for the night. We held a team vote when everyone was hired regarding how they wanted to handle gratuities. Traditionally, a server keeps the total of what each patron leaves for them. But sometimes in fine dining, there’s what’s called a “tip pool.” This is where everyone chips in the entirety of their gratuity and then we divide the grand total evenly by the number of servers who worked that night. They voted for the latter. Although it’s risky, it forces everyone to be on the top of their game and work for the greater good.
Of that total number, I shave off a small cut for our busers and our bar staff, who deserve a portion of the server’s pull since they greatly assist with the night going smoothly. When it’s all said and done, my calculations are showing that each member of the waitstaff is walking with $305, which they’ll be able to pick up from the office anytime after 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. Not bad.
As I walk back from officially cutting Jessica and Paul, I can’t help but dwell on the fact my feet are killing me. I know I’m the one who made the half-inch heel rule, but as the AGM of this place, I felt like anything less than a three-inch stiletto didn’t exactly scream “Head Bitch in Charge.” Needless to say, these black leather Sam Edelmans were a bad choice. The thought of walking out to the street to catch a cab, let alone waking up and doing this again tomorrow, is frightening.
“So, how did we do tonight?” I ask Angela, who has all the printouts from the YeltonXT scattered across the bar along with a glass of Chambord and her own calculator.
“Two hundred covers. One-seventy-five on the books, twenty-five walk-ins.”
“I thought you said we couldn’t take walk-ins…”
“Yeah, well, I snuck a few in when you weren’t looking. I saw a few pockets and knew we could handle it. If I explained to you how and why in the exact moment, your brain would have combusted. So that lesson will have to wait until next time.”
“Fair enough. What’d we make?”
I’m fully bracing for Angela to tell me how I’m always about the money, but tonight I get to be.
“Just shy of 20K.”
Twenty thousand dollars is only ten less than my original investment. Granted, I know that number has to now be split about 20,000 ways and probably only one of them is back to my pocket, I’m still proud. It sounds big. Is it?
“Would you say that’s a good night?” I ask.
“No.”
Fuck.
“I’d say it’s a stellar night. Florette is much bigger than this, and our best night was 29K. To be less than ten thousand dollars under their best night is a big deal, Allie. Craig’s going to be pleased.”
Which I guess means I should be, too. If my feet weren’t so damn tired, I’d be doing a little jig.
“Now what do you want for your shift drink?” she asks as she heads behind the bar.
“I’ll take a glass of Malbec,” I say.
“Malbec? You seated 200 people, handled an unexpected eighty-sixed dish and made sure none of our servers hanged themselves in the bathroom…and you want a Malbec?”
She forgot to mention surviving an unexpected encounter with Benji’s mom, but who’s keeping track?
“Fine,” I say. “Give me a Johnny Walker Black. Neat.”
“Attagirl.”
She slides the glass my way; a few drips splash out onto the ledge of the bar and I wipe it with my sleeve. I take the first sip—it stings and burns as it hits the spot.
“So…how’d I do?” At least the flammable drink in my glass will make the harsh truth that I know is coming from Angela go down easier.
“B minus.”
Thank god.
“I’ll take it.”
“We need to work on your serving skills,” she says after gulping down a fair amount of the ruby-toned liquid in her glass. The smell of berries and vanilla wafts over the sharp tang of cognac.
“Why? We plate clockwise from twelve o’clock,” I say with confidence.
“Yeah, but I’m not sure you know where twelve o’clock is.”
“It’s the wine cellar.”
“It’s…the bar.”
“Oh. Then, yeah, that explains why everyone was shuffling plates to the right whenever I brought food out.” It’s a gaffe I’m sure the service staff won’t soon forget, but what can I do other than get it right tomorrow?
“Don’t worry about it,” she says in an uncharacteristic lapse of stringency. “Oh, and one more thing. You’ve gotta get to know industry people better. Go spend some time Facebook stalking. Isn’t that what you’re good at anyway?”
“You mean…isn’t that the job you made me quit last month? Yup, sure is!”
Angela lovingly flips me off.
“Really, though, what’d I miss?”
“It’s not what you missed. It’s who you missed. Hal Huckby was the solo walk-in you sent to the bar.”
“Shit. I sent a sober guy to the bar?”
She nods as she sips on her drink.
“Now, don’t worry too much about that. He’s a cool guy now. He can handle being sat in front of a bottle of Jack. But had you recognized him, it definitely would have behooved you to have found me. We could have made space for him and given Tab a heads-up so she could have done her thing.”
I can’t believe I missed him, the guy who emailed me that brazen wake-up call about Benji. He helped get my sorry ass out of the mourning period when no one else could. It would have been nice to say thanks. What’s more is that I know what he looks like. So I guess I was just so taken aback by the whole Bonnie thing, I stopped looking people in the eye the rest of the night. But then again, seeing a tattooed chef out for dinner by himself in jeans and a V-neck is like spotting your teacher grabbing bananas at the grocery store. Without a white, sauce-stained apron tied across his waist, I just didn’t realize Hal Huckby was in the house. Period.
“Sorry about that,” I say back.
“Like I said, don’t sweat it. Hey, speaking of solos, who was our other party of one tonight? The chick at table thirty.”
I freeze up. I’m not about keeping secrets, especially not to Angela. But just like the details of her past, there are certain things that don’t need to be bubbled up. This is one.
“No clue. Nice woman. Big fan of us. Dining partner bailed.”
“Gotcha. Well, honestly, everything short of your completely inappropriate shoe choice this evening was pretty damn spot-on.”
This time it’s my turn to throw a middle finger her way.
Just then, my phone buzzes on the bar with an incoming text. I’ve neglected all of my incoming messages—text, Twitter, you name it—all night and am now actively avoiding the task of combing through them. I know everyone means well, and I’m grateful for the support, but I am tired in a way I didn’t know was possible. But then again, sitting here reading texts for a few minutes means I get to stay off my feet that much longer. I dive in.
Seven hours ago, a text from my mom: On our way! Where 2 park?
Six hours ago, also a text from my mom: Hi from table. Dad wants 2 kno where bathroom is?
Five hours ago, another text from my mom: Food = incredible! We R so proud of U. Call us 2mrw. Get home safely. No more sleeping @ the resto. UR gonna kill UR back!
Four hours ago, a text from Jazzy: Hey girl. Thanks 4 ur text. I’m sorry 2. Proud of U. U R killing it! M & I have resos next wk. C U then, K?
Three hours ago, an email from Maya with a link to the “Hot Opens” section of FoodFeed featuring Here: Congrats on the opening of your restaurant. I’ve heard nothing but good things. Thanks for your note. Love you, miss you and I’m so sorry about how things went down that day, too. See you soon! XO, M
Two hours ago, an email from Hal Huckby: Good job tonight, Simon. I was going to formally introduce myself, but you seemed focused, didn’t want to distract you on such an important night. Hats off to Tabitha, too. Scallops were perfect. Take care. Hal.
One minute ago, a text from Jared Marcel: Dying 2 hear about opening night! We can wait til Tues when I’m up UR alley (NOT an innuendo), but thinking coffee Mon? UR off right?
A smirk settles onto my lips before I can think to stop it. Jared’s charm game is on point.
No go on coffee, I write. Then, a calculated minute later, Make it a cupcake instead and U have a deal.
He wastes no time with the reply. An industry pro who prefers cupcakes to coffee??? WHO R U ALLIE SIMON?
This time my smile is augmented by the blush I can feel heating my cheeks. Angela raises an eyebrow when I look up to catch her watching me.
“Are you sexting with our produce guy?” she asks.
“No! No,” I say, imbuing my voice with what I can only hope is professional sobriety. “I’m just…thanking him for the flowers.”