Abrupt temperature changes made people sick. Where did that knowledge nugget come from? Her mother, Tonya was sure. All mothers said it. She’d repeated it herself that morning when nagging Layla to don an extra layer beneath her coat. But had she been parroting an old wives’ tale like viruses were caught from chilly weather, or did the immune system actually struggle to adapt from hot to cold?
Tonya prayed she’d been spouting nonsense as she emerged from the restaurant’s equatorial kitchen into the barren tundra of the dining room before heading to the outdoor dining “igloos” with only an apron over her uniform. Her shivers vibrated the platter balanced atop her right palm, forcing her to steady it with her left hand like a newbie. She was still trembling as she reached the clear plastic wall shielding her guests from the wind.
“How are we this afternoon?”
Muted grunts answered her question. The diners wore sheepskin parkas with thick, fur-trimmed hoods covering their heads, as if they’d agreed on Inuit costumes for a themed dining experience. Such heavy clothing wouldn’t have been required in a real igloo, according to Layla. Her bookish kid had brought up an article the other day explaining that traditional ice houses used snow as an insulator, enabling body heat alone to toast their insides to an eminently tolerable fifty degrees.
City health regulations prevented the restaurant’s bubble tents from building up such warmth. Two sides had to be vented at all times to allow microbe-dispersing air circulation. Even with space heaters operating full blast, diners were lucky if the “indoor” temperature remained above freezing. Tonya certainly couldn’t detect any difference as she began placing plates in front of her four patrons.
The four patrons, she realized. Summer’s uptick had almost convinced her that New York City’s hospitality industry had survived the harsh spring and emerged on the other side. But the months from June to November had been the eye of the storm. Winter had barreled in like a nor’easter, dumping on new challenges that even the novelty of dining street-side in clear domes, yurt villages, or tiny greenhouses couldn’t counteract. People were scared. They were cold. They’d become resigned to hibernation.
As Tonya set down the meals, she watched the diners’ faces for reactions. Some of the brave souls who ventured out demanded the full restaurant experience complete with their server’s mask-muffled explanation of the spice rub coating the steak. Others wanted her to leave as soon as the last dish touched the table.
Judging from her patrons’ averted eyes, Tonya decided that this group belonged to the latter category. She thanked them for braving the weather and then backed out into it, hoping they could detect her smile from the corners of her exposed eyes. Her best chance at earning a decent tip was this table. No line waited to be seated in the empty huts.
“Miss.” One of the female diners called out from an opening in the plastic. “Could we get four hot toddies and two slices of chocolate cake to share?”
They were already ordering dessert so as to not wait an extra second in the cold. That meant they wouldn’t want another bottle of wine, which meant her tip wouldn’t reflect the usual alcohol bonus of two bottles to four guests. Tonya felt her smile fade as she responded with a bright “of course” before retreating into the restaurant.
Banque Gauche’s dining room was more pleasant than its igloos, though far too opulent to feel cozy. That was by design, Tonya figured. The vast space had catered to business clientele during the day and the theater crowd at night. It had made money by churning out Michelin-starred small plates and turning over tables, not encouraging diners to loiter.
In its prime, the restaurant had operated with the efficiency of the bank it had once been, the essence of which remained in the decor. Glass fireplaces stretched inside sleek marble walls that had once borne the logo of a savings and loan. Velvet curtains flanked massive arched windows. The space’s designers had even preserved the long mahogany bank teller’s desk, transforming it via gold inlays into a bar worthy of Versailles. They’d repurposed the security grates as hip room dividers separating the kitchen from the dining area.
All those details still shone, advertising the money that Banque Gauche had once minted and the million-dollar refresh that the space had undergone three years earlier. The only visual cues that the restaurant had fallen on hard times were the lack of fresh linens atop wooden tables and the metal wall at the room’s far end.
Ten months earlier, a massive circular hole had punctured the riveted steel expanse, revealing the opening to Coffre, a swanky supper club located in the bank’s former vault. It had opened in November 2019 with a long, lacquered bar, glass shelves stocked with glittering, golden whiskeys, and a menu serving up gourmet bistro fare long after most NYC kitchens closed. The “new hotness,” as it had been dubbed by none other than New York magazine, was among the pandemic’s first casualties. The tight space lacked windows, preventing business from resuming even after indoor dining had temporarily reopened in the fall. The vault had closed at the end of March, just four months after its launch. It had stayed shut.
As Tonya approached the kitchen, she got a strong whiff of fish, a sign of less-than-fresh catch. More pungent aromas presented themselves as she drew closer to the refurbished security grates: black pepper, cumin, frying oil, tomato sauce. Such smells were new. A small army had once made sure that the odors of the various ingredients never escaped the kitchen.
She shouted through the metal grates. “Two slice chocolate cake.”
Samuel, the garde-manger in charge of the pantry and cold first courses, made eye contact and dropped his chin. He’d added the dessert station to his duties after the pastry chef had been let go. The takeout orders that had become the majority of the restaurant’s business tended not to include decadent sweets. It had been easier for the kitchen to cut the dessert menu to three inexpensive options prepared by the neighboring patisserie.
Order conveyed, Tonya jogged over to the bar and the handsome man behind it. Mike looked like the movie star that he one day hoped to become with a diamond jaw, piercing eyes, and a height several inches shy of six feet.
Of all his features, Tonya might have appreciated Mike’s size most of all. Had he been tall, his youth would have been wasted on starstruck, immature girls, shaping him into an insufferable womanizer lacking in wit or real talent. As it was, Mike had developed a charming, flirty personality, a fun sense of humor, and an ability to play piano. He might make it in the movies, Tonya thought. Topping thirty wasn’t the career ender for actors that it was for actresses yet to hit the big time.
“Four hot toddies, please,” she said.
“That’s a sick person’s drink. They’re not hacking up lungs, are they?”
“Just cold, I think.”
“Well, keep your distance as you deliver it.”
Tonya’s smile was genuine this time, though her mask still covered it. “You’re always looking out.”
The corners of Mike’s eyes crinkled. “It’s such a nice view.”
Tonya injected a little swagger into her walk as she headed back to her patrons. The rule of waitressing was to check on your table within “two bites, two sips, and two minutes.” If something was wrong with the food, the patrons would want to complain after a couple forkfuls. Let them stew about their unsalted potatoes or overcooked pasta too long, and they might decide to say nothing and take out their dissatisfaction on the gratuity.
“Hey, Tonya.” Mike’s baritone rang out over tinkling glasses. “It looks like I don’t have cinnamon sticks.”
“I’ll ask the kitchen.”
Tonya headed back to the grates. Samuel’s curly hair and yellow-brown skin was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’d run next door for more chocolate cake slices.
Tonya scanned to see who might be manning the pantry. Chefs chopped vegetables, seasoned meat, and tossed pans over flames so high that they would trigger most sprinkler systems.
To anyone who hadn’t known Banque’s kitchen before the pandemic, it might appear a well-oiled machine with no missing—or spare—parts. But Tonya had worked there for over a decade. The absences stuck out like missing teeth. Where was Jason, the eyebrow-pierced saucier who had dribbled rich ragùs atop medium-rare cuts of meat? Or why was Seon-mi, the pink-haired abouyer, head down at the grill and fry stations rather than shouting for dishes to ensure that each table’s entrées all emerged at the same time? Why was there no culinary student from whom she could demand more cinnamon sticks?
Everyone was busy cooking save for one man in the corner—the most important one. Owner and executive chef Philip Banks paced at the end of a long cord appended to a relic of a wall phone. His free hand raked through his graying hair, spiking it with whatever fats and oils coated his long, calloused fingers. Over and over, he brushed the few remaining strands off his broad forehead, revealing the trenches that had dug in during the past year.
“Yes, it’s terrible, honey. And I get you want support, but I can’t…”
Tonya stepped closer to the metal slats, straining to hear what was terrible. Did Philip intend another round of layoffs?
“I’ll tell you what’s more important—I’m running a fucking restaurant.”
Philip ran his hand through his hair again and then let it fall toward his eyes. The irises of each were blue gas flames that seemed to flare as he spoke. “Okay. I know. I’m sorry. But you know I’m understaffed.”
A tongue, one that probably possessed more taste buds than the average human’s, pulled in his bottom lip and then spat it back out above the mask cupping his chin. “Nate was a friend.”
Philip wasn’t discussing the restaurant, Tonya realized. He was talking about Nate Walker. She felt her body go rigid, as it always did at the mention of Nate’s name. Images flashed in her mind. A glowing cigar cherry. Bleached teeth glinting in dim light. A gold ring tapping a glass tabletop. The same pictures always played when Tonya thought of the renowned director, celebrated family man, philanthropist, and pathological liar. She refused to picture his face.
“Of course I care that he’s dead,” Philip said.
A rush of endorphins shot through her stiff torso. She had the sudden, involuntary urge to laugh or maybe shout. Nate Walker. Dead.
“I’ll do my best.” Philip pressed his fingers into his closed eyes before running them over his head again. “Well, it will have to be. I’ll see you soon.”
He placed the receiver back in its cradle and then stared at it.
“Cake’s up.”
Samuel was back. He marched over to the security grates and slid the plated orders through a deliberately widened space. Tonya blinked at them. Chocolate cake slices did not fit the scenes running through her mind.
Philip noticed her, finally. His eyes were turned to maximum heat. He knew she’d been listening.
Tonya collected the plates. “Do you have cinnamon sticks?” She directed the question to Samuel but said it loud enough for Philip to hear in an attempt to excuse her loitering. “The table asked for hot toddies, and there aren’t any at the bar.”
A vein pulsed above Philip’s thick brows. “Hot toddies aren’t on the drinks menu.”
Tonya’s gaze retreated to her cakes. “I think they wanted something warm.”
Samuel rotated to the pantry. “We have them, I think. One minute.”
Tonya kept her eyes on the desserts’ mirrored chocolate glazes as Samuel slipped into the back. She didn’t want Philip to see the emotion on her face. The glint in her pupils that she could almost see reflected in the dark cocoa ganache.
Though she wasn’t looking at him, Tonya still felt her boss’s critical stare. Chefs prided themselves on tracking everyone in the kitchen, knowing who was distracted and likely to mess up a service, who was hungover and therefore not to be trusted with the heavy machinery—who could get someone killed.
A glass bottle slid across the opening to Tonya. “Cinnamon sticks,” Samuel crowed.
Tonya shoved the ingredient into her apron. Seconds later, she plopped it on the bar along with her cakes and instructions for Mike to watch them for a second. Before he could respond, she was out the front door with a tray in hand.
“How’s it going?”
Her voice sounded like grass in a strong wind, too breathy to be intelligible. Still, the igloo patrons looked up. Two had nearly finished their meals. The other two, both women, had left about a third on their plates.
“Was everything to your liking?” she asked, hating the need for past tense. She’d made them wait too long.
One of the men offered a pained smile. The others were too cold to bother with politeness. “All done, and we’ll take the cakes and toddies to go,” the man said, gesturing to the women. “It’s more frigid than we thought.”
“Totally understand. No problem.” Tonya began loading the tray, placing the heavier items in the center and on the side nearest her neck. She balanced it on her right hand, bracing it on her shoulder as she opened the restaurant door.
What are you willing to do?
The question resounded in her head as if Nate Walker were standing right behind her. She whirled around, ready to confront the taunting ghost. The tray wobbled atop her palm and then tilted toward the floor like an abruptly abandoned seesaw.
Tonya wrenched her body in the other direction, but it was too late. Glasses and plates smashed against the stained concrete floor. Crash. Bang. Ping. A contemporary classical symphony begging for an operatic opa!
“Shit.” Philip emerged from the kitchen, muttering worse curses. The neck visible above his chef’s jacket was lobster red. His face bore the expression of a fish about to be gutted.
“I’m so sorry, Chef.” Tonya dropped to her knees and began placing shards on her tray, ignoring the needles stabbing through the fabric of her pants. “You can take it out of my tip.”
Saying it sounded ridiculous. The worth of several wineglasses and plates would be far more than her gratuity.
“I’m sorry. I—”
Footsteps cut off her apologies. Out of the corner of her eye, Tonya saw Mike emerge from behind the bar. Juan, one of the dishwashers, was also en route.
I’ll do anything.
Tonya heard herself mutter the words, though they didn’t emerge from her mouth. After speaking them once, she’d promised herself never to say them again. She hadn’t really meant them the first time.
Whatever you need. The memory of her words overwhelmed her murmured apologies. In the distance, someone told her to get up. Someone said that her foot was bleeding.
Anything, her phantom voice echoed. Absolutely anything.