“Overcooked?” Adrienne said.
“And I’ll tell you what, it must be true because people from Alaska never complain.”
Adrienne moved around the table to the Alaska woman and eyed the swordfish. It was black and shriveled; it looked like one of the pork chops that Doug used to murder in his cast-iron skillet before he doused it with ketchup.
“I’m sorry,” the Alaska woman squeaked.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” Adrienne said. “Let me bring you another piece. Believe me when I say this almost never happens.”
She carried the swordfish to the kitchen, poking it once with her finger. It was completely dry; it had the texture of plaster. Adrienne was thrilled. Two weeks earlier a complaint about the doughnuts had nearly made her weep, but today a complaint about the food was a gift from God. She couldn’t wait to confront Fiona with this hideous swordfish.
Adrienne slammed into the kitchen and dropped the plate on the pass with a clatter. No one was expediting.
“Where’s Fiona?” she said.
“She’s in the office lying down,” Hector said.
Adrienne deflated. Her rage was overcooked, shriveled, dry, and yet she couldn’t get rid of it.
“Well, where’s Antonio, then?” she asked.
“It’s his night off,” Hector said. “Which reminds me, how was your date?”
“Fuck you,” Adrienne said.
This set the platoon of Subiacos laughing. Adrienne picked the swordfish up off the plate and flung it at Hector, who was, conveniently, working grill. It hit him in the shoulder, smudging his white jacket.
“You killed the swordfish for eleven,” she said. “The guest complained-in fact, she was practically in tears because it tasted so bad. Fire another one.”
“Boo-hoo,” Hector said, laying a swordfish steak across the grill.
Adrienne marched back out to table eleven. “Sorry about the swordfish,” she said. “We’re going to comp your bill this evening and I hope you’ll forgive us.”
The lawyer touched Adrienne’s wrist. “You don’t have to comp the meal,” she said.
“Oh, yes,” Adrienne said. “Yes, I do.”
A few moments later, table six, a deuce, guests from the Nantucket Beach Club, called Adrienne over. No lobster on the lobster club. What they showed her was a twenty-nine-dollar BLT.
“Please,” Adrienne said, picking up the plate. “Let me get you some lobster meat. And your dinner tonight is on the house.”
The third table she comped because the top of the butterscotch crème brûlée was scorched. The guest hadn’t even complained but Adrienne saw the desserts go out, and she saw the black spots. She had an infuriating vision of Mario back in his lair doing the bossa nova while he took a welding tool to the custard. The dessert was going to a table of six, which meant a tab of at least a thousand dollars. Adrienne bought their dinner. The revenge was so sweet it made her dizzy.
Later, Thatcher cornered her at the podium. It was eleven fifteen; she had a line of five people. The bar was packed but unusually quiet.
“You comped three meals,” he said. “One tab was twelve hundred dollars. Because that six-top was drinking a Chateau Margaux.”
Adrienne shrugged. “The food was bad tonight. Fiona wasn’t expediting. You should have seen the swordfish at eleven. It was a piece of drywall.”
“I understand the swordfish. And that was Leigh Stanford’s table and I would have comped it myself. But a piece of lobster missing? A bad crème brûlée?”
“The lobster missing was a table Mack sent us, and the brûlée looked like it had the bubonic plague. At the beginning of the season you told me that close to perfect wasn’t going to cut it.”
“I did. But to comp a twelve-hundred-dollar dinner?”
“During first seating, I took a walk-in four-top that one of your other managers probably would have turned away because they weren’t wearing Armani. They drank two bottles of Cristal and had a thousand-dollar tab themselves. Take the difference out of my salary.”
Thatcher sighed. “I’m not going to take it out of your salary,” he said. “All three tables left huge tips so the wait-staff loves you. And I know you did what you thought was right.” He nodded at the kitchen. “I’m going to eat.”
Adrienne didn’t answer. She was crushed. He didn’t even care enough to fight with her.
TO: DrDon@toothache.com
FROM: Ade12177@hotmail.com
DATE: June 16, 2005 9:14 A.M.
SUBJECT: Surprise!
I sent you the last of the money I owe you-not bad for two weeks of work! And your “interest” should arrive at the office tomorrow morning. Bon appetit-and thanks for always being there for me. Love.
TO: kyracrenshaw@mindspring.com
FROM: Ade12177@hotmail.com
DATE: June 16, 2005 9:37 A.M.
SUBJECT: First date of the summer
I can honestly say I would rather go out with drug abuser and felon Doug Riedel than ever go out with my boss again. Doug may have stuck my life savings up his nose and robbed my place of employment, but at least he didn’t leave me stranded for another woman!
Business Notes
The Inquirer and Mirror
Week of June 17, 2005
BLUE BISTRO UP FOR SALE
Harry Henderson of Henderson Realty, Inc. announced late last week that Blue Bistro owners Thatcher Smith and Fiona Kemp have put the popular waterfront restaurant on the market for $8.5 million. Mr. Smith was quoted as saying, “This is a classic case of quitting while we’re ahead.” Rumors have circulated that Smith and Kemp are looking for another property on the island, and that they have expressed interest in Sloop’s on Steamship Wharf, which they hope to turn into a chic café called Calamari. “While we feel that space is currently underutilized,” Smith says, “the rumors are absolutely untrue.” The only certain plans Smith and his partner Ms. Kemp have in the works, he says, is a trip to the Galápagos Islands in October.
Ms. Kemp could not be reached for comment.
For Father’s Day, Adrienne bought her father a gas grill from the Williams-Sonoma catalog and a box of Omaha steaks. It cost her over seven hundred dollars but money, now, was the least of her worries. The balance in her bank account was steadily growing and she had paid off her thirteen-hundred-dollar debt to her father. If for the money alone, she was going to keep her job.
A week had passed and Thatcher hadn’t said a word about their date. Of course, Adrienne hardly gave him a chance-she spoke to him in only the most perfunctory way, in only the most professional capacity, and he returned the favor. With each passing day the evening of their date faded into yesterday’s news. Adrienne tried to regard it as a failed experiment. A fallen soufflé. She had broken Rule Three and she was paying the price. So now it was back to the straight and narrow. If she felt bruised-her heart, her ego-she was going to make sure that no one could tell.
She did a crisp, clean job on the floor. She handed out menus, delivered the chips and dip, ran food, opened wine, processed credit cards, and worked the door without compassion. Tyler Lefroy informed her that patrons of the bar called her the Blue Bitch. That made her smile for the first time since Dionis Beach.
What she needed, she told herself, was a life apart from the restaurant, and so she started jogging in the mornings. She ran to Surfside Beach, she ran to Cisco Beach, she ran along Miacomet Pond. She rode her bike to the rotary and ran along the Polpis Road. One day she ran to the restaurant-the Sid Wainer truck was in the parking lot and Adrienne saw Fiona and JZ sitting in the back of the truck talking, their legs dangling over the edge. She ran on Cliff Road past Tupancy Links and the water tower, out to Eel Point where the road turned to dirt.
Every way she went, Nantucket revealed its beauty. The rosa rugosa was blooming pink and white, the ponds were blue, the eelgrass razor sharp. The beaches were clean and still not crowded. The island had a lot more to offer, Adrienne told herself, than just Thatcher Smith.