“The other basket contains our world-famous savory doughnuts,” Thatcher said. He whipped the cloth off like a magician, revealing six golden-brown doughnuts. Doughnuts? Adrienne had been too nervous to think about eating all day, but now her appetite was roused. After the menu meeting, they were going to have a family meal.
The doughnuts were deep-fried rings of a light, yeasty, herb-flecked dough. Chive, basil, rosemary. Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. Savory doughnuts. Who wouldn’t stand in line for these? Who wouldn’t beg or steal to access the private phone line so that they could make a date with these doughnuts?
“If someone wants bread and butter-and it happens every night-we also offer warm Portuguese rolls. But the guest has to ask for it. Most people will be eating out of your hand after these goodies.”
Thatcher disappeared into the kitchen. Seconds later, he was out, carrying another plate. “All VIPs get the same canapé,” he said. “Years ago, Fee knocked herself out dreaming up precious little amuses-bouches, but then we came up with the winner. Chips and dip.” He set the plate on the table next to Adrienne and she nearly wept with gratitude. He was standing beside her now, so she could study his watch. Her suspicions were confirmed: It was a Patek Philippe, silver, rectangular face, black leather band. The watch matched Thatcher’s shoes, the Gucci loafers, black with sleek silver buckles. Adrienne had to admit, when he was dressed up, the man had a certain elegance. “You’re getting the idea, now, right? We have pretzels and mustard. We have doughnuts. And if we really, really like you, we have chips and dip. This is fun food. It isn’t stuffy. It isn’t going to make anyone nervous. The days of the waiter as a snob, the days of the menu as an exam the guest has to pass are over. But at the same time, we’re not talking about cellophane bags here, are we? These are hand-cut potato chips with crème fraîche and a dollop of beluga caviar. This is the gift we send out. It’s better than Christmas.”
He offered the plate to Adrienne and she helped herself to a long, golden chip. She scooped up a tiny amount of the glistening black caviar. Just tasting it made her feel like a person of distinction.
Adrienne hoped the menu meeting might continue in this vein-with the staff tasting each ambrosial dish. But there wasn’t time; service started in thirty minutes. Thatcher wanted to get through the menu.
“The corn chowder and the shrimp bisque are cream soups, but neither of these soups is heavy. The Caesar is served with pumpernickel croutons and white anchovies. The chevre salad is your basic mixed baby greens with a round of breaded goat cheese, and the candy-striped beets are grown locally at Bartlett’s Farm. Ditto the rest of the vegetables, except for the portobello mushrooms that go into the ravioli-those are flown in from Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. So when you’re talking about vegetables, you’re talking about produce that’s grown in Nantucket soil, okay? It’s not sitting for thirty-six hours on the back of a truck. Fee selects them herself before any of you people are even awake in the morning. It’s all very Alice Waters, what we do here with our vegetables.” Thatcher clapped his hands. He was revving up, getting ready for the big game. In the article in Bon Appétit, Thatcher had mentioned that the only thing he loved more than his restaurant was college football.
“Okay, okay!” he shouted. It wasn’t a menu meeting; it was a pep rally! “The most popular item on the menu is the steak frites. It is twelve ounces of aged New York strip grilled to order-and please note you need a temperature on that-served with a mound of garlic fries. The duck, the sword, the lamb lollipops-see, we’re having fun here-are all served at the chef’s temperature. If you have a guest who wants the lamb killed-by which I mean well done-you’re going to have to take it up with Fiona. The sushi plate is all spelled out for you-it’s bluefin tuna caught forty miles off the shore, and the sword is harpooned in case you get a guest who has just seen a Nova special about how the Canadian coast is being overfished.”
Just then the door to the kitchen opened and a short, olive-skinned man carried out a stack of plates, followed by his identical twin, who carried a hotel pan filled with grilled steaks. The smell was unbelievable.
“That’s your dinner,” Thatcher said. “I just have a few more things.”
A third guy, taller, with longer hair, but the same look of Gibraltar as the other two men, emerged with a hotel pan of French fries, and two bottles of ketchup dangling from his fingers. The staff shifted in their chairs. Adrienne wiggled her feet in her slides. What, she wondered, is wrong with my shoes?
“The last thing I want to talk about is the fondue. Second seating only, four-tops only, otherwise it’s a logistical nightmare. You all know what fondue is, I assume, remembering it from your parents’ dinner parties when you were kids? We put out a fondue pot with hot peanut oil and we keep it hot with Sterno. So already, servers, visualize moving through the crowded dining room holding a pot of boiling oil. Visualize lighting the Sterno without setting the tablecloth on fire. Adding this to the menu tacked thousands of dollars to our insurance policy. But it’s our signature dish. The table gets a huge platter of shrimp, scallops, and clams dredged in seasoned flour. They get nifty fondue forks. What they’re doing, basically, is deep-frying their own shellfish. Then we provide sauces for dipping. So imagine it’s a balmy night, you’ve spent all day on the beach, you’ve napped, you’ve showered, you’ve indulged in a cocktail or two. Then you’re led to a table in the sand for the best all-you-can-eat fried shrimp in the world while sitting under the stars. It’s one of those life-is-good moments.” Thatcher smiled at the staff. “This is our last year. Everything we do this year is going to reflect our generosity of spirit. You will notice I never use the word ‘customer’ or ‘client.’ The people who eat at this restaurant are our guests. And like good hosts, we want to make our guests happy. Now go eat. And for those of you who are new-all wine questions go to me-and familiarize yourself with the dessert menu while you chow.”
Everyone charged for the food. A few more cooks in spiffy white coats materialized from the kitchen. They were all lean and muscular with skin like gold leaf and dark hair. Latino? They looked alike to Adrienne-maybe they were brothers?-but this, surely, was just an example of her ignorance. The most handsome of the bunch stood in front of Adrienne in line. He looked her up and down-checking her out? Her diaphanous top? Then he grinned.
“Man,” he said. “Everyone’s in the shit back there. Except for me, of course, but I have the easy job.”
Adrienne peered over his shoulder at the hotel pan filled with steaks. And a vat of béarnaise-how had she missed that? “What’s the easy job?” she asked.
“I’m the pastry chef,” he said. “You’re new?”
“Adrienne.” She offered him her hand.
“Mario. How’re you doing? I heard about you. Fiona’s been making a big deal all week because you’re a woman.”
Adrienne studied him. Although he looked like he hailed from the Mediterranean, his accent said Chicago. He was several inches taller than she was, his hair was buzzed down to his scalp, and he had very round black eyes. Beautiful eyes, really. His skin was shiny with sweat and inside the collar of his chef’s jacket at the base of his neck she saw a scar, a raised purple welt.