“Good morning, Al.” The smooth, melodic voice of Hannah, Al’s editor, spoke from above. Late thirties, blonde, and wicked smart. Semiframeless glasses perched on her nose, and her hair was tucked into a bun with a few pencils poking out at random angles. She’d taken a chance on hiring him as an unproven food writer, making her one of the few people Al respected. He’d been covering the royals, many of whom he’d attended school with at Eton, for the London Journal. While he hated the beat, the subject matter gave him room to hone his sharp-tongued writing style. After a few years reporting on vapid rich kids and their parents, he wanted out. With the goal of getting as far away from the royals as possible and, of course, following his passion, he applied for every open food writer position in the States. Hannah was the first to scoop him up. She knew talent when she found it.
“We’ve been getting some feedback on your reviews.”
“And?”
“I quote”—Hannah cleared her throat, holding an e-mail printout in front of her face—“ ‘I’ve never had so much fun reading a food column. I love Wodyski’s witty comments. Now I don’t need to waste my time trying bad restaurants.’”
“At least I’m helping someone.”
“I’ve got several more. A few think you’re a little mean, but you can’t please everyone. I’ve got more who love you. Keep it up, Waters—you’ve got fans.”
After Hannah disappeared into the maze of cubicles, John asked, “So why Wodyski?”
Still facing away, Al rolled his eyes to the ceiling and took a deep breath.
“I couldn’t use my real name, could I?”
“I get that—but why that name?”
Al whirled to look at him.
“Because it sounds Polish.”
“And?”
“It makes me sound more local, like I can be trusted.”
“You think us Milwaukeeans are that gullible?”
“It’s working so far.” Al gestured in the direction Hannah had gone, then returned to his work.
• • • • •
Al paused outside Luella’s, remembering Miss Coconut Cake. He couldn’t stop thinking about her infectious smile, freckled nose, and sad frosting trail. He shivered as a brisk wind blew from behind, nudging him toward the door. He entered two hours after Luella’s opened and was greeted by a quietly crowded bar and dining room with a distracted hostess. Unprofessional, he thought.
Crisp white linens topped small tables, looking like chess pieces on the black-and-white-checkered floor. Black-and-white photos of famous French landmarks broke up the plain white walls. The cliché thickened with each detail—baguettes stacked behind the bar, fake grapes spilling out of baskets, and taper candles melted over empty bottles of wine. He could have found a French restaurant like this one in any city in the world.
“Reservation?” Al looked up as the hostess finally acknowledged him.
“Yes, one for Waters.”
He dined alone tonight, as he did most nights. He hadn’t established a dependable and discrete group of people he could take out for meals, though John asked about once a week—probably looking for a meal on the paper.
“Follow me,” the hostess said, casting a glance over her shoulder.
The hostess sat him at a table with a view of the kitchen doors. He set out his iPad and typed, “Rude hostess,” then looked around the room. He couldn’t see into the kitchen, just glimpses when a waiter walked through. It looked clean and bright, but a clean kitchen should be the bare minimum standard. The hostess rushed off to a group of waiters near the coffee machine. While the restaurant had empty tables, it wasn’t dead, so it seemed odd for the waitstaff to congregate. He looked around and saw other customers noticing the group. A few tables had empty plates ready to clear, others needed refills on drinks, but the staff kept gossiping. He typed, “Distracted waitstaff.”
After more time than was strictly acceptable, a waiter appeared, took his order, and disappeared. He’d ordered the first item under each menu category: seared foie gras with a Bordeaux reduction, toasted-goat-cheese salad, sole meunière, and lemon soufflé. Al lifted his shirtsleeve to start the timer on his watch.
• • • • •
Focus on the orders, focus on the orders, thought Lou in a chant. She took a steadying breath, squinted at the tickets, called out the orders (two soles, three drunk chickens, and a special), and struggled to find her groove. The routine of the nightly rush started to kick in. If she kept moving forward, she wouldn’t have time to look back. She bent down to open the cooler near the grill station, which she was working tonight. Sue hadn’t let her near the sauté station, saying that too much could go wrong. She pulled out the chickens and a hanger steak for the special and tossed them on the grill, sprinkling them with salt and pepper. Lou noticed some plates waiting to go out, baking under the heat lamps—a pet peeve even on a good day.
“Why is table three’s food still sitting here?” Lou said, much louder than normal.
“It’s waiting on the grilled scallops.” Sue raised an eyebrow at Lou.
“It can start going out while the scallops finish.” Why can’t the waiters do anything without being told? They know better than to leave food sitting there. Lou buzzed Tyler, whose first day on the job was tonight.
Tyler’s head appeared in the window, and Lou pointed at the order with her silver tongs. “Get this food out.”
“But—”
“Get. It. Out. Come back for the rest.” Tyler grabbed the dishes and ran, looking over at Sue for reassurance.
“Little rough, don’t ya think?” said Sue.
“Not when I have customers waiting for food.”
Lou tossed up the finished scallop plate just as Tyler returned for the rest of the order. She stared at him until he took the food and delivered it, then she returned to the grill to pull the meat off. Instead of perfectly cooked chicken and steaks ready for plating, smoking remains poked at Lou’s already wounded pride.
“Damn it!” She grabbed the food with her bare hand and tossed it into the garbage, wincing at what she knew would be another burn mark in the morning.
After Lou’s outburst, everyone in the kitchen worked silently—college-library-during-finals silent. Sue and Harley flashed each other concerned looks. The dishwasher actually flinched when she tossed a pan in the sink. Her emotions roiled; anger, betrayal, and sadness all made her unstable, like two fronts crashing together on a stormy summer evening. She lit the air with profanities for every imperfection. Her glares sizzled and had the waitstaff avoiding the kitchen and gossiping by the coffee machine.
With each outburst, Lou hated herself a little more. What was wrong with her? This was her family and she was treating them abysmally. She wasn’t mad at them; she was mad at herself for trusting Devlin, relying on him to be part of her life, part of her family. Assuming he cared about her best interests. But he had never loved the restaurant. Looking back, she realized he had only tolerated it. He had even tried to talk her out of it right when she’d finally saved enough money to open Luella’s.
Lou remembered the night she told Devlin she had found her location. It was a year and a half ago, and they were dining out on one of the few nights she didn’t work.
“I found it.” Lou had chewed her cheek, head down a little so she had to look at him under her eyelashes, wrinkles forming on her forehead.
“My iPod? Great, I hoped you would.” Devlin watched the businessmen at the next table, trying to hear their discussion. His head hadn’t turned when she’d started speaking.
“No, my restaurant.” Lou’s voice barely carried over the restaurant din. Devlin turned now, his expression suggesting she’d just revealed she could fly using fairy wings she kept hidden using duct tape and gauze.
“I thought you’d given up on that. Besides, you don’t have the money.” His attention returned to the men.