“I’ll come back for it, 49 is quick.”
“We’re cutting into a new wheel of Parmesan later. If that makes you feel better.”
“Oh goody, I have something to live for.”
“Okay bitch, I just uninvited you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so tired.”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” he said as I took the plates away.
I approached table 49. They were the hungry sort of guests who had spotted me from across the room and were beckoning me with their anxiety. I tried to smile Calm down, I have your fucking food, you’re not going to fucking starve to death, it is a restaurant for fuck’s sake. When we laid plates down we were to say the full names of the dishes. I usually sang them to myself all the way to the table. As I swung in to the left, open-armed, I said, “Seat 1 calamari, seat 2 Gruyère SOS, and a follow. Table 49. Enjoy.”
I looked at them expectantly. I waited for the gratifying looks the guests gave when they knew they could eat. It’s their version of applause. But the two guests looked at their plates confused, like I had spoken another language, which I realized with a bolt of shame up my middle that I had.
“Oh my god! I’m sorry!” I laughed and their faces eased up. “That’s not what I meant to say.”
The woman seated closest to me at position 1 nodded and patted me on the wrist.
“I’m new,” I said.
The man at position 4 looked at me and said, “What about the food for seats 3 and 4?”
“Yes sir, absolutely, it should be coming right now.”
I ran up to Ariel at the barista station.
“Jesus, Ariel, help me god, I need a treat and a coffee.”
“I’m five deep, it’s the end of the first turn.” She moved erratically between tickets and cups, trying to line her drinks up, but then turning back to the tickets. I had tried to show her my way of organizing coffees for a rush, but nobody listened to me.
“Please. I’m sorry. Whenever you can.”
“Fluff, I need two Huet on the fly.”
“Okay, sure, yes, right now.”
I kept my eyes down as I ran through the kitchen and down the stairs to the cellar. Scott called out to my back, “Follow? I need a fucking follow.”
“I can’t, ask Sasha!” I yelled back. But I was already in the cellar, insulated, dim, mold stitched into the corners. Quiet. I leaned against a wall. I felt tears and said, Don’t stop moving. The Huet was one of the “no markings” boxes that were impossible to find. I thought it was probably at the bottom of a stack of five and I accepted it. I grabbed my wine key and used the knife to tear into boxes, shoving them to the ground when they weren’t the right bottle.
Dust flew.
“I’m just tired,” I said to the room. I pulled two Huet and made a mental note to come back and clean up the brutal unpacking job. As I ducked out Will walked past with a bucket of ice.
“You scared me,” he said, slowing down. “You need help with those?”
“No, Will, it’s just two bottles.”
“Jesus, sorry I asked.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m really off tonight.”
“You’re off every night,” he said and hiked the bucket to his shoulder. “That’s your thing.”
“That hurts my fucking feelings,” I said but he didn’t turn.
“Am I running the food tonight?” Scott yelled as I came up. “Did we not schedule a backwaiter?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, holding up the bottles in front of my face as a defense.
“I did it!” I presented the bottles to Nicky.
“You want a medal? I need clears on bar 4 and 5. I can’t get down there and I’m getting nothing from Sasha tonight. Have you seen him? Bar 4.”
“Okay, yes. Um. But Nick? I’m not great at clearing. I can’t three-plate yet. I can try. I mean, I can do it.”
“Yeah, no shit, Fluff, I’m not asking.”
“Your espresso, Skip,” Ariel said. “It has the sprinkles in it.” She handed me a water glass as well so I could pour a splash in—it was a trick I learned from her, it cooled down the shot so you could take it quicker. I gagged. The grains of Adderall stuck to my tongue.
“Delicious. Adore you. Angel.”
“Can you get me the glass rack? I’m almost out of flutes, these fucking idiots—”
“Ariel, no I’m super weeded, I have to bus—”
“You’re fucking drinking espresso, I’m fucking weeded.”
“Okay, okay.” I held my hands up. A man in a navy suit holding a glass of Champagne knocked into me.
“I’m sorry,” I said with my meekest smile.
“Hey,” he said, “I know you!”
He didn’t, but I nodded and tried to move past him.
“Isabel! You were at Miss Porter’s with my Julia. Julia Adler, do you remember her? You’re all grown up! I haven’t seen you since you were a child.”
“Um, I’m sorry, that’s not me.”
“No, it’s you, of course it’s you. Your parents were in Greenwich.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what Miss Porter’s is, I don’t know a Julia, my name is not Isabel, my parents aren’t in Greenwich.”
“Are you sure?” He narrowed his eyes and pointed the flute at me. I didn’t know how to defend myself, since I didn’t know Isabel. Or exactly what I was being accused of. In my bones I thought, The customer is always right.
“But that’s funny, isn’t it?” I said, trying to appease him. “We all look like other people, you know?”
I smiled, big, with all my non-Isabel teeth, and pushed past him.
It was crowded. The bar didn’t have orchestrated turns the way the tables did. Stools were vacated and refilled immediately by people on their second drink, ready to order ten minutes ago. There was no grace period. Already the next round of guests was pressing into the backs of the current diners, hovering when desserts were dropped, stalking people that had asked for the check. And this was the weekend—these weren’t our poised regulars. Loud, anxious, steaming. I pushed myself into a group, a man and two women, all of them reeking of cigars. He said, “She’s getting in tomorrow. So I’m on my best behavior tonight. The boss is back.” The women smirked and leaned their glasses in closer.
Music ran too loudly through the speakers. I looked at Nick, who was looking at Ariel, mouthing for her to turn it down. The music amplified the guests, they screamed above it, gesticulated harder, everyone suddenly grotesque.
“Are you all done?” I asked the couple at bar 4. I winced. The Owner made it very clear that “Are you all done?” was awful verbiage.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I meant, may I?” I offered my palms to them. They were young—late twenties—but fully polished, aspiring to appear older. She had a sharp, severe bob, a pink silk dress, scornful eyebrows. He was square-jawed but conventional, and reminded me of rugby. They must have been fighting, because she looked at me like I was intruding, and he looked relieved. I stuck one arm between them, trying to gain access.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, groping for the first plate. “I’m just going to…if you don’t mind…” I pushed my shoulder between them and the girl twisted in her seat, sighing. PR? I thought. Assistant to an assistant? Gallery front-desk girl? What the fuck do you do for a living? I pulled the largest plate first. I grabbed the silverware off the others and stacked them next to the lamb chop bones and gratin grease. Someone bumped into my back and I clenched my teeth. But nothing budged.
I leaned into the boy as I reached. I gave him a helpless look and he stacked two far plates on top of his plate and moved them toward me.
“Careful,” the girl said, “or you’ll end up working here.”
It’s never too early for the c-word, I thought. The boy put his hands in his lap.
We weren’t allowed to half clear, everything had to go at once. I took his stack, but they were uneven, since like me, he didn’t understand how to clear. I knew it was too many plates—not for Will or Sasha, but too many for me. My arm started burning. I made a lunge for her bread-and-butter plate. The knife, still buttered, slid onto her lap and she screamed.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry. It’s just butter. I mean, I’m sorry.” She looked at me, mouth open, horrified, as if I had assaulted her.