“Disaster.”
This was the one-word response I received the next morning when I found my dad already awake, scrambling eggs in the kitchen, and asked him how things had gone the night before. I’d tried to stay up and wait for him, but had fallen asleep around midnight when he still wasn’t home. Now I knew why.
“First new menu run is always tough,” I reminded him, pulling two plates out of the cabinet.
“This wasn’t tough,” he replied, stirring the eggs with a flick of his wrist. It was ridiculous. We were in the weeds in the first hour and never recovered, with only half the tables seated. I’ve never seen such rampant disorganization. And the attitude! It’s mind-boggling.”
I put the plates on our small kitchen table, then got some forks and napkins and sat down. “That stinks.”
“What stinks,” he said, still on a roll, “is that now I have to go back there and figure out how to fix it all before service tonight.”
I stayed quiet as he turned, sliding a generous portion of yellow, fluffy eggs onto the plate in front of me. But what I’d said was true: the first night of a new menu always went terribly, with staff members either imploding or exploding, the customers left unhappy or downright angry, and my dad deciding the whole effort was doomed. This sequence was almost required, part of the process. He never seemed to remember this from place to place, though, and reminding him was useless.
“The thing is,” he continued, dumping some eggs on the other plate before sitting down across from me, “a restaurant is only as strong as its chef. And this place has no chef.”
“What about Leo?”
“He’s the kitchen manager, although God only knows who thought he was qualified for that position. The chef quit about a week ago, after Chuckles starting asking questions about some hinky stuff his financial guys found in the books. Apparently, he did not feel like providing an explanation.”
“So you need to hire someone?”
“I would,” he said, “but no chef worth his salt would take the job with the state of the place right now. I need to implement the new menu, streamline operations, and clean house, both literally and figuratively, before I even think about bringing anyone else in.”
“That sounds easy,” I said.
“Shutting the door and cutting our losses would be the easiest,” he replied. “I’m thinking that might be the way to go.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” He sighed, then looked out the kitchen window, taking another bite. For someone who made his living out of a love of food, my dad was a fast, messy eater. He never lingered or savored, instead just wolfing down what was on his plate like someone was timing him. He was almost finished as I got up to pour myself a glass of milk, only a few bites of my own meal taken.
“Well,” I said carefully, “I guess it was bound to happen sometime.”
My dad swallowed, then glanced at me. “What was?”
“No potential,” I replied. When he raised his eyebrows, I said, “You know. A place that really can’t be fixed, even by you. A hopeless situation.”
“I guess so,” he replied, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Some things can’t be saved.”
This was a fact we both knew well. And maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, I thought as I opened the fridge, letting this ship sink. Sure, it would mean another move, another change, another school. But at least I’d get to start right, not like I had here, where I was stuck with Mclean, despite my best—
“The thing is,” he sd suddenly, interrupting this quickly snowballing train of thought, “there is some good talent in the kitchen.”
If I’d been paying closer attention, I probably would have heard it, the sound of the bottom getting hit. Followed by the beginning of this small rise.
“Not Leo, obviously,” he continued, glancing at me. “But a couple of the line guys, and one of the prep cooks. And there are possibilities on the floor as well, if I can just weed out the gloom-and-doomers.”
I slid back into my seat, putting my glass in front of me. “How did the customers like the new menu?”
“The few we had, who actually got their meals hot and complete,” he said with a sigh, “were raving.”
“And the pickles?”
“Went over huge. Opal was furious.” He smiled, shaking his head. “But the new menu, it’s good. Simple, flavorful, plays to all our strengths. The few we have anyway.”
Now I was sure he was going to stay in. This, when he went from using “them” to “us”—an outsider to one within—was another sign.
His phone, parked by the sink, suddenly jumped and buzzed. He reached over, grabbing it and flipping it open. “Gus Sweet. Oh, right. I did want to talk to you. . . .”