Tony laughs, sending the fear of God into me as he tosses his head back, removing his eyes from the blurred road.
“Oh, honey. They’re investors—not accountants. They don’t want to have a bunch of numbers spluttered at them. They want an idea, a dream, a vision. People that they can believe in.” Tony reaches out and turns my face toward him, my chin in his palm. “And who wouldn’t believe in a face like yours?”
“You’d be surprised,” I say, through squished cheeks.
Tony laughs easily again and only half-concentrates as he takes a corner at car-tilting speed.
“Look, these people are rich, and if they wanted more money they’d go to a stockbroker, or buy some real estate. But they don’t. They want a place they can call their own, something to be proud of. Something fabulous and creative that they can feel they had some part in making.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“When you have as much money as these guys do, it is.”
Tony swings the wheel and guides the car up a small incline toward the front of a grand hotel. Tall and glass, the rails leading up to doors so polished they catch the sun like diamonds, the shrubbery around the building so perfectly manicured it’s as if the hotel management put a hairdresser on staff to trim them.
“Sir?”
The red-suited valet steps toward us as soon as we exit the car, and Tony hands him the keys with a regal smile before we huddle up at the foot of the stairs.
“Tits and teeth, honey,” Tony says. He puts a hand on the small of my back and one on my shoulder to fix my posture, then taps under my chin to get it a little higher.
“Why do I feel like I’m being entered into a beauty pageant?”
“Now,” Tony says breezily, as we start up the stairs to the revolving glass doors, “the pretty boy is Andre, and the cute, chubby guy’s named Lou.”
“What are their last names? Shouldn’t we use those?”
Tony stops for a moment to think.
“You know, I’m sure they told me, but the music was too loud. Anyway—”
“Wait—” I say, grabbing Tony’s arm to stop him from carrying on. “Music? What do you mean? Where did you meet these guys?”
“Foam Night at The Male Room,” Tony says nonchalantly.
I stop in mid-stride. “That gay bar you go to?! You’re telling me you met these investors at a gay bar? And you’re taking them seriously?”
It takes only a second for the mock-offense to spread over Tony’s face as he crosses his arms dramatically.
“I’m sorry. I forgot that homosexuals weren’t allowed to be incredibly wealthy.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, at all. It’s just…I thought they were legitimate investors looking to conduct some professional business. Not a couple of random hot dudes you partied with.”
“They are. I mean, they’re both of those things. Trust me, Spud.” Tony stands back and gestures up at the tall building in front of us. “Do you know how much the cheapest suite in this place costs? One night could pay your rent for a month. And it’s not like I didn’t do a background check on these guys. My friend—one of the bartenders—told me they splash cash around like they’re filming a rap video.”
I take a moment to consider, then shake my head and smile.
“You know what? I trust you, Tony. Let’s do this.”
“That’s my girl.”
We move up the steps, through the doors, past expensively dressed old couples, and into the gigantic, air conditioned lobby. So big it’s as if somebody decorated an aircraft hangar with mahogany and velvet. I follow Tony as he heads off to the side, down some steps into the lavish bar.
“There they are,” Tony says, flashing a wave at two men in nice suits sipping cocktails around a table.
We greet them with handshakes and air kisses, introduce ourselves briefly, and order green juices when they offer us something. After only a little small talk about the loveliness of the hotel, it’s time for business.
“So,” Andre says, his blue eyes twinkling beneath immaculate hair, “tell us all about yourselves.”
“Well,” Tony says, leaning forward as if he was waiting for the question, “as I said, we’re two chefs who’ve been building up our culinary experience, working here and there in Los Angeles. We met while studying in France under Guillhaume de Lacompte several years ago.” Lou and Andre glance at each other with raised eyebrows and appreciative nods when Tony mentions the Frenchman’s name so casually. “So far we’ve been learning in the best kitchens, building up a wealth of proficiency and know-how, seeing what works—what doesn’t work—and we’ve got a ton of ideas that we feel ready to implement now. Ideas that could really make a restaurant that is next level.”
“Ideas, huh?” Lou says. “What kind of ideas?”
Tony looks at me, a cue for me to take over.
“Um…yeah. Ideas,” I babble, nodding emphatically for a few seconds while I think of what to say. “Well…L.A. is a great place for food. I mean, everything grows in California pretty much, fruit, vegetables—and what doesn’t grow here is only a short stop away. We’re by the coast, obviously, so we get great fresh seafood. I mean, there’s really no excuse for a restaurant in Los Angeles to not take advantage of all the local abundance with a menu that’s fresh and seasonal and creates something genuinely unique, stylish, but still fundamentally what people want. Which is to feel good about what they’re eating. Passionate, even.”
“Right…” Lou says, screwing his eyes up skeptically. “But you want to build a restaurant, not just sell local fruits and vegetables. You can do that at a farmers’ market.”
“Yes,” I say, still grasping at straws as my nerves go into overdrive. “But those are just the ingredients, the foundation for the menu. See, the problem is that most restaurants here don’t celebrate what’s great about this place. If you walk into any nice restaurant in the city you’ll find caviar from Iran, imported stracchino, kobe beef from Japan—all prepared according to recipes the French and Italian invented.”
“I don’t know,” Andre says, laughing. “Caviar and Italian cheese sounds pretty good to me!”
“Wait,” Lou interrupts, even more concerned now, “is this going to be some kind of farm-to-table, organic food thing then? Because that doesn’t sound very exciting. We’ve seen plenty of that around here.”
“No,” Tony says quickly. “This is nothing like those quasi-healthy fast food quinoa joints.”
“Actually, the local organic thing isn’t too far from it,” I say, ignoring the look of panic now on Tony’s face. “I only cook with ingredients I like. And that means stuff that’s sustainable, fresh. Not frozen in the back of a truck for a two thousand mile trip.”
Tony shakes his head at me, then quickly turns his attention back to the investors.
“The organic food thing is just a base-level thing. It’s not the selling point! The selling point is the fact that we’re the best chefs in the state. Our menu’s gonna be…innovative.”
Andre and Lou look at each other and laugh as if we’re putting on entertainment.