The Art of Love (11 page)

Chapter 13

"
In battle, there are not more than two methods of attack - the direct and indirect; yet these two in combination give rise to an endless series of maneuvers."
~ Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

I’m spending a lot more hours at Bouche than I was as a lowly sous chef, and even then I was here fifty to sixty hours a week. Still, between my regular duties and the added Escoffier duties and some exciting new insomnia that I’ve developed, I might as well bring a sleeping bag to work. Not to mention all the pre-work I have to do before showing up. Grooming is quite time consuming and really cutting into the free hours I have available to relax around my condo. Still, it has to be done. I haven’t talked to Trent privately since we discussed the initial changes to the menu. He’s swung by the kitchen a few times to check in on me, but there’s been no talk of getting together on one of my nights off, which are few and far between. I keep hoping he’ll ask me out again, and maybe he would if we were alone, but the opportunity hasn’t presented itself. He probably doesn’t want to do anything that isn’t workplace appropriate. At least not in front of the other staff.

Kiki, on the other hand, has no qualms about being discrete at work. She’s been wearing skirts so short they are practically just belts and takes every opportunity she can to wave her rump in front of Trent when he happens to be in the restaurant or out in the lobby. I swear she’s somehow tagged him with a microchip so she can track his whereabouts at all times.

I hate to admit it, but maybe Kiki was right about Trent only being interested in her and just wanting me to do the hard work. Last night I saw him opening the door for her as they were both dressed to the nines and headed out somewhere, presumably together. Was it a date? Are they dating now? If they are, I have to assume Kiki would swing by the kitchen to rub it in my face. She hasn’t done that yet, so maybe it was work related or just a first date, and she doesn’t want to jump the gun.

When I saw the two of them looking so gorgeous together, I felt immediately deflated. I felt like an idiot for ever thinking I could land a man like Trent, especially with someone like Kiki hot on his trail. I felt an overwhelming urge to
just surrender and look for another job. But then Kiki paused in the doorway to flash Trent a coy little look over one shoulder. She must have caught site of me out of the corner of her eye because she made direct eye contact and gave me a triumphant smirk. I don’t know for sure, but Trent might have caught her doing it because he did glance in my direction with a bit of a frown.

If my first impulse is surrender, then my second is anger. Women like me have to stop constantly letting women like Kiki walk all over us. If I want to be with Trent, then I have to just go for it and not let being insecure about Kiki get in the way. I spent some quality time on my break delving into my favorite translation of
The Art of War
to figure out how I can gain an advantage over Kiki. Short skirts and skimpy outfits can’t be everything.

That’s why this morning, I am taking advantage of my insomnia by slipping into the hotel’s laundry room when no one else is around. I know the crew in charge of the laundry runs the Bouche tablecloths at night so they can get them pressed and ready by the next afternoon. While the machines are running, there’s really no point in just standing around watching them, so they usually slip off to nap or play craps in the basement.

Kiki’s bullying and my orders to reel in my platoon of busboys has raised the wait staff’s appearance again, but that’s not the only way to make Kiki look bad. All I need to do is deploy a pair of deep indigo jeans into the wash cycle with the linen tablecloths and slip out of the laundry undetected. The laundry staff is part of a super tight union, so I feel pretty secure that none of them will suffer from any type of laundry mishap. Just because I’ve decided to become ruthless doesn’t mean I want anyone to become a casualty of war.

After the deed, I go to catch a few hours of sleep in my office. I have a worn-out Winchell Hotel blanket in there and can easily curl up on the enormous desk once I stack all the unpaid invoices on the floor. By carefully monitoring every penny, I’ve managed to start submitting some of the oldest invoices to accounts payable, but it’s tricky. If I submit too many at once, Bouche will be over budget, and that will create its own mess. Still, I can imagine the looks of incredulous joy on some of our vendors’ faces as the money for the ancient invoices arrives in the mail.

I sleep longer than I expected that I could curled up on a wooden desk. When I limp into the kitchen massaging a hip that’s gone a little sore from snoozing on such a hard surface, I see Paolo busy sweeping the floor near the knife rack. “What’s going on?” I say through a suppressed yawn.

“The mice have made the little pieces of cardboard on the floor overnight,” he informs me.

His words don’t actually make any sense, seeing that I’m pretty sure we don’t have mice, but when I look down, I see some very thin strips of cardboard littering the floor. We do a pretty thorough cleanup each night before we shut down, so I have no idea how the heck they got there. “Okay, well thanks for cleaning that up,” I say, giving him an appreciative pat on the shoulder. Paolo was always a reasonably good worker even when Escoffier was in charge, but since I gave my rallying speech about work harder or we’ll all be fired, he’s been almost ideal.

“You see the card from Escoffier?” he asks.

“Card?”

“Yes, with the picture,” Paolo nods. “Antoine, he show it to me.” The Italian thrusts his chin toward the staff bulletin board where I can see a new postcard has been tacked.

I pull down the card and flip it over to read the back.

“My Staff,

The weather is fine in the Alps, and my foot feels much better. I see from the Yelp that we are now serving salmon. How is this on the menu? Suzanne is feeling the oats, but do not make the many changes.

Antoine – French, French, something French, Frenchy French, French, French.

You think I am not there, but I am still watching.

Escoffier”

The fact that Escoffier has written a message to Antoine in a language I can only read if it has to do with food leaves me uncomfortable. I pin the card back on the board and then turn to Paolo to ask, “Can you speak French?”

“No.” He scowls at me. “I am Italian.”

“Yes, I know that. I was just wondering if you speak French,” I explain.

He continues to look offended, so I drop it.

Behind me, someone enters the kitchen from the restaurant’s swinging doors, and I shiver a little, hoping it’s not Kiki. I’m a little shy on sleep and just not in the mood for her level of snark. But there’s no telltale rattle of the snake’s tail when it’s about to strike, aka, the click-clack of Kiki’s heels on the ancient linoleum. Instead, there is the warm, crisp voice of the sex god himself.

“Good morning, Sue,” he says, sounding generally pleased with the world. “Here bright and early, as usual.”

“Hi,” I kind of squeak. Forcing my voice an octave lower to something closer to my usual tone, “Trent,” I add.

Trent hits me with his blue high beams while leaning against one of the prep tables. His crisp, light-blue button-down shirt only adds to the intense color of his eyes. A pair of gray slacks hangs casually low on his waste but not hipster low. A dark belt ensures that the pants will never reach that status.

He gives me a lazy smile. “Do you have any brunch plans for tomorrow?” he asks. “I know you start working during actual lunch, so that’s why I thought brunch might be good.”

“Sure,” I say, almost too eagerly. “Just as long as we don’t eat at Bocca.”

“Of course not.” He gives a small chuckle. “I would never take you out to eat where you work. I have to imagine you’d rather dine anywhere than here.”

I think I’m in love.

“The weather’s been so nice lately,” he goes on, “I was thinking maybe we could do a picnic.”

This statement isn’t exactly a bucket of cold water over my head, but it is someone flicking ice water in my face. When a guy suggests a picnic, he usually means, “Go ahead and makes some sandwiches, some salads, and maybe something for dessert. And find a tablecloth for us to sit on. And bring the basket, plates, and utensils and everything. But I’ll drive and maybe buy a bottle of white wine that I’ll forget to chill because I’ve left it in the trunk of my car all night. Still, I’ll make a big deal about it like I’m giving you a treat.”

Yes, Trent is hot and sexy and he’s being really nice, but I do not have the physical or mental energy to whip up a wonderful meal that we’ll eat on the hard ground while flies dive bomb us and ants crawl up my leg. But it’s a date! With Trent! I have to say yes and make it seem like I’m totally thrilled. I’m about to pry my jaw open to say, “It sounds wonderful,” when he adds, “I’ve heard Junipers puts together a very good picnic. Basket, champagne, the whole works. Does that sound like something you’d like?”

I have been dying to go to Junipers, which is this French fusion restaurant that I hear is incredible, but I can’t justify the expense on my salary, and besides, I have no one to go there with. “Junipers sounds great,” I manage to get out before I look too much like a lunatic with how excited I am. A hot date and a great place making the food. If we end up in some remote little glade and make love on the picnic blanket, it would be one of my fantasies come true.

“Fantastic.” Trent reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’ll give them a call and have them send over a basket. Is it okay if we meet here, or should I pick you up?”

“Here’s fine,” I assure him before he heads back out the swinging doors.

I have a date with Trent!

I’m so glad I don’t have to suck it up and prepare the picnic. Doing that on top of work on top of all the grooming I’ll have to do to be presentable for snacking while I crouch on the ground would mean I’d have to invent a time machine.

The staff in general starts showing up for work a few minutes later, and I am beyond pleased that I don’t have to dog anyone’s heels. I think Escoffier wouldn’t believe that people can actually be motivated without the incentive of his screaming every seven minutes. Still, they are being motivated by fear rather than love of their jobs, but maybe as things improve for Bouche, I can improve things for everyone. If I’m around long enough. Escoffier’s postcard is a pretty good reminder that I won’t be chef de cuisine forever, so I’d better make the most of it.

We’re rolling up on the first seating for dinner and everyone is busy working when there is a loud “
Aieeeh!” from the vicinity of the butcher’s block where Paolo started cutting meat after his clean-up. I turn to see him clutching his hand as drops of blood sprinkle the floor. Aspic is instantly at his side, saying nothing but looking very concerned. Paolo turns his back to the big man, trying to shield him from the sight of his bloody hand. “Aspic, no. Don't look,” he says with some urgency.

But Aspic has to look; there’s nothing that can stop him from looking. And once he’s looked, he can’t turn his eyes away. I can tell by the way he begins to sway a little back and forth that the room is getting swimmy. “Aspic, you sit down,” his friend commands, but the big man isn’t listening. He’s too busy falling over in a slow-motion swoon. The kitchen floor is hard, and falling over like a felled redwood will do Aspic a lot of harm, so Paolo tries to catch him or at least slow his descent. The Italian is fit, but he’s no match for Aspic’s bulk, and the fact that he’s trying to catch his friend with bloody hands probably isn’t helping the situation. “Look out!” Paolo cries and then releases another, “
Aieeeh!” as he is crushed under Aspic’s bulk.

Pedro and a few other people rush forward to help, but it is too late. Paolo is pinned under an unconscious Aspic. “
What happened?” Pedro asks as they try to roll the mountain of a man off of the grimacing Paolo.

“
The knives, they are very dull,” is the reply. “I cut my hand. Aspic, he no like blood.” It’s kind of strange that Aspic handles raw meat all day yet faints at the sight of blood, but who am I to explain people’s foibles.

“Very dull?” I find myself wondering after his words sink in. That doesn’t make any sense. Yes, a dull knife is a lot more dangerous than a sharp knife because with a dull knife you struggle and are more likely to lose control of the blade, but we have the Bouche knives sharpened by a professional service once a week. Usually on the last day before delivery, the knives can get a little dull, but that shouldn’t be for three or four days from now.

I stride over to the knife rack and examine the knives. Every edge is so dull it’s practically blunt. I see a few flecks of cardboard clinging to the blades. Running a knife through cardboard, even if it’s just to open a single box, is an excellent way to ruin its edge. That’s why we keep a utility knife separate from the kitchen knives, in case someone needs to open a box. The only conclusion I can draw is the knives have been purposely sabotaged. I have a sneaking suspicion I know who is responsible. And she is going to pay. Tattling on me to Trent and then me arranging to have a few clothes stained is one thing, but there’s a good chance Paolo will need stitches and maybe his ribs wrapped from being pinned under Aspic. That’s just dangerous. What if Paolo hadn’t sacrificed his body for his friend and Aspic had cracked open his skull? Just thinking about what could have happened makes me furious. I barge out of the swinging doors that separate the kitchen from the dining room and scan the area for Kiki. She is going to pay for injuring my staff.