The Art of Love (2 page)

June pulls out one of my books, flips it over to scan the back, scrunches her nose as if the book itself smells bad, and asks, “Why?”

“
Well...” I can feel my face is bright red. I should know better than to bring my books to work. “You know. To figure out how to date.”

Making a little disgusted grunt in the back of her throat, June says, “
People don't need instruction manuals to date.”

I am living proof that her statement is patently not true. “Some of us do,” I mumble.

Thrusting
Why Nice Girls Date Jerks
back at me, she insists, “Trust me, you don't. This kind of stuff just clutters up your brain with crap.”

Her comment is laughable because I know for a fact that she’s addicted to watching daytime soaps, but of course, I say nothing.

Remembering her mission, June turns to face me squarely. “Listen, Carlos called in sick, and we're going to be in the weeds pretty soon. Can you stay, like, another hour and help with prep?” She adds pleading eyes to her words to ensure she’s really suckered me in.

Someone is eavesdropping in the doorway; I can see a shadow. But it isn’t a giant, hulking shadow, so I assume it is Paolo rather than Aspic.

“Pretty please?” June clasps both her hands together in a false gesture of begging.

Normally, I would cave immediately; it’s not like I have much of a social life anyway, but tonight is different. And if June ever paid any attention to my life at all, she would know it’s different. “
Any other night, you know I would,” I tell her. “But it's my birthday.”

“It’s your birthday?” I can tell by her face that she genuinely has no idea, even though I mentioned it yesterday and a couple of times last week.

“Yes.” I confirm the information, doing my best to make my voice firm. “Elliot's taking me out for a special dinner. I'm meeting him at the hotel bar in like, twenty minutes.”

“
Elliot?” June does little to conceal her disgust for my boyfriend of the last year. “Come on! That guy wasn't on time for his own birth.”

She has me there. Elliot is impossible when it comes to being any place on time. He’ll even show up to job interviews a half hour late and then complain when he doesn’t get hired. Still, this time will be different. “
It's my birthday,” I explain. “He'll be there. He promised.”

June shakes her head. “
After he's left you sitting at the bar alone for two hours.”

It’s true. Two hours is not an unheard-of amount of time for my boyfriend to keep me waiting. Not on my birthday, of course, but in general. “
We talked about that. I explained to him that when he leaves me waiting it hurts my feelings.” I can tell June is about to say something snide, so I quickly add, “And he's agreed that he's not going to do it anymore.”

June rolls her eyes.
“Did you get that advice out of one of these books?” She waves a dismissive hand toward my still-open locker.

I really, really wish I hadn’t brought my boyfriend homework to Bouche with me, but I need something to do when I’m on break. I want to deny that it’s book advice, but she’s seen through me so clearly that all I can manage is, “
Uh...”

Shaking her head, June leans forward to confide in me. “
Well, here's some legit dating advice that actually works. The next time he's two hours late, you kick him in the ass repeatedly and tell him you're not his doormat.”

This strikes a nerve. “
I'm not a doormat!” I exclaim. “No one thinks that, do they?” Okay, it’s my secret fear that everyone thinks I’m a doormat, but I’m seriously not. I’m just one of those people who are a little too accommodating.

June doesn’t reply immediately to reassure me of my non–doormat-like status. In fact, she looks a little torn between telling me her real opinion and soothing my ego. “Well…” she begins, but then her eyes shift toward the door. The lurker has decided to enter the room.

I look in the same direction and see Kiki, the head hostess for Bouche, standing there with a hand on her hip. She’s the one that’s been listening in on our conversation, and I can tell by the smirk playing across her plump and painted lips that she considers me a 100% doormat.

Kiki is rail thin but still somehow manages to have boobs and a bit of a rump. June has, on more than one occasion, suggested that these features are enhanced by some type of padded foundation garments, but knowing Kiki, she probably just commanded her body to have curves, and her body obeyed out of sheer fright. Kiki is pretty with long blonde hair, possibly natural. She is always immaculately dressed and accessorized to the gills. She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t run out to the corner store for half-n-half without looking perfect. Today is no exception. She’s wearing a crotch-dusting black mini-skirt, sky high heels that I’m sure cost more than my week’s pay, and a shimmering blue blouse that clings to her figure. Per usual, she looks fantastic, even with the Bouche walkie-talkie that she’s required to always keep clipped to her waist.

June is not a big fan off Kiki’s, and she whispers under her breath, “Uh-oh, look what just slithered in.” I’m sure Kiki hears her, but she chooses to ignore the comment.

Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “
Oh, hi, Kiki. What do you need?” This earns me an exasperated look from June and does nothing to improve my doormat status, but I am a sous chef at Bouche, after all, and it is my job to make sure everything runs as smoothly as possible.

Kiki bumps and grinds her way a little further into the room. It’s just us females, so I don’t know why she feels she has to wave her bottom around like that, but maybe she’s done it so much it’s just become second nature. “Escoffier wants to see you,” she tells me.

This bit of news sets off an alarm bell in my head. “He does? Why?” He’d just been fake complimenting me a few minutes ago; if he wanted to talk to me, why didn’t he say something at the time?

Kiki rolls her eyes to show her complete boredom with our conversation. “
You let your soufflé fall; your appearance is unappetizing to the customers... Who knows?” She looks me up and down with obvious distain. “Could be anything.”

I head for the door immediately. The surest way to make Escoffier blow a blood vessel is to keep him waiting, and I have no desire to compound any irritation he may already be harboring against me. I know Kiki will follow me at a casual distance, all the while pretending she’s not. As I’m almost out the door, June calls after me, “
Ask him when we're getting the stove fixed.”

“Yeah, okay,” I mumble. The front burner on one of the stoves has gone haywire. It won’t light on its own, and when you try to start it with a match, it causes a giant mushroom cloud of flames. Paolo almost singed his eyebrows off yesterday, but to be fair, his eyebrows are a pretty large target. I will mention the stove to Chef Escoffier but only if, for some unlikely reason, he is in an excessively good mood. Asking for non-crisis repairs in the kitchen is enough to send him on an hour-long tirade, even in the middle of dinner rush. He acts like each and every expense is food being pried out of the mouths of his non-existent children.

Chapter 2

Escoffier’s office is really just a converted janitor’s closet. He has a giant desk wedged in there that takes up most of the floor space. It’s piled high with invoices, mostly late or unpaid, and restaurant catalogs that he paws through with the lasciviousness of a teenage boy drooling over a porno mag.

Any spare inch in the room that is not occupied by the desk is cluttered with broken equipment. The chef can never bear to have anything thrown out. He’s convinced that everything can be fixed and still has value. Sometimes he talks in rather vague terms about having an ancient mixer repaired and then selling it in auction, but I think in the far recesses of his brain, even he knows it’s all just junk that needs to be scrapped.

Kiki is behind me as I head toward Escoffier’s door, and I find it irritating that she thinks she can make herself part of my meeting. To use an outdated term, she is a known busybody at Bouche and thinks it’s her right to be up in everybody’s business. I try to ignore her as I tap at Escoffier’s door.

“Come in,” he barks.

I slide open the door about a foot to reveal the chef lounging in his chair, his bandaged right foot propped up on his desk. I can practically see the cartoon motion lines above his foot showing that it is throbbing with pain. “
You wanted to see me, Chef Escoffier?” I say through the narrow opening of the door. I never walk in without an explicit invitation—something I had to learn the hard way.

“Oui,” he tells me. “Come in.”

I open the door wider, and Escoffier gets a glimpse of Kiki lined up behind me. I step inside, and she tries to follow. This earns her the full-on stink eye. “You are not needed here, Mademoiselle Keekee!” he bellows in his very distinctive French way.

Kiki’s face freezes for a moment. I can’t tell if she’s mortified or furious at being addressed in such a way. She’s part of the front of the house at Bouche and not used to being yelled at by Escoffier
as much as we are in the back. She leaves, pulling the door behind her, but I see she’s left it open a crack. I’d be willing to bet a day’s pay that she plans to keep listening.

What Kiki doesn’t realize is that what causes her to be able to hear what’s going on inside the office enables us to hear what’s going on in the hallway. That’s why, when she is startled by a second eavesdropper in the hall, she does nothing to lower her voice, instead exclaiming, “
Antoine! You scared me. Why are you always lurking?”

Antoine is Escoffier’s pet. Probably because they are both from France. He is small in build, keeps his dark hair slicked back with some kind of pomade aide that makes him smell like a gardenia, and always wears an expression of being mildly indignant
. He's the saucier at Bouche and therefore feels he's better than the rest of us.

Ignoring Kiki’s question, Antoine demands, “
What is going on in zhere?”

I can almost hear Kiki’s shoulder lifting with indifference. “
How should I know? Hopefully, Miss Goody Two-shoes is getting canned.” Kiki doesn’t like me, and I have no idea why. She hasn’t liked me since the moment she set eyes on me, and I have seriously done nothing to offend her.

I don’t know what it is about me, but I am the kind of female that pretty, bitchy women hate. It’s always been this way. Even in middle school, when girls are at their most powerful, I was targeted by the mean girls on the first day of classes to be excluded and made fun of for no obvious reason. And the harder I tried to make the queen bees of the school like me, the more they hated me. It took me all the way through my junior year of high school to give up and stop trying. It didn’t make them hate me any less, but at least I wasn’t tying myself up in knots in fruitless attempts to please them. For whatever reason, my life has been like that ever since. There’s something about me that makes mean girls turn up the mean. I guess it’s a personality flaw I have to accept. Although, to be honest, it really bothers me.

“Close zee door, and zee two of you be gone!” Escoffier bellows from where he sits. “Get away from here! Zhis is a private meeting!”

The door is immediately yanked completely shut, and I can hear Kiki’s high heels clack, clack, clacking quickly down the hall. Escoffier cocks an ear and listens. The hallway is silent. After several moments, he gestures toward a broken chair. “Sit,” he commands like he’s training a poodle.

I settle cautiously on the chair, expecting it to collapse under me at any moment—it’s in such bad shape. It’s a castoff from the dining room that Escoffier can’t bear to throw away. “What can I do for you, Chef?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I hate myself for sounding so accommodating, but like I said, it’s my nature, no matter how much I fight it.

Escoffier sighs, knitting his fingers and adjusting his bandaged foot to a more comfortable position. “
As you know,” he begins, “I need to take some small time away to see for my... how you say...?” he struggles for the word in English. “Goot?”

“
Gout?” I translate. “Uh, yes. That's right. Gout.” I say it with more conviction. There have been rumors flying around the kitchen about the cause of Escoffier’s foot pain. Gout has been suggested but more in a joking way. It used to be called the rich man’s disease because only the rich could afford the expensive meats and wines necessary to induce the problem, but now it’s more of a poor man’s disease as processed foods take their toll on people who can’t afford to eat better. In Chef Escoffier’s case, I have to imagine his foot becoming swollen and painful is from too much fine dining rather than too many trips to the drive-thru.

“Yes, zee goot.” Escoffier taps at his bandaged foot with his cane then immediately regrets it, wincing in pain. For a moment, I see a tired old man and not the tin-pot dictator that terrorizes the Bouche kitchen on a daily basis. I feel bad for him.

Escoffier clears his throat. “While I am away, I want you to be zee one who takes my places. You will be my temporary,” he stabs his finger in the air with a flourish, “chef de cuisine.”

I am thrilled. I am beyond thrilled. To be chef de cuisine, to be in charge of running the entire kitchen, even temporarily, is a huge deal. It’s actually quite the honor. “
Me? Really!” I exclaim. I know I sound like a teenage girl that’s been unexpectedly crowned prom queen, but there’s no way I can stop myself. “You want me to be the chef de cuisine? That's...” I can’t even think what it is. “That's wonderful!”

Bouche itself isn’t open for breakfast or lunch. Those two meals are served by the Bocca Café on the second floor, which is really just a glorified coffee shop that serves bagels, croissants, sandwiches, and other easily transportable food so business people can cram something in their faces before dashing off to their next meeting and tourists don’t have to kill an hour before they return to exploring the wonders of Chicago. So I wouldn’t be handling the smaller meals, but still, being chef de cuisine on top of my regular duties during Escoffier’s absence means I’ll be in charge of absolutely everything in the back half of the restaurant. I’ll do the ordering; I’ll do the menu planning; I’ll manage the staff; I’ll be practically living at the restaurant. This thought gives me pause, and I screw up my courage to ask, “
It does mean a lot more work and a lot more hours.” I can practically feel myself flinching as I dare to ask, “Does it come with any kind of pay increase?”

Chef Escoffier’s eyes bulge, and his complexion goes red, so I immediately amend my question to, “
I mean, a temporary one?”

But it is too late; I’ve launched Escoffier into a tirade. “
I come to you,” he begins. “I give you zhis honaire, and all you can sink about is monay?” His face has gone from red to practically magenta, and I know I’ve really put my foot in it this time. Escoffier hops to his feet, even though it’s obvious that it causes him great pain, and bangs the table with his open palm proclaiming, “I am offended!”

I am pretty much
mortified. I can’t stand when Escoffier yells at me, especially when it’s one of his full-blown tantrums. Plus, I really do want to be the temporary chef de cuisine. It is a huge honor and will be good for my career. But I know if I don’t say something quick, Escoffier will take it back and bestow the honor on someone he views as less money grubbing. “No, no, no! Don't be offended!” I plead. “It was a stupid question. I would love to be the temporary chef de cuisine while you're resting.”

Escoffier calms down slightly, his face fading to just a brilliant pink. “
Zhat is bettaire.” He reseats himself and eases his bandaged foot back onto the desk. “Do I need to train you?” He narrows his eyes at me. “Or can I trust zhat you have zee training already?”

Saying I need any training would be the end of my chances to run Bouche, so I hasten to assure him, “You’re a wonderful teacher, Chef. Just observing you is like a crash course in culinary management.” This is a total lie. Observing Escoffier is like a crash course in work avoidance through bullying and temper tantrums, but I’m obviously not going to say that. “I’m sure I can figure out anything I don’t already know.”

“Bon,” he says. His face is now almost a normal color. “You will start immediately. I leave for zee treatments tomorrow morning.”

I gulp. It seems like he could have given me more than a day’s notice, but it’s pretty typical that he hasn’t. Of course, I say nothing. I’m not going to re-aggravate the lion after just getting it settled down with a gazelle to gnaw on.

Escoffier shifts a little in his chair to show that something is still bothering him. I rack my brain trying to figure out what it could be. Finally, he says, “You may zhank me now.”

“Thank you,” I blurt, feeling embarrassed that I didn’t think to say it myself.

After allowing me to fuss over him a little, showing my gratitude, I am told that I may leave. This is fine by me. I barely have any time to primp before Elliot is meeting me at the bar. It would be quite the twist if I was to keep him waiting for once, but I somehow doubt he would take it with any grace. Most guys don’t like it when their own bad habits are thrown back in their faces.

As I leave Escoffier’s office and hurry down the hall, I have a weird feeling, like when you know someone is watching you, and you realize it’s the creepy guy sitting across the aisle on the bus. I look over my shoulder and just catch the figure of Antoine slipping into Escoffier’s office, pulling the door closed behind him but not completely shut so that it doesn’t make a sound. I should have guessed that he was in the hallway the entire time I was talking to the chef. Thinking as well of himself as he does, I’m sure he’s convinced it’s his right to eavesdrop. Well, two can play at that game. I sneak back over to the door, my rubber clogs practically silent on the tile floor.

I stand to the side so Escoffier won’t catch a glimpse of movement in the three-inch gap between the open door and the wall. He’s very sharp eyed when he wants to be. The saucier’s visit is obviously unexpected because Escoffier sounds annoyed when he asks, “Zhere is a problem, Antoine?” The two of them always address each other in French when they are in the kitchen, so I find it peculiar that they use English when they are alone.

“
I hear you make Suzanne zee chef de cuisine,” Antoine begins, his voice a little choked with emotion. “I am your saucier! But you do not give me zhis honaire. You have no love for Antoine!”

I’m sure if Antoine were offered “zhis honaire” he would be pitching a fit that it doesn’t come with an increase in pay. Then again, maybe if Escoffier put Antoine in charge, he would get a temporary increase.

Escoffier gives a low, indulgent chuckle. “Ah, Antoine, you must see it is bettaire for me if I leave Mademoiselle Suzanne in charge.”

Antoine does not see this. He immediately demands, “
But why? She is just some prep cook. She has no talent for zee food!”

I hear Chef Escoffier slap his desk for emphasis. “
And zhat is why, my friend. Suzanne is like zee little dog zhat has been trained to do tricks.” I feel my face heating up. This does not sound complimentary. Escoffier continues. “She will not change my menu. She will not fight for zee job once I return. She will only make zee sad eyes and hope for zee treat.”

I want to crawl in a hole. I seriously want to just disappear off the face of the planet never to be seen again.

I can hear the pride in Antoine’s voice when he says, “And you know Antoine will not behave like zhis!”

Sounding all chummy, Escoffier says, “
Zhat is true. Zee day I retire, you will be zhere to make Bouche your own. But until zhat day, I cannot trust you to return zee keys to my kingdom when I am ready.”

So that’s why I was put in charge. Not because Escoffier thinks I’m the best person to run Bouche in his absence, but because he knows I’ll be no threat to him when he returns. I have never felt more pathetic in my entire life. I am so angry and hurt that I literally have to fight back tears, which makes me feel even more pathetic.

I can just imagine Antoine puffing out his little chest as he says, “Ah, now I understand. Escoffier, you are zee mastaire.”

That’s all the information I need. I hurry down the hall, not even caring if those two bastards hear me running off.

***Kiki***