The Art of Love (9 page)

“What do you think?” Erin asks.

“Not bad,” Dahlia has to admit.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Erin tells her. “What do you think, Sue?”

I’m so pleased, I’m almost a little misty. “This is perfect.”

Being made over is exhausting. By the time I get home, every part of my body aches. That was more tiring than working a double shift on the weekend. I drag my numerous purchases into the house and then just kind of sag onto the couch. Still, it was a good first full day of my campaign.

My cell rings, and I fish it out of my purse. The caller ID reads Elliot. I freeze. Why the hell is he calling me? If you could list every single person on the planet that I could talk to in order of my preference, he’d pretty much be way down on the list, just above the serial killers. But still, maybe he’s just calling to see if I have any of his precious T-shirts over at my place or something like that. Against my better judgment, I answer my phone with a hesitant, “Hello?”

“Quitter,” is all I hear.

“Elliot?”

“Quitter.” He’s saying it quickly and in a voice slightly higher than his usual speaking voice.

“Elliot, what do you want?”

“Quitter.” This is what Elliot probably sounded like his freshman year of high school before his voice fully matured.

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“Quitter.” High school is probably giving him too much credit. Maybe middle school.

I’m tired and in no mood for a thirty-two-year-old man having a tantrum like an adolescent boy. “Okay,” I tell him, “if that’s all you’re going to say then I’m hanging up now.”

“Quitter.”

I hang up.

The phone rings again, and I send it straight to voice mail. When it rings again after that, I turn it off.

Does Elliot seriously think this is the way to handle our breakup? Calling me up to accuse me of quitting? How does that even make sense? For the zillionth time, I feel a wave of relief that he is out of my life. Time to move on to greener pastures. Trent Winchell–type pastures. And tell losers like Elliot goodbye forever. Feeling re-motivated, I pry myself off the couch and head to the bedroom to hang up all my new clothes and put away my makeup. I’ve got a war to wage.

I show up for work in the morning feeling so confident that I go through the front entrance of the hotel and into the lobby instead of how I usually skulk in through the employee entrance. I’m wearing a new floral skirt, a few inches shorter than I would usually buy, but this is the new me and therefore hemlines are allowed to rise. I’ve also got on a red sleeveless top and a pair of low heels. My hair is looking good, and my first foray into doing my own makeup armed with my new knowledge has turned out pretty good. I carry my chef’s garb with me in a lightweight garment bag.

I feel really good, like I can take on all challengers. My confidence is boosted when I notice a flock of men in suits looking my way appreciatively. Now, if I can only have the good fortune of running into Trent as the new me, my campaign will have really started off right.

Instead, I have the misfortune of running into Kiki, who scowls at me like I’m tracking dog poop across the floor. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

             
“I work here,” I tell her. It’s not like I’m crashing a wedding or anything.

             
“Yes,” she counters, “but you’re supposed to be using the staff entrance. Not parading through the lobby.”

First of all, Kiki’s a bitch, but secondly, I must be looking good because she appears to have her nose out of joint. I hear footsteps and turn to see
Trent and Aziz walking by in friendly conversation, both looking excessively handsome in their tailored suits. “Good morning, ladies.” Trent flashes us his standard smile. Then he does a double take, his eyes raking me up and down. “It's very nice to see you this morning, Sue,” he says. This causes Aziz to turn and give him a funny look and Kiki to scowl in a most unflattering way.

The men keep going, not bothering to stop and chat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Aziz turn to look back at us. He’s frowning, and for some reason, this causes Kiki to smirk. Still, I think my point about using the front entrance has been made. “
Well,” I say to Kiki, “if Trent doesn't have a problem with me in the lobby then neither should you.” Before she can come up with some annoying reply, I start walking again, sailing right past her on my way to the kitchen.

***Kiki***

My God, Sue is predictable. “Gee, I think I’ll get a makeover and then Trent will see that he should fall in love with me.” Seriously? Wasn’t there a series of teen movies all about this kind of crap in the late nineties?

In Sue’s defense, she does look a lot better. She’s actually almost pretty. But it’s going to take more than a new haircut and rudimentary knowledge of makeup application to land a white whale like Trent. You can’t overhaul your entire attitude and outlook on life in a single day with only the direct application of a credit card.

Trent sure did look her over pretty good, though. Sue might make the mistake of thinking his wanting to tarnish her shiny virginal surface is a sign that he’s truly interested in her. I’ll have to keep an eye out for that. I’m more than willing to spike the ball into Sue’s face to access Chicago’s elite, but there is a scummy side to men like Trent that even naïve little idiots like Sue shouldn’t be exposed to. Besides, her blundering could easily derail my plans.

There’s also Aziz to think about. His reaction to Sue’s appearance was also quite interesting. Something to store in the databanks in case things get ugly.

******

Paolo and Aspic are sitting at a table playing cards. They look up, totally unconcerned when I walk in the kitchen. It’s obvious they haven’t given any thought to starting the prep work for the dinner shift. Neither has anyone else, apparently, because besides them, the kitchen is practically empty.

“
Where is everyone?” I ask.

Paolo spares me only a glance then does a double take. A wolf’s smile spreads across his face. Aspic’s button eyes are shining as he takes in my new appearance. There is some gratification that my hard work has initially paid off but also some embarrassment. I really don’t feel comfortable being the center of attention.

“Ay, Suzannah,” Paolo tells me, “you look nice. You change your hair or what?”

Ignoring his question, I ask, “
Why isn't anyone working?”

Aspic and Paolo exchange looks and both shrug. “
We take it easy,” the Italian explains. “You are in charge, right?” He flashes me a smile.

I can’t even begin to express what’s wrong with his assumptions about me being in charge, so instead I say, “
Where's June?” She’s usually fairly responsible, even without the threat of Escoffier.

“She in the back,” he tells me, taking in a view of my legs before going back to his cards.

As I turn to head for the locker room, I think I catch a glance of someone eavesdropping on us from the dining room, but the person ducks away too quickly, and I can’t see who it is. I have my suspicions, of course, but it doesn’t seem worth the time to find out.

“
June,” I say as I see her by her locker.

She’s standing there talking on her cell phone. As soon as she sees me, she holds one finger in the air in that w
ait-a-minute gesture that I pulled on Elliot. She continues her conversation by saying, “So Tommy said he would pick some up on his way home, but by the time he showed I was totally starving.”

I think if people realized how much they sound like teenagers when talking on the phone, public use of cell phones would plummet dramatically. I step closer to June, cross my arms, and glare at her
impatiently. June looks up, surprised with just a hint of apprehension. “June!” I hiss, for some reason still reluctant to embarrass her in front of whoever is on the other end of the call.

“
Uh... Listen,” June says into her cell, “I've got to go.”

June hangs up
and then gives me a cautious look. Keeping my arms crossed, I tell her, “Get the kitchen staff together. We're going to have a meeting.”

“
Okay.” She’s more than willing, especially if it means putting some immediate distance between the two of us. “But,” she pauses, “our mighty saucier called in sick.”

“
Antoine?” I wonder aloud. This is actually a bit of good news. “Even better.” He is definitely the Bouche employee that will be the hardest to get on my side, so it’s best not to have a dissenting voice in the crowd. “Now move!” I tell her, and she scoots for the door. God knows where all of the staff is hiding.

Chapter 11

"
In order to kill the enemy, men must be roused to anger; that there may be advantage to defeating the enemy, they must have their rewards."
~ Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

In larger restaurants, there is the front of the house and the back of the house. Servers, bartenders, hostesses are all out front. We workers involved with food prep are the back. If Kiki and I are waging a war, then her troops are out front, and mine are in back. I can’t fight her by myself. I can’t save the Winchell all on my own. I have to have the support of my troops. And I have to have it now.

I don’t know what June said to the rest of the staff, but it only takes a few minutes before everyone is assembled in the kitchen to hear what I have to say. Well, they’re assembled, but not exactly waiting with quiet respect or anything like that. They’re chatting amongst themselves and having a good time like it’s a holiday and they just happened to have shown up for work.

I’ve quickly changed into my newly tailored chef’s whites to give me more of an appearance of authority, but I’m inwardly just cringing. I hate addressing groups of people. Hell, I’m barely any good at one on one. But still, if I can’t get the Bouche kitchen staff behind me, then I might as well surrender now.

“
Uh... excuse me? Everyone...?” I start. Whenever I’m nervous, if I don’t concentrate on it, my voice climbs in pitch a couple of octaves until it sounds like I’ve taken a hit of helium.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because everyone is still talking. I catch snatches of their conversations. “Don't go there on a Saturday,” from some guy.

“He said what?” an incredulous female voice asks.

“I hate that chick,” a dude says with conviction.

I take a deep breath and try to focus myself. The first thing I need to do is gain their attention, and I just don’t have a big enough presence to do that standing on the ground, so I pull a chair over from where we clock in and climb up on it.

“
Quiet!” I bark at them.

Much to my surprise, everyone immediately shuts the hell up and gives me their attention.

Taking a deep breath, I plunge in. “Now I'm sure everyone has heard that Escoffier is taking some time off to get some treatment for his gout. And while he’s gone, I’m the chef de cuisine.”

“
And we're all on vacation!” crows Pedro, one of our more freewheeling busboys. Everyone in the crowd seems to agree with him, and they all give a little cheer. “Yeah! That's right! He said it! Time to take it easy,” I hear various voices say.

“
That's right, Pedro.” I give him a tight grin. “You can take your vacation. But it'll be in the unemployment line.” This comment quiets everyone down pretty quick. I turn to address the crowd as a whole. “As a matter of fact, that goes for all of you.”

My words leave people astonished. No one can take it in. “
What?” June says.

“
You would fire us, Suzannah?” Paolo asks, sounding a bit hurt.

“
No, I wouldn't fire you,” I assure him. “Not unless you forced me to. But just because I'm in charge doesn't mean you get to goof off while Escoffier is away.”

Pedro lets out a loud, derisive laugh. “
Why not?”

I
level him with my best glare before saying, “Because times are tough, and finding a job isn't as easy as it used              to be.” I let that sink in for a moment before adding, “Not even in food service.” This causes some murmuring amongst the crowd, but I know I have their attention. “You may not realize this, but the Winchell is about to tighten its belt.”

“Really?” an incredulous male voice asks from the crowd.

“You’re kidding,” another person feels the need to comment.

“
Ay, it's true,” Paolo responds to the crowd in general. “I hear this,” he assures them. “The people, they talk.”

From my elevated position, I can see almost everyone’s face, and people are starting to look worried. Yeah, a restaurant gig is a lot of work, and Escoffier does yell a lot, but it’s better than trying to find another job in the new world economy. I reel them in a bit more by saying, “
And Kiki is now the temporary restaurant manager. I personally heard Mr. Winchell give Kiki permission to make budget cuts wherever she sees fit.”

As one of the people who openly give Kiki a hard time,
June rolls her eyes. “Hello unemployment.”

Pedro nudges the busboy standing next to him and says, “That Kiki is a real…”

Before Pedro can finish his thought, I cut him off with, “But! I'm the acting chef de cuisine. I can protect you,” I tell them. “I can watch out for your jobs.”

The murmurings from the crowd become more positive; people like the idea of having their jobs protected. “
You are a good girl, Suzannah,” Paolo calls up to me. “You would do this for us?”

“Y
es,” I say, in all seriousness, “but I expect a few things in return.”

Paolo frowns. “
What you want?”

Now I have them. They are all definitely paying attention. Not that all of them are on my side—not yet. There are still several skeptical-looking faces in the crowd. But I can see a clear path to winning them over.

“I want you to work hard, and I want you to be loyal,” I tell them, as if this is easy to extract from any group of employees. “If I say something needs to be done, then you do it, no questions asked.” Several of the busboys exchange looks, and I can tell I’ll lose them if I don’t sweeten the pot. “I want people to be able to be proud that they’re working here. I want to take Bouche and turn it back into the award-winning restaurant that it used to be thirty years ago. I want to make it so that when you’re out cruising the bars and some cute girl asks you what you do for a living and you say you work at Bouche, she’s all keen because she thinks maybe you can get her a table.”

This, the mostly male crowd finds more appealing. I can feel them start to swing more in my direction. “Ay, that sound pretty good.” Paolo nods at his buddy Aspic.

If I’m going to keep them, now is the time to call in a missile strike. “This way when Kiki starts hacking at the budget, I can say that absolutely no one can be cut from the kitchen staff. And I can back my point to Mr. Winchell.”

“Good plan,” June calls out to me.

“Yes, I like this,” Paolo agrees, his head bobbing vigorously.

It’s time to plant my flag and declare myself their leader. “So? Do we have a deal or not? You work hard and do what I say; I make sure you keep taking home a paycheck and are proud of where you work.
Who's with me?” I ask.

“
It might work.” June shrugs.

“I guess,” Pedro agrees.

“Yes.” Aspic gives me a smile that is mostly eclipsed by his luxurious mustache.

The crowd is with me but not nearly enthusiastic enough for my tastes. I climb from the chair onto a prep table and ask again in a louder voice, “Who’s with me?”

“I am,” June tells me.

“Me, too,” calls Pedro.

“Do you want to keep your job? Do you want to be able to put food on the table? Do you want to work at one of the best restaurants in Chicago and therefore one of the best restaurants in the world?” It always helps to give our town a little plug when you’re trying to get anyone to do anything. “I said,” I practically bellow, “who’s with me?”

“We are,” the Bouche kitchen staff say as one.

I have one foot propped up on a pot, and I pump my fist in the air. “Who’s with me?”

“We are!”

I am Napoleon leading his troops into battle. I am George Washington crossing the Delaware. I have my army, and I am ready to wage war.

“
All right, then. If you want me to save your jobs, then no more goofing around. Let's get to work!”

To my surprise and delight, the crowd scatters, everyone rushing to catch up with what they should have been working on for the past half hour. But still, I have them. They are mine. As long as they think I can save their jobs, which I’m pretty sure I can, then they are under my command.

I climb off the table and get to work myself. Unlike Escoffier, I actually have work to do outside of bullying employees. My words have really inspired people because within ten minutes, the whole kitchen is humming like a finely tuned machine.

Trent comes striding purposefully into the kitchen looking quite angry. He glares around the room but is brought up short by the fact that everyone is hard at work. I walk up to him, a quizzical expression on my face. “
Did you need something, Trent?”

“Um…” He is obviously confused. “
No, it's just...” He looks around the room again.

“Yes?” I ask in the most accommodating voice I can muster.

“I heard a rumor that no one was listening to you and that there wasn't any prep work getting done,” Trent admits. “That's obviously not the case.”

“
A rumor?” I cock my head to one side.

“
Well... you know...” he says, evasively. “Someone might have said something...”

I have a pretty good idea who that someone might be. But I’m not going to get into that with Trent. Instead, I say, “
Anyway... I’ve been working on some new menu ideas, if you're curious.”

“
Sure.” Trent is relieved that all is well, so he is amenable and gives me a smile.

Perfect. Being alone with Trent in Escoffier’s office is all part of my plan. I smile back at him. “Give me just one minute.”

When I was a senior in high school, I had this major crush on a guy named A.J. who was a freshman in college. His friend was dating my friend, so a flock of us high school girls descended on his fraternity almost every weekend. A.J. was tall and skinny with floppy brown hair. He wore argyle socks with moccasins when he played the drums in the fraternity’s house band. I know it sounds kind of dorky, but I found it adorable. A.J. seemed to like me, too, and we flirted quite a bit over a couple of weekends. Then one Saturday night, the guys planned a campfire. It sounded perfect. I fantasized all week about cuddling up to A.J. and experiencing our first kiss. And he had specifically said he was looking forward to seeing me there.

Around the campfire that Saturday, things were going according to plan. A.J. had saved a spot for me, and we were sitting so close our shoulders were touching. I knew it would be only a matter of time before our lips would be touching. That was until Angie took a seat on the opposite side of him. Angie was a friend of a friend, visiting from out of town. She was only fifteen so definitely not someone who should have been at a college party, but she was a hard fifteen. You would have never guessed her age just by looking at her. I greeted Angie and, just to be polite, introduced her to the boy who I anticipated would be my boyfriend by the end of the evening. Within ten minutes, and I’m not exaggerating here, Angie and A.J. were making out heavily. For weeks, I’d been flirting with this guy and, within the time it takes to brew a pot of coffee, Angie had sashayed in and snagged him right out from under me. I was so humiliated and hurt that I ran off into the dark and cried by myself for a good hour. No one even bothered to look for me.

That was the first time I had liked a guy and had some other chick steal him out from under me, but it wasn’t the last. High school, community college, culinary school—there’s just something about me that screams, “Hey, come take my man.” But those days are over. I am no longer the doormat of love. I remind myself of my new credo as I seek Pedro in the kitchen.

I see Pedro joking around with one of the dishwashers and pull him to one side. “Pedro, can I count on you for a little undercover work?”

“Under the covers work?” His dark brown eyes sparkle with self-amusement.

“No.” I’m not in the mood for his high school flirting. “Espionage. I need you to do a little spying for me. Think you can handle that?”

“Sure.” I can tell by the sly smirk on his face that the idea of a covert operation intrigues him. “What do you want me to do?”

“Kiki’s in the dining room, and I’m sure she’s talking to the wait staff. Just go out there and pretend to be cleaning something. Listen to what she has to say and report back to me.”

“I can do that.” He is confident.

“I’m sure you can,” I tell him. “Just be careful she doesn’t realize you’re eavesdropping.”

Pedro is obviously pleased with being sent on a special mission, so I send him off and return to Trent, leading him to Escoffier’s office for an intimate conversation over my ideas for new appetizers. By tattling that I was incompetent, Kiki thought she was going to pull one over on me straight out of the gate, but she definitely underestimated me and sent Trent straight into my clutches. Score one for my side.

Trent and I squeeze into Escoffier’s office, but instead of sitting of the opposite side of the desk from me, Trent inches his chair around so we can both simultaneously look at the piece of paper where I’ve roughed out a few new ideas for the Bouche menu. I’ve made sure to take my hat off and fluff up the front of my hair when Trent wasn’t looking. If we’re going to be squashed together, I might as well try to look as attractive as possible. Trent is pretending to read what I’ve written, but I can tell he’s checking me out from the corner of his eye.