The Queen of Minor Disasters (14 page)

Some therapists might call
this “repression,” but I call it getting through the night, and if that means
I’ll be lying on a couch in a few years, talking about my childhood while some
shrink takes notes, so be it. Lucy thinks that one day I’ll just explode, but
that’s not likely.

I can’t even imagine the look
on people’s faces if I just started screaming and throwing pasta in the middle
of the dining room one night.

Not that I would ever do that
or anything. Talk about ruining the dream.

“What are the specials
tonight?” I ask entering the kitchen with a pen and paper in hand. We open in
ten minutes, so the waiters need to know this info, like now.

“We only have one,” Lorenzo
says with a smile. “Penne all’ arrabbiata. Angry penne, just for you.”            

He and Mario laugh and I storm
out of the kitchen.

Stupid brothers. They think
they’re so funny.

I fume as I stand by the
hostess podium. I get nine more minutes to brood and I’m using every last
second.

“Did you get the specials?”
Dante asks. I look to see the rest of the waiters gather by their station, pens
in hand. They’ve sent a family member to try to talk to me.

“Get them yourself,” I snap.
Dante scowls and walks past me. I watch him enter the kitchen. A few minutes
later he’s in the back, telling the waiters the specials of the night. As soon
as he finishes, he switches on the music and dims the lights, signifying that
we are now open for business.

I take a deep breath and
smile.

As the night drags on, the
heat continues to rise. I’ve lowered the air down to forty degrees, but the
meter is still reading eighty-two. That’s twenty degrees cooler than the
outside air, but still not enough to make a comfortable dining experience. Each
year, about a hundred thousand people gather on the Island for the Fourth of
July, and everyone uses their air conditioning on full blast. This year is the
worst yet, as the temperature is forcing the electricity into overdrive.

At around 7:00 the lights
flicker. It’s just a momentary lapse of power but is enough to send a hush
through the noisy restaurant. I look around and see people fanning themselves
with their cloth napkins, wiping sweat from their brows. I don’t think anyone
has ordered the penne all’ arrabbiata; who needs the extra heat on his plate?

That’ll show Lorenzo for
trying to make fun of his only sister. His
twin.

But I start to worry that
maybe it’s too hot. Last year, Mario suggested back up air conditioners, but
the project was too expensive so my parents decided against it. They should
have listened. Instantly, I imagine a customer revolt, where people decide to
all walk out together, and the restaurant is left empty. The phone rings.

“Stella,” Stacy, the owner of
Sea Breeze says. She sounds frantic.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Is your power out?”

“No, it just flickered a
little but it’s back on.”

“Ours has been out for forty
minutes,” she says in a panic. “I think we need to close.”

 Every restaurant’s biggest
nightmare is losing power during service. Not only will they lose the business
of the night, and get a bad reputation for canceling their reservations at the
last minute, but they’ll also most likely lose all of their inventory. I know
they have a huge walk-in fridge and matching freezer, probably stocked with
thousands of dollars’ worth of food.

“If you need to use some of
our ice, feel free to come by and take it from the machine,” I say. Our ice
machine is located in our refrigerated storage off the kitchen. It has a
separate door to it so they could come in, unnoticed. “I’ll unlock it for you.”

“Maybe I will, at least for
the expensive stuff,” she says. I imagine her making a mental list of filet
mignons and king crab legs. “There’s one more thing,” she continues. “Our best
customers, Mr. and Mrs. Klean, are coming in twenty minutes. They’re with a
party of six. Can you squeeze them in?”

It’s strange that I never
heard of the Kleans. We generally share the same clients since our restaurants
are only three doors apart. I scan my reservation list. I’m actually
overbooked, and squeezing in a six is nothing like squeezing in a two. But I
feel bad, imagining what would happen if we had to cancel on our best customers
at the last minute.

“Ok,” I sigh. “You can send
them over. I’ll figure something out.”

“Thank you so much,” she says,
sounding relieved.

I try to reorder my
reservation list and tell the waiters to rush everything along. If they move
quickly enough, and if people don’t linger, I should be okay. I’m nervous
because we have no waiting area, so if things don’t work out tonight, people
will have to wait outside in the sweltering heat.

The Kleans arrive to find
their table all set. They’re in their early fifties and look like Island
Royalty. He’s tall with sable hair and not a speck of grey. His skin is bronzed
and he wears casual khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt. She’s petite, just
slightly taller than me, and embraces her height by wearing flats. Her peach
Capri pants offset her deep tan, and her silky blonde hair is pulled into a
tight bun. She wears a tight white t-shirt and a yellow cashmere sweater tied
over her shoulders despite the heat.

“It’s warm in here,” she says
under her breath.

Take off the cashmere, girlfriend.

The rest of their party is
dressed similarly in Ralph Lauren Polo. One man wears navy blue shorts with
tiny whales embroidered all over them, thus proving that money certainly
doesn’t buy taste. Honestly, there should be a law saying that no male over the
age of six is allowed to wear shorts like that.

As I collect their menus Mr.
Klean raises his eyebrow and looks at his friends. Do I have something on me?
“Your table is right this way.” I flash them a big smile.

They follow me to the back of
the restaurant. Table fifteen is the last on the right, before the waiters’
station. They don’t look too happy with it, but since the restaurant’s packed,
they don’t have another option. Brittany is their server, so hopefully her
bubbly attitude will rub off.

People just love her.

Whenever we have new guests in
the restaurant, I try my hardest to impress them. Usually people love the food,
and are used to the tight atmosphere. Most shore restaurants pack their guests
in like tuna in a tin.

 At best, people finds this
cozy and intimate.

At worst, they complain about
the noise and having the waiter reach over them to serve the table.

 I agree that it’s not exactly
fine dining, but we try to make it work.

Tonight, however, the heat is
an added insult to the tight seating.

The waiters are doing a great
job pushing tables along. Some tables are in and out in less than an hour, and
it’s working out perfectly. The most people have to wait is about five minutes
and so far people seem to be dealing well with the heat. I’ve noticed a lot of
salads being ordered, which is not the best for sales, but at least people are
happy.

You can’t expect people to eat
too much when they’re dripping with sweat.

 I’m so focused on seating my
guests that I almost don’t notice Brittany standing next to me with tears in
her eyes.

 “What’s wrong?” I ask her. I
can only handle so many disasters in one night.

“That guy is
such
an asshole. He
humiliated
me in front of the entire
table.”

I assume she’s talking about
Mr. Klean, because the rest of her tables are regulars who would never do such
a thing. “What did he say?”

“He keeps calling me Barbie,”
she explains. “And when he needed more bread, he told me to ‘shake my tail’ and
go get him some.”

I hate to admit it, but
it is
kind of funny. Brittany does look
oddly similar to the famous doll, especially now with her deep tan and sun
bleached hair.

 Still, his remarks are rude.

 “Don’t let him bother you.
I’ll check them out in a minute,” I assure her.

She walks away and I notice,
for the first time, how she does put a little shake in her hips as she moves.
I’ll have to talk to her about her walk another night.

 A small group of diners
gathers at the door. They must be the 8:00 reservations.

“Excuse me,” a voice to my
right says. I turn to look and Mr. Klean is staring me in the face. “My friends
and I would like some towels.”

The crowds have moved in and
are waiting at the podium. “Oh I’m sorry, did something spill? I’ll send the
bus boy over right away.”

“No, nothing spilled. It’s
just that it’s so hot in here we feel like we’re sitting in a fucking sauna.”

My eyes widen. The other
guests look appalled.

If ever there
were
a time for an explosion, this would
be it.

No. Try to keep calm.

“I’m very sorry about the heat
sir. It’s usually not like this in here, but it seems that the power is waning
tonight. Sea Breeze had to close,” I remind him.

“I don’t care what the excuse
is. It’s way too hot.” He storms off without giving me a chance to respond.

I look down and see my hands
trembling a bit.

“Nice guy,” the guest in front
of me says and I smile.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s hot in
here,” I apologize.

“It’s hot everywhere, at least
we’re not cooking at home,” the wife chimes in. I seat the couple and move back
to the hostess stand to seat the rest of the reservations.

Lucy comes running up.
“There’s a guy in the waiters’ station fiddling with the air conditioner,” she
says.

Before she can even finish, I
feel something inside of me snap. I walk through the dining room in a rage and
glare at Mr. Klean.

“Who do you think you are?” I
yell. “You have no right to touch our air conditioner, or anything else in the
restaurant.” At this point I don’t even care that service has stopped and
people are starting to stare. I’ve had enough of this shit.

“This says it’s eighty-three
degrees in here. That’s ridiculous!” he screams.

 I take a deep breath. “Have
you eaten dinner yet sir?”

“No, we’re waiting for our
entrées.”

“Well then you can march back
to your table and tell the rest of your party that you’re being kicked out
before dinner. We don’t need your business here.”

He turns pale and storms off
to his table. Michele laughs but I’m not in the mood. To be honest, I’m in
utter shock. I imagine the Yelp review already.
Zero stars, we complained about the heat and the bitchy manager kicked
us out for no reason. Don’t go there!!!

Mrs. Klean approaches the
waiters’ station sans sweater. “I apologize for my husband’s behavior,” she
says to me. “He’s having a bad night. We’d appreciate it if you allowed us to
stay and eat dinner.”

I soften. “Fine. But keep you
husband under control.”

Mrs. Klean smiles and returns
to her table. I watch her reach for her wine and shoot a nasty look at her
husband. Somebody’s sleeping on the couch tonight.