The Queen of Minor Disasters (7 page)

“I’m still in Philly,” he
replies.

That’s strange. Lorenzo never
comes down the shore on Fridays. “Really?”

“Yeah, I wanted one last night
out in the city before the season starts.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet. I gotta see
what Biv and Jason want to do. Thursday nights are good in Old City.”

Lorenzo and I used to have the
same group of friends, but when I started dating Drew I sort of lost touch with
everyone. Besides, Lorenzo’s friends are hit or miss; they’re great, loyal
guys, but sometimes they’re really immature. Then again, so are Drew’s. “All
right. Have fun.”

When we hang up I walk through
the den, and outside to the bay, where I take a seat in our chaise lounge and
watch the colors of the sky turn to night. The sun is a big rosy ball, ready to
make its descent into the horizon.

There are beach people and
there are bay people and really, the difference comes down to whether you enjoy
a sunrise or a sunset. My grandmom Stella was alone in her beach preference,
because we DiLucio’s are definitely bay people, though since we’ve opened the
restaurant, we’ve hardly caught a sunset.

But still, we love them.

It’s the third week in June
but the air still has a slight chill to it so I pull my knees to my chest and
hug them for warmth. I think about the week, and try not to replay the events
of the breakup.

Then, for some reason, I start
thinking of my grandmother. It’s times like these, times of high crisis, that I
wish she were still around. She’d know exactly what to say and do to get Drew
back.

Even though everyone says I
take after her, there’s one important element that I’m missing. My grandmother
was the spunkiest woman I’d ever met, and I unfortunately lack that spark.

Yields 4 dozen medium sized
meatballs

Perfect for when you’re
stressed. Just try them, you’ll see.

1 pound ground beef

1 pound ground veal

1 pound ground pork

3 eggs, beaten

1 cup breadcrumbs

1/2 cup milk

2 gloves of garlic, finely
chopped

1/2 cup Italian parsley,
finely chopped

1 cup pecorino romano cheese,
grated.

1) Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

2) In a large bowl mix all the ingredients together
until thoroughly incorporated.

3) Roll meat into a small, tight ball using the palms
of your hands (some people use a small ice cream scoop to get meatballs that
are all the same size).

4) Place on a baking sheet.

5) Bake for one hour, or until fully browned and
cooked through.  Allow to cool before eating (I know it’s hard).

The bad news: he still hasn’t
called.

The good news: Food Therapy
works. Last night after sitting on the bay for a few hours, I got tired of
thinking, so I walked over to the restaurant and cut myself a slice (or three)
of Chuck’s chocolate cake. It really did make me feel better, and it helped to
formulate a plan of action for operation Get-Drew-Back.

Ok, here’s the thing. Drew
thinks we’re not compatible because I am just a lowly waitress/restaurant
manager working for my parents, while he is a big bad marketing executive (aka,
slave to the cubicle in some shitty office).

Obviously, he doesn’t
understand just how much effort and expertise it takes to deal with people all
night long. Honestly, if he could only
see           
what
I do on a daily basis, he’d realize that I’m not some slacker, mooching off of
her parents, but a highly motivated, well rounded woman, capable of
multi-tasking and, eventually, achieving global domination. All of that, and I
can stand on concrete flooring in six inch heels for eight hours straight,
seven nights a week.

Not that restaurant management
is my life’s dream or anything, but I am working with what I’ve got.

So, my plan is simple. I’m
going to show Drew exactly what I do.

And since tonight officially
kicks off our full time season, I’ll have plenty of opportunities to show him
my brilliance.

The only glitch in the plan is
that Drew is in New York City and I’m on the Island, so how could he possibly
see what I’m doing?

Other girls would end right
there. They’d throw in the towel and accept defeat. But not this girl. No way.

In a sheer stroke of
brilliance I’ve decided to film myself in action, doing what I do.

When I called Lucy at six this
morning to tell her the plan, she brought up the point that customers might not
want to be caught on film when they enter a restaurant. But I figure I can get
around that by blurring out faces, just like they do on reality TV. And once
I’ve gotten enough footage, I’ll post the videos on YouTube and email Drew the
link. Once he sees me in action he’ll be begging for me back.

I can imagine it already.

He’ll be at his desk at work
and open the YouTube link, thinking it’s stupid video of a cat dancing or some
other nonsense, and he’ll be mesmerized by me, in a Kelly green Theory dress (tonight’s
outfit), answering phones, greeting customers, flirting like a champ (hopefully
a cute guy will come in—that’ll make Drew jealous on top of proud), and
handling the unexpected situations that will surely arise. All while looking
fabulous (thanks to Gina’s crash course in make-up the other day).

He’ll be so awe-struck, in
fact, that he won’t even hear his boss standing over his shoulder. And once he
does turn around, his boss will say “who’s that girl” to which Drew will
respond “my ex.” His boss will shake his head, confirming what Drew already
knows; that he lost a gem. Then his boss will say “she’s a star,” and send the
link to all of his bazillion contacts. The video will go viral in a matter of
minutes and I’ll have agents phoning me about TV shows and movies. I’m sure of
it.

So sure of it, in fact, that I
went off shore to buy a larger memory card for my camera. Right now the thing
can hold thirty minutes of video. That’s a lot, considering the average YouTube
video is fifty-seven seconds. But I figure I’ll have to scrap
some
footage.

I’ve set the camera up right
next to the hostess stand on my left (my better side) to optimize the light and
angle from which I’m shot.

The only thing is, tonight we
have another packed house, and with my family coming in, I’m busier than usual.
Both Dante and Lucy are late getting down. School ended and their grades were
due by 3:00 p.m. They jumped in the car together and made it here thirty
minutes after the other waiters. That set us back a bit. I tried to help
Michelle and Ryan get the side work done but the phone just kept ringing.

My main job as manager of
Lorenzo’s is to control the reservation book. I’ve got it down pretty well; I
assign each table a two-hour time slot so in theory we can seat the same table
at 5:00 p.m., 7:00 p.m., and 9:00 p.m. With seventeen tables we have the
potential of seating 180 diners a night. Now, of course, there are tables (like
two tops), which are in and out in less than an hour, and others (like parties
of twelve) who will sit for forty minutes before even ordering a thing, but for
the most part, my method works. When it doesn’t and people have to wait for
their reservation, I find that the only thing to do is flirt.

I’m a master flirt. I don’t
discriminate between men and women, though the tactics differ greatly from
person to person. I mean, you have to be
smart
about it. You can’t just bat your eyelashes like they do in the movies.
Flirting is an art form.

Take, for example, these two
scenarios.

Scenario one: a middle-aged
woman comes in to check on her table, which is nowhere near ready. No need to
panic. Just quickly find something you like about her outfit and divert the
conversation that way. You must be sincere though, you can’t say you love her
Lily Pulitzer pants if the only color you ever wear is black. No, no, no. On
the Island, you must dress the part if you want to be a successful restaurant
manager, even if that means sporting the occasional Capri pants with
embroidered umbrellas on them, straight out of page twenty-six in last year’s
J. Crew catalogue.

Scenario two: an elderly
gentleman comes in after waiting fifteen minutes for his 7:00 reservation. He’s
not
accustomed to waiting like
younger people so he’s pretty angry.  Just gently touch his hand and explain
how sorry you are. Then, with a big smile tell him the people who are currently
sitting at his table have their check and should be paying the bill soon. Even
if this
is
a little white lie, it
generally calms down the customer. It’s really pretty easy.

When all else fails and the
customer is
really
mad there’s
nothing left to do but start giving stuff away for free. As you know, this
infuriates Lorenzo (so don’t tell him). Not that this happens often or
anything. Usually flirting works just fine. I’m an expert; remember?

The phone rings again at 5:00,
just as we are opening for the night. “Thank you for calling Lorenzo’s how may
I help you?” I say looking directly into the camera. I’ve restarted recording
because I figure the opening footage was mostly boring stuff.

“I need to make a
reservation,” the man on the other end says.

“Ok, when would you like to
come in?”  I flip through the reservation book busily, as if the man on the
other end is very important. Then I hold a pencil between my fingers as if it
were a cigarette, and do my best to channel Audrey Hepburn à la
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.

“How about 7:00? There are six
of us.”

“Tonight?” I ask wide eyed. I
drop the pencil to look like I’m in shock.

“Yeah, tonight.”

I look down at the
reservations and see that our tables are all booked up.

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t have
7:00 available. My only available times are 5:00, 5:30, or 9:15.”

“What about 7:30?” he asks.

 Obviously he’s not paying
attention.

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t have
that either,” I try to be peppy for the camera.

“Listen,” he says frankly.
“It’s my wife’s birthday and I forgot to make a reservation. Is there any way
you can squeeze us in?”

Now I just feel bad. His
wife’s birthday. How could he have forgotten? Drew would never forget. For a
minute I’m flustered, remembering the three birthdays I spent with Drew.

 “Hello?” the man on the phone
says.

Oh right.

“I’m really sorry.” I sigh.
“If you want, I can take your name for the waiting list. If we get any
cancellations, I’ll give you a call.”

He quickly gives his name and
cell number then hangs up without saying goodbye.

It’s not
my
fault he forgot to make a reservation.

“I hate people,” I mumble to
myself as the front door opens. Oh crap. I’ll have to edit that out.

My parents arrive with boxes
of food from La Cucina. They’ve decided to close on weekends for the summer.
The restaurant is in my hometown, which is just a little speck on the map
outside Philadelphia and the town pretty much dies from June to September so it
makes sense for them to close.