Georgia's Kitchen (3 page)

“Nice job, Chef.” Ricky patted her back. “You done good.”

“You too, Rick. Whatever happens…” She left her thoughts unsaid. Whatever happened would set the course for the rest of her life. It was that simple.

T
wo and a half hours later, Bernard finally poked his head into the kitchen. “She just finished her third caffè corretto. She’s gone.”

The kitchen burst into applause, whooping and hollering. The grill guy let loose an earsplitting whistle. According to industry lore, the number of grappa-laced espressos Mercedes drank equaled the number of forks she intended to bestow upon the restaurant. Busboys knew not to clear her espresso cup until a manager had checked to see if it was empty or half full, a full or half fork respectively. Three forks were more than anyone had hoped for, including Georgia, who could practically taste her own restaurant. Even Marco always said he’d be happy with two.

“She must have a wooden leg, and a bottomless expense account. She and her four friends polished off a round of gimlets at the bar, a bottle of Dom, a Ribolla Gialla, and two Barolos.” Bernard chuckled. “Whatever it takes, sister.” He looked around the room, pausing on Georgia.

A waiter burst through the kitchen door pushing a trolley laden with champagne flutes. The drinking portion of the evening had officially begun.

Bernard continued, “Cheers to all of you on a job well done. On behalf of our boss, Marco, and yours truly, you all were magnificent. And you, Georgia, especially.” He picked up a glass and raised it in her direction.

She smiled, feeling her face grow hot.

Ricky handed her a glass of champagne. “Good news, Chef.”

“Three forks is better than good news, Rick. It’s—”

“No, I mean Glenn’s here. In the dining room.”

“He is? He’s here?” She took a sip of champagne and stepped through the swinging door to greet her fiancé, feeling lighter than she had in a long time.

“There she is,” Glenn said in a loud voice, a smile spreading across his face, his pale blue eyes fixed on Georgia. “My favorite three-fork chef.” He stood at the bar, drink in hand, surrounded, as he usually was in social settings, by a group of people. He was not the kind of guy who’d ever lack for someone to talk to at a cocktail party.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Georgia reached up to push his hair behind his ear. She loved his hair. Black, straight, shiny, not even the teensiest bit of frizz, so unlike her own.

“So am I. Three forks? This is incredible, George!”

“I know. Can you believe it?”

“Of course I can.” He put his empty glass on the bar and pulled her into him, placing a long, soft kiss on her mouth. No sooner had they stopped kissing than he drew her into his chest and kissed her again.

“Wow,” she said, pulling back slightly. “I should get a three-fork
review every day.” She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, but her coworkers were too busy basking in their glory and in the free-flowing booze to notice much of anything.

“You should,” Glenn said. “More champagne?”

“Did someone say champagne?” Marco walked over with a bottle of Cristal and refilled their glasses.

“We made it into your Cristal club,” Georgia said, raising her flute. “I’m flattered.”

In Marco’s champagne hierarchy, he and his fabulous friends drank Cristal, cooks and servers drank Veuve Clicquot, and busboys and dishwashers drank prosecco.

“You’re always in, Georgia, you know that.” He turned to Glenn. “How’s it going, chief?” He threw out his hand for the half-high-five/half-handshake that was the universal greeting of thirtysomething metro men.

“Pretty good, man. You?” Despite professing to hate Marco’s guts for having slept with Georgia, Glenn acted cordial, even chummy, with him. A little chilliness would have been fine with her.

“All good. You heard your fiancée got us three forks?”

“I did.” Glenn rested his hand on the small of Georgia’s back.

“So what’s the plan? We gotta celebrate these forks.” Marco took a quick survey of the room. “All of us. Together.”

“Actually, we have to go to the Rumpus,” Georgia said. “It’s a small bar on Rivington. My best friend is playing there and we promised we’d go, so—”

“Cool. I love the Rumpus. We’ll all go,” Marco interrupted.

“Oh,” said Georgia. “Great.” Lo, who was used to singing and strumming for single-digit crowds, would probably fall off her barstool when they entered.

“Hey, chief, you’re a lawyer, right?” Marco asked Glenn.

“Attorney, yeah. Entertainment law.”

“Want to do me a solid?” Marco didn’t wait for an answer. “I have this new lease I need someone to eyeball. You mind?”

“It’s not really my thing, but sure, I’ll check it out.”

“It’s in my office. Don’t worry, Georgia, I’ll bring him right back.”

Glenn squeezed her hand and set off behind Marco.

“Where are those two going?” Bernard walked over as they slipped into the crowd. “Locker room?”

“Marco’s office. He has some lease he wants Glenn to look at.”

Bernard watched them for a second. “So, good work tonight, Georgia. Really great. Marco is damn lucky to have you.”

“You too, Bernard. This place would run about as smoothly as a FEMA rescue operation without you. I’ve never worked in such a tightly run place.”

“Then it seems a toast is in order.” Bernard lifted his glass. “To us. A good team.”

“Good? Three forks and we don’t even rank great?”

“You’re right. To us, a great team.”

They touched glasses just as Ricky, sipping his trademark tequila sunrise, popped over. Despite the drink, he didn’t seem to be in a festive mood.

“I don’t mean to spoil your moment, guys, but do you really buy this three-espresso, three-fork crap?” He looked from Georgia to Bernard. “I mean, I know Mercedes is no Bruni, but doesn’t it seem sort of JV?”

“‘Jay’ what?” Bernard asked.

“Junior varsity,
amateur,
for her to announce the rating before the review comes out? And the whole theory comes from a blog written by a guy who bused at like five restaurants she reviewed in six months. Do we trust a guy who worked five places in six months?”

“A blogging busboy came up with the theory?” Georgia said. “I hope he’s at least been promoted.”

“It’s more than five places, Ricky. I’d say nine, maybe even double digits.” Bernard shrugged. “Besides, Mercedes looked pleased as punch when she left tonight. Or drunk as punch. Now if our esteemed boss can keep his hands off her daughter, we’ll be on our way.”

“What daughter?” Georgia asked.

“The very pretty, very nineteen-year-old NYU girl Marco’s been salivating over since meeting her at Lilly last week,” said Bernard.

“How do you know she’s Mercedes’s daughter?”

“Well, for starters her last name is Sante. Also, she told us.”

“Us?” Georgia said. “You and Marco?”

“A bunch of us went out after close. Marco was buying.” Bernard shrugged again.

“Even he couldn’t be so dumb,” Georgia said. “Even Marco couldn’t ruin his shot at three forks by doing something stupid with Mercedes’s daughter.” She looked across the room, spotting Glenn and Marco leaving Marco’s office. They were engrossed in conversation, trading hand slaps and chest pokes like a couple of old drinking buddies. She turned back to Bernard. “Right, Bernard?”

“Right,” he agreed. “Even Marco couldn’t.”

A caravan of cabs turned onto Rivington, lining up in front of a storefront bar with blacked-out windows. A sign over the door spelled out
THE RUMPUS
in Day-Glo graffiti. In case there was any question as to how the bar derived its name, a mural of Sendak-style monsters hanging from trees, gnashing their teeth, and letting “the wild rumpus start” covered the entry. It was a fitting venue for the Marco staff, who tumbled out of the cabs and onto the sidewalk, gathering in front of a bouncer half sitting on a barstool parked outside the door. He held a roll of cash
in one hand and a heavy-duty flashlight in the other and didn’t bother looking up as the group descended on him. Georgia had been sandwiched between Ricky and Bernard on the bumpy ride across town, and she jumped out of the taxi behind Ricky while Glenn, who’d insisted on taking the front seat, paid the cabbie.

Music from the bar spilled onto the street each time a new patron passed through the door. Georgia got a text from Clem, her other best friend, who had arrived and was waiting inside.

“Ready?” Glenn said as the cab sped off with a new fare in the backseat. He’d barely spoken to Georgia since leaving Marco’s office and had spent the entire taxi ride pounding out e-mails on his BlackBerry, leaving her to wonder what could possibly be so important at Smith, Standish and Lockton that it couldn’t wait until morning.

She nodded. “Is everything okay? You seem a little jumpy.”

“I’m fine,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “Let’s go in.”

He peeled out a ten for their covers and handed it to the bouncer. “For both of us,” he said, continuing in without stopping.

“ID?” the bouncer said. He had little eyes and protruding lips and wore a puffy jacket, which made him look even beefier than he was. He propped his foot against the door just as Glenn’s hand reached the knob.

“I’m thirty-four, man. Give me a break.”

“ID?” the bouncer repeated, shining his flashlight in Glenn’s eyes.

“Jesus Christ.” Glenn pulled his wallet from his pocket, turned his back on Georgia, and began thumbing through it. “Here.”

The bouncer took his driver’s license and stared at it for a few seconds. “What sign are you?”

“Are you kidding me?”

The bouncer shook his head.

“I’m a fucking Gemini. Now get that flashlight out of my face and let me in.” Glenn raised his hands, and for a second Georgia thought he was going to shove the guy.

The bouncer dropped Glenn’s license to the ground. “Whoops.”

Glenn stared at him, then at the license, then back at him. His hand curled into a fist. Before it could go anywhere, Georgia grabbed his arm and stooped down to pick up his license.

“Here,” she said, handing it to Glenn. “And here’s my ID.” She held it in front of the bouncer.

He didn’t take his eyes off Glenn, not even to glance at her birth date. “Have a good night, sweetheart.”

She steered Glenn through the door and into the bar, not stopping until they were safely camouflaged behind a bunch of the line cooks.

“What the hell was that? You were about to hit that guy! You don’t hit people!” The music was so loud she had to shout, but she was so mad she’d have shouted anyway.

“That guy was a tool,” Glenn yelled back.

“He’s a bouncer, Glenn. Of course he’s a tool. Since when do you pick fights with bouncers?”

In the seven years they’d been together, she’d never seen him so much as elbow someone for getting too close on the subway. Now that he was a thirty-four-year-old attorney about to get married, it didn’t seem the best time to start punching people out.

“I didn’t start with him, he started with me,” Glenn said. “Did you see the way he—”

“It doesn’t matter who started what, Glenn. It was stupid. And since when do you even care if someone starts with you?” She glared at him. “You could have been hurt.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Or sued.”

That got his attention. It wouldn’t do for a soon-to-be-partner at Standish to be implicated in something so street. An illicit affair, maybe, but a barroom brawl? Not so much.

One of the cooks turned around, holding a shot glass in his hand. Georgia immediately pivoted in the other direction, but it was too late. “Chef! Chef!” he yelled. “Come do a shot with us!” The others followed his lead, motioning for her to join them.

She waved to them over Glenn’s shoulder, smiling and nodding and pretending not to hear what they were saying. Fortunately, the charade worked, and they downed their shots without her.

“You’re right,” Glenn said after a moment. His face had softened but his voice still had an edge. “It was stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Is everything okay with you?” She reached out and touched his cheek.

“Everything’s fine. But I have to hit the head. I’ll be back in a minute.” He squeezed her hand and disappeared into the crowd. The Glenn who’d known it was important to show up when she asked, who’d kissed her like he meant it, was gone.

Sneaking by the line cooks, who held a fresh round of shots, Georgia scoped out the room for Clem. Even in the low lighting, Clem’s ginger bob beckoned from the bar, and Georgia rushed over to join her.

“Do you think this bartender will be able to make a good mint julep?” Clem asked, studying a drink menu. “The Derby’s coming up, and I’m trying to get in the mood.” A Kentucky girl through and through, Clem believed the Derby was not only the two most exciting minutes in sports, but in life.

“Order a Hendrick’s and tonic like a normal person. Please. Or have some bubbles.” Georgia gestured to a bottle of Mumm
sitting in an ice bucket, one of many now scattered around the club courtesy of Marco, who was nothing if not a big spender. With its faux-wood paneling and low-slung black leather sofas, the place looked like a messier version of her parents’ rec room in Wellesley circa 1984.