Georgia's Kitchen (9 page)

“If only. Looks like we’re down to one.”

“One fork? From three to one? You can’t cut a review by two forks because of the restaurant’s scumbag owner!”

“I’m afraid you can. Especially when said scumbag groped and pawed your nubile daughter, all nineteen years and ninety-nine pounds of her, and then cast her out like yesterday’s coffee grounds. I’m afraid you can.”

“I can’t believe this. I cannot fucking believe this.” Georgia needed the review. Especially with everything else going on, she needed the review.

Bernard cleared his throat. “Speak of the scumbag devil.”

Marco stood in the doorway, white motorcycle helmet in hand, black wraparound sunglasses shading his eyes. With his cosmetically enhanced grin and tight T-shirt, he looked like the grown-up member of a long-defunct boy band.

She turned around and walked back to the locker room, passing Ricky, who held up a piece of wan broccoli to his mouth before inspecting it and returning it to his plate. The one thing helping her keep her shit together amid all the crap with Glenn, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, had just gone Alaskan-oil-spill black. A one-fork review was a career breaker. A fire-the-chef, scrap-the-name, change-the-decor, if-you-even-stay-open kind of review. She was screwed. And all because of Marco and his fucking libido.

Dressed and ready for dinner prep, Georgia went outside to nurse her nerves before service. Ricky stood smoking with the garde-manger, who spoke little English and cleared his phlegmy throat frequently as if to make up for it. Ricky blew a smoke ring Georgia’s way and joined her on the step.

“You okay?”

“Jesus, Ricky, this is going to be really bad.”

“Remember what you said that night. It’s not our funeral, it’s Marco’s. You said it, Chef.”

“The thing is, Ricky, I was lying when I said that. It’s not Marco’s funeral, it’s not your funeral, it’s my funeral. One hundred percent.” She looked down at the butts littering the ground. “Can I have a cigarette?”

“You don’t smoke, Georgia. You know, it may not be as bad as we all think. Maybe she’ll surprise us and give us two forks. That’s more than respectable.” He stomped out his cigarette. “Come on. Let’s grab some joe.”

The Juilliard-trained-cellist-cum-waitress who had been Mercedes’s server made them two cappuccinos. “Georgia, don’t sweat the review. Everyone knows what happened. No one will blame you. Here,” she said, handing over the coffees. “Extra foam.”

“Thanks,” Georgia said, amazed at how quickly bad news spread. She slugged down her cappuccino, her inner strength dissipating faster than her career prospects.

Ricky motioned toward the doorway, where Marco stood, legs wide, hands behind his back. At least he’d lost the shades.

“Guys.” Marco strutted toward the group, his hands palming the air, his eyes resting on the waitress’s well-endowed chest.

Scumbag, Georgia thought for the millionth time that day. And he wasn’t even good in bed.

“So how’s it going?” He flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his T-shirt and ran his hand through his hair several times. “Everyone feeling good?” His leather-soled shoes tapped the floor, and he jingled the keys in his pocket. “Big night tonight. Huggy Henderson’s coming in. You guys know who she is?”

Georgia opened her mouth, then shut it.

“A big-deal socialite. A friend of mine. I made the reservation
for her myself, so make sure you do her right. Table nine.” He squeezed the waitress’s shoulder and winked, then walked away.

He hadn’t looked at Georgia once. When the review hit, he would fire her. She was sure of it.

Georgia attacked her dinner prep more aggressively than usual. As she saw it, there were two kinds of chefs. First, there were the cerebral types, who cooked with an intellectual, almost academic, bent. They cooked with precision and accuracy, studying a particular ingredient’s effects in multiple settings before introducing it into their kitchen. These chefs loved the science of food. Fastidious in their pre-prep prep, they knew with 99 percent accuracy that a dish would turn out well. Then there were the chefs who worked from the heart. Who were furious when a dish fizzled, chopped angrily at the food as if it were their enemy, but on a good day could coax such sensuous, sublime flavors from a paltry potato and a handful of herbs that no diner would suspect its humble origins. When they hit, they hit big. But when they fell, it was like a sequoia cracking open in the redwood forest.

Georgia belonged to the former (she was, after all, her father’s daughter), but that night she let her anger at Glenn, at Marco, at Mercedes, and even at Mercedes’s presumably unsuspecting daughter give way to a fervor she normally kept in close check. The line cooks fed off her intensity, each station playing its part in the unspoken choreography that defines a stellar night. Miraculously, no one was in the weeds; the roundsman, who stepped in wherever he was needed, did his job seamlessly; orders came up on time; the front and back of the house were perfectly in sync. The dining room—diners, servers, bartenders, hostess, even the coat-check girl—sparkled with energy.

Georgia placed four small plates on the pass-through and called over her favorite waitress. “Send these to Huggy Henderson, table nine, with my compliments.”

“Wow. The potato-and-caviar treatment,” the waitress said, checking out the plates. “She really must be important.”

If sitting on a handful of the city’s most prestigious boards and routinely appearing in the party pages meant she was important, then, yes, Huggy was important. Beyond that, Georgia liked her. Meeting the imperious woman with the
Preppy Handbook
–style nickname had been the highlight of a couple of low days. As if on cue the new pimple on Georgia’s chin started tingling, a pesky reminder of her Chubby Chippie binge.

Bernard walked back into the kitchen and tapped her shoulder. “Georgia. What are you guys doing back here? That dining room is on fire.”

“I had to do something.”

Ricky stretched his head around the door to catch a glimpse of the dining room. “He’s not kidding, Chef. You gotta check it out. Table eight’s about to go at it on the table.”

“Must be the oysters,” Georgia said.

That night, she unilaterally struck Oysters Marco, her least favorite dish, from the menu. Instead she served what she jokingly called Oysters Roc-a-fella, a slight twist on the famous Antoine’s Restaurant original, subbing cress for spinach and adding chopped fennel and a splash of (now legal) absinthe. The recipe was a tip-top secret, but Georgia had known it for years, thanks to a former colleague who’d once worked at Antoine’s and who’d recited it to her as if it were a Shakespearean sonnet. After, he’d professed his undying love and devotion to her, and after that he’d face-planted into a bowl of remoulade. She hadn’t seen the cook in ages, but the recipe she remembered.

A waitress walked to the pass-through. “The very important
Huggy Henderson is requesting your company. I know Marco doesn’t go for this, but I thought maybe this one time.”

“Go for it, Georgia.” Bernard gave her a polite shove. They both knew her fate at Marco was as good as sealed.

Huggy Henderson held court at table nine, a corner banquette bathed in a soft glow. Far enough from the bar and the server station to seem almost intimate, yet central enough so fellow diners couldn’t help but crane their necks to see who graced the table at which they’d never be seated, it was the undisputed best table in the house. Huggy wore a South Sea pearl-coral-and-diamond necklace that hit directly above her collarbones, and a creamy cashmere cardigan with scalloped edges. Her hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and her ears were festooned with quarter-size pearls rimmed with pavé diamonds that matched her necklace. She was, as Glenn’s mom would say, the original Mrs. Got Rocks.

Georgia smoothed her hair, slicked some gloss across her lips, and straightened her white chef’s jacket. There wasn’t a whole lot she could do to improve her appearance. She marched through the dining room, eyes straight ahead, hoping she didn’t look like a girl heading for the guillotine, which was how she felt. She wouldn’t miss these at-table appearances, rare though they were. Some chefs loved them, basking in the spotlight, beaming as they sauntered through the crowd of adoring diners. Not Georgia. She was delighted when Marco told her he believed the chef belonged in the kitchen and the front of the house was his and the managers’ domain. Marco didn’t go much for anything that took the limelight from where he felt it rightfully belonged: on himself. In this case, Georgia happily agreed with him.

Placing her hand on the back of Huggy’s polished nickel
chair, Georgia smiled at her two companions, noting an empty place setting. “Hello, I’m Georgia Gray. I hope you’re all enjoying your meal.”

“Georgia. How lovely to see you.” Huggy held out her hand. “Don’t you look wonderful in your smart white chef coat. I was just telling my family how we met yesterday at the bakery. What a fortuitous encounter.”

“Wasn’t it,” said Georgia.

“Tell me, dear, a friend of mine at the
Daily
says you’ll be reviewed tomorrow. Is that so?”

Georgia bit her lip. “I’m afraid so, Huggy. We believe Mercedes Sante was in last week, so the review should be out tomorrow.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what?” said a dapper man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and thick black eyebrows. “That was the best soft-shell crab I’ve ever had.”

“I’m glad you liked it. It’s one of my favorites too.” The crab was a seasonal special, and a big crowd-pleaser.

“Lawrence Henderson. Her worse half.” He motioned in Huggy’s direction and chuckled. “Good to meet you, Georgia. Allow me to introduce my son, Andrew.”

Andrew’s face was chiseled and sharp, but his espresso-brown eyes were soft, sort of like Sally’s. “Nice to meet you, Georgia. The food is delicious. Everything is.” His voice was mellow and rich, and his ripe mouth turned up at the corners. He gestured to the table with an open palm, his eyes crinkling. Georgia was smitten.

“Now, Georgia, you needn’t be afraid of this review. The food is simply heavenly, although all this lacquer and mirror”—Huggy gestured to the white lacquer bar, which was backed by mirrored shelving holding multihued bottles—“is a bit much. But trust me, dear. It will be a good review and you’ll be even more
of a star than you already are.” Huggy beamed as if Georgia were her very own creation.

“Gee, thanks, Huggy. But I’m not so sure of that. We’ll see what happens.”

Huggy pulled out a calling card from her quilted Chanel clutch. “In case you lost my other card. Please, dear, should you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

Georgia accepted the card. “Thanks, Huggy, I will. It was nice to meet you all.” She looked at Andrew for just a second longer than necessary, then left the table, grinning at a waiter as she passed.

Despite her doomed career and disastrous relationship, Georgia felt a flicker of joy. Marco was firing her. The entire city would soon read a terrible review that would likely mention her name half a dozen times. And yet, Andrew’s eyes were so… nice. And that voice. Maybe she could do the single-girl thing after all. Feeling almost giddy, she sailed toward the kitchen, stopping shy of the door. She turned for one last look at the table, just in time to catch a stunning brunette in a strapless dress rush over. Andrew’s sister? After blowing kisses to Huggy and her husband, the woman half bent, half stooped next to Andrew, planting a kiss squarely on his mouth. Not a chance.

Georgia looked down at the hand clenching Huggy’s card and was momentarily blinded by the glittering diamond on her left ring finger. The reality of her life settled in like a bad summer cold. Of course a guy like Andrew had a girlfriend, maybe even a wife. Besides, she was still engaged to Glenn. Though their breakup seemed more a matter of when than if, they were still engaged and she had the hardware to prove it.

“What’s up with you, Chef? Is everything okay?” Ricky asked. When Georgia didn’t respond, he continued, “I guess having a
big night will do that. The waitrons said their tips are insane and they want to take us out for drinks after close.”

“That’s sweet of them, Ricky. But I think I’ll make it an early night and go home. I don’t really feel like going out.” Her emotions were pogo-ing all over the place and she could barely make sense of them. Andrew’s soulful gaze and sexy mouth had triggered such instant elation it made her wonder. One smile from some random, taken guy and she’s running and dancing for joy? She raked her fingers through her pouffy hair, a cardinal sin for both chefs and curly girls, but sometimes impossible to resist.

At midnight Georgia was at last able to call it a night. The restaurant had its most successful night ever, hitting 256 covers, and an average ticket well over a hundred bucks. How ironic that it would soon be over. Seventies disco blasted through the kitchen as the crew drank their shift drink and readied themselves for more at the bar next door.

Ricky danced over to Georgia, hip-checking her as the song ended. “You sure I can’t convince you to come out? It’ll do you good.”

“Don’t think so, Ricky, but thanks. I have a much needed date with my second-to-last sleeping pill.” She wouldn’t be able to sleep without it. She swung her bag over her shoulder and started walking out. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Have fun on your date,” he called after her.

Halfway through the dining room she bent down to smell the flowers spilling onto the bar, cupping a particularly perfect peony in her hand. When she reached the door, she paused, turning for a last look at the restaurant.
“Arrivederci, amici,”
she said to no one. She pushed open the door and exited into the cool night.