The Art of Love (10 page)

“
I think if we try a few new a la carte items and add something creative to the daily specials, that should get things started,” I tell him.

“
Impressive,” Trent replies. “Sounds like you know what you're doing.”

“
Did you think I didn't?” I try to act surprised, but I’m really just being coy.

Trent gives me a lopsided smile and says in a husky voice, “
I never said that.”

Our eyes meet. He’s just so darn handsome, I can feel myself sweat being near him. I fight off the feeling that I’m not good enough for such a debonair man and keep looking at him. He keeps looking at me. I have no idea where this is going, but it seems like it’s going somewhere good.

“What are your plans for dinner?” he asks.

I look down at the paper I’m holding, somewhat confused. Didn’t we just discuss my plans for dinner? “I’m just starting out slow,” I tell him.

“Slow is good.” He nods.

“I need time to come up with some recipes and figure out what’s cheap but also in season. I should have some new entrees going by next week.”

“Sue.” He chuckles a little to himself. “I wasn’t still talking about the menu. I meant would you like to get something to eat?”

Oh, my God! He was asking me out, and I am so dense I didn’t even realize it. I want to crawl under the desk with embarrassment. But no, that was the old me. The new me gives a playful little laugh. “Sorry. I was just so focused on work.” I give a casual wave of my hand toward my scribbled notes. “I would love to have dinner with you, but it’ll have to wait until my night off. I mean, I am the chef de cuisine around her.”

There are footsteps in the hallway, and I hear someone approach the open door. “A-hem...” Pedro clears his throat.

Trent is
instantly on his feet and heading for the exit. Damn it! I haven’t told him when I’m free, and I don’t want to do it in front of staff. It doesn’t seem to matter anyway because Trent is out the door. He does pause long enough to call over his shoulder, “Good job here, Miss... um... Sue. I'll leave you to it.”

Pedro, leaning in the doorway, waggles his eyebrows and smirks at me. Ignoring him, I ask, “
What'd you find out?

“
Well...” he begins.

Intelligence report from Pedro. Direct transcript:

Pedro: Okay, so I pretended like I was scrubbing down a few tables. Kiki didn’t even notice I was there.

(That doesn’t sound too unusual. Kiki doesn’t like to recognize people who are lower on the socioeconomic food chain than she is. Sending a busboy had been a good choice.)

Pedro: So she’s got everyone lined up out there. The waitresses and bartenders and everybody. You know, like in the military where they make everyone stand there like when a general is inspecting his troops.

(I know what Kiki is wearing from our delightful encounter in the lobby. It’s her usual combination of high hemline and plunging neckline. Most of the front-of-the-house employees are required to wear white shirts or blouses, depending on gender, of course, and black skirts or pants, although heaven help a female server if she shows up in pants. Aziz, as the sommelier, is one of the exceptions to the dress code, although he is always dressed in some incredibly well-fitting suit. Kiki, as head hostess and now temporary manager, is the other exception, although she deploys the black mini more often than not.)

Pedro: Yeah, so then Kiki starts lecturing everybody and, let’s see if I got this right. I tried to memorize it. Something like, “
The way you look, the way you dress, the way you act, the way you speak. All of these things reflect on Bouche.”

(That sounds like something Kiki would say, and I’m impressed that Pedro has done such a good job on his surveillance, but I hold off on any praise because I don’t want to interrupt his flow.)

Pedro: Kiki’s going up and down the line, touching someone’s sleeve or making a face when she doesn’t like somebody’s hair or whatever, and the entire time she’s talking. She’s saying stuff like, “I want everyone to be dressed to the nines every single night. If what you’re wearing doesn't have a designer label, then you are not dressed for work.” And then she says, “Ladies, I expect three-inch heels, minimum.”

(I don’t even own a pair of three-inch heels. And in a busy restaurant? That’s just asking to twist an ankle or chip a tooth.)

Pedro: And then one of the waitresses, I think maybe her name is Donna, but anyway, she doesn’t like this because she says, “And will you be paying for our back surgeries in our old age?” But Kiki practically loses it because then she goes, “No. If you want to wear comfortable shoes, go work at Denny's.”

(I know Donna. She’s not bad looking, but by Bouche wait-staff standards, she’s the least attractive server there. But that’s in comparison to ridiculous people like Gwenn, who is this statuesque blonde beauty who should probably just give up waitressing and become a fulltime model. Anyway, for whatever reason, Kiki keeps Donna on staff even though Donna’s the only server that’s willing to question Kiki’s authority.)

Pedro: So then she says this really weird thing. Something like, “Remember, if you don't look good, I don't look good.” I mean, like, who the hell cares if Kiki looks good?

End of transcript.

“Anything else?” I ask, as it seems Pedro has wrapped things up pretty completely.

“Not really,” he replies. “After that, she just told everyone to get back to work.”

“
Hmmm...” My brain is buzzing with this new reconnaissance information. I have an idea, and it’s a good one, but it’s also kind of bitchy. The question I have for myself is this: At what point am I crossing the line from cunning to ruthless? But then I remember the ride home from the fraternity campfire. Angie was not at all apologetic for throwing herself at A.J. when she knew I liked him. “How is it my fault that he liked me better?” she kept asking to the occupants of the car in general as I slumped in the backseat unable to stop sniffing.

I also think about Kiki narcing me out to Trent in the first hour on the first day that I take over as chef de cuisine. She obviously has no problem being ruthless, so why shouldn’t I defend myself?
If Kiki and I are at war, then she is the general of the front of the house with the wait staff and bartenders as her troops. I am the general of the back of the house. Her soldiers are my enemies.

But still, I hesitate. It’s just not part of my nature to be mean to people. I almost tell Pedro never mind, but then I recall Elliot’s delightful phone call repeatedly whispering “Quitter,” and I think, the hell with it. I’m sick of dating slackers. I’m going to date up for once in my life, and I’m going to do what it takes to be on that plane with Trent, headed for the Bahamas. “
Pedro, I need you to do something for me, and it might sound a little mean.”

“What is it?” Pedro scrunches his brow.

I draw a deep breath. I am about to do something that goes completely against my nature. As a matter of fact, it’s bitchy. Super bitchy. But I am determined to do it anyway. Sue the Nice Girl needs to be killed off, and this is a very good way to bury her so that Sue the Woman Dating Trent Winchell can ascend the throne.

I signal for the busboy to lean down, and then I whisper in his ear the plan I’ve just concocted. Pedro listens intently. When I’m finished, he doesn’t look one hundred percent on board. “
I don't know,” he says. “That's pretty harsh.”

I toss my head like it’s no big deal. “
So is all of us losing our jobs.” As he’s mulling this over, I add, “It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry if you don’t feel up to doing it.”

“
What do you have against Kiki, anyway?” he asks.

“
Nothing!” I say, entirely too quickly. But that’s obviously not the truth, and Pedro knows it. “Let's just say we have the same goal but different ways of getting there.” I meet his eyes with a confident look and add, “And my way is better.” As Pedro absorbs my words, he nods his head, and I know I’ve got him. “So you'll talk to the other busboys?” I ask.

Pedro shrugs as if it really doesn’t matter to him either way. “
If you say so, boss.”

***Kiki***

I don’t know how Sue did it. When I checked, the kitchen was a total mess with no one doing anything. By the time I headed upstairs, got by Linda (a.k.a. Trent’s executive watchdog), waited for Trent to get off the phone, and told him that there was no way dinner was ever going to make it to table, it was only like ten or fifteen minutes. He headed downstairs right away, but by the time he barged into the kitchen, it was like Sue had just offered to double everyone’s salary if they actually did their jobs. She made me look like a complete idiot.

I wonder if Sue actually got all emotional and cried or something to make everyone get to work. I hate when women use tears to get their way. Especially in the workplace. Be professional, already. Okay, I can admit I’ve had an angry cry or two during the span of my career, but that’s done in the privacy of the ladies room and not used as a weapon or as part of some public display.

But I guess men have their version of getting overly emotional. They either whine or get angry and defensive. It’s funny how anger is acceptable at work, but tears are not. Aren’t they both pretty much the same emotion? Whenever I see a guy like Escoffier laying into someone, I always think of a three-year-old having a temper tantrum.

So Susan or Suzanne or whatever the hell her full name is pulled out of her career nosedive and managed to squeak a little work out of the kitchen staff. Well, we’ll just see how long that lasts. Tears, and tirades for that matter, don’t motivate people forever.

Chapter 12

It’s the dinner rush, although none of the staff is really rushing because Bouche is only about half full. But it does provide me with the opportunity to peek out from the kitchen from time to time to see how my plan is going into action.

I see the first offensive strike executed by Pedro with military precision. One of the blonde waitresses is taking an order at table twelve. She’s finishing up with the preliminary orders of drinks and appetizers. She’s backing away from the table while still talking. “I'll be right back with your... Ouch!”

Pedro has come up behind her with a tray full of dirty dishes dripping over with sauces and wasted food. As the waitress turns, Pedro is there, and they collide—not with any velocity, but some of the slop from the dirty dishes does end up on the hip of the waitress’s skirt. “Sorry,” Pedro blurts, whipping a bandana from his pocket and trying to wipe down her rump but only managing to smear the stain.

“Stop that!” the waitress barks, slapping at his hand. “Leave it! I’ll take care of it.”

“Sorry,” Pedro says again before hurrying back to the kitchen with his loaded tray, barely able to suppress a smirk from creeping across his face.

Completely forgetting that she’s standing in the middle of the Bouche dining room, the waitress curses while twisting around trying to get a better look at the stain. She sighs and grumbles to no one in particular, “I just bought this.”

Over the next two days, my league of busboys goes about staining, snagging, and scuffing the clothing and shoes of every server and bartender on the Bouche staff. Pedro is by far the best at this act of sabotage, always appearing to be free of intentional wrongdoing. I saw him knock a glass of wine out of a bartender’s hands, spraying red all over both of them, and then have that same bartender apologize to him for the spill. It was genius.

Most of the time, the wait staff don’t even know how their clothes are stained. I happened to see Gwenn, the supermodel waitress, at a table with an elderly lady who was enthusing about one of the Bouche menu changes. “This pasta is amazing! I've been coming here for years, and I've never tasted anything so good.”

“
I'm glad you like it. I'll tell the chef,” Gwenn said, but she was obviously distracted because she’d just noticed a stain on the large, puffy sleeve of her blouse and she was pretty angry. “Damn it!” she cursed.

“Excuse me?” the older lady asked, not quite sure if she should be offended.

Gwenn looked up. She’d obviously forgotten that she was at work—her mind was so focused on the stain. “I said, dah… d… Darn right. I’ll tell the chef.”

As the days go on, the outfits of the front of the house quickly go from fashion plates to well-ironed but dated. Everyone is still gorgeous, of course, but not runway gorgeous. Meanwhile, I’ve acquired two more copies of
The Art of War
. The original document is from 475 BC, so each translation interprets it in a slightly different way, and I need to understand Sun Tzu’s teachings from every angle if I’m going to succeed.

One thing that’s been made clear is that I need to keep rousting my troops. On the third day of my covert attack, I call everyone into the kitchen before we start prepping for the dinner rush. This time, it’s much easier to get them to quiet down and pay attention.

Inspirational battlefield speech. Direct transcript:

Every time you're out on the streets of Chicago, you should be talking about Bouche. I don't care if you're with family, friends, or that weird guy waiting for the bus; it's all about Bouche. We're making changes; we've got an exciting new menu; we're buying locally; we've got a whole new attitude. The important thing is to start some chatter out there. We want people talking about Bouche because once they're talking then they'll start showing up and eating.

End of transcript.

Much to my surprise and delight, my troops head out into the field and follow my orders.
June reports that she was out drinking and began flirting with two guys in suits while waiting to be served at the bar. The one guy said, “You work at Bouche? Wasn't that place cryogenically frozen in the nineties?”

June fired back with, “
Well, we got unfrozen. It's a whole new menu.”

Paolo let me know that he’d been chatting with his fellow countrymen in a café over Bouche’s use of fresh ingredients. I don’t speak Italian, but I have to assume he said something like, “
Bouche e buona. Usa l'alimento fresco.”

Pedro was more than happy to have a fresh topic of conversation as he attempted to pick up female joggers in the park.

              Even Aspic updated me that he had told a man in the subway to eat at Bouche. I imagine whoever he spoke to was too intimidated by our own André the Giant not to show up for dinner immediately.

And it’s working! Reservations in the last couple of days have seen a small but steady increase. And our Yelp reviews are getting better and better. When I started as chef de cuisine, Bouche had an overall rating of 2.5, but I’ve only been in charge for a little over two weeks, and we’ve already risen to a 3.1. The latest Yelp reviews are pretty darn good. Here are excerpts from the latest entries:

5 stars

“I haven't been to Bouche since my prom in the late nineties. Even then it felt a little dated.

But recently a friend of mine said she went by there and the chef was doing some interesting

new things with the menu, so I thought I'd give it a try. I'm so glad I did!”

5 stars

“
The swordfish was mind blowing! The vegetables were delicate and flavorful. The sommelier

recommended the perfect pairing of wine
, and I couldn't have been happier with my meal.”

And my very favorite review:

4 stars

“The reasons I'm not giving Bouche a five star review are:

1
) The decor is so dated it made me want to perm my hair.

2
) The wait staff looked sloppy and our waitress was kind of snippy.

But, ambiance aside, I had a wonderful meal.
The food is so good! I don’t understand why Bouche isn’t still considered a Chicago culinary hot spot."

“Hey, Boss Lady.” Pedro came to find me in the kitchen. He’d been calling me by that name for the past few days. I know he is being facetious, so I don’t comment on it. “Kiki’s having one of her meetings in the dining room. Just thought you’d want to know.”

He is right; I do want to know. Pedro is a bit of a smart-aleck, and I know Escoffier wanted to fire him dozens of times in the past, but he has proven himself to be invaluable as far as my campaign against Kiki. In the big picture, Pedro is probably just in the wrong occupation.

Yesterday, Pedro showed me that if you slip out the swinging doors that separate the kitchen from the dining room and stand immediately to the right, due to an architectural anomaly created by the bar, you are practically invisible to everyone in the room, but you can easily observe most of what is going on. Ideal for my purposes.

I set down the knife I’m using and wipe my hands. It’s time to find out what is up with my nemesis. “Thanks, Pedro,” I say as I hurry toward the doors.

Kiki has her troops lined up in single file, and she is looking mighty annoyed. There is good reason for that. The members of the front-of-the-house staff are looking attractive, as always, but not nearly as stylish as they had been just a mere few weeks ago. Not only are the waitresses and bartenders in less fashionable clothing, but even their basic grooming is on the decline. Kiki is furious.

“
Maybe I didn't make myself clear with what I told you last week,” she snarls, pacing back and forth in front of them like a caged leopard. “When I said I wanted you dressed to the nines, what I meant was designer labels.” She takes a swipe at a bartender’s shirt causing a few buttons to pop. “I didn't mean the sale rack at Banana Republic!”

Supermodel Gwenn, dressed simply but still looking gorgeous, cannot control her counter-annoyance to Kiki’s tirade. “
That's fine for you to say. You're not the one whose clothes are getting trashed,” she grouches. Gwenn could probably find work as a spokesmodel in an instant, so that makes her less concerned about speaking up because she’s not afraid of getting fired. “If the Winchell wants to cover my dry cleaning bill then I'll start dressing better. Otherwise, forget it.”

“Yeah,” someone says from the line of troops.

“I’m sick of my wardrobe totally getting trashed,” adds another voice from the crowd.

Kiki glares at Gwenn. “
What are you talking about?”

I sense I’m about to get busted, so I slip back through the swinging doors as quickly and silently as possible. By the time Kiki bursts into the kitchen, I’m safely ensconced in Escoffier’s office.

“Where is she?” I hear Kiki demanding from the kitchen at large.

“
Who? Suzannah?” Paolo says in a surprised voice. “I don’t know. Maybe she in her office.”

There is the clack, clack, clack of Kiki’s high heels slamming into the floor as she charges down the hall to confront me. A second later, my office door comes flying open, propelled by what I can only assume is Kiki’s foot.

I look up from the pile of invoices I’ve been hunched over, appearing completely surprised as Kiki storms in uninvited. “Is something wrong?” I ask.

“You've got a lot of nerve,” she growls at me.

“What are you talking about?”

“
You know.” She leans on the desk and tries to singe the life out of me with a death glare. “You told your little busboys to spill on my staff.”

“I did w
hat?”

Kiki’s face is a lovely shade of hot pink. “
You're purposely having your busboys trash the clothes of my wait staff!”

I give her a look of confusion. “
Why would I do that?”

“
So they look bad!” she thunders.

“
Kiki, if they look bad then Bouche looks bad,” I explain with a note of incredulity. “All I've been doing is busting my butt to get more people in the restaurant. Why would I do something to keep people away?”

“
Because...!” she all but yells, but then thinks about it and stalls. “Because...” she says in a less yelly type voice. “Because then I look bad.”

“
Kiki.” I get to my feet, using my most reassuring voice. “We're on the same team. I'm not going to do anything to make you look bad, just like you wouldn't do anything to make me look bad.” Kiki is flat-out flummoxed, so I use this opportunity to guide her toward the door. “I'm sorry if the busboys have been clumsy. It's probably because I told them they have to work faster. But I’ll fix it. I'll tell them to be more careful.”

“
Remember,” I say as I have her positioned at the threshold of the door, “we're all in this together. If there are any other problems, just come see me.”

“B
ut...” Kiki is trying to quickly formulate a counter attack, but it is too late. With a gentle push from me, she is in the hallway, and I’ve closed the door behind her. I can hear her standing out there for several seconds trying to figure out what just happened before she clack, clack, clacks back down the hall.

*
**Kiki***

I may have underestimated Miss Mealy Mouth. She’s craftier than I thought. Persuading her busboys to trash the clothing of my servers is pretty genius. The tips at Bouche aren’t bad, but they don’t exactly justify the designer wardrobe I expect from the staff, especially if compounded by repeated dry cleaning bills. Sue must have known that if their clothes were getting trashed, my staff would definitely reel in the quality of apparel they were willing to put at risk. Pretty smart of that little wimp, and I can’t even begin to guess how she talked the busboys into doing it.

Of course, she pulled out the whole, “I have no idea what you’re talking about” innocent routine. That is so not going to work with me anymore. I have no way of proving she did what she did, but I know it in my gut.

If that’s the way she wants it, fine. The gloves are off. This means war.