The Blue Bistro (7 page)

“Thatcher takes them their bread.”

“Okay,” Adrienne said. “Is there a special place the bread is kept?”

“Yes.”

“Where is that?”

Fiona nodded at the stainless-steel counter to Adrienne’s left. “The Parrishes’ bread is right there. You’re running for Thatcher?”

Adrienne stared at the basket of rolls and the cake of butter covered by a glass dome. “He told me I’m supposed to take the Parrishes their bread.”

“Thatcher takes the Parrishes their bread,” Fiona said. “That’s the way it works around here. Especially on the first night.”

“He said they asked for me.”

Fiona stared at Adrienne as though she was trying to figure
out what had prompted Thatcher to offer her a job. Adrienne didn’t look like Heidi Klum, and she didn’t have enormous breasts. So why else would he cajole her into taking a job that she wasn’t qualified to do?
I have no idea!
Adrienne wanted to shout.

“Thatcher was right about you, then,” Fiona said.

“Right about me how?” Adrienne asked. “What did he say?”

Fiona pinched her lips together. She had freckles across her nose, like someone had sprinkled it with cinnamon.

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“No.”

“Is my working here going to be a problem?” Adrienne asked. She felt like in the bright lights her top was positively sheer.

“Since it’s only the first hour of the first night, that remains to be seen,” Fiona said. “But I can tell you one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The Parrishes are very important to us. They shouldn’t have to wait for their bread.” She pointed at the door. “Go.”

Adrienne was shaking when she reached the Parrishes’ table. Normally when she felt uncomfortable, she sent a mental e-mail to her father. But now Adrienne was facing a blank screen. What had happened in there? No time to wonder because the Parrishes wanted to chat about Aspen. They had vacationed in Aspen long ago, before it was fashionable, and they stayed at the Hotel Jerome. Adrienne learned that Grayson’s business was importing custom tile and stone from Italy, a business his sons now ran that was doing better than ever due to the home-improvement boom. The Parrishes had three sons, the oldest was thirty-six, and none of the sons was currently married. They had one grandchild, a little boy named Wolf who “lived with his mother.” Adrienne managed to keep up the conversation until she felt Bruno breathing on the back of her neck, and she excused herself.

She returned to the hostess station and drank down her
pink bubbly. The exchange with Fiona nagged at her. She had to talk to Caren. There wasn’t time now, of course. No sooner had Adrienne set her empty glass on the blue granite for Duncan to refill than the front door became inundated with three six-thirty reservations and the late arriving Ernie Otemeyer carrying a paper bag. The place was hopping. Busboys presented baskets of pretzel bread and doughnuts. The piano man launched into “Some Enchanted Evening.” Caren floated by, taking Adrienne by the elbow.

“I have apps up on table seven. Can you run some food for me?”

Adrienne glanced at the clot of people by the front door. Thatcher was in the thick of it.

“Run some food?” This sounded suspiciously out of bounds. “I’m not trained for that. And what about Thatcher? Can he seat all those tables by himself?”

“It’ll take two seconds,” Caren said. She vanished into the kitchen and came back balancing a tray of plates on the palm of one hand and carrying a stand in the other. Adrienne followed her out into the dining room. Caren snapped open the stand and lowered the tray. Adrienne felt a bloom of optimism from the champagne. Fiona was an ogre trapped in a doll’s body, like some screwed-up fairy tale, but just look at the food: two salads with the red-and-white striped beets, a foie gras, a crab cake, and two corn chowders. Absolutely beautiful.

“The salads go to the two ladies closest to you,” Caren whispered. “Serve from their right.”

Adrienne watched Caren’s graceful movements. She tried to imitate her. She slid the salads in for a landing on top of the Limoges chargers. Caren served the last two plates, then asked if anyone cared for freshly ground pepper. A burst of laughter came from the rugby players’ table. The piano man segued into “The Entertainer.” It jangled in Adrienne’s head. She had served the two plates without incident. Piece of cake! And now . . . what? Thatcher was leading the plumber to his table, two down from the Parrishes. He held out the paper bag.

“Would you ask Duncan to put this on ice?” Thatcher said. “And get a cold one in a pilsner for Ernie and a glass of the merlot for his wife, Isadora, please.” Under his breath, he said, “Champagne, champagne.”

“It’s at the bar,” Adrienne said. “I’ll get it right now.” There were still people waiting at the podium. She had to hurry! She carried the paper bag through the dining room to the bar. Even over the conversation, the clink of glasses and silver and china, and the piano, Adrienne could hear her shoes. She sounded like a Clydesdale.

“Adrienne!”

Thatcher was at her back. “The Parrishes want you to serve their wine.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” she said. She pictured snapping the cork in half, or spilling cabernet down the front of her diaphanous blouse. “Don’t make me do that.”

“I told them you haven’t been trained with the wine key yet,” he said. “I told them you would do it next time. But you can deliver their chips and dip. They just want your face at their table. Where’s your champagne?”

“I told you, I’m getting it.” She wanted to give the beer to Duncan and order the merlot before she forgot. Thatcher set off to deal with the people at the podium.

Adrienne paid close attention to where she placed her feet. It forced her to slow down. Confrontation with Fiona aside, the first hour wasn’t going badly. She had answered the phone, she had conducted a pleasant conversation with two VIPs, she had served two plates of salad without dumping them in the guests’ laps. Now, at the bar, she delivered the plumber’s beer and ordered the merlot, and without even having to ask, Duncan slid a flute of champagne across the blue bar. She took a sip, then put it down. She had to go back into the kitchen for the chips and dip. The piano man played “Somewhere, Beyond the Sea.” This had been Adrienne’s parents’ favorite song; she was never able to listen to it without getting weepy. But what was nice about the restaurant business, Adrienne realized, was that there was no time to reflect on the way her parents used to dance together at weddings.
There wasn’t time to worry if her father was now dancing with Mavis. There wasn’t time to muse over Doug or Kip or Sully or any of the men she’d sat at a table for two with over the last six years and question her own good sense. There wasn’t even time to wonder about the kiss from Thatcher. The restaurant business was doing her a favor. It locked her into the moment: her glass of pink champagne, the trip back into Fiona’s lair. Locating her yellow legal pad. Learning the table numbers and the wine key. Getting a look—just a look—at all the beautiful food. History in the making. The last soft opening of the Blue Bistro.

By the end of the first seating, Adrienne’s legs ached. And her lower back. In three hours of work she had walked at least five miles. So that was it, absolutely, for the fucking slides. She would never wear them again.

There were seventy reservations on the books and forty-two of those were sitting at nine o’clock.

“First seating was
nothing,
” Thatcher said. “It was a
warm-up.
”

At eight-thirty there was a nice lull—most of the tables had finished their dinners and were lingering over dessert. Thatcher snatched a piece of the brown sugar fudge from one of the candy plates headed back into the kitchen and handed it to Adrienne.

“I always wondered if you ate off the plates,” she said.

“Taste it,” he said.

The fudge was an explosion of vanilla and caramel, and it gave her a much-needed sugar kick. She checked in on the Parrishes. They were one of those couples who didn’t speak to each other during dinner; only when Adrienne approached did they brighten. When she had delivered their caviar, they chatted with her about their home on Cliff Road. Between courses, at Thatcher’s prompting, Adrienne checked in with them again. They were both staring out at the water, each seemingly lost in thought. But when Adrienne appeared, Darla raved about the crab cake, and Grayson swirled his white burgundy in his glass. They asked
Adrienne if she cooked at home and the expression on her face—which was horror and quite genuine—gave them all a good laugh. At a little after eight, Adrienne delivered a cup of decaf cappuccino to Darla and a glass of tawny port to Grayson. She placed the check (which consisted only of the bar tab and the two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine) on the table in what she hoped was a discreet way, and informed them that they were welcome to stay and enjoy the sea air for as long as they wished. This was not, of course, true—the entire restaurant was being reseated at nine. When Darla and Grayson made their move to stand, Adrienne floated—this was her goal, to float like Caren—to their table and held Grayson’s arm all the way to the front door. Before they left, Darla kissed Adrienne again—more lipstick—and Grayson pressed money into her hand, which took her so by surprise that she nearly dropped it. The Parrishes then lavished Thatcher with attention and sent their love “to darling Fiona. Tell her everything was superb. We’ll see you Friday at six.” And they set off into the night. Thatcher winked at Adrienne; she felt sorry to see them go. It was like visiting with her grandparents when she was young, complete with the gift of money. Adrienne checked her palm. Grayson had given her a hundred dollars.

She showed the bill to Thatcher. “What should I do with it?”

“Keep it.”

“What about Bruno?” she asked. “What about Tyler?” Tyler was a busboy who was a senior at Nantucket High School. In the thirty seconds Adrienne had conversed with him, she could tell he was precocious. He had, he informed her, twelve days until graduation when he planned to get shit-faced at a bonfire on the beach just down the way from the restaurant. The only reason he got this job in the first place, he said, was because his father was the island’s health inspector.

“There was a tip added to the bill for them,” Thatcher said. “If anybody puts money in your hand—unless he tells you it’s for someone else—then it’s yours to keep.”

An electric thrill ran up Adrienne’s spine, the singular pleasure of windfall. The start of her new Future! She tucked the money into her pocket.

“The Parrishes didn’t speak to one another during dinner,” she said.

“They never do,” Thatcher said. “That’s why they like to have someone visit their table, three, four times a night. It peps things up.”

The rest of the tables were slowly rising and moving around. Some people headed for the door, some walked to the edge of the restaurant to peer at the water. The busboys worked like crazy to strip the tables. The piano man took a break and the CD player kicked in with Billie Holiday. Adrienne’s sunburn throbbed like a red alarm; she was tired. She could easily go home and sleep with the hundred dollar bill under her pillow until morning.

“Now,” said Thatcher. “Now you’re going to earn your money.”

Adrienne wanted to tell Thatcher about her exchange with Fiona. She wanted to ask what he’d said about her but there wasn’t time. Between seatings, Thatcher reviewed the book with Adrienne.

“You’re going to have to learn our guest list night by night,” he said. “Some of our favorite guests only stay on Nantucket for one week of the summer, but they eat here three times during that week. They’ve been doing so for twelve years.”

Adrienne had found her yellow notepad. It was handed to her by the young bar back whose name was Delilah. Delilah was not Duncan’s paramour, but rather, his kid sister. She had just finished her junior year at Bennington, she said, and all her life she’d been waiting for her parents to give her the okay to work with Duncan.

“I have two other brothers,” she said. “David and Dennis. And they are such sticks-in-the-mud. They have kids.” As if that explained it. “Duncan is the only person in our family who leads an exciting life, and so I said to the parents, ‘As
soon as I turn twenty-one, I go where he goes.’ ” She gave Adrienne a toothy smile with her eyes all scrunched, and headed, butt-first, into the kitchen, bracing a crate of dirty bar glasses against her midsection.

Adrienne was glad for the return of her notepad. She studied the diagram of circles and squares and rectangles that was the seating chart—it might have seemed as easy as nursery school but it was more like plane geometry. She looked expectantly at Thatcher. Nerdy student a hundred dollars richer at the ready!

While some of the guests of the soft opening were summer people who had arrived early, most were year-round Nantucketers. Mack Peterson, the manager of the Nantucket Beach Club and Hotel, was coming with Cecily Elliott, the hotel owners’ daughter.

“Great guy,” Thatcher said. “He sends us
tons
of business. Good business, too—people who show up on time, drink a lot of expensive wine, et cetera.”

Adrienne wrote down their names. “Are they married?” she asked. “Mack and Cecily?”

“No,” Thatcher said. He furrowed his brow. It was funny, Adrienne thought, how Thatcher’s hair was red but his eyebrows were the palest blond. “What is your obsession with whether people are married?”

Adrienne wanted to inform him that asking if one couple was married could hardly be classified as an
obsession,
but then she remembered that she had also asked about him and Fiona. “I’m sorry,” she said, with as much poison in her voice as she could muster in her state of weariness.

Thatcher held up his pen. “Never mind.”

She recalled Fiona’s words.
Thatcher was right about you, then.
“You don’t know the first thing about me,” Adrienne said.

“Well, I know that your father is a dentist,” he said. “Your mother is a good cook. You worked in Aspen at the Little Nell, and in Thailand, Palm Beach, Hawaii, and on the Cape. You have black hair and green eyes. You’re a size six. You go to the beach without sun protection. You don’t know
how to walk in slides. And”—he pointed his pen at her—“tonight is your first night of restaurant work.” He smiled. “How’d I do?”