Authors: Gayla Twist
Chapter 24
My first thought is, “Oh, my God, I’m kissing Trent Winchell.” My second thought is, “Geez, this actually isn’t all that pleasant,” as Trent is slobbering quite a bit in his inebriated state. His hands are immediately pawing at the hem of my dress as if he thinks it’s a good idea to pull it up around my waist in this easily made-public situation. And really? Go directly from ten seconds of kissing to trying to peel me out of my clothes? Nothing screams romance like a light case of assault. “No,” I say as I struggle to keep my dress from around my ears. “Trent, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Oh, come on,” he says, so out of it he can barely keep his eyes open. “You know you want it. You know I want to give it to you. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is, I don’t want it like this,” I tell him, trying to pull away.
“Come on. You don’t have to play like that.” He grabs my hand and forces it toward his crotch. “Here, I’ve got a present for you. All ready to go.”
What are guys thinking when they pull this kind of crap? That the knowledge of their erect penises will magically melt away all of our reservations? I guess in their heads, we females are thinking something like, “Gee, it’s so exciting to know that he has an erection. If he wants me, I guess I have to go along with it,” kind of thing. Am I supposed to drop to my knees and deal with his arousal right here, instantly hypnotized by his lust? If anything, having a guy force my hand or head or any part of my person anywhere it doesn’t want to go is a dramatic turn-off. “Stop it!” I say in a voice loud enough to catch the attention of anyone standing close to the curtain.
Immediately aware that he doesn’t want the headlines of tomorrow’s gossip rag to read, “Trent Winchell caught in public sexual assault,” he releases my wrist, and I pull away from him.
“You don’t have to be so uptight,” he snarls at me. “I was just having a little fun.”
That’s another little gem from the Man’s Handbook of Date Rape—if I don’t want him the way he wants me then I must be uptight or frigid or possibly even a lesbian. I draw breath to tell him what an asshole he is, but then I get a good look at him. He’s really out of it. I mean, he’s pretty staggeringly out of it. I don’t know if he’s drunk something or snorted something or what. I just know I don’t want any part of it. I guess he thinks my looking at him is an invitation to continue his attack because he lurches forward and grabs my wrist again, fumbling at the crotch of his pants with his free hand.
If I was out with a girlfriend who got blotto, I would never leave her by herself or let her stagger off with some guy, even if he was a guy I knew. Or if I was out with a male friend who got a little hammered but wasn’t coming after me like a drunken sailor on shore leave after six months at sea, I would look out for him without a doubt, even cleaning up his puke if necessary. But Trent is drunk and being out-of-control aggressive. I don’t need to get attacked or raped because I’m worried about his wellbeing. Besides, he knows plenty of people at K2. Let one of them handle his lecherous ass.
A sharp knee to the groin causes Trent to release me. He doesn’t fall to the ground or anything, but he does double over, which gives me some satisfaction. “Bitch!” he snarls, glaring up at me.
I dart out from behind the velvet curtain before he recovers and beat a trail for the door. On my way, I run into one of Trent’s creepy lawyer friends. “Listen,” I say. “Would you please go keep an eye on Trent? He’s not feeling well, and I need to get him some water.” The man reacts like I’ve just asked him to donate bone marrow or something, but I don’t give him time to try to weasel out of it. “He’s behind that curtain over there,” I say before slipping into the crowd and heading for the exit.
I am finding it extremely difficult not to break down into tears in the taxi. How could I have been such an idiot about Trent? He may be rich and good looking and have nice manners when he’s sober, but get a few drinks into him and he becomes the biggest asshole frat boy on the planet. With Elliot, there was truth in advertising. He looked like a total loser and acted like a total loser, but at least he understood that no actually means no. I guess I was so blinded by the Winchell family name and the fact that he saved me that one time when I had the flat that I didn’t really pay attention to a lot of other stuff. Like that he’s got me working like a dog for no extra money. Like he’s in a way put himself out there as a prize for Kiki and me to fight over. But he’s not a prize. Not by a long shot. Trent Winchell is just an entitled date rapist.
It’s next day and I really, really don’t want to go to work, but I have to. The laying in of supplies for my war against Kiki has left me with a bank balance that is on life support. If I want to make my mortgage and pay all the rest of my bills this month, I have to keep showing up at Bouche until I’ve secured another position. The big problem is, I’m at work so much, I don’t even have time to look for another job. I really wish Escoffier would get over his damn gout already.
The first things I notice when entering the kitchen are an enormous bouquet of flowers and an ornately wrapped present sitting on the prep station I usually use. Since I never want to see Trent again, there’s no doubt in my mind they must be from him. I yank the envelope out of the bouquet anyway, wondering how long it will take me to shove all the flowers down the garbage disposal.
“Sue,
Please forgive me for last night.
Trent”
Well, I have to give him credit for at least realizing he was a lecherous jerk. There’s a card with the present as well. I’d like to tear it up without reading it, but my curiosity gets the best of me, and I flick it open.
“Dear Sue,
I feel horrible about last night. I don’t even know what happened. I remember getting a second glass of wine from a waiter, and the rest of the night is blank with only the briefest flash of something inappropriate that may have happened in a coat room. I guess someone must have drugged my drink. I know that’s no excuse, but I really do feel horrible for what happened. Please accept this small gift along with my apology. I’ll stop by the kitchen later just to make sure you’re okay.
Trent”
I don’t know what to make of Trent’s apology. Maybe he really was roofied last night. That would explain his instant inebriation. But does that excuse his aggressive behavior? Or did being drugged simply amplify something lurking under the surface of Trent’s rich-boy façade? I really have no idea.
The temptation is too much, and I end up opening Trent’s finely wrapped gift. It’s a small bottle of perfume in a hand-blown vial from some type of custom perfumery in New York. I wonder if Trent keeps a stock of these little gifts on hand to ply women he inappropriately tries to grope on dates or if there’s a shop that sells the perfume locally. I pull the top and take a cautious sniff. I’m sure whatever it is, it’s very expensive, but the added price still doesn’t agree with my stomach. I wonder if I can trust Dahlia not to shower with the stuff if I give her the bottle.
I shove the perfume in my locker and the flowers in the locker room so that I have space to work at my prep station and then get on with my day.
Glenn is a slightly balding man in a brown suit. It’s three o’clock when he gives me his business card along with a firm handshake. He has some papers for me to look over before I take him on a tour of the Bouche kitchen. I tell him to leave the briefcase and white box he brought with him in my office while I show him around. I’m sure he’s been in a zillion kitchens, so it’s probably a waste of time to go into everything in detail, but I’m trying to be polite without boring him. “Here is where we have our different prep stations.” I wave a hand in the general direction of where Aspic, Paolo, and June are working.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see some movement from the direction of the dining room. It’s Kiki, carrying her shoes so she doesn’t make any noise, and she’s with some guy holding a large camera. They charge up to where we’re standing, Kiki announcing, “
Bouche's new chef de cuisine let the kitchen get so dirty the board of health is here!”
“What?” I ask, a bit wide eyed. To be honest, I completely forgot about my conversation with Antoine yesterday.
Kiki directs the guy with the camera toward Glenn. “Get a picture of him.”
“Um, Kiki?” I try again. “What are you doing?”
She sneers at me. “Just revealing what a lousy chef you are. The kitchen never had any board of health issues when Escoffier was in charge.”
“
What are you talking about?” I ask her. “This is Glenn. He's interviewing to replace Carlos as pastry chef.”
“I brought some pastries with me,” Glenn says, looking a bit bewildered. “I left them in your office.” He turns to me. “A variety of cookies and some petit fours.” He turns back to Kiki. “I would have brought something more complicated, but I wasn’t sure about refrigeration.”
“Sounds great,” I tell him.
Glenn looks at the man with the camera. “Are you really from the board of health?” He obviously has no idea what is happening.
Kiki is completely blind-sided. “Whah...?” comes floating out of her open mouth. “You’re not here… You’re here for a job?”
The photographer lowers his camera and glares at Kiki. “
You dragged me down here to get pictures of some guy interviewing to be a pastry chef?”
“No,” Kiki insists. “He’s lying. He’s really here to inspect the kitchen.”
Glenn is confused and looking a bit stressed out. “No, I’m…” He looks over at me. “I’m really here for the job.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I pat him on the shoulder. “My co-worker here is just a little confused. Let’s go try those cookies you brought.” I was immediately wondering what kind of treats he had in the white box when he first walked in the door.
***Kiki***
Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! How is it that someone as clueless as Sue is always one step ahead of me? How does she know everything I'm going to do even before I know I'm going to do it? And then how does she pull off acting so innocent all the time? If being passive aggressive was an Olympic event, she would definitely win a medal.
The photographer that it took me forever to lure to Bouche took off in a huff, accusing me of wasting his time, and Sue pulled out the old doe eyes again with her claim to have no idea what I’m talking about as far as the board of health, like she never said anything to Antoine. She’s making me insane! I can’t even deal with heading back into the dining room and coping with all the crap of hostessing, so I storm into the employee locker room.
I want to throw something, hard. And seeing that I find my shoe in my hand, I whip it against the lockers. Then I’m so mad at myself for risking my Jimmy Choo, which I’m still paying off on my credit card, that I end up throwing the other one, causing someone’s locker to fly open and their clothes and books to come tumbling out onto the floor.
The release I feel from pitching my shoes across the room is short lived as I realize how expensive they are. I rush to pick them up crying, “
Oh, my darlings, I'm so sorry I threw you. Please don't be scuffed.”
Fortunately, besides a small mark on the left heel, which may or may not have been there before, my shoes appear unscathed.
I start scooping up the clothing and other assorted crap that burst out of the locker. I can tell by the near designer labels that it’s Sue’s stuff that I’m cramming back into place. The temptation to trash a few items of clothing is strong, but that’s really not who I am as a person. So instead, I’ll just have to be satisfied with wadding it all together so that it’s definitely wrinkled. All that’s left is some deodorant and a book on the ground. I pick up the deodorant with two fingers and fling it into the locker. The book, I assume, is some cheesy romance or some pathetic,
I’m Okay, You’re Okay
type self-help book. It landed with its pages spread open. Sue has highlighted a large portion of the text and made copious notes in the margins.
The first thing that catches my eye is some text that Sue has tinted in neon pink: “
In order to kill the enemy, men must be roused to anger; that there may be advantage from defeating the enemy, they must have their rewards.” Next to it, Sue has printed with ridiculously neat penmanship, “Use Bouche kitchen staff. Will back you to keep their jobs.”
What kind of book is this? Seriously not what I was expecting from Miss Goody Two-shoes.
I flip the book closed to check out the cover. It takes me a moment to digest the title.
The Art of War
seems a very unlikely book for Sue to own. I mean, why the hell would she be reading it? Opening it again, I check out more of her notes.
After a good few minutes of study, all I can think is, “Why that little bitch… Possibly a genius. But still, what a little bitch…”
Chapter 25
“Perfume for me?” Dahlia asks as I open the box to show her the bottle.
“If you promise to use it sparingly,” I warn her.
She smells the contents of the little genie bottle. “It’s always been my belief that just a hint of perfume behind the ears goes a long way. No reason to beat anyone over the head with it,” she states, to my relief.
“Then it’s all yours.”
Dahlia smiles. She knows it’s the good stuff. “I’m beginning to feel a little spoiled,” she tells me. “I get all of the perks of dating men without all the messy emotional entanglements and chest hair.”
“So glad my love life is providing you with a service,” I grumble.
“Things must be going well with Trent then,” Dahlia says, dabbing a touch of perfume behind each ear. “I mean if he’s stumping up with expensive presents after the first date.”
“Yeah, that’s not how guys work,” I inform her. “They really only come across with the gifts and flowers when they’ve screwed up royally.”
“There are flowers, too?” A bit of greed lights up Dahlia’s eyes.
“Yes, but you can forget about them. I gave them to Pedro for his grandmother. She’s in the hospital.”
“Oh, well.” She shrugs. “The perfume will suffice. So what did Mr. Wonderful do that it warranted cracking open his wallet?”
After I’m finished regaling Dahlia with the events of the previous evening, I ask, “So, what do you think?”
“Think about what?” she wants to know.
“Well.” I’m not sure how to phrase it. “Does Trent’s excuse justify his behavior?”
“That’s kind of a tough call. Do you believe he was actually drugged? Or is that something he just made up as an excuse for being a drunken letch?”
I think about it. “There’s a good chance he was drugged. His pupils looked pretty out of whack.”
“And do you see that as a reasonable excuse for trying to molest you?” she asks.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. I’ve thought about it all day when I wasn’t thwarting Kiki or hiring Bouche’s new pastry chef. Although, I had to warn Glenn that at some point Escoffier would return and probably have an opinion about his employment.
Was the man I saw last night the real Trent with his mask ripped away or was he so altered by whatever drug some jerk-face slipped him, or that he applied himself, that it wouldn’t be fair to hold his behavior against him? I just can’t decide, and I’m not sure I want to do another test date with Trent to find out. I might not be lucky enough to escape next time.
There is the sound of my phone ringing, and I fish it out of my bag. It’s someone calling from Bouche. My heart skips a beat thinking it’s Trent. Then I remind myself he’s an ass. I’ve just had a secret crush on him for so long that it’s a hard habit to break. He never did follow up on his promise to swing by and check on me, but that could be due to residual shame or just a very busy day. “Hello?” I say into my cell.
“Sue? It’s Aziz.” I hear a deep male voice. “I’ve got something exciting to tell you.”
“
Is that him?” Aziz asks.
It’s the next day and we’re standing in my secret spot outside the kitchen, scanning the dining room. I don’t know how Aziz pulled it off, but he used his connections to influence, or figure out, or I’m not even sure what, but anyway, he’s been told from a reliable source that a reviewer for the company that hands out Thomas Van Dyke awards will be at Bouche this evening. This is such a huge deal. A Van Dyke is a guarantee that a restaurant will have reservations booked out for months in advance, and that reputation lasts for years. You can pretty much serve dog food on melba toast once you’ve received a Van Dyke, and people will show up to rave about it.
I squint in the direction Aziz is indicating and see a middle-aged guy wearing jeans and a nice sports coat, which could maybe pass for California casual, but his feet are clad in battered tennis shoes. “No, I don’t think so.”
How is Aziz so connected in the culinary world? It’s kind of amazing. I guess he’s a little worried about Bouche as well because he’s been calling in the favors right and left to really get the restaurant’s name out there. Now, if we could just give this Van Dyke reviewer perfect service with excellent food then I could maybe plant my flag in Trent’s skull and then coast for a bit while I reassess my life. That is, if I ever want to get near enough to Trent again to plant anything in his skull besides an ice pick.
“How about her?” I dial in on a likely candidate in the form of a woman with a mass of silver hair and some serious librarian-chic glasses.
“No.” Aziz shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure it’s going to be a man.”
I know I have to get back to the kitchen. I can’t hang around all day spying on the customers, even though I can’t really concentrate on anything else but the possibility of a Van Dyke. Because this is it! This is everything I’ve been busting my ass for. A Van Dyke awarded to Bouche while I’m acting chef de cuisine would be amazing. That’s more than winning; that’s spiking the ball in Kiki’s face. I wonder briefly when this whole thing became more about beating Kiki than winning Trent.
I’m reluctant, but I finally have to say, “Okay, well I guess I’d better get back in there. Let me know if you spot anyone.”
I’m turning to head back into the fray when Aziz says, “Wait. I think I see him.”
“Where?” I spin around, scanning the room.
“Table twenty-eight, goatee, Kiki’s just seating him. He’s by himself,” Aziz says in a low voice, as if the guy could hear us from across the crowded dining room.
I focus in on who he’s identified as our potential target. “Yes, that’s got to be him. I’m positive.”
“How can you be?”
“Because,” I explain, even though it’s obvious, “he’s wearing a tweed jacket.” Aziz isn’t following me, so I add, “And it’s summertime.”
The nattily, if not weather-appropriately dressed man immediately buries his nose in the menu as soon as he’s seated, inspecting each dish listed from a range of no further than two inches from the page. “Whose station is that?” I wonder.
“Gwenn’s, I think,” Aziz tells me.
Fortunately, Gwenn is heading for the kitchen, so I don’t have to hunt around for her. “Gwenn, are you serving table twenty-eight?” I ask, once she’s in range.
“
Yeah,” she confirms. “Why?”
I’ve heard the members of the Van Dyke staff do not like to be recognized by too many people. Something about how they need to maintain anonymity to preserve an objective review, so I have to be a bit vague with Gwenn. “There’s a little man over there that just came in.
Make sure he gets really good service tonight. I'm talking perfect. Okay?”
“Okay…” The supermodel waitress tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder and shoots a look back at the table. The tweedy man doesn’t make much of an impression on her. “What's going on? Is he some famous author
or something?”
“I can’t tell you right now, but you got to trust me that this is important.
Just take care of him.”
I guess my dire sincerity is pretty clear because she comes back at me with, “
You got it,” with no more questions asked.
Okay, I admit it; I should just leave him alone and trust that between my staff and my cooking skills, the guy will have a wonderful meal. But I can’t. I can’t stop dancing around like a cat walking across a freshly painted floor. I mean, come on. I can’t be the first chef to realize a high-end reviewer is in her restaurant. So I send over some complimentary appetizers that I hope are to his liking.
Gwenn sets a plate of food on the man’s table, tosses him one of her most appealing smiles, and says, “These wild boar sausage meatballs are complimentary from the chef.”
“
Oh, my...” the little man says, peering at the steaming food.
I’m so glad Gwenn is his server. She knows how to turn on the charm, which I’m sure will only enhance the flavor of the food for the tweedy gentleman. Some big hick in a cowboy hat tries to wave her down with, “
Uh... s'cuse me, ma'am?” but Gwenn seamlessly ignores him. I love her so much.
I guess Aziz can’t keep still either because he personally brings over the half bottle of wine the man ordered. He’s at his debonair best when he says, “
I think you'll find the flavor of currants will heighten your appreciation of the pork.”
The man at the next table, purportedly from Texas, is apparently used to being the center of attention wherever he’s from because he calls out to Aziz, “
Hey, buddy? If you could spare a minute...”
“I’ll send your server over,” Aziz says with a clipped smile.
Our target is tucking into his food with relish, so I think so far we are doing well. He’s all but glowing with the attention he’s receiving from the best looking of our already good-looking staff. I even send Pedro over as the most charismatic of our busboys to clear away the dishes as needed, which he does with aplomb. I don’t know if gossip of our Van Dyke man has spread amongst the staff or if I’m just giving off a don’t-screw-this-up vibe, but everyone is bringing their A game.
I really wish I hadn’t ripped the sleeves off my jacket again. I definitely need to have a fresh, tailored chef’s coat ready at all times in my locker for these types of emergency situations. June’s coat is fairly clean and the closest to my size, so I borrow it to go into the dining room and introduce myself.
“I’ve never tried wild boar before,” the reviewer tells me. “It’s not as gamey as I expected.”
I’m sure that there has to be more than a few restaurants on the planet featuring wild boar, but I don’t want to correct him, so I say, “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”
“And who knew nettles could taste so good?”
I am glowing with the man’s compliments. He can’t stop talking about how much he’s enjoying the food. My head is swelling so much I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull off my hat. “Just something as simple as the peas in my salad were amazing,” he’s telling me. I can practically feel the Van Dyke in my hands right now.
“Thank you.” I beam. “At Bouche, we try to stay as organic as possible, and I think you can really tell that with the flavor of the food.”
I have my back to the next table and the needy cowboy. He’s still trying to grab the spotlight with, “
Excuse me, ma'am. Are you the chef ‘round here?” I guess I’m bent over in a half bow as I talk to the Van Dyke reviewer because the cowboy reaches over and taps me on the near butt. The near butt is the region very close to your butt but in a grey area so you’re not quite sure if you should be offended or not. I shoot him a dirty look, but I’m not about to let him ruin my schmoozing, so I don’t turn around to tear him a new one.
I keep talking over the guy, hoping he’ll take the hint and just leave me alone. “
We focus on buying locally with all our fruits and...”
“
Ma'am!” The cowboy has actually goosed me on the butt. Right in the middle of the restaurant. I can’t believe it.
I feel rage swelling through my entire body. It’s not just the rage of being prodded by some rude cowpoke. It’s the rage of being overtired and overworked and underpaid. It’s the rage of being used by Escoffier and Trent and Elliot and every other dill hole on the planet. It’s the rage of some blowhard in a stupid cowboy hat thinking that he’s entitled to literally poke me on the ass because he somehow is under the delusion that he’s the most important thing on the planet, when he’s really just another random schmuck. I swing around and yell at him, “
What?”
The cowboy gestures toward his plate. “
I'm having some trouble getting my head around my meal, and I just wanted to ask you about it.”
I am furious. This hayseed has just interrupted the most important conversation of my life because he doesn’t understand his dinner. It’s unbelievable. Using powers of restraint that I didn’t even know I had, I say through clenched teeth, “
You ordered the steak house steak. Steak. House. Steak house. What could be more obvious?”
“
Yeah, but...” the man stammers. Before him sits a beautiful little architectural masterpiece. Slices of Kobe beef stitched together with chives and filled with mashed potatoes to form a tiny little house complete with chimney. “I mean, my opinion isn't everything, but why does it look like the home of a carnivorous Hansel and Gretel? I hate to say it, but maybe you've gone a dish too far.”
Now I’m losing it. I can feel myself losing it, and I want to stop, but the voice screaming inside my head to stop does nothing to prevent me from saying, “
A dish too far?” in an incredulous voice. “You think I’ve gone a dish too far?” I can’t believe my ears. Hayseed thinks I’ve gone a dish too far. It’s incredible. I know everyone is entitled to an opinion, but when you’re a complete ignoramus, it’s best to hide the fact by keeping your mouth shut. And that’s probably good advice for me as well, as far as keeping my mouth shut, but this fool has embarrassed me in front of the most important customer I’ll ever have in my entire life, and I just can’t restrain myself. “You tourists,” I growl, letting all the distain I’m feeling fill my voice.