Authors: Elin Hilderbrand
At six o’clock, Thatcher still wasn’t back. Adrienne sat parties, Rex played “You Make Me Feel So Young,” and a very slight breeze from the water cooled the dining room down. At ten after six, the Yannicks arrived. They were a handsome, well-dressed couple and the two-year-old, William, was darling. He had strawberry blond hair and freckles that looked like they were painted on. He wore white overalls and little white sneakers. Adrienne congratulated herself for allowing such a cute little boy to come to the restaurant. When he saw her, he held out a plastic fire truck.
Adrienne smiled. “You must be the Yannicks.” She snapped up two menus and a wine list. “Follow me.” She led them to table four and stood aside as Mr. Yannick buckled William into the high chair. William was angelic. He chewed the top of his fire truck. “Caren will be your server tonight,” Adrienne said. “Enjoy your meal.”
Five minutes later, Caren stormed the podium. “I hate you.”
“I’m sorry. They’re sorry. They couldn’t find a sitter.”
“I don’t like babies,” Caren said. “Or toddlers. Or children in preschool.”
“But he’s cute,” Adrienne said.
“I don’t like anyone who isn’t old enough to drink,” Caren said.
“At least he’s well-behaved,” Adrienne said.
“They gave him a sugar packet to play with, which he spilled all over the tablecloth. And he got into the mother’s water. They asked for doughnuts ‘right away,’ but the kitchen isn’t making doughnuts tonight. Too hot. They asked for a plastic cup with a top. It seems they forgot his at home. Already it’s too much work. Why didn’t you refer them to the Sea Grille? It’s perfect for families.”
“I’m sorry,” Adrienne said. “I’ll take care of it.”
But because Thatcher was gone, Adrienne had to seat fifteen more tables, open wine, run chips and dip, and answer the phone. She went to the bar to pick up her champagne and Duncan was so in the weeds that he couldn’t pour it. “Get it yourself,” he said. “You know how.”
Adrienne didn’t have time. She raced over to check on table four. William was gnawing on a piece of pretzel bread and there were little bits of pretzel bread all over the floor. And the floor was wet. Adrienne nearly slipped.
“Whoa,” she said.
“Sorry,” Mrs. Yannick said. She was valiantly trying to keep William occupied by reading a small, sturdy book called
Jamberry.
Mr. Yannick studied the wine list. Adrienne bent down to pick up the pieces of bread. The floor underneath the high chair was soaked.
“Please don’t worry about the mess,” Mr. Yannick said. “We’ll get it before we go.”
“William spilled his water,” Mrs. Yannick said. “We’re very sorry. Our waitress couldn’t find a plastic cup with a top.”
“I’ll look in the back,” Adrienne said. “Have you placed your order?”
Mr. Yannick looked at his wife. “What are you getting, honey?”
Mrs. Yannick slapped
Jamberry
down on the table. “I haven’t exactly had a chance to read the menu.”
William threw his pretzel bread and it landed in Mr. Yannick’s water. Mr. Yannick laughed and fished it out.
“I’ll get you fresh water,” Adrienne said. She glanced about the dining room. Were people staring? William pushed himself up by the arms in an attempt to launch himself from his high chair.
“All done,” he said.
“You are not all done,” Mrs. Yannick said. “We haven’t even started.” She wiped the gummy bread from around William’s mouth with her napkin and this made him angrier. “Just order me the steak, Carl. Steak, rare, nothing to start. He won’t make it through two courses.”
“Honey . . .”
“Honey, what?”
“What was the point of coming if . . .”
“If you can’t order the foie gras? Fine, order the foie gras. I’ll take William out to the parking lot and you can eat it in peace.”
“Honey . . .”
“Let me get you the water,” Adrienne said.
“All done!” William said in a more insistent voice. He kicked his feet against the underside of the table and then swept
Jamberry
to the floor where it landed in the puddle.
Adrienne cast around for a busboy. Roy was at table twelve refilling water. Adrienne waved him down. “We need a new glass here.”
“The water is the least of our worries,” Mrs. Yannick said. “Can you get our waitress so we can place our order?”
“Certainly,” Adrienne said. She found Caren coming out of the kitchen with apps for table twenty-eight. Adrienne followed her. “Here, let me help you serve.”
Caren eyed her. “Why? What do you want?”
“Table four,” Adrienne said. “They’d like to place their order. William is restless.”
“They made their bed,” Caren said.
“So you won’t go over there?”
“When I’m good and ready.”
Adrienne heard a shriek. All the way across the dining room, she saw William, red in the face, kicking, trying to free himself from his chair. Adrienne hurried over. Mrs.
Yannick was trying to read
Jamberry
over William’s screaming. Mr. Yannick raised his arm in a sign of distress; his ship was going down.
“Would you take our order, please?” he said.
“Certainly,” Adrienne said.
“Foie gras and the duck for me, and my wife will have the crab cake and the steak.”
“Rare,” Mrs. Yannick said.
“And a bottle of the Ponzi Pinot Noir,” Mr. Yannick said.
“Really, Carl, wine?” Mrs. Yannick said.
“You love the Ponzi.”
“You think we have time to drink a bottle of wine?”
“We’ll just drink what we can,” Mr. Yannick said. “The Ponzi.”
“Very good,” Adrienne said. William was temporarily mesmerized with a lipstick Mrs. Yannick had pulled from her purse. He took off the cap and put the lipstick in his mouth.
“For God’s sake,” Mr. Yannick said.
“At least he’s quiet,” Mrs. Yannick said.
William threw the lipstick to the ground and started to cry. Mrs. Yannick dug through her purse. “I thought I had a lollipop in here.” Adrienne headed for the kitchen. She didn’t have time for this, and yet she felt responsible.
Is your restaurant child-friendly?
No, it’s not. The next time, Adrienne would just come right out and say it. No children under six. Why wasn’t this a rule already? She tried to think about how to help the Yannicks. Maybe she should comp their dinner and insist they come back another night.
What,
she wondered,
would Thatcher do? Where was he?
“Ordering table two: one bisque, one crab cake, SOS. Where’s the duck for fourteen? Louis? Get your head out of the oven, Louis! Ordering table six: one frites, medium-well, one pasta. That’s right, I said pasta, so Henry, you’re going to work tonight after all. Ordering table twenty-one . . .” Fiona noticed Adrienne at her elbow. The kitchen was brutally hot even with two standing fans going. “What do you want?”
“I came to put in an order for table four.”
“Who’s the server?”
“Caren, but she’s busy.”
“News flash: We’re all busy. What is it?”
“What?”
“The order!”
Adrienne thought for a second. If you gave Fiona the food in the wrong sequence, she got pissed. “Foie gras, crab cake, duck, frites rare.”
Fiona scribbled out a ticket. “Fine.”
“Can you rush it?” Adrienne said. “These people brought their two-year-old and he’s
freaking out
.”
“Ordering table four: one foie gras, one crab cake, pronto,” Fiona said. Then to Adrienne, she said, “What’s the kid eating?”
“He’s not eating. But they would like a plastic cup with a top. I know Caren already asked, but . . .”
“Sippy cup, Paco,” Fiona shouted.
Seconds later, a plastic cup with a bright blue plastic top whizzed through the air. Fiona caught it and handed it to Adrienne. “Go get him.”
“Who?”
“The kid. Go get the kid and bring him in here.”
Adrienne thought she had heard wrong. The kitchen with the grill and the fryer and four sauté pans going and the fans running was loud.
“You want me to bring William in here?”
“If you think it would help the parents enjoy the meal, then yes,” Fiona said. And—surprise!—she smiled. “I keep some toys in the back office. I love kids.”
Adrienne popped into the wine cave for a bottle of Ponzi. By the time she reached the podium, she noticed the dining room was not only cooler, but quieter. She looked at table four. Thatcher was standing by the table with William in his arms, William was chewing on the top of his fire truck. Adrienne felt a surge of tenderness and awe and whatever else it was a woman felt when she first saw her lover holding a small child. She hurried to the bar, where her champagne
glass was waiting. She took a drink, then she set down the sippy cup.
“Orange juice, please,” she said.
Duncan filled it without a word, and Adrienne took the sippy cup and the wine to table four. She handed the sippy cup to Mrs. Yannick who brightened, then Adrienne presented the Ponzi to Mr. Yannick.
“Juice!” William said.
Mr. Yannick nodded at the wine, visibly relaxed. Adrienne uncorked and poured, he tasted.
“Delicious.”
“I put a rush on your order,” Adrienne said as she poured a glass of wine for Mrs. Yannick. “Your appetizers should be out any second.”
“Would it be all right if I took William into the kitchen?” Thatcher said. “I know our chef would love to see him.”
“She has some toys in the office,” Adrienne said.
“All right,” Mrs. Yannick said. “You’ll bring him back if he’s any problem?”
“This guy, a problem?” Thatcher said. William was resting his head on Thatcher’s shoulder, sucking noisily on the cup. Thatcher winked at Adrienne and vanished into the back.
Mrs. Yannick collapsed in her wicker chair. “I love this place,” she said.
Fourth of July. Two hundred and fifty covers on the books, the maximum. Prix fixe menu, sixty dollars per person. First seating was at six; the guests were to eat then move out to the rented beach chairs in the sand to watch the fireworks. Second seating was at ten; those guests would watch the fireworks first, then sit down to dinner. Duncan was working the bar outside, and Delilah took over the blue granite, her first solo flight.
Everything was different and Adrienne was anxious. Thatcher asked her to arrive early, and she was there at quarter to four, but the front of the house was deserted. When she poked her head back into the kitchen it was 182 degrees—the deep fryers were going full blast with the
chicken, and Fiona had the ribs in enormous pressure cookers. Adrienne checked in pastry to find Mario up to his elbows in fruit. He wasn’t listening to music, and he didn’t smile when he saw her.
“I have fifty pounds of peaches that need to be skinned. Everybody else gets a prep cook and I get left in the shit. One hundred twenty-five peach pies I have to make. I spent all morning with the blueberries. Look at my hands.” He held up his palms. They were, of course, impeccably clean. “My nails are blue. I can tell you one thing. I’m gonna have nightmares tonight. You ever have a nightmare about stone fruit?”
“No,” Adrienne said.
“Where you have a bushel of peaches looking as gorgeous as
Playboy
asses and then you break one open and it’s brown and rotten inside? And the next one? And the next one? They’re all that way?”
“I never had that dream,” Adrienne said.
“Yeah, well, lucky you.”
In the kitchen, Adrienne heard Fiona yelling about deviled eggs. She wanted five hundred deviled eggs.
Adrienne retreated to the empty dining room just as a man with a clipboard walked in saying, “I got two hundred and fifty folding chairs, sweetheart. Where do you want them?”
Some help would be nice,
she thought. She had never done the Fourth of July thing on Nantucket before and she didn’t know where on the beach Thatcher wanted the chairs or even which direction they should face. If she told this man the wrong thing then two hundred and fifty chairs would have to be moved. (Adrienne pictured herself slogging through the sand in her Jimmy Choo heels.) So better get it right the first time.
Adrienne called Thatcher’s cell phone.
“Where are you?” she said. Then thought:
Try not to sound like a wife.
“At Marine. I wanted to get flags for the tables.”
“The gentleman is here with the chairs. He would like to know where to put them.”
“On the beach.”
“Right, but where?”
“Let me talk to the guy.”
“Happily,” Adrienne said. She handed off the phone to the chair man, then surveyed the dining room. What could she do to help? Set the tables? A roll of red, white, and blue bunting sat on top of the piano along with a book of music,
101 Patriotic Songs.
Deviled eggs, bunting, patriotic songs. These people really got into it.
A moment later, Caren walked in. It looked like she’d been crying.
“It’s over,” she said. “I’m finished with that rat bastard.”
“Duncan?”
Caren glared at her. Adrienne tried to think: He had been there that morning. She’d heard them in the kitchen, though as a rule, she and Thatcher didn’t fraternize with Caren and Duncan. Too much like work.
“What happened?” Adrienne asked.
“He’s been cheating on me during the
day,
” Caren said. “This morning? He says he has golf at ten with the bartender from Cinco. Fine. I decide to do something different because of the holiday so I set myself up with a gorgeous Cuban sandwich from Fahey and then I go to the beach at Madequecham. And lo and behold, whose car is there? Who is lying on the beach with the hostess from 21 Federal?”
“The hostess?” Adrienne said. “You mean Phoebe?”
“Phoebe!” Caren spat. “So I saunter up to the happy couple and Duncan doesn’t even blink. But I could tell he thought I followed him there or was spying on him or something. However, he pretended like it was no big deal and therefore I had to pretend like it was no big deal. He asked me to put lotion on his back, and I said, ‘No way, motherfucker.’ So then Phoebe pipes up and says she would love to put lotion on his back—and I have to sit there and
watch.
” Her eyes filled up. “What am I going to do?”
Adrienne put her arm around Caren, awkwardly, because Caren was so much taller. Duncan was a woman magnet;
Caren had to learn to accept it. Before Adrienne could find a way to say this, Thatcher walked in, clapping his hands.