Authors: Elin Hilderbrand
“This year, as every year, the first thing that hits the table—after the cocktails—is the bread basket.” There was an appreciative moan, and Caren arched her eyebrows at Adrienne from across the table. “The bread basket is one of two things. Bruno! Go into the kitchen and get me two baskets, one of each, please.” The bald waiter zipped into the kitchen.
Bruno.
Adrienne mentally pinned the name to him. Bald Bruno, who had welcomed her earlier. His voice had a little bit of a sashay to it, like he was from the south or was gay. She would ask Caren later.
Bruno reappeared with two baskets swathed in white linen napkins and a ramekin of something bright yellow.
Thatcher unveiled one basket. “Pretzel bread,” he said. He held up a thick braid of what looked to be soft pretzel, nicely tanned, sprinkled with coarse salt. “This is served with Fee’s homemade mustard. So right away the guest knows this isn’t a run-of-the-mill restaurant. They’re not getting half a cold baguette, here, folks, with butter in the gold foil wrapper. This is warm pretzel bread made on the premises, and the mustard ditto. Nine out of ten tables are licking the ramekin clean.” He handed the bread basket to a waiter with a blond ponytail (male—everyone at the table was male except for Adrienne, Caren, and the young bar back who was hanging on to Duncan’s arm). The ponytailed
waiter—name?—tore off a hunk of bread and dipped it in the mustard. He rolled his eyes like he was having an orgasm.
The appropriate response,
Adrienne thought. But remembering her breakfast she guessed he wasn’t faking it.
“The other basket contains our world-famous savory doughnuts,” Thatcher said. He whipped the cloth off like a magician, revealing six golden-brown doughnuts. Doughnuts? Adrienne had been too nervous to think about eating all day, but now her appetite was roused. After the menu meeting, they were going to have a family meal.
The doughnuts were deep-fried rings of a light, yeasty, herb-flecked dough. Chive, basil, rosemary. Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. Savory doughnuts. Who wouldn’t stand in line for these? Who wouldn’t beg or steal to access the private phone line so that they could make a date with these doughnuts?
“If someone wants bread and butter—and it happens every night—we also offer warm Portuguese rolls. But the guest has to ask for it. Most people will be eating out of your hand after these goodies.”
Thatcher disappeared into the kitchen. Seconds later, he was out, carrying another plate. “All VIPs get the same canapé,” he said. “Years ago, Fee knocked herself out dreaming up precious little
amuses-bouches,
but then we came up with the winner. Chips and dip.” He set the plate on the table next to Adrienne and she nearly wept with gratitude. He was standing beside her now, so she could study his watch. Her suspicions were confirmed: It was a Patek Philippe, silver, rectangular face, black leather band. The watch matched Thatcher’s shoes, the Gucci loafers, black with sleek silver buckles. Adrienne had to admit, when he was dressed up, the man had a certain elegance. “You’re getting the idea, now, right? We have pretzels and mustard. We have doughnuts. And if we really, really like you, we have chips and dip. This is fun food. It isn’t stuffy. It isn’t going to make anyone nervous. The days of the waiter as a snob, the days of the menu as an
exam
the guest has to
pass
are over. But at the same time, we’re not talking about cellophane
bags here, are we? These are hand-cut potato chips with crème fraîche and a dollop of beluga caviar. This is the gift we send out. It’s better than Christmas.”
He offered the plate to Adrienne and she helped herself to a long, golden chip. She scooped up a tiny amount of the glistening black caviar. Just tasting it made her feel like a person of distinction.
Adrienne hoped the menu meeting might continue in this vein—with the staff tasting each ambrosial dish. But there wasn’t time; service started in thirty minutes. Thatcher wanted to get through the menu.
“The corn chowder and the shrimp bisque are cream soups, but neither of these soups is heavy. The Caesar is served with pumpernickel croutons and white anchovies. The chevre salad is your basic mixed baby greens with a round of breaded goat cheese, and the candy-striped beets are grown locally at Bartlett’s Farm. Ditto the rest of the vegetables, except for the portobello mushrooms that go into the ravioli—those are flown in from Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. So when you’re talking about vegetables, you’re talking about produce that’s grown in Nantucket soil, okay? It’s not sitting for thirty-six hours on the back of a truck. Fee selects them herself before any of you people are even
awake
in the morning. It’s all very Alice Waters, what we do here with our vegetables.” Thatcher clapped his hands. He was revving up, getting ready for the big game. In the article in
Bon Appétit,
Thatcher had mentioned that the only thing he loved more than his restaurant was college football.
“Okay, okay!” he shouted. It wasn’t a menu meeting; it was a pep rally! “The most popular item on the menu is the steak frites. It is twelve ounces of aged New York strip grilled to order—and please note you need a
temperature
on that—served with a mound of garlic fries. The duck, the sword, the lamb lollipops—see, we’re having
fun
here—are all served at the chef’s temperature. If you have a guest who wants the lamb killed—by which I mean
well done
—you’re going to have to take it up with Fiona. The sushi plate is all
spelled out for you—it’s bluefin tuna caught forty miles off the shore, and the sword
is
harpooned in case you get a guest who has just seen a
Nova
special about how the Canadian coast is being overfished.”
Just then the door to the kitchen opened and a short, olive-skinned man carried out a stack of plates, followed by his identical twin, who carried a hotel pan filled with grilled steaks. The smell was unbelievable.
“That’s your dinner,” Thatcher said. “I just have a few more things.”
A third guy, taller, with longer hair, but the same look of Gibraltar as the other two men, emerged with a hotel pan of French fries, and two bottles of ketchup dangling from his fingers. The staff shifted in their chairs. Adrienne wiggled her feet in her slides.
What,
she wondered,
is wrong with my shoes?
“The last thing I want to talk about is the fondue. Second seating only, four-tops only, otherwise it’s a logistical nightmare. You all know what fondue is, I assume, remembering it from your parents’ dinner parties when you were kids? We put out a fondue pot with hot peanut oil and we keep it hot with Sterno. So already, servers, visualize moving through the crowded dining room holding a pot of boiling oil. Visualize lighting the Sterno without setting the tablecloth on fire. Adding this to the menu tacked
thousands
of dollars to our insurance policy. But it’s our signature dish. The table gets a huge platter of shrimp, scallops, and clams dredged in seasoned flour. They get nifty fondue forks. What they’re doing, basically, is deep-frying their own shellfish. Then we provide sauces for dipping. So imagine it’s a balmy night, you’ve spent all day on the beach, you’ve napped, you’ve showered, you’ve indulged in a cocktail or two. Then you’re led to a table in the sand for the best all-you-can-eat fried shrimp in the world while sitting under the stars. It’s one of those life-is-good moments.” Thatcher smiled at the staff. “This is our last year. Everything we do this year is going to reflect our generosity of spirit. You will notice I never use
the word ‘customer’ or ‘client.’ The people who eat at this restaurant are our
guests.
And like good hosts, we want to make our guests happy. Now go eat. And for those of you who are new—all wine questions go to me—and familiarize yourself with the dessert menu while you chow.”
Everyone charged for the food. A few more cooks in spiffy white coats materialized from the kitchen. They were all lean and muscular with skin like gold leaf and dark hair. Latino? They looked alike to Adrienne—maybe they were brothers?—but this, surely, was just an example of her ignorance. The most handsome of the bunch stood in front of Adrienne in line. He looked her up and down—checking her out? Her diaphanous top? Then he grinned.
“Man,” he said. “Everyone’s in the shit back there. Except for me, of course, but I have the easy job.”
Adrienne peered over his shoulder at the hotel pan filled with steaks. And a vat of béarnaise—how had she missed that? “What’s the easy job?” she asked.
“I’m the pastry chef,” he said. “You’re new?”
“Adrienne.” She offered him her hand.
“Mario. How’re you doing? I heard about you. Fiona’s been making a big deal all week because you’re a woman.”
Adrienne studied him. Although he looked like he hailed from the Mediterranean, his accent said Chicago. He was several inches taller than she was, his hair was buzzed down to his scalp, and he had very round black eyes. Beautiful eyes, really. His skin was shiny with sweat and inside the collar of his chef’s jacket at the base of his neck she saw a scar, a raised purple welt.
“I’m sorry? Fiona’s making a big deal about
me
?” Adrienne said. “I don’t even know her. I’ve never met her.”
“I know,” he said cheerfully. He helped himself to a steak, gave it a generous ladle of béarnaise, plopped a handful of golden fries right on top.
Adrienne followed suit. There was salad, too, a gorgeous crisp-looking salad that had already been lightly dressed with something. Adrienne mounded her crowded plate with
salad, thinking about what Thatcher had said about the vegetables. Fiona picked them out before the sun was up.
Fiona! Fiona, whom Adrienne could not pick out of a crowd of two, was making a
big deal
about her. Adrienne needed to question this Mario person further to find out what was being said. Fiona Kemp, the reclusive genius chef, had been making a big deal all week because Adrienne was a woman. What had Thatcher said? He’d never hired a woman for the job before. Adrienne poured herself a tall glass of water then sat down next to the waiter with the blond ponytail. Mario took his dinner back to the kitchen. Adrienne felt weak, like her legs were made of baby greens. Before she got here she had been nervous to meet Fiona; now she was afraid.
No one was talking. The only sounds were knives and forks on plates, the occasional palm tapping the bottom of the ketchup bottle. Two waiters were studying the menus. The new guys. One pale and thin with a bushy head of loose curls and a weak chin, and one handsome dark-haired guy wearing two gold hoop earrings. The guy with the earrings was reading the menu so intently that he shot food off his plate when he cut his steak. Adrienne concentrated on eating carefully—one drop of ketchup on the diaphanous white blouse and . . . well, there was no time to go home and change and nothing at home to change into. Adrienne ate her steak, the béarnaise, the garlicky fries—did she even need to say it? It was steak frites from a rainy-day-in-Paris dream. The steak was perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked, pink in the middle, juicy, tender. The salad was tossed in a lemony vinaigrette but it tasted so green, so young and fresh, that Adrienne began to worry. This person Fiona had a
way.
If the staff meal tasted this good then the woman was possessed, and Adrienne didn’t want a possessed woman on her case.
The whole thing had been too easy, she saw now. She shouldn’t be here, she didn’t belong here, but she had been swept along by her own greed and by Thatcher, who had been described in a major food magazine as “charismatic, compelling . . . he could talk a teetotaler into a bottle of
Chateau Lafite.” He had convinced her, somehow, to take this leap. Adrienne thought it was weird that she hadn’t even
met
Fiona, but she’d chalked it up to the fact that Fiona was a recluse. A culinary Greta Garbo, or J. D. Salinger. Were Thatcher and Fiona married, engaged, committed, together, dating—or, worst of all,
exes
? She had to ask Caren. Caren who was three seats down eating a plate of only salad. Drinking, yes, espresso. Caren had advised Adrienne to keep a toothbrush and toothpaste at the restaurant. Caren knew everything.
There was soft female laughter, as jarring to Adrienne as a tray of stemware crashing to the floor. She looked around to see Duncan and the bar back engaged in quiet conversation. They looked so familiar, so at ease—the girl grabbed Duncan’s forearm when she talked. Adrienne wondered if something was going on between them. The girl was young—in college still, Adrienne guessed—she had curly light brown hair and big brown eyes. Big boobs, too, and her oxford was unbuttoned one too far.
Adrienne was one to talk.
Diaphanous top . . . gutsy . . . I like it.
“Diaphanous” didn’t mean transparent. You certainly couldn’t see anything. Besides, she was wearing a very sturdy, very modest beige bra. And her shoes—what, exactly, was wrong with her shoes?
Adrienne did
not
like the idea that while she was getting moved into the cottage, setting up her bank account, and strictly adhering to all three of her rules, someone she’d never laid eyes on was down here talking about her. News of the diaphanous top and the inappropriate shoes had probably already made it back into the kitchen. What would Fiona say to
that
?
Thatcher appeared, holding a flute of pink champagne. “You’re all done.”
It wasn’t a question, though Adrienne still had food on her plate, and she didn’t want to be separated from it. He nodded toward the front door. “Service starts in ten minutes. Mr. and Mrs. Parrish will be here
at
six. There are some other things I have to explain.”
Adrienne cleared her plate into three bins the way she’d seen others doing, though it killed her to throw food away. She followed Thatcher, who was holding the champagne out in front of him. “You liked dinner?” he asked.
“It was delicious.” This felt like a gross understatement and she wondered what words might convey the physical pain she felt at scraping her plate. “Did you eat?”
He laughed, the old karate-chop “ha!” It was a noise he made not when something was funny, she realized, but when something was preposterous. “No. I eat with Fee after service.”