Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

“Where do I get the bread?” Adrienne asked.

“In the kitchen.”

“So it’s okay if I…”

A party of six stepped in the door-four men, rugby-playing types, and two teenaged boys who looked like Abercrombie & Fitch models with mussed hair and striped ties loose at the neck. “Thatcher!” one of the men boomed like he was yelling across a playing field.

“Get the bread,” Thatcher whispered, nudging Adrienne toward the kitchen. He moved to the front of the podium and started slapping backs.

Adrienne eyeballed the kitchen door. Well, she worked here now. And for some reason the Parrishes wanted her to deliver their bread. She felt singled out. Special. The Parrishes wanted her. They were not offended by her diaphanous top. They weren’t put off because she was a woman.

Adrienne pushed open the door.

The kitchen was brightly lit. And very, very hot. And quiet except for the sounds of knives- rat-tat-tat-scrape -against cutting boards and the hiss of the deep fryers. Adrienne saw a line of bodies in white coats, but nobody’s face. There were two six-burner ranges side by side, there was a grill shooting flames, and up above, blocking everyone’s face, was a shelf stacked with what must have been fifty blackened sauté pans. Adrienne watched a pair of hands preparing the doughnuts. She watched another pair of hands filling ramekins with mustard. She noticed a cappuccino machine, big brother to the one that Caren owned, and next to it, a huge refrigerator, a cold stainless-steel wall. Where, exactly, was the bread? The kitchen was filled with people, yet there was no one to ask.

“Yes?”

A woman’s voice. Adrienne’s eyes adjusted to this alternate universe that was the restaurant kitchen and she saw Fiona Kemp. She knew it was Fiona Kemp because it said so in cobalt blue script on her white chef’s jacket. Fiona Kemp who, contrary to every vision Adrienne held in her mind’s eye, was only five feet tall and may have weighed a hundred pounds with a pocket full of change. She was small. And adorable. She had long honey-blond hair in a braid and huge blue eyes. She wore diamond stud earrings. Adrienne had expected a hunchback, a hermit; she had expected the old woman who lived in a shoe.

“You’re Fiona?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Adrienne.”

“I know.”

Should they shake hands? Fiona made no move to do so and Adrienne was too intimidated. She had never been clear on when women should shake hands, anyway.

“I came for the bread.”

“For whom?”

Adrienne watched a batch of doughnuts descend into the deep fryer. Her brain was deep-frying. “The Parrishes.”

“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.