Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

“Thanks for running those sauces.”

Adrienne accepted the crackers like a hungry beggar. She gobbled the first cracker and it was so delicious that she let the second one sit on her tongue until it melted in a burst of flavor. It tasted like the crisped cheese on top of onion soup that she used to devour after a day of skiing. But better, of course, because everything that came out of this kitchen was better.

Two more baskets of crackers were delivered to the bar and Adrienne was able to procure another handful. Thatcher waved at her from the podium. More tables were leaving. Rex played “If.” Adrienne put her crackers on a napkin, and went to help Thatcher send the guests on their way. The bank president palmed Adrienne some money. The redhead from the all-women table touched the sleeve of Adrienne’s blouse.

“I own a women’s clothing store in town called Dessert,” she said. “If you come in, I’d love to dress you, free of charge.”

Mack Peterson, manager of the Beach Club, who was another sandy-haired Midwesterner, shook Adrienne’s hand and assured her he would only send her his best clients.

“You know, Mack,” Thatcher said. “This girl used to work at the Little Nell in Aspen. She’s a hotel person.”

“Well, if you ever want to come back from the dark side,” Mack said, “we’d love to have you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Adrienne said, though she had to admit, after only one night she was hooked on the restaurant business. Yes, she was in pain and she was exhausted. But she wasn’t trading in this job. She loved it and it wasn’t just because of the money-it was because of the crackers.

Hunger and thirst, she thought. They’d get you every time.

See and Be Scene

Andrew Amman-Keller

Journalist

P.O. Box 383

Providence, RI 05271

P.O. Box 3777

Nantucket, MA 02584

Cell: 917-555-5172

aakack@metronet.net

When Caren emerged from her bedroom the next morning, her hair was down. It was a good look for her, Adrienne thought. She looked softer, sexier, more approachable, which was handy since Adrienne wanted to approach her, first thing, on the subject of Fiona. Caren was wearing a white T-shirt that had the words LE TOINY stitched in red on the left breast. The T-shirt was just long enough to cover Caren’s ass in what looked to be thong underwear. She bee-lined for her espresso machine.

“You want?” she asked Adrienne.

“No, thanks. I have tea.” Ginger-lemon herbal tea that Adrienne drank for a hangover, which she was nursing right now. There had been six glasses of champagne before the night was over because after the last guests left (as it happened, the author’s table) Duncan poured a drink for everyone on the staff and he had poured two glasses for Adrienne in the interest of finishing off the bottle of Laurent-Perrier. So that was a whole bottle over the course of one evening, probably four glasses too many. Adrienne had taken three Advil and chugged a glass of ice water when she got home, but she still felt dull and flannel-mouthed this morning. It was such a gorgeous day-so sunny and crystalline-that Adrienne had entertained thoughts of going for a jog. But her legs ached too much. She was excited to have the whole day to herself-well, until five o’clock-and she wished she could just shrug off the pain and enjoy it.

So the tea. And three more Advil. She wanted to go to the beach again, with sunscreen. She wanted to buy a pair of quiet shoes and send the first installment of payback to her father. But mostly she wanted to figure out what was going on at that restaurant. The place had mystique that seemed to come from a flurry of secrets, some of them just below the surface and some of them deeper-seated. And Adrienne had her own secret, which now that she wasn’t working, she had the luxury of thinking about: Thatcher had kissed her.

Last night after service, Duncan poured every member of the staff a drink except for Thatcher and Fiona. They were back in the kitchen counting money and eating dinner. Eating dinner at one o’clock in the morning! This information was served up by Bruno. Fiona and Thatcher ate in the small office that had a back door that opened to the beach. Adrienne had had enough to drink to accept this tidbit from Bruno then ask for more. “So what’s the deal with those two, anyway? Are they an item?” And Bruno, who was drinking a vodka martini, laughed so shrilly that there was no room for speculation: The man was gay. When Adrienne asked why he was laughing, Bruno only laughed harder. He was turning heads; Duncan popped him in the eye with a lime wedge. Adrienne judged that the moment had come to either leave or make an ass of herself. She called a cab from the podium and waited for the cab outside, hoping Bruno didn’t share the nature of their conversation with anyone.

The espresso machine geared up; it was as loud as an airplane ready for takeoff. Adrienne tried to select the least intrusive and obvious words to broach the subject of Fiona. When the espresso was done, Caren poured herself a tiny cup, threw it back like a dose of cough medicine, and poured herself another. Adrienne shuddered. At least she hadn’t vomited; those crackers at the bar had saved her life.

“So what did you think of last night?” Adrienne asked.

Caren shrugged. “What did you think?”

“It was fun,” Adrienne said. In retrospect, the night seemed like a manic blur, as if she had been backstage at a rock concert, blinded by the lights, deafened by the music-and yes, pursued by journalists. “My feet hurt. It was a lot of standing up. My shoes were all wrong.”

Caren tossed back the second espresso. “Well, yeah.”

“I’m going to buy some new shoes today.”

“Go to David Chase,” Caren said. “Main Street.”

“Okay.”

Caren smiled in a knowing way. “Did you make money last night?”

“Yeah. A lot.”

“Me, too. As a rule, though, never tell how much you bring in. Everyone is so damn greedy. And something else you might not know is that if you have someone helping you out in the kitchen, you should slide him money every once in a while.”

“Like Mario?” Adrienne said.

“Mario?” Caren said. A mischievous smile spread across her face. “Mario might help you out, but it’s nothing you should pay him for. Did he come on to you already ?”

“No,” Adrienne said. Why had she said Mario? She hadn’t meant Mario, she’d meant Paco, the chip kid.

“Don’t be surprised if he does,” Caren said. “He’s a ladies’ man. As charming as they come and a great dancer, but truh-bull. Anyway, I was talking about one of the guys on the line. Hector, Louis, Henry…”

“Paco?”

“Exactly,” Caren said. “Some time this weekend, give Paco fifty bucks. He’ll be on your team for the rest of the summer. I always tip out the guys in the kitchen and they time my food perfectly. They slide me snacks. And Fiona likes it. She thinks the money we make on the floor is a cardinal sin.”

Fiona’s name was as bright as an open door. All Adrienne had to do was step through.

“I wanted to ask you about Fiona,” Adrienne said.

Caren turned away. She opened a cabinet and brought down another espresso cup, which she filled. Adrienne was confused, and worried that the espresso was meant for her. Then she became even more confused because she heard the toilet flush in the hall bathroom. Was there someone else in the house? A few seconds later, a half-naked man sauntered into their kitchen. Adrienne tried to keep her composure. Never mind that her vague but very important overture was floating away like a released balloon. Never mind that because the shirtless man in their kitchen was Duncan. He was wearing his khaki pants from the night before. Adrienne could see one inch of the top of his boxers-they were white with black martini glasses. His brown hair was mussed and Adrienne was temporarily mesmerized by his bare torso. His beautiful chest and arms, a black cord choker around his neck with a silver key on it. He must have noticed her staring because the first thing he did was hold the key out to show it to her. “This opens my ski locker at the Aspen Club Lodge,” he said. “Where did you work?”