Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

“What’s that?” she said.

He held her gaze for whole seconds of precious time. Outside the door, Adrienne could hear Spillman’s voice: “Has anyone seen the boss man?” Thatcher didn’t move. He just held Adrienne captive with his eyes and when Adrienne thought it was inevitable-they were going to kiss-he snapped out of his daze.

“Champagne,” he said. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Laurent-Perrier. He unfolded a towel from the Sankaty Head Golf Club. “Up front, you’ll use a side towel, or even a dinner napkin,” he said. He removed the foil from the cork, wrangled off the cage, and showed Adrienne the bottle with the naked cork. “You could push at the bottom of the cork until it shoots out, but champagne corks are unpredictable. You could take out someone’s eye. Best-case scenario, the cork gets lost in the sand and one of our guests with an environmental conscience writes a letter to the Inquirer and Mirror about how we here at the Blue Bistro are littering Nantucket’s pristine beaches. So.” He covered the cork with the golf towel and twisted. “Twist while pulling up.” The cork came free with a muted pop. Thatcher whipped off the towel. The lip of the bottle showed a wisp of smoky carbon dioxide; he tossed the cork in the trash. “Take this out to Duncan and have him pour you a glass,” he said. “It’s time to get to work.”

So that was it. They were together in the wine cave with the door closed for six whole minutes and all she’d gotten was a deep stare and a lesson on one of the world’s easiest tasks. Adrienne saw her options: quit or work as though nothing had happened. Life wasn’t made any easier by the fact that everyone on the staff knew she and Thatcher had been out together-and likewise, everyone knew that Thatcher returned to the restaurant to eat with Fiona. Caren had said it best that morning while she and Duncan (reunited) drank espresso and Adrienne drank ginger lemon tea because, to add insult to injury, Adrienne had a killer hangover, the worst of the summer so far. Caren had said, “How was your date? It couldn’t have been too wonderful.”

And Adrienne said, “There is something very fucked up going on between Thatcher and Fiona.”

Caren and Duncan had stared at her blankly but when they thought she wasn’t looking, they exchanged an alarmed glance. Adrienne caught it and said, “And you two pissants know what’s going on and you won’t tell me.”

Caren had nodded very slowly. “They’re friends,” she said.

And Duncan said, “I have to go. I’m sailing with Holt Millman at ten.”

Adrienne tried to lose herself in the service. One hundred and one covers on the books, but first thing there was a walk-in party of four, dressed in workout clothes. They informed Adrienne that they had arrived on their bikes after a long ride to Sconset, and they wanted to know if they could eat dinner and get back into town before dark.

“Sure,” Adrienne said. Table three was empty; it was a less desirable table, saved on slower nights for walk-ins. She sat the party, gave them the exact time of sunset along with their menus, and told them she’d have the kitchen on top of their order. The head biker palmed her fifty bucks.

“Thanks,” he said. “We’re really hungry.”

Joe took the table; he was psyched. “Good work,” he said. “How was your date last night?”

“What date?” she said.

She was a swan carved from ice.

First seating breezed by. She delivered three orders of chips and dip, and she opened four bottles of wine. She completely ignored Thatcher and, at a couple of points, she was so busy, she forgot him.

In between seatings, Thatcher called her over to the podium. “Can I brief you?”

While he talked, Adrienne stared at the ceiling.

Table eleven was a four-top under the awning, a good table: a local lawyer and her husband and their friends visiting from Anchorage, Alaska. The lawyer was not Thatcher’s lawyer but she was a prominent Nantucket citizen-on the board of Hospice and the Boys & Girls Club-and a regular guest. VIP. Adrienne had delivered their chips and dip and opened their wine, the fantastic Leeuwin chardonnay from Western Australia. Now they were eating their entrées and Adrienne saw the lawyer glancing around the dining room in distress. Adrienne hurried over.

“What can I help you with?” she asked.

The lawyer beckoned Adrienne closer. “You won’t believe this,” she said. “But my friend swears her swordfish is overcooked.”

“Overcooked?” Adrienne said.

“And I’ll tell you what, it must be true because people from Alaska never complain.”

Adrienne moved around the table to the Alaska woman and eyed the swordfish. It was black and shriveled; it looked like one of the pork chops that Doug used to murder in his cast-iron skillet before he doused it with ketchup.

“I’m sorry,” the Alaska woman squeaked.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” Adrienne said. “Let me bring you another piece. Believe me when I say this almost never happens.”

She carried the swordfish to the kitchen, poking it once with her finger. It was completely dry; it had the texture of plaster. Adrienne was thrilled. Two weeks earlier a complaint about the doughnuts had nearly made her weep, but today a complaint about the food was a gift from God. She couldn’t wait to confront Fiona with this hideous swordfish.

Adrienne slammed into the kitchen and dropped the plate on the pass with a clatter. No one was expediting.

“Where’s Fiona?” she said.

“She’s in the office lying down,” Hector said.

Adrienne deflated. Her rage was overcooked, shriveled, dry, and yet she couldn’t get rid of it.

“Well, where’s Antonio, then?” she asked.

“It’s his night off,” Hector said. “Which reminds me, how was your date?”

“Fuck you,” Adrienne said.

This set the platoon of Subiacos laughing. Adrienne picked the swordfish up off the plate and flung it at Hector, who was, conveniently, working grill. It hit him in the shoulder, smudging his white jacket.

“You killed the swordfish for eleven,” she said. “The guest complained-in fact, she was practically in tears because it tasted so bad. Fire another one.”

“Boo-hoo,” Hector said, laying a swordfish steak across the grill.

Adrienne marched back out to table eleven. “Sorry about the swordfish,” she said. “We’re going to comp your bill this evening and I hope you’ll forgive us.”

The lawyer touched Adrienne’s wrist. “You don’t have to comp the meal,” she said.

“Oh, yes,” Adrienne said. “Yes, I do.”

A few moments later, table six, a deuce, guests from the Nantucket Beach Club, called Adrienne over. No lobster on the lobster club. What they showed her was a twenty-nine-dollar BLT.

“Please,” Adrienne said, picking up the plate. “Let me get you some lobster meat. And your dinner tonight is on the house.”

The third table she comped because the top of the butterscotch crème brûlée was scorched. The guest hadn’t even complained but Adrienne saw the desserts go out, and she saw the black spots. She had an infuriating vision of Mario back in his lair doing the bossa nova while he took a welding tool to the custard. The dessert was going to a table of six, which meant a tab of at least a thousand dollars. Adrienne bought their dinner. The revenge was so sweet it made her dizzy.

Later, Thatcher cornered her at the podium. It was eleven fifteen; she had a line of five people. The bar was packed but unusually quiet.

“You comped three meals,” he said. “One tab was twelve hundred dollars. Because that six-top was drinking a Chateau Margaux.”

Adrienne shrugged. “The food was bad tonight. Fiona wasn’t expediting. You should have seen the swordfish at eleven. It was a piece of drywall.”