Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

“He did?”

“Yeah. Mario, the pastry chef. This is the Blue Bistro?”

“It is.” Blue Bitch voice. She pointed a finger at his raised hand. “You wait right here. Don’t move. Is there a camera in that bag?”

“Yes,” he said.

“No photographs,” she said. “Understand?”

“Okay,” he said, and he smiled like maybe this tough act of hers was supposed to be funny.

Adrienne marched into the kitchen. She heard Fiona’s voice in the walk-in; she was making an order list with Antonio. Adrienne slipped into pastry. Mario was all gussied up in his houndstooth pants, washed and pressed, and his dress whites-the jacket with black piping and his name over the chest pocket. He was rolling out dough.

“You have a visitor,” Adrienne said.

He didn’t look up. “Do I?”

“Lyle somebody. From Vanity Fair. ”

“Okay,” Mario said.

“He’s not coming back here,” Adrienne said.

“Yeah, he is,” Mario said. “He wants to watch me work. I’m making my own pretzels today. For chocolate-covered pretzels. It’s a special on the candy plate.”

“I thought there was no press allowed in the kitchen,” Adrienne said. “I thought that was a law.”

“This isn’t the kitchen,” Mario said. “It’s pastry.”

“Does Fiona know this guy is coming?” Adrienne asked.

“Not yet.”

Adrienne watched Mario fiddle with the pretzel dough, twisting it into nifty shapes. “What’s going on?” she said.

“They’re doing an article about me,” he said.

“Just about you?”

“Just about me. I hired a publicist.”

“You did what ?”

“I hired a publicist and she sent out my picture and my CV and Vanity Fair called. They’re doing some article about sex and the kitchen. You know, sexy chefs. Rocco DiSpirito, Todd English, and me.” He raised his face from his work and mugged for her.

“Now I’ve heard it all,” Adrienne said. “You hired a publicist and you have a writer from a huge New York magazine in the bistro with a camera to take pictures of you making chocolate-covered pretzels because you’re sexy.”

“King of the Sweet Ending,” he said. “They loved the name.”

“Yeah, well, Fiona doesn’t know. And guess what? I’m not telling her.”

“No one was asking you to.”

“So you’ll tell her yourself?”

“Tell her why? It’s my business.”

“It’s not your business,” Adrienne said. “It’s her business.”

“Just send the guy back, please, Adrienne.”

As Adrienne returned to the dining room-Lyle Hard-away was right where she’d left him-the phone rang. Darla Parrish, bumping her reservation to three people. Adrienne asked cautiously, hoping, praying, “Not Wolfie?”

“No, it’s our youngest son, Luke. I can’t wait to introduce you. Oh, and Adrienne, dear, will you put us at that new table?”

“Sure thing,” Adrienne said. She made a note on her reconfirmation list. The writer was watching her every move. She hung up the phone, then said, “Follow me.”

Adrienne and Lyle Hardaway made it three steps into the kitchen before Fiona stopped them.

“Whoa,” she said. “Whoa. Who’s this? Not a wine rep back here?”

“His name is Lyle Hardaway.” Adrienne was afraid to say more.

“Is he a friend of yours?” Fiona asked.

“No,” Adrienne said.

Suddenly, Mario appeared from the back. “He’s here for me.”

“What is he, your new dance instructor?” Fiona said. She glared at Lyle Hardaway. “Who are you?”

“I’m a writer for Vanity Fair, ” he said. He offered Fiona his hand. “You’re Fiona Kemp? It’s an honor to meet you.”

Fiona pointed to the door. Her cheeks were starting to splotch and she bent her head and coughed a little into her hand. Antonio spoke up from behind the pass.

“Get him out of here, Adrienne,” he said. And Adrienne thought, Yes, get him out before he sees Fiona cough.

“Fuck off, Tony,” Mario said. “He’s here for me.”

Antonio said, “What are you, crazy?”

Fiona spoke to the floor. “I have to ask you to leave,” she said. “I don’t allow press in the kitchen.”

“Come on, Fee,” Mario said in a voice that normally got him whatever he wanted. “He’s here to take pictures of my pretzels.”

“No,” Fiona said.

Lyle Hardaway held his arms in front of his face, like the words were being hurled at him. “Maybe I should wait out front while you work this out.”

“Wait outside,” Fiona said. “In the parking lot.”

Lyle Hardaway disappeared through the door.

Fiona slammed her hand on the pass. “And now there will be a line in Vanity Fair or one of the other magazines they’re sleeping with-you can bet on it-about what a bitch I am.” She glared at Mario. “What were you thinking? You invited him into our kitchen?”

“He wants to write an article about me,” Mario said.

“No,” Fiona said.

“You can’t tell me no,” Mario said. “The article is about me. It’s not about you, it’s not about the Bistro.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Fiona said. “He told you the article is about you. But that was just so he could get through the door. Did you hear him a second ago? ‘You’re Fiona Kemp? It’s an honor to meet you’? He’s using you to get to me.”

Mario laughed and looked around the kitchen at his cousins, and his brother Louis, who was filling ravioli and pretending not to listen. Only Adrienne was captive, rooted in the kitchen, afraid to leave lest she attract attention to herself, or worse, miss something.

“I cannot believe how self-centered you are,” Mario said. “You think the world revolves around your tiny ass? It does not. You think people care so much about you? They do not. That man came here to interview me. And I’m going to let him. Because my career isn’t over in September, Fee. I have to move on, I have to build my prospects, increase the value of my stock. So maybe I get investors and open my own place. Maybe my cousin Henry gets investors for his root beer. We have to move on, Fee. Move forward. We aren’t quitting at the end of the summer.”

“I’m not quitting, either,” Fiona whispered.

“The Bistro is closing,” Mario said. “That’s a fact. The building is sold, it’s torn down, it’s rebuilt as somebody’s fat mansion. There is no more Bistro. So what do you expect us to do, lie down and die with you?”

“Mario!” Antonio said.

“Get out!” Fiona shouted. She whipped around and caught Adrienne standing there, but she didn’t seem to care. Her eyes were ready to spill over with tears. Was Adrienne going to see Fiona cry ? “Get out! Get out of my kitchen!”

Mario ripped off his chef’s jacket and threw it to the floor. “Fine,” he said. “I’m finished with you.”

He stormed out the door, leaving the kitchen in a stunned silence. Adrienne felt a strong desire to run after him. She liked Mario and she saw his point-once the Bistro closed, everyone had to fend for himself. Fiona would be four million dollars richer, but where would the rest of them be?

Fiona retreated to the office and slammed the door.

Adrienne heard the faint ringing of the phone. She went out front to answer it. That was her job.

That night, there were 244 covers on the book. Family meal was pulled pork, corn muffins, grilled zucchini, and summer squash. At the menu meeting, Thatcher announced that there would be no desserts. All Antonio had been able to find back in pastry were a few gallons of peanut butter ice cream, a tray of Popsicles, and the unfinished pretzels.

“I’ll say one thing for my cousin,” Antonio said. “He works fresh.”