Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

Adrienne sat, speechless.

“So midnight?” Fiona said.

“Yes,” Adrienne said. “Of course.”

The special was a tomato salad with bacon, basil, and blue cheese. It was a work of art. Fiona had found a rainbow of heirloom tomatoes-red, orange, yellow, green, purple, yellow with green stripes-and she stacked them on the plate in a tower as colorful as children’s blocks. It flew out of the kitchen; by the end of first seating, it was eighty-sixed.

Adrienne didn’t see Thatcher until five, though he’d called her at noon to say he’d woken up and, first thing, cleaned the bathroom. Then he’d gone to an AA meeting.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said.

“I’m sorry, too,” Adrienne said. There was no denying the regret she felt about letting Thatcher stay at the party and drink. It was monstrous of her. The worst thing was, she had wanted him to drink. She had wanted to see what he was like and she had hoped that with his guard down she might wheedle some promises out of him about the future. But all she had gotten was the truth: He didn’t know.

At menu meeting, Thatcher looked and smelled chastened. He was clean-shaven, his red-gold hair held teeth marks from his comb. He wore his stone white pants and a new shirt from Thomas Pink with cuff links. He had shined his loafers. He was professional, in charge, sober. It was time to move on.

At family meal, Adrienne ate only a salad.

Caren said, “On a diet?”

“No. I’m eating tonight with Fiona.”

Caren’s eyebrows arched. She said nothing, though Adrienne knew she was curious. Adrienne was not only curious but worried. She expected to be chastised for running out of the restaurant and allowing Thatcher to drink. Adrienne had no words to offer in her own defense; she was going to take her punishment. She had to admit, though, that Fiona hadn’t seemed angry or perturbed that morning when she invited Adrienne to dinner, and so what really worried Adrienne was that Fiona might not even know that Thatch had been drinking, but she was sure to find out over the course of the night. Every time Adrienne went back into the kitchen for chips and dip, she expected Fiona to cancel. But Fiona treated Adrienne normally, which was to say, with complete indifference. She was expediting, the kitchen was brutally hot-so hot they had the oscillating fans going-and they were too busy to gossip.

“Ordering table four,” Fiona called out. “Two Caesars, one crab cake SOS. Ordering table twenty-three, three bisques, one foie gras, killed. Another person who doesn’t know how to eat. Jojo, baby, I need more of those square plates. Stop the cycle now and finish them by hand, please.”

Adrienne inhaled the smells of grilling and sautéing and frying. Three weeks until the end of the world.

Between seatings, Adrienne stood with Thatch at the podium. His hands were shaking.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“Fine.”

“Fiona seems better.”

“I just hope she isn’t wearing herself down.”

“She thinks you worry too much.”

“Ha!”

“I’m eating with her tonight,” Adrienne said.

“Yes. She told me.”

Adrienne wished the news had come as a surprise to him. But Thatcher and Fiona were like an old married couple; they shared everything with each other first.

“What do you think she wants?”

“A woman’s perspective.”

“Why not Caren?”

“Do I really have to answer that?”

“I guess not.” Caren wasn’t exactly the girlfriend type. “I just wonder what she wants to talk about.”

“She didn’t tell me and I didn’t pry. I assume it’s something that I, as a man, wouldn’t understand.”

Christo approached the podium with a pepper mill. “This thing’s empty. I twisted it over a Caesar at table fifteen for, like, five minutes until we figured there wasn’t anything coming out. Unless it’s white pepper. It’s not white pepper, is it? Because if it is, that old guy eating the Caesar is going to croak.”

“Your former boss told me you were smart, Christo,” Thatcher said. “That’s why I hired you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“There are peppercorns in the pantry,” Adrienne said. “They’re black.”

“I don’t have time. I thought the busboys were supposed to do it. I thought they filled them every night.”

Thatcher nodded at the kitchen door. Christo went, huffing.

“Are you angry?” Adrienne asked.

“You mean because it’s August and one of my servers hasn’t deciphered the pepper mill?”

“No, because I’m eating with Fiona.”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

By midnight, Adrienne was starving. The crackers came out and she could have eaten the whole basket. But she held herself to two, then two more the next time Louis passed by. She longingly contemplated two more, but then she saw Thatcher coming toward her with the cash box and receipts. He was smiling.

“Lots of expensive wine tonight. Table twenty-six ordered two bottles of the Chateau Margaux. I don’t even know who those people are, do you?”

Adrienne checked the book. “Beach Club. Mack sent them.”

“Guy knew his wine.”

“Mack said he was a doctor in Aspen.”

“You know him?”

“No. Duncan knows him. Can I go?”

“You can go.”

“And what will you eat? Are they sending something out?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Go.”

“Are you sure, because…”

“Adrienne,” Thatcher said. “Go.”

It felt awkward, like a first date. Fiona was in the walk-in checking inventory, telling Antonio what she needed to get up at the farm and what they should order from Sid Wainer. Adrienne poked her head in and said, “I’m here.”

Fiona looked confused, sweaty, and pale. Then, it seemed, she remembered. “What do you want to eat?” she said.

Adrienne was so hungry she would have eaten straight from the industrial-sized container of sour cream on the shelf in her line of vision. “I don’t know,” Adrienne said. “What are you having?”

“What I’m having is neither here nor there. You should order what you want. You know the menu?”

“Yes.” Already, Adrienne felt like this was a test she was failing. Think, she implored her brain. What did she want for dinner? “Steak frites. Actually, no, the crab cake.”

“Start with the crab cake. Then you can have the steak. What temp?”

“Rare.”

Fiona looked sideways at Antonio. “Got that?”

“Yes, chef,” he said. “You feel okay?”

“I’ll just have some bisque,” Fiona said. She wiped her forehead with a side towel. “I may not come in tomorrow.”

“I’m making you a sandwich, too,” Antonio said. “You have to eat.”

Fiona shooed Antonio out of the walk-in. “All these men telling me what to do,” she said. “Did you bring a drink from the front?” she asked Adrienne.

Adrienne held up her champagne. “Would you like anything?”

“I drink water,” Fiona said. “Wait for me outside. I’ll be just a minute.”

Adrienne got a glass of ice water with lemon and carried it out to the plastic picnic table. It was another lovely night. The full moon lit up the whole beach; Adrienne could see her shadow in the sand. She sat in one of the plastic chairs. It was peaceful here. The noise from the bar was reduced to a faint bass line.

Adrienne waited for what seemed like an eternity-she was nervous and hungry-but then Fiona appeared holding two plates and two sets of silverware. She had taken off her chef’s jacket to show a white tank top underneath and had let her hair down. Adrienne rose to help her.

“The crab cakes,” Fiona said. “Go ahead and sit. I sent Jojo to the bar to get us a bottle of champagne.”