Elin Hilderbrand - The Blue Bistro

“Oh.”

“There’s something else you have to know,” Thatcher said. “Something I should have mentioned when I hired you.”

Adrienne’s dinner shifted in her stomach. Something else?

He lowered his voice. “There’s no press allowed in the kitchen.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t care if it’s the New York Times Magazine. I don’t care if it’s the Christian Science Monitor. ”

“Okay.”

“I don’t care if they tell you they have an appointment. They don’t. There is no press allowed in the kitchen. And no guests, of course. I mention the press because they come here all the time trying to get a story about Fiona. Word has gotten out that it’s our last year, therefore it’s crucial you understand.”

“No press in the kitchen,” Adrienne said.

“Very good. I’m sorry to be so strict.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Tonight, it’s friends of the house,” Thatcher said. “I want you to shadow me around the dining room so you learn the faces. I want you to man the host station if I’m back in the kitchen.”

“Am I allowed in the kitchen?” Adrienne asked.

Thatcher looked at her strangely.

“Thatcher!” Bruno was calling from the dining room. Both Thatcher and Adrienne spun around to find the dining room transformed. All of the candles had been lit and the waiters stood in a line, hands behind their backs, military-style, among the impeccably dressed tables with their starched tablecloths, the sparkling stemware, a single blue iris in a silver bud vase. Behind the restaurant, the sun was dropping in the sky. Just then a few notes came from the piano, like peals of a glass bell. A tall mop-haired man in a black turtleneck had started to play.

“It’s beautiful,” Adrienne whispered. It was like a theater set before the opening performance and she found herself wanting it to stay like this. She didn’t want anything to ruin it, but no sooner did Adrienne wish for this than a white Mercedes pulled into the parking lot.

“This is it,” Thatcher said. “The beginning of the end.”

At the Blue Bistro, the service wasn’t the only thing that was old-fashioned. There was no computer. Tickets were written by hand and delivered to the kitchen by the server, a system that was as outdated as the pony express. Reservations were made in pencil, in a big old book with a tattered binding. Most tables were marked with the party’s last name; VIP tables had the first and last name.

“Some restaurants actually write ‘VIP’ next to a name,” Thatcher said. “Or, if they’re trying to be tricky, they’ll use other initials, like ‘PPX.’ But too many people today are tuned into that kind of thing. It causes problems.”

“What makes someone a VIP?” Adrienne asked. “Does it have to do with money?”

“Money?” Thatcher said. “No. It has to do with how often someone dines with us. The Parrishes, for example. The ultimate VIPs.” Thatcher checked his watch. “You see, it’s the stroke of six.”

At that second, a couple Adrienne took to be the Parrishes stepped in the door. They were an older couple who exuded an air of gracious retirement: golf, grandchildren, travel on European ships. Mr. Parrish wore kelly green pants and a green-and-white striped shirt, a navy blazer. He had silver hair, he was sunburned and he shook ever so slightly when he leaned over to kiss Adrienne. Another kiss-this time from a complete stranger. Adrienne stole a glance at Thatcher. Was kissing a part of the job description that she had missed? Mrs. Parrish gave Thatcher a hug. On her right hand, which rested on the front of Thatcher’s butter-yellow shirt, she wore one enormous emerald-cut diamond ring and a platinum band with sapphires and diamonds. She had dark hair styled like Jackie Onassis, and clear blue eyes that took Adrienne in and immediately understood that she was motherless. Adrienne had met other women with this power-mothers of friends and boyfriends who wanted to adopt Adrienne, like a nine-year-old with a stray kitten, and Adrienne had never been able to resist their kind words or fluttering of attention (except in the case of Mavis-Mavis was not her mother!). Mrs. Parrish released her hold on Thatcher and reached out to Adrienne with both hands. Adrienne set her champagne down on the podium.

“Thatcher,” Mrs. Parrish said. “Where did you find such a lovely girl?”

“Darla, Grayson, may I introduce Adrienne Dealey,” Thatcher said. “She’s never worked in a restaurant before.”

“Good for you,” Mrs. Parrish whispered. She leaned over and kissed Adrienne: Adrienne felt the lipstick, a cool spot of paint on her cheek. Was that good for you for never working in a restaurant? Or good for you for landing a job here, alongside the world’s most charismatic restaurateur? Since Adrienne didn’t know how to respond, she smiled. Her sunburn made her face feel funny, like her skin was too tight. She hoped there wasn’t anything stuck in her teeth.

Thatcher led the Parrishes into the dining room and although he said Adrienne should shadow him, she felt foolish doing so. She popped into the ladies’ room, a mere four feet from the oak podium, to wipe the lipstick from her face and check her teeth. Regrettably, no time to brush. She could hear Thatcher’s voice asking about someone named Wolf; she could hear Mr. Parrish offer up a round of golf at Sankaty. And then she heard the phone.

She rushed back to the hostess station. It was, of all things, the private line. Thatcher hadn’t said anything about how he wanted her to answer the phone and especially not the private line. But hey-six years of resorts, five front desks including one in which she had to answer in Thai. One thing she could do correctly in this restaurant was answer the phone.

“Good evening,” she said. “The Blue Bistro.”

“Yeah.” There was a telltale crackle. Cell phone, bad signal. “We’re running late. Ten minutes. Make that twenty to be safe.”

“No problem, sir,” Adrienne said, though she had no idea if this were a problem or not. She tried to catch Thatcher’s eye. He was across the room, seating the Parrishes at table twenty, which Adrienne knew to be the best table. The dining room was shaped like a triangle, and table twenty was the top, the focus of everybody else in the restaurant. Thatcher was up to his neck in schmooze; he was unreachable. “We’ll see you when you get here,” Adrienne said into the phone. “Thank you for calling.” But the man had already hung up. And then Adrienne realized she hadn’t gotten his name.

She tried to explain this enormous gaffe to Thatcher when he returned-the first task she tackled on her own a complete failure-but he didn’t seem interested. “If the call came in on the private line, it was probably Ernie Otemeyer,” he said, making a note by the name “Ernie Otemeyer” in the book, table sixteen for two people at six fifteen. “He’s our plumber. He comes twice a year-soft opening and his birthday in August. He’s always late because he has to stop on the way and buy his own beer. He drinks Bud Light.”

Adrienne wondered about her legal pad-what had she done with it? Here was the kind of thing she needed to write down. Plumber Ernie comes twice a year and brings his own Bud Light.

“I don’t know what I did with my legal pad,” Adrienne confessed. Through the open door, she saw more cars pulling in. The piano man was playing “What I Did for Love.”

“I have good news,” Thatcher said.

“What?”

“The Parrishes want you to bring them their bread.”

“Why is that good news?”

“It means they like you. They want to see you at their table. Please wait until Bruno gets their cocktails. You have to be watching. And don’t think you have plenty of time because Duncan knows their drinks-heck, the whole staff knows their drinks-Stoli tonic with lime for Grayson and a Southern Comfort old-fashioned for Darla. See that? The drinks are up. Now, as soon as Bruno delivers them, you get the bread. They like bread and butter-always.”