Stephanie Danler - Sweetbitter

“I have zero fucking idea, what do you want in the omelet?”

“Chanterelles,” I said.

Scott made a disapproving grunt but didn’t deny me. He reached into the lowboy and started cracking mottled brown eggs into a clear bowl. He turned up the heat under a small black skillet. The yolks were a vivid, livid orange.

“They’re nuclear,” I said, leaning in to watch. Last night’s booze radiated off him. But Scott’s tattooed hands took flight from muscle memory: he frothed the eggs with a fork in two swipes, touched his finger to the pan to feel the heat. He turned the flame down and slid the eggs in, he dipped his hand into the salt and flung it, he tipped the pan to all the points on a compass, letting the wet egg slide under the set edges.

The chanterelles had been prepped earlier, they were waiting, wet and caramelized. He spooned them into the middle. He rolled the eggs, using only the tine of a fork and the movement of the pan. It was all one motion. The skin of the omelet was flawless.

Ariel came up with new beverages for us. Her eyes flashed when she saw my omelet and we dug into it from opposite ends. I sipped my wine through a straw. I saw whole peaceful countries built on perfect omelets and white wine spritzers. Nations at war drinking before noon and then napping.

“Is that Scott’s chaser?” I pointed to a fourth quart container.

“No, it’s Jake’s. Will you drop it off?”

I shook my head.

“Come on, babe, por favor, I’m super behind.”

“It’s on your way,” I whispered.

“Take him the drink and stop being a cunt,” she whispered back.

“Ugh,” I said. “Too early for the c-word.”

I wiped my mouth with a bar mop and ran my tongue around my teeth for stray bits of parsley. As I picked up the drink, the first ticket came through, as grating as a lawn mower starting.

Ariel said: “It’s never too early for the c-word.”

Scott said: “Fuck brunch.”

I said: “Cheers.”

My last sip of wine was still humming in my throat as I approached him. He was leaning against the back bar with his arms crossed, face toward the window. There was no one to serve yet. I put the drink down. I tapped my fingers on the bar and decided to leave it at that, but then said, “Jake.”

He turned gradually, surprised. He didn’t move.

“This is for you. From Ariel,” I turned to leave.

“Hey, I need bar mops.” He took a sip. The key to dealing with Jake was that I told myself it was all in my head. He rarely engaged with me. The problem with that method of disavowal was the oysters. I thought maybe something had shifted, but I didn’t trust it. But when he asked me for more bar mops it was obvious. He was flirting.

“I already gave you the par for the bar,” I said carefully.

“I need more.”

“There aren’t any more.”

“So we’re going into a busy Sunday lunch service with no bar mops on the bar? What is Howard going to say about that?”

“He’s going to ask why you wasted all your bar mops.”

Jake leaned forward on the service bar, close to me. He smelled sour and fragile, and said, “Get me fucking bar mops.”

I rolled my eyes and walked away. But my stomach flipped, it kept flipping. How many times had Nicky said that to me and I just nodded.

My secret stash was in my locker — as far as I knew I was the only one to have thought of this. Since the management kept them locked up, I figured I should as well. I finished my beverage before I dropped them off. He was annoyed by the six new guests in front of him, and I said to myself, Leave the bar mops, walk away. Instead I said, “Jake”—the charge I got from demanding his attention, from making him look at me—“can you make me an Assam?”

—

I DON’T THINK I said it well before. His teeth were slightly crooked and when we did last call he would unbutton the top of his shirt, his throat pulsing like something that had been caged. His hair was irreverent after eight hours of bartending. He drank like he was the only person who understood beer. When he looked at you, he was the only person who understood you, sipped you, and swallowed. Someone told me his eyes were blue, someone else that they were green, but they were gold in the center, which is entirely different. When he laughed it was rare and explosive. If a song came on that affected him, let’s say Miles Davis’s “Blue in Green,” he would shut his eyes. His eyelids would flutter like he was dreaming. He was making the bar and guests disappear. He would disappear too. He could turn himself off like a switch and I stood in the dark, waiting.

—

IT WAS IN the autumn that what they called “our people” returned. In thirty years, Nicky had never forgotten a regular’s drink. If they caught his eye when they walked in, the drink would be ready before they had pocketed the coat check ticket.

Simone had never forgotten an anniversary or a birthday. She would be silent throughout the meal, only to appear at the end with complimentary desserts, Happy Anniversary to Peter and Catherine, or whatever, written in chocolate ganache. But she had a million tricks the other servers emulated. When a guest particularly enjoyed a bottle of wine she made a pressing of the wine label, scraping it onto a clear sticker and putting it into an envelope. Sometimes she and Chef signed it. I couldn’t figure out the exact cause-and-effect relationship but her wine sales were leaps ahead of everyone else’s.

We had support. At every preshift the hostess reminded us of who was coming, their table preference, their likes, dislikes, allergies, sometimes gave a summary of their last meal, especially if it had been questionable. But whatever computerized tracking system they used — and I’m sure it was top of the line — it couldn’t stand up to the senior servers and their memories. Their innate hospitality. Their anticipation of others’ needs. That was when service went from an illusion to a true expression of compassion. People came back to the restaurant just to have that feeling of being taken care of.

They had to be kept at a distance, that was key to the relationship. The intimacy was confusing because the line was so firmly drawn, no matter how many times the regulars wanted to believe that they were family. From Walter: “Regulars are not friends. They are guests. Bob Keating? A racist, and a bigot. I’ve waited on him for a decade and he has no idea that he’s being served by an old queen. Never show yourself.”

From Ariel: “Never go out with regulars. Sometimes they ask about my shows and it’s so awkward. These people don’t even like music. Or, oh god, once this woman wanted to get a nightcap and Sasha recommended Park Bar as a joke, and she was actually there. Just not right.”

From Will: “The biggest mistake I made in my first year was to accept opera tickets from Emma Francon. I thought, This is awesome, I put on my suit. I know she looks good for her age, but there is a twenty-year gap there, I thought it was totally innocent. La Traviata, a hand job in the taxi, followed by two nights where she totally embarrassed herself at the bar. We never saw her again. Howard was not happy.”

From Jake: “They’re all better looking with a bar between you and them.”

—

“I FORGET your hand doesn’t naturally go that way,” said Will, catching me. He crossed his arms and watched.

I was in the server hutch by the handicapped bathroom, out of view, practicing my three-plate-carry. Some of the backwaiters could do four-plate-carries, three plates solidly fanned up one arm and one in the other. The plates were organized, so they could flick down the first plate to position one and use the now-free arm to arrange the other plates from open-armed swoops on the left side of each guest. The plates were always placed according to the way Chef designed the dish, like a painting hung properly on a wall.