Edward Lee - The Chosen

“Would you please get me some clean broil pans!” the hot prep whined again. “You want me to start cooking the fucking fish under my Zippo?”

“You can cook it on my fat ass,” yelled back Lee, the dishwasher. His long hair swung in wet strings at his shoulders as he slammed full racks into the machine one after another. Then he rushed to the conveyor exit, madly unloaded the clean dishware, stacked it, and carried it to the shelves. Lee’s long hair and tremendous beer gut made him look like Meat Loaf on the skids. Vera dismissed his shortcomings: he drank on duty, griped to no end, waged nightly wars with the cooks—but he was a great dishwasher. Vera pretended she didn’t see the carafe of Wild Goose Lager that he’d secreted behind the machine.

“Like I don’t have enough to do,” he complained to himself. “You dumb fuckers make all the money and I do all the work. One day I’ll put my foot up all of you’re a—” He paused as if shocked, only then noticing Vera standing by the rack stand. “Oh, uh, hi, Vera. I, uh, I didn’t see you there.”

“Hello, Lee. Happy at work?”

“Oh, yes ma’am,” he stammered, then slipped away to carry more broil pans to the hot prep. Vera could easily put up with his manner. Any guy who would wash dishes all night, steam-clean grease-laden floors, and wade waist-deep in dumpsters—all for six dollars an hour—was worth putting up with.

She passed the coffee station. The kitchen’s din faded behind her. Going from the kitchen to the dining room was liken to going from one world to another. Humid heat traded places with cool calm, the racket of the dinner rush gave over to quiet conversation and light Vivaldi from hidden speakers. The maitre d’ was expertly pouring Perrier-Jouet for a table of state legislators. A troup of bussers prepared a large banquet table in back for the governor’s party. A smug critic from the Post meticulously sampled an assortment of appetizers: Oysters Chesapeake, grilled Muscovy duck, Crab Meat Flan, and a tuned-up variation of antipasto. He did not look displeased.

Even this late—9 p.m.—every station was full or close to it. The dining room, in three wings, was well appointed, leaning toward more of a social club ambience; Vera had seen to a complete face-lift when she’d taken over as R.M. Rich gray paneled walls rose to a high, raftered ceiling from which hung a great octagonal chandelier. Tapers flickered from inset cherry wood sconces; well-framed nautical artwork adorned the back walls. Vera had made sure to replace the old steakhouse furniture with real armchairs and oak dining tables. The east windows offered a spacious view of the lit city dock and the bay.

My baby, she metaphored. She stood by the service bar, gazing out into the quiet robotic activity of her employees. This used to be the place where diners came as a last resort, because downtown was booked. Now their weekend reservations extended a month in advance. Since the changeover, The Emerald Room had yet to receive a negative or even mediocre review. Whenever celebrities were in town, this was where they came to eat.

“Vera, you want to hear something strange?”

Glasses clinked. Vera peeked into the service bar. Donna, the night barmaid, talked as she automatically washed, scrubbed, and rinsed a flank of #8 glasses in the triple sink. She’d been hired as a big favor to Dan B. Donna was his wife. Donna was also a reformed alcoholic. Vera took her on with a condition: that she get on the wagon and stay there. “One fall, and you’re out,” she was informed. That had been six months ago, and Donna hadn’t had a drop since. Her return to sobriety had changed the telltale dark circles and pastiness into a fresh vitality. She was mid-thirties, sort of short and full-bodied. Twin short blond ponytails wagged as she vigorously bent to clean the bar glasses.

“Sure, Donna,” Vera answered. “I’d love to hear something strange.”

Donna stood up and faced her. Her eyes gleamed. “Someone’s been asking about you.”

“Let me guess. The county liquor board? The health department? Oh ,I know, the feds, right? I knew I should’ve declared that sixty-cent tip I got last week when we were a waitress short.”

“You know that guy Chip, the manager at The Ram?”

“Well, I’ve known him for about five years, so I guess that means I know him.”

“Well, I was talking to him today, and he says this weird guy came in for lunch yesterday afternoon.”

“A weird guy. That’s not strange in this town.”

“So the guy asks Chip what’s the best restaurant in town, and naturally Chip says The Emerald Room.”

“Naturally,” Vera concurred.

“So then the guy asks Chip who’s the best restaurant manager in town, and naturally Chip says—”

“Me?” Vera asked.

“That’s right. You.”

This was obscurely flattering—being touted as the best R.M. in town to “weird guys.” But what was the point?

Donna rambled on, “And a couple of hours ago we ran out of ice, so I drove down to McGuffy’s to get some, and Doug Harris tells me the same thing. The same weird guy went in there for a drink and asked who’s the best R.M. in town.”

Vera’s brow lowered. “What did he say?”

“Same thing Chip said. You.”

At least I’ve got a good rep. Vera asked the next logical question. “Anybody know who this weird guy is?”

“No, no one’s ever seen him before. But Doug got his name. It’s Feldspar. Ever hear of him?”

“Feldspar? No.”

“Doug watched him leave; he parked in front of the Market House.” Donna paused for dramatic effect. “He was driving a brand-new red Lamborghini. Doug said it probably cost two hundred grand.”

Now Vera felt curious to the point of aggravation. Lamborghinis? Weird guy? What was this all about?

Donna raised a soapy finger. She had a way of making a short story long. “But that’s not the best part.”

Vera tapped her foot, waiting.

“Fifteen minutes ago, a nine-thirty reservation comes in. Want to guess what the name was?”

“Feldspar,” Vera ventured.

“Exactly. And he said he wanted an ‘interview’ with the manager.’’

Vera understood none of this. “What do you mean? A job interview?”

Donna laughed. “Vera, I doubt that a guy who drives a new Lamborghini is going to be looking for work as a busser. He said he wanted an interview, of the ‘utmost exigency.’ Those were his exact words. I took the call myself.”

Utmost exigency. No, he probably doesn’t want a job as a busser. “Nine-thirty, you said?”

“That’s right,” Donna verified. “You’ve got about ten minutes. Isn’t it mysterious?”

“Thanks, Donna.’’ Vera scurried off to the ladies room. Yes, it was mysterious, and she enjoyed mysteries. Was Feldspar an eccentric critic? The Emerald Room got them all the time, but even the most renowned critics didn’t drive two hundred thousand dollar cars. Then—

A buyer? she considered. An investor?

She hurried to freshen up. She checked her liner, powdered her nose, checked her coiffed, jet-black hair. Not looking too shabby tonight, she considered to the mirror. She adjusted the bust line of the low-cut evening dress; its vermilion chiffon gave off a warm, silky luster. Against her bosom glittered a brightly polished amethyst on a gold chain, a Valentine’s gift from an old boyfriend. The boyfriend hadn’t been worth a shit, but at least the necklace was nice. The stone’s crisp deep purple sparkled just right with her gold and sapphire earrings. But when she raised her hand to pat her hair back, a greater sparkle flashed in the mirror. Vera smiled automatically. Her engagement ring was beautiful—Paul had given it to her just last week. It reminded her of something more than what it was: the ring was a covenant, a piece of the future. She held it up, turned it in the bright light and watched it flash like a starburst. Yes, for a moment she knew she could see the future in its sharp-cut facets. The ring, and the bright likeness of herself which faced her in the mirror, reminded her how wonderful life could be, and how blessed.