Losing Joe's Place (14 page)

The one thing I had looked forward to with dread was that first phone call from Plotnick on opening night. I'd already fielded one call from him in the morning, and had acted like it was business as usual at the Olympiad. I'd even pretended to be ringing up a check, because I knew the sound of the cash register was soothing to him. But now, would he be able to tell, with all his finely honed senses, that his restaurant was gone, and mine had risen from its ashes?

“I hear music, Mr. Cardone.”

“The radio,” I said. “Do you also hear a lot of people chewing?”

“It's that miserable rock and roll. It makes me crazy.”

“Does it make you crazy that we're still crowded at nine o'clock?”

“I keep an open mind. Your houseguests, Mr. Peach and Mr. Champion, came to see me tonight. I'd forgotten how annoying they are. Funny how an old man doesn't remember.”

I glanced at the blender through the kitchen door. A fresh batch of cake mix was ready. “I've got to go, Mr. Plotnick. It's very busy here.”

“Go. Go in good health. Make money. You're a good boy.”

That's twice I was a good boy. I said a prayer for the success of Chocolate Memories.

* * *

Business continued to be steady, and by early next week I was totally exhausted. There was no way I could continue to be cook, dessert chef, waiter, cashier, and maintenance man for a going concern like Chocolate Memories. Plotnick was making more than enough money to spring for another staff member, especially since I was working for nothing more than tips and glory.

The
Help Wanted
sign spent about forty-five minutes in our window before I had to interview my first applicant. Guess who?

“I
love
what you've done with the place,” Jessica raved. “Do you know that whole neighborhoods have been known to turn on one or two little renovations like this?”

“Do you have any restaurant experience?” I asked, figuring I'd go through the motions before telling her to take a hike.

“Not really. But I learn fast, and I really need this job. To be honest with you, I'm bored now that Ferguson and Don won't go out with me anymore.”

I stared. “They dumped you?” How could I have missed this development? Although, come to think of it, I hadn't heard them fighting lately.

“No, but they insist I have to choose between them, and I don't like to be ordered around.”

Well, what do you know? While I'd been busy hawking cake mix, Ferguson and Don had developed pride. Now Her Royal Majesty, Jessica Lincoln, would have to have her boyfriends one at a time for a while, until she could find another pair of patsies.

“I don't think you'd like it here,” I said hopefully. “You see, there's
work
 —”

She hung her head. “I know. You kind of did my home ec for me. And you were fabulous, Jason.”

“The pay's pretty lousy,” I persisted, “but the tips are okay. The hours are hard, and there are no breaks …” And we flog you every night, and if you drop a glass, we feed you to the alligators in the basement. Please go away.

“I think I'd be a really good waitress,” she went on, “because I work so well with people. Come on, Jason —
please!
” She gave me a lethal dose of lost puppy eyes.

So I took her out and got her a uniform just like mine, only with a skirt instead of pants, and so ended my stint as the best-looking waiter at Chocolate Memories.

“Traitor!” was Don's opinion. Even the Peach looked a little disapproving. “She's supposed to be sitting at home, agonizing over her decision. Now you've got her slinging cake mix, having a great time, and she'll never get around to us.”

“The summer's almost over, you know,” Ferguson added resentfully.

But — surprise, surprise — she was a pretty good waitress, efficient, friendly, and hardworking. Between us we ran the place like clockwork. There was that one anxious moment when I came out of the kitchen to find Jessica picking up the phone, but I managed to grab it from her just in time. Plotnick should never hear a female voice answering his telephone: “Chocolate Memories.”

“I get it,” she smiled knowingly. “You want it to be a big surprise.”

“Something like that,” I replied. It was very important that, when Plotnick found out what I had done, he should be face to face with the happy reality of a successful restaurant and a full cash register. We were already responsible for his back injury; I didn't want anything to do with his cardiac arrest.

Business was good, but I knew it would take a special break to bump it up to the next level. Things were going as well as they could with word of mouth, my main form of advertising. Suddenly I found myself kind of disappointed by our current status. I spent my time at the blender contemplating Chocolate Memories' next quantum leap. Naturally the best thing would be a media blitz, but we couldn't afford that. Actually we could, but if Plotnick ever found out, I'd be mulched.

Jessica didn't understand my blue mood. “How much better could it be, Jason? Do you know how many places open up and never get near this successful?”

“I want people lined up down the block. I want it to be like Gourmet Week. What's so great about that guy Hamish?” Oh, no! Before, I was starting to think like my mother, and that was bad enough. Now I was thinking like — Plotnick!

Then, out of nowhere, came our big chance.
The Toronto Star
called and told us that, on Friday, they'd be sending a restaurant critic to review Chocolate Memories. We wouldn't know who or when, just that he'd be coming on Friday.

I freaked. Jessica and I washed every square inch of the restaurant. I had our shirts bleached and starched. I even replaced the plants that weren't doing well.

She was confident “Relax, Jason. The place is great. We'll do fine.”

“I don't know,” I muttered. “It's okay, but there's got to be that one little something extra we can add that'll take us from a good place to a
great
place.”

But what? Friday morning and afternoon I wracked my brain. Entertainment? No money, and no room. Food? I was lucky with the D-Lishus cake mix but, let's face it, I was no great chef. Decoration? I was no designer, either. A gimmick, a gimmick. Something different. And cheap.

It came to me five minutes before opening. Rootbeer's latest hobby was charcoal sketching, and he was pretty good at it, especially the portraits. He'd done one of Jessica that came out so realistic that Don and the Peach had fought over it, tearing it to shreds in the process. Wouldn't it add a sort of classy and artistic air to have a portrait artist working right in the restaurant? Nothing fancy, just Rootbeer in a quiet corner, sketching the customers. They could pay attention if they were interested; if not, it wouldn't bother them at all.

I phoned upstairs to Rootbeer and offered him a job drawing my patrons.

He was instantly wary. “You mean you want me to
work?
” You could just hear the burnout coming on.

I back-pedaled. “Of course not! Work? Ha-ha. Never. It's your hobby, which is the opposite of work.”

He was still suspicious. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” I said, only vaguely aware that I might be risking
bad luck
if he saw through me. The restaurant was all that mattered. “You just do your hobby, like you normally would, only instead of doing it up there, you're doing it down here. Try it for one night.”

“Well,” he said, “okay.”

Two minutes to four. There were already a few early birds waiting outside the door.

“Clear a spot in the corner,” I called to Jessica, darting downstairs and coming back with one of Plotnick's old counter stools. “We've got a portrait artist. Guess who? Rootbeer!”

She was thrilled. “What a great idea!”

Only Rootbeer didn't show up. I called the apartment every ten minutes from four-thirty on, and there was nobody home. (Don was working the late shift at the theater, and Ferguson was in Chicago for Plastics Unlimited.) Then we got busy, and all I could do was berate myself as I waited on my customers. Why hadn't I been more specific? “Try it for one night,” had been my exact words. But I'd forgotten to mention that the “one night” had to be
tonight
. What if the night he picked was in November, 1997? Rootbeer was like that. Here was such a great idea, and it was going to slip through my fingers because of a technicality! The guy from
The Star
would come and go, we'd get a mediocre review, and that would be it.

As the evening wore on, my black despair became just a dull ache. I stared long and hard into the face of every customer, trying to smoke out the reviewer so I could explain that our resident portrait artist was sick tonight. And couldn't he come back sometime to see how great it was? Like, maybe, November, 1997? Then I gave up on that, too. I didn't actually expect the guy to be wearing a flag that said “Restaurant Critic.”

But then, at eleven o'clock, who showed up but Rootbeer Racinette. My hopes rekindled. Maybe the reviewer was still here! Chocolate Memories was full. I grabbed Rootbeer by the arm and began dragging him to his corner.

“Oh, Rootbeer, thank God!” Suddenly I noticed that he was carrying an enormous portable stereo cassette player. “What's that? Where's your easel?”

“You told me to do my hobby.”

“Yeah, but your hobby is sketching, remember?”

“Not anymore,” said Rootbeer.

And before I could stop him — not that I could anyway — he popped a tape in the deck and hit Play. Slow blues guitar came out of the speakers. There was a murmur from the crowd as all attention shifted to Rootbeer, who was swaying side to side to the music. Then he reached under his poncho, pulled out a shiny new harmonica, and began playing along with the tape —
with his nose!

I
prayed
that the critic had already gone home to write a nice quiet review of a nice quiet place where nobody played the nasal harmonica. I stood rooted with horror to the spot until I heard Jessica whisper in my ear, “Psst. I thought he was going to draw pictures.”

I was bitter. “We talked about it,” I whispered back, “and we decided
this
would be more appropriate!”

I couldn't take my eyes off him. It was disgusting, unsanitary, and gross! I mean, people were supposed to
eat
here! If this made the paper, I would have to do the honorable thing and fall on my meat fork.

But then the song ended, and Rootbeer got a standing ovation. Seriously. My first thought was
People are sick.
My second was
Gee, I hope the restaurant critic stayed around for this great show.

* * *

The review was a rave. I have it framed on my wall, and I want to be buried with it. The desserts were “delicious,” the decor “charmingly understated,” the service “good,” and the entertainment “unparalleled in its energy, inventiveness, and pure comic appeal. Anybody who doesn't go to catch the sweets and the show is crazy.” I'll buy that.

Don and Ferguson went to the hospital to steal Plotnick's Entertainment section while I prepared for our biggest night ever.

I knew we were going to get a crowd, but nothing could have prepared me for what showed up on Saturday. Gourmet Week was an off-night by comparison. I pressed Ferguson and Don into service, and they were glad to be part of the excitement.

From about five o'clock on, the line stretched from the doorway to Bathurst Street and around the corner. We served cake mix until we were dropping, and Don and the Peach made no attempt to hide their openmouthed astonishment at this, the fruit of my chronic unemployment. The cash register rang like church bells.

To the delight of the crowd, Rootbeer came early.

“Rootbeer,” I said in concern, “where's the tape deck?” I didn't even need an answer. I knew exactly where it was — in the corner of our living room with the telescope, rocks, stamp collection,
et al
. A new hobby was about to be premiered.

Taking his place on the stool, he reached under the poncho and produced a ream of bond paper. The crowd waited expectantly. This was the hilarious entertainment they had heard so much about. He removed the top sheet, folded it painstakingly into an airplane, and sent it sailing over the tables.

That's it? Paper airplanes? I gasped. Was my glorious success at an end
so soon?

With the undivided attention of every patron in the place, Rootbeer made about fifteen of these airplanes and test-flew them. The people outside in line had their noses pressed up against the glass, watching in fascination.

The fifteenth plane landed nose first in Juliet's Chocolate Memory Banana Split. Painfully I signaled Jessica to make her a fresh one.

Finally one of the customers piped up, “Aren't you going to play the harmonica?”

“No,” said Rootbeer honestly.

“Why not?” called someone else.

“I don't do that anymore.” Then he went into his long speech about executive burnout. The audience stared at this woolly mammoth in a poncho lecturing them about stress, and decided that it must be a comedy routine. So they laughed. And once they got started, they were rolling in the aisles.

I was terrified Rootbeer would be insulted and start passing out
bad luck
. But he just returned to paper airplanes until another voice called, “Hey, there's a better way to make those.”

So Rootbeer handed out paper, and everybody had a go at it. In no time at all, Chocolate Memories looked like the sky over O'Hare International Airport. It wasn't entertainment, exactly, but everyone seemed to be having a good time, and you can't argue with that. And the fun and games didn't cut into our take, either. People were ordering sandwiches, coffee, and desserts faster than ever.

Then the Peach made a paper airplane. It should be in orbit about now.