Revenge of the Bully (19 page)

“Yeah, well, he might be good with a crayon but I don't need someone like him moping around and scaring customers away.”

I motioned for Pablo to pop back into the dining room. Once he was gone I said, “I think you got bigger problems with the customers right now. You don't have a cook, remember?”

“You're right, and I'm probably a goner, but I don't intend to spend my final moments with someone like dat kid.”

“What's your problem with Pablo?” I demanded. It came out a lot louder than I expected. I could feel my face turning red, either from anger or fear or both.

“Not that I gotta explain myself to a runt like you, but I'm running a classy joint here. That kid ain't classy. Let's just say he's from the wrong side of the tracks.”

“And what's the right side?” I asked. “Where you come from?” My voice felt like it belonged to someone else. I wanted to tell it to shut up before it got me tossed in the freezer.

“You better watch it,” the Boss warned.

“Or what?” My heart was racing. All I could think about was how right my dad had been about the Boss. He was turning out to be a real creep. What came out of my mouth next probably shocked the Boss as much as it did me. “Either Pablo stays, or we all walk out, right now! Me, Rishi, and Josh! See how good you manage!”

I couldn't believe I said it. I got ready to bolt if the Boss went nuts.

It sure looked like it was going in that direction. He eyed a big soup pot. Was he going to clobber me with it? The two of us stood staring at each other listening to the water boil. After a minute his eyes fell to the floor. He was in trouble and he knew it. “All right. Your friend can stay.”

“And . . .”

“And what?”

“And you have to apologize to him.”

By now I was sure some prizefighter had taken over my body. In my whole life I had never stood up to anyone like this—especially to a full-grown bully like the Boss. He stared at me and shook his head. “You're really pushing it kid, but fine, send him in.”

“Pablo!” I yelled.

He came back in. Before the Boss could open his mouth, Pablo said in his quiet voice, “Sorry about the way I look. The chain broke on my bike on the way here. I'll go wash up.” He started to turn around.

“Wait,” the Boss called, “there's a sink back here you can use. And listen, sorry about before. This is my big opening and my two cooks just quit. I'm a little jumpy.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Pablo answered, “but I think I can help. I know my way around a kitchen pretty well. I can cook anything.”

The Boss smiled. “Well, go wash your hands, put an apron on, and . . .” Suddenly he paused and sagged down onto a milk crate. “What am I saying? I'm going to have a twelve-year-old be my chef?” He stuck his face into his hands and moaned.

“What's the matter, Francis?” the Boss's mother asked, entering the kitchen.

The Boss jumped up and put on a fake smile. “Nothing! Everything's great. Are you having a good time?”

“Yes, honey, but it looks like the customers are getting tired of watching football. They want to eat.”

“Watching football?” the Boss grumbled. “Who put on the TV?”

His mom looked concerned. “Why are you so upset, sweetie puffs?”

“Cause I got a whole crowd of people and no chefs. I fired them . . . by accident.”

“That wasn't too smart now, was it, Francis?” She picked an apron off of a hook on the wall.

“Whadaya doin'? You know how I feel about you working in the kitchen.”

“Honey, someone has to cook dinner for those people.”

The Boss sighed. “I guess you're right.”

“I could use some help though,” she said.

Louder than I'd ever heard him before, Pablo told her all about how he could cook. “Let me help!” he suggested.

“Really? How wonderful. What's your name?”

“Pablo.”

Mama smiled and patted him on his head. Then she looked at the stack of orders Willy and Cheese had left on the counter. It was almost a foot high. “I'm afraid Pablo and I are going to need a bit more help to get these dinner orders turned around. Maybe you could ask your Chicago friends if they want to—”

“No!” the Boss shouted. “I mean, I wouldn't bother them. They're not exactly the kitchen type.”

It was finally my turn to speak up. “I have an idea. It's our only chance! Wait here a second.”

I was about to charge into the dining room, but this time I remembered. I grabbed the last loaf of bread and tossed it like a football to Mr. Clearwater as I flew past Jessica's table. A minute later I was back in the kitchen—with Josh, Wendy, Slim, Dave, and Kayla.

Mama smiled and clasped her hands. The Boss looked annoyed. “What's this, tryouts for
Annie
? I got a restaurant to run. These kids can't be back here.”

“These kids,” I said, “are your new junior chefs!”

My friends had jumped at the idea of helping out with the cooking—especially Slim, who had licked his lips and shouted, “I always wanted to see a restaurant kitchen!”

Mama seemed to love the idea. “All right, everyone. Wash your hands and come right back. We have a lot of prep to do.” She had already begun placing large containers of meats and sauces and vegetables on the counters. Luckily, Weasel and Big Earl had begun thawing most of the food before Mrs. Lutzkraut tried to ruin everything.

“Can I help too?” a familiar voice called from the door.

Mama answered, “Only if you promise not to get any sauce on that beautiful blue dress. Better grab an apron, sweetie.”

Jessica gave me a big smile and joined the group. They all stood on one side of the counter with Mama and Pablo on the other. Mama began, “You can call me Mama or you can call me Chef. Got it?”

“Got it!” everyone cheered.

“And I think you all know my partner this evening, Chef Pablo.”

Pablo smiled and bowed. They all clapped.

“Okay, good then. Pablo will show you two boys how to peel potatoes. And you,” she asked Wendy, “have you ever stuffed a cabbage? Now, I'll need you two girls to start seasoning the meat . . .”

Seeing that Mama was firmly in charge and that things were heading in the right direction, the Boss left to return to the front of the restaurant. As he passed me he looked down and smiled. “Thanks for saving my butt, kid. A lot is riding on tonight with Spats and me. You have no idea.”

“Actually I do,” I told him. “Now get out there before he thinks you forgot about him.”

“You ain't half bad,” he said before disappearing through the swinging doors.

I turned back to see if Mama needed anything else. She was talking to the one junior chef who was still mesmerized by boiling water. “I'm sorry,” Mama asked, “but what's your name?”

“Josh.”

“Well, Josh, stop gazing into that pot . . . you're making me nervous. Do you know anything about beets?”

Josh jumped and spun around. “Yes! Beets make your poo—”

“He just loves beets,” I interrupted.

“How nice, so do I,” Mama said. “Tonight everyone's going to eat a lot of beets.”

“Hahahahaha!” Josh grabbed his stomach and pounded the counter.

Mama watched him and smiled. “A happy kitchen makes tasty food! So, how is everyone doing?”

I looked around the busy kitchen. I had never seen my friends so quiet. Even Kayla! They were all busy slicing and dicing and mincing and chopping. Giant pots of sauce began simmering on the burners. Pablo carefully checked each one, adding salt or spices where needed. Before long the kitchen erupted with wonderful smells. I smiled. “See you guys in a minute,” I called out. “Just going to check if Rishi needs help.”

I walked back into the dining room and saw that the football game was still on. My dad, Mr. Windbagger, and the two coaches were having a great time. The same couldn't be said for the rest of the customers, who were frowning and sighing. I guess I couldn't blame them. They were starving—and half were probably Windham fans—but I definitely didn't mind seeing myself on that giant TV catching the game-winning touchdown.

“Way to go, Rodney!” my dad called over to me.

I gave him a thumbs-up but was busy watching what came next. I was being hoisted on some shoulders. And there I was congratulating Coach Laimbardi in the middle of the celebration. And there was the G-Men float going crazy up and down the field . . . which would mean . . .

I started looking frantically for Rishi. He wouldn't! I ran over to Spats's table and asked the Boss, “Have you seen Rishi?”

“No, why?”

Please tell me he wouldn't be dumb enough to include . . .

AHHHHhhhhhhhhh!!!!!! The restaurant erupted into a horrified scream. I joined in as I watched the porta-potty explode near the Windham bench. The sound of chairs falling backward filled the air as half the restaurant bolted outside gagging. The Boss grabbed his chest like he was having a heart attack.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Spats yelled at him. “You think you can ruin me by making sure this place fails? First you make people wait two hours for food and now this?”

The Boss was shaking his head “no” but was too stunned to defend himself.

“Toothpick!” Spats ordered, keeping his angry eyes fixed on the shaking Boss, “Take this idiot 'round back and . . .”

The pretty woman with the long black hair leaned forward. “Toothpick's puking on the sidewalk.”

At that very moment, with the most horrid timing ever, Willy and Cheese marched in from the kitchen with the first of the appetizers. Cheese proudly announced, “Here comes da food, everybody!”

One lady blurted, “Who can eat after that?”

She was right, but the plates were delivered to her table, and instead of gagging she poked with a fork at what looked like some meatballs covered in wet leaves. Her nostrils twitched. Tentatively, she cut into the ball and took a nibble. The moment of truth. “This is di . . .” She paused, getting the attention of the other diners at her table. She soon had the attention of the whole restaurant and the customers returning from outside.

Di what? I frantically wanted to know. Disastrous? Disgusting? Demented?

“Di what?” the Boss screamed, seeing that Toothpick was back.

“This is . . . delicious. I've never had a meatball taste so good.”

“You got to try this soup,” a man sitting across from her said. “It's sweet, it's spicy, it's creamy, it's . . . Oh, I have to order another bowl. Waiter!”

As the food was brought out from the kitchen, all you could hear was the sound of knives and forks clinking on plates. I saw nodding heads and everyone began eating with gusto—even the people still recovering from Rishi's video recap. I couldn't believe it. How could anyone eat after that?

Rishi appeared at my side. “As usual I saved the day. Look at my timing. The video finished just as the food arrived.”

“Maybe we could have done without the big finish.”

“What? That's the best part,” he said, smiling. “Okay, time to fill more water glasses.”

“I'll join you in a second,” I said.

Things looked like they had calmed down at Spats's table, now that the food had arrived and everyone was busy stuffing their faces. The Boss got up to leave. “Where do you think
you're
going?” Spats ordered. Maybe things hadn't calmed down.

“Um, thought I'd check on the kitchen . . .”

“You ain't going nowhere. This is the best meal I ever tasted. Everyone in the joint is loving it. As far as I'm concerned, you can open ten more restaurants! Now sit. Stay with us. Tonight, you're da guest of honor.” Spats raised his glass in the air and shouted, “To Francis!” Everyone at the table joined in.

While I knew the Boss hated people hearing his real name, he sure looked happy—and relieved. He noticed me watching. So only I could see, he raised his glass a little and nodded his head at me. For the second time that night, I was being toasted at Spats's table.

As I dashed around clearing plates, I learned just how chaotic working in a busy restaurant could be. It seemed like in every direction there was something that needed to be done. I sprinted around grabbing dirty plates, filling water, wiping crumbs from tablecloths, and replacing Toothpick's toothpicks. All the while, people I knew surrounded me and said hello. It was hard being polite and making small talk while getting everything accomplished.

But even though I was sweating and my feet hurt, I was aware of something else. It seemed that everyone liked the food. I mean really liked it. All over I heard people saying, “This is delicious,” and going “Mmmmmmm!”

At one point Mr. Windbagger called me over and said, while licking his bowl, “I don't know what this goulash goop is, but man is it good. Ethel, forget the Ponderosa. We're coming here from now on.”