Southern Fried Sushi (30 page)

“Gotcha. Good head on your shoulders, Shiloh.” Jerry grinned. “Well, we ain’t Neiman Marcus, but I think ya can handle it. You’ll just need to come in and train, and you’ll be up and runnin’ in no time. What’s your schedule at the bookstore like?”

“Pitiful. Part-time.”

“Write it down.” He shoved a piece of paper and pen at me.

Does this mean he’s hired me or …?

Jerry disappeared to take a call. I scratched out my measly hours and put down the pen. Waited for Jerry then glanced around, taking in the white Christmas lights glinting off mirrors. Gleaming silverware. A chandelier. Dazzlingly clean and un-country, upscale, with glass and crystal accents. An ugly Hellenistic white statue, the only Greek throwback in the room.

Nice. Not Chez Panisse, but definitely not a dump either.

I picked up a menu and looked over the fare: pumpkin ravioli, sweet potato fries, turkey sandwiches with sliced green apples and Brie…. I blinked to see if I was reading correctly. Brie? In Staunton?

Not a single collard green or pig’s foot on the whole menu. Why, if I blinked, I wouldn’t even be in the South!

“You’re gonna love workin’ here.” Dawn hovered shyly by my shoulder. “It’s a great place, and people are just packin’ in here

these days. Jerry’s the best. I’ve been here about a year now.”

“Is the food good?”

“Fresh, modern, and emphasis on vegetarian. That’s our slogan. Jerry made it.”

I had no idea Staunton sported any tree-hugger types, much less vegetarians. I turned the menu page.

“Ain’t all vegetarian,” said Dawn, bursting my bubble. “We got meat, too. But you should try the roasted red pepper soup. Outta this world. The guys grill the peppers, skin ‘em, then cook ‘em with shallots and cream.”

“What’s a shallot?”

Dawn gave me a funny look, as if amazed a Staunton-ite rather than a Cornell graduate would be able to identify a prissy French vegetable. “Kinda like an onion, but with a lighter flavor.”

“Are you a waitress?”

“Not yet. But I guess you and I’ll train together.”

Train. Waitress. HELP!
Before I could throw the menu and flee screaming, Jerry came swinging through the kitchen doors.

“Sorry about that, Shiloh.” He slid into the booth and scratched his head. “Business call. So … where were we? Training?” He picked up my paper. “Can you come in tomorrow morning?”

“Saturday? Sure.” Duty calls, Adam told me once, loading up his truck for Saturday work.

“Good. You’ll need a uniform, too. A white shirt like Dawn’s. Collared. Make sure the sleeves fit to your wrists, all the way down, and absolutely no spots. We’re a clean place, as you can see.” He gestured around. “Ever use starch before?”

“Like … cornstarch?” I rubbed the side of my fragrant post-Trixie head, trying to understand.

A grin flickered across Jerry’s face. “No. As in spray starch. For shirts. Buy a can and spray that shirt good while you iron it. Make sure it’s wrinkle free because we don’t do wrinkles here either.”

My eyes popped. An awful lot of requests for a little hillbillyrestaurant, classy as it may look. Jerry must have seen because he leaned back and crossed his hands behind his head. Winked at me. “Relax, Shiloh. It’s easy. You’ll pick it up in no time.”

“I hope so.” I clenched and unclenched my shaking fingers. “What else?”

“Black pants and black shoes. Closed-toed in case of spills. Make sure they’ve got good tread and ain’t slippery on the bottoms.”

His eyes turned serious. “Our rules. First off, always be here on time. We don’t hire waitstaff to keep customers sittin’ around suckin’ their thumbs and checkin’ watches. Got that?”

I gulped. “Yes.”

“Rule number two: you’re always happy when you arrive at The Green Tree. No matter what might have happened during your day, you leave it at the door. The Green Tree is a fun place. A happy place. We reflect it to our customers. No complaining, grumping, or frowns.”

I was seriously having second thoughts. And third and fourth ones.

“Rule number three: the one people like most. You try everything and learn how to describe it to customers. None of this, ‘How’s the steak?’ And, ‘I dunno. They say it’s perty good.’ No. Not here. When people ask, you describe. You paint a picture that makes their mouth water. You say, ‘The prime rib is a tender cut, piping hot, well-grilled with black pepper. We serve it with herb butter melting on top. It’s delicious.’ Now, don’t that make you wanna order up?”

As much as I loved food, all of these rules were a little too deep for me. I’d hoped to … well, plop food on the table, disappear, and collect big tips.

“You ever been a food writer at any of them papers?”

“No, but it’s one of my aspirations.” Writing plus food—an ideal combination.

“Well, have at it! I expect great things from you, Shiloh P.

Jacobs! Stel’s right about ya. Yer an angel. What’s the
P
stand for anyway?”

“Phyllis,” I lied. Why did everybody have to ask me?

“Hmm. I had an Aunt Phyllis.” Jerry stroked his chin again. “What do you say, then, Shiloh Phyllis Jacobs? Any questions?”

“Pay?”

“Oh, sorry. The most important part! We pay half of minimum wage.”

I choked on my Coke. Ice lodged in my throat. I coughed, set down my glass, and Jerry rushed over to pat my back. Dawn stopped punching the register and leaned over the table.

“You okay, Shiloh?”

“I’m fine. Thanks.” I tried to smile. Wiped the front of my shirt and the table. “Sorry about that.”

“You sure?” Jerry hesitantly sat down, handing me another cloth napkin.

“You get to keep your tips, too,” said Dawn, obviously not dotting the lines between my choking fit and Jerry’s “half of minimum wage” bit. “No tip sharing. It’s a really good deal, you know. Not all restaurants let you do that.”

“Just make sure you record ‘em for taxes.” Jerry eyed me. “You really all right, Shiloh? Ya look a little pale.”

I put my glass down, willing myself not to be rude. “How much could I make in one night, Jerry?” Two-fifty? Five bucks? I bet that’s not even taxable.

“Aw, shucks, I can’t say for sure, but most of the waitstaff make around eighty a night. Maybe a hundred. Who knows.”

“Dollars? You’re talking dollars?” I leaned forward.

“Well, we ain’t payin’ ya in pesos. Or yen, or whatever you made in Japan.”

At least Jerry knew his international currency. I considered.

“Blake got three hundred bucks for one birthday party,” added Dawn the Helpful. “You get the best tips on Friday and Saturday nights.”

“Okay, Jerry.” I saw dollar signs. “Count me in. But I’ve got to make money. If I don’t, then I’ll have to move on. I’m sorry, but I really need it.”

“Don’t we all,” he replied with a friendly smile. “You do your part, Shiloh Phyllis Jacobs, an’ don’t stand around whining to the kitchen boys, and I’ll make sure you get some full nights. Deal?”

We shook hands over the table. And I hurried back to the mall to see if Trixie had turned Becky into one of Kyoko’s close-shaved punk chicks.

W
hen I found Becky sitting nervously in the chair, I almost didn’t recognize her. Becky’s frizzyish mane had somehow tamed itself into a sleek, shiny blond waterfall, woven with artful highlights as if she’d been out playing on the beach. Trixie cut side-swept bangs and a longish, choppy style that fanned out slightly as it fell over her shoulders. Becky looked polished, pretty, like she’d just stepped out of a magazine.

“Where’d ya go?” Becky accused hotly. “Ya just up an’ blazed outta here like Sherman on the way to Atlanta!” She looked mad.

But I was too busy gawking to reply. Clapped my hands over my mouth. “Becky, look at you!” I cried, throwing my arms around Trixie.

“Huh? Do ya really like it?” Tears pooled in Becky’s eyes.

I froze. “You’re crying? You don’t like it?”

“I reckon I do.” She laughed and reached for a tissue in her purse, still sniffling. “My hormones are jest a little crazy, ya know, and …” She blew her nose. “Wow, I ain’t never … Tim’s gonna like it, don’tcha think? Is it too blond? It is, ain’t it?”

“Too blond? No way! He’ll love it!” I gasped, drying her eyes with a tissue. “As a matter of fact, wait just a second …”

I flipped open my purse and pulled out a smoky gray eyeliner pencil. Dabbed a little at the corners of her eyes and smudged it. Brushed on some blush.

My berry-rose lipstick was too stark for her, so I mixed a little with some lip gloss and daubed it on with a Q-tip.

“Well, look at that,” grinned Trixie. “If she don’t look like Faith Hill and Shania Twain all rolled into one!”

I had no clue who they were talking about, but it must be good. Becky laughed and cried again, and I frantically dabbed at her eyes to keep her makeup from smearing. “Don’t cry!” I ordered. “Think of tomatoes, fire hydrants, anything—but don’t cry!”

“Okay.” She sucked in her breath. “Far hydrants. Here I go!”

I paid Trixie, trying not to flinch as she riffled through my dollar bills, taking almost all of them, and handing me the change. I handed it back to her as a tip. It hurt, but the gorgeous new Becky was worth every penny.

“Come on,” I said, marching Becky out the door. “We’ve got one more place to go.”

She wiped her cheeks. “Where?”

“Here.” I steered her into a cheap clothing store. “We’re buying you at least one new outfit so you can knock Tim out when he comes home.”

We haggled and pinched pennies, managing to buy Becky a cute pink top that added color to her face and a pair of dark, fitted, boot-cut jeans just right for her. The jeans took the most convincing, as she kept worrying about being “too city slicker” and “too modern” and “tryin’ ta show off.” I finally started paging through my checkbook until she quit complaining and got out her purse.

“Whaddo I wear with ‘em?” Her green eyes shined and filled at the same time as we hauled our goods out to the car in the swelling heat. Blue sky from horizon to horizon, not a cloud in sight.

“Do you have any heels?”

“High heels? Shucks, no. I got some flip-flops though.”

I thought. “What do they look like? Are they platforms?”

“I don’t reckon. They’re brown and pretty old. I ken show ‘em to ya.”

“Uh … no. What else?”

“Tennis shoes?” She hopefully showed me the sole of her worn green Nikes.

“No way.”

She glared at me. “What are you, the Fashion Nazi?”

“Becky, these are classy jeans,” I pleaded. “Understand? You have to dress them up.”

She thought hard. “I got some purple jelly flats somewhere ….”

“Jellies?” I ran an anxious hand through my hair. “No heels?”

“‘Course not! Do I look like some kinda yuppie, heel-wearin’, black-dress kinda gal?” She thought hard. “Wait—maybe I do. I wore some silver ones to my cousin’s weddin’ a long time ago.”

“Silver?” I repeated with a sigh. “Silver’s … no.”

“No?”

We were running out of options. “Okay, fine. We’ll use them. But you’ve got to have heels. Classy. Remember?” I dug the shirt out of the bag. “That’s solved. Now let’s get you ready.”

“But ya gotta work, don’t ya?”

“At one.”

“I ken gitcha back here by then.”

Becky was already sweating, about to ruin her beautiful hair. I rushed her into the car, air conditioner turned full blast—me momentarily forgetting about The Green Tree, except for the cheap black pants I’d bought that I wouldn’t mind getting covered with mustard and fry oil.

At her house Becky dug through some hideous bridesmaid’s dresses and taffeta who-knows-what until, at long last, she unearthed the silver heels. And they were … perfect. I turned them in the light, afraid the vision would vanish. “Let’s just try them and see.”

“Now?”

“Of course now! Tim’s coming home early this evening, isn’t he?”

“At five.”

“Well, you’d better be ready! If these shoes don’t work, we’ll have to go get some of mine.”

My threat did the trick. Becky pulled on the shirt and, reluctantly, the jeans. Gordon watched lazily from behind his chew bone, tail tapping.

“And the shoes,” I bossed, and she stepped into them. I fastened the sparkly buckles around her ankles.

We surveyed her in the full-length mirror, and even if the shoes were a bit shiny, they didn’t hurt. You could hardly see them under those nice, long denim flares. I unclasped my silver bracelet and put it on her wrist.

And wow, I do declare—our little Becky was a stunner!

“Sheewwweee!” I mimicked Stella. “You look hot! Tim’s going to go wild!” I flipped her hair over her shoulders. “What do you think?”

I saw the tears starting and shoved a tissue in her hand. “Fire hydrants!” I shouted. “No crying!”

She laughed and reached into my purse to get the little pack of tissues I’d offered, but to my horror, picked up my notes from The Green Tree by mistake. Jerry’s business card fell out.

“The Green Tree?” she read, putting it back in my purse. “Ya went there fer lunch while I was at Crystal?”

I blanched. “No.”

I hastily occupied myself zipping my purse, hoping she’d drop the subject.

“I never been to The Green Tree. Hear it’s a real nice place. Got some awards ‘n’ such. Tim ‘n’ I’d like to go there sometime.”

“Ah. No. It’s not all that.” I waved it away with my hand, imagining—to my horror—Tim and Becky sashaying in while I stood there covered in ketchup. “I’m sure there are better places in town.”

I turned her around and straightened her hair in front of the mirror, stepping over snoring Gordon. “Why’d you go there in such an all-fired hurry anyway?” Her eyes looked curiously back at me from her reflection. Then at the bag with my black pants.

Doggone it, Becky, if you’d just …

“You got a job, didn’t ya?”

I tried to laugh derisively. “Me, waiting tables? Don’t be silly!”

“Yes, you, Shiloh Pearl Jacobs! A job! That’s why you bought them black pants!”

I couldn’t answer. Becky spun around and put her hands on her hips. “And you didn’t tell me?” She looked mad again, all blotchy. Those hormones must be working overtime.

My notes were there on the bed, and we could both see them. “Hold the glass by the stem, never by the top.”