Sweetbitter (9 page)

I woke up past noon to two emails from her. They were addressed to everyone, the entire staff, the Owner, everyone at the corporate office. The first gave her notice. She had worked, gotten home, and written to tell us that it would be her last shift. No going-away party necessary. Thanks.

The second email went like this: “Hi guys! First of all, I can't tell you how lucky I feel to have worked with you all. I'm going home to California for a while, but I'm going to miss everyone so much! But second of all, Howard and I have been sleeping together for four months. He is the reason I quit. Thanks for understanding and thanks for the memories! XO, Becky.”

My shock was total—I looked around my room for someone to reflect it back to me, but I was alone. I texted Will immediately: Howard's girls? What the fuck happened?!

A text back from Will: I know! What a crazy bitch!

A text back from Ariel: Textbook insane anorexic, I hear she's checking into a hospital in CA.

And that was the consensus. I felt that some gross, unignorable injustice had occurred. But I said her name to Simone and she began talking about Pinot Noir. There was a lot of: Can you fucking believe that? And then head shaking. I kept an eye on Howard all night. He worked the floor in a pink tie, weaving around like cursive.

“How's it going?” I asked him while I made him his macchiato. “Weird night?”

“Did you know that the word
weird
pertains to fate? It's Old English, and relates to having the ability to bend or turn fate? But the first popularized usage was Shakespeare—”

“Macbeth,” I said. “I remember now. The Witches. Right?”

“Very quick.” He smiled, threw back his espresso, and passed me the empty cup. “I wasn't wrong about you.”

SASHA WAS
a tough nut to crack. He loved watermelon-flavored Smirnoff, Jake, cocaine, and pop music. Those subjects provided just enough overlap between us for me to occasionally warrant his attention. He finally asked me to do a line with him one night at Park Bar and I was thrilled to cement the friendship. I'd heard that his father had died back in Moscow a few weeks before and that he couldn't go back because he didn't have a green card yet. He was married to a beautiful Asian girl with blue hair named Ginger, but he didn't know where she was living and the paperwork had stalled. When we got into the bathroom I offered my condolences. He narrowed his eyes like a threatened animal. We snorted coke and I told him I wanted to visit Moscow and he said, “Oh you just a real idiot. That's all.”

After that he started offering me his cheek to be kissed when he arrived at the restaurant. His favorite thing to say to me was, “What you think?” and then state something I had believed as if it were utter madness.

He caught me by the ice machine rubbing the bags under my eyes with ice cubes.

“You crying? Oh my god, angel-face, what you think, you're supposed to be happy? Why you think that?”

“I'm not crying. I'm just tired.”

“Yeah, no shit, that's life,” he said, exasperated. He started scooping ice. He hurt my feelings all the time but was open about my stupidity, so I loved him.

“But I'm tired
all
the time.”

“You want a disco-nap, pumpkin?”

I shook my head. He shrugged.

“Don't worry, Baby Monster. You still innocent.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don't know, what you think it means? When the trial comes, you will be not guilty.”

“That's what you think innocent means?”

“It's not purity, sweetheart, if that's what you thinking.” He blinked twice like he knew everything about me.

“I don't know that I'm innocent exactly, but…”

“But what? You wanna be the victim too? When you grow up you gonna own all that mess. That's being an adult, pumpkin-face. You got the booze, the sex, the drugs. You got your under-eye concealer. Maybe you're tired 'cause you lying to yourself all day. Or you just fucking Jake all night like a little slut?”

He looked at me and waited, smiling. As if he expected me to answer. I started giggling. He slid toward me, conspiratorial.

“Oh yeah, like you such a good girl.”

MY EYES FULL OF
kinetic energy, my skin sensitized to anticipating motion. Specks of dust taking off from bottles, shadows darting onto the floor, glasses listing over the edges of counters and caught just in time. I knew exactly when someone was going to appear from a blind corner. The Owner called it the Excellence Reflex. The reflex was to see beyond my line of vision, to see around and behind myself. The breath between consciousness and action collapsed. No hesitations, no projections, no order. I became a verb.

“W
HAT TIME
is it?”

I leaned toward the touch-screen terminal where Simone was breaking down an order. Her hand shot out and covered my eyes.

“Never look! Once you look it stops moving altogether. It's best to be surprised when it comes.”

“It's only seven twenty!”

“You're a silly, rebellious thing, aren't you? Is it so difficult to accept the present tense?”

“Seven twenty. I'm not going to make it.”

“We will turn at eight and be so busy you'll forget who you are. One of the many joys of this profession.”

“No, Simone, really. I've already had three coffees and I'm sleeping behind my eyes. I can't do it.”

“Do you think you're here as a favor to us?” She reviewed her order and tapped her fingers. She sent it through and I heard the phantom sounds of a ticket being printed. Mechanically I started toward it and she shook my shoulder.

“You are paid to be here. It's your job. Look alive.”

I pushed through the kitchen doors, my arms leaden.

“Pick up,” said Scott. He squinted at the tickets. The funny thing about Scott expediting was that he couldn't see that well, had probably needed glasses for years.

“Picking up.” When I approached I said in a quieter voice, “Oh man, I'm not going to make it.”

“You don't have a choice. Table 49: calamari 1, Gruyère SOS 2, and I need a follow.”

“I'll come back for it, 49 is quick.”

“We're cutting into a new wheel of Parmesan later. If that makes you feel better.”

“Oh goody, I have something to live for.”

“Okay bitch, I just uninvited you.”

“I'm sorry. I'm so tired.”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” he said as I took the plates away.

I approached table 49. They were the hungry sort of guests who had spotted me from across the room and were beckoning me with their anxiety. I tried to smile Calm down, I have your fucking food, you're not going to fucking starve to death, it is a restaurant for fuck's sake. When we laid plates down we were to say the full names of the dishes. I usually sang them to myself all the way to the table. As I swung in to the left, open-armed, I said, “Seat 1 calamari, seat 2 Gruyère SOS, and a follow. Table 49. Enjoy.”

I looked at them expectantly. I waited for the gratifying looks the guests gave when they knew they could eat. It's their version of applause. But the two guests looked at their plates confused, like I had spoken another language, which I realized with a bolt of shame up my middle that I had.

“Oh my god! I'm sorry!” I laughed and their faces eased up. “That's not what I meant to say.”

The woman seated closest to me at position 1 nodded and patted me on the wrist.

“I'm new,” I said.

The man at position 4 looked at me and said, “What about the food for seats 3 and 4?”

“Yes sir, absolutely, it should be coming right now.”

I ran up to Ariel at the barista station.

“Jesus, Ariel, help me god, I need a treat and a coffee.”

“I'm five deep, it's the end of the first turn.” She moved erratically between tickets and cups, trying to line her drinks up, but then turning back to the tickets. I had tried to show her my way of organizing coffees for a rush, but nobody listened to me.

“Please. I'm sorry. Whenever you can.”

“Fluff, I need two Huet on the fly.”

“Okay, sure, yes, right now.”

I kept my eyes down as I ran through the kitchen and down the stairs to the cellar. Scott called out to my back, “Follow? I need a fucking follow.”

“I can't, ask Sasha!” I yelled back. But I was already in the cellar, insulated, dim, mold stitched into the corners. Quiet. I leaned against a wall. I felt tears and said, Don't stop moving. The Huet was one of the “no markings” boxes that were impossible to find. I thought it was probably at the bottom of a stack of five and I accepted it. I grabbed my wine key and used the knife to tear into boxes, shoving them to the ground when they weren't the right bottle.

Dust flew.

“I'm just tired,” I said to the room. I pulled two Huet and made a mental note to come back and clean up the brutal unpacking job. As I ducked out Will walked past with a bucket of ice.

“You scared me,” he said, slowing down. “You need help with those?”

“No, Will, it's just two bottles.”

“Jesus, sorry I asked.”

“No, I'm sorry. I'm really off tonight.”

“You're off every night,” he said and hiked the bucket to his shoulder. “That's your thing.”

“That hurts my fucking feelings,” I said but he didn't turn.

“Am I running the food tonight?” Scott yelled as I came up. “Did we not schedule a backwaiter?”

“I'm sorry,” I said, holding up the bottles in front of my face as a defense.

“I did it!” I presented the bottles to Nicky.

“You want a medal? I need clears on bar 4 and 5. I can't get down there and I'm getting nothing from Sasha tonight. Have you seen him? Bar 4.”

“Okay, yes. Um. But Nick? I'm not great at clearing. I can't three-plate yet. I can try. I mean, I can do it.”

“Yeah, no shit, Fluff, I'm not asking.”

“Your espresso, Skip,” Ariel said. “It has the sprinkles in it.” She handed me a water glass as well so I could pour a splash in—it was a trick I learned from her, it cooled down the shot so you could take it quicker. I gagged. The grains of Adderall stuck to my tongue.

“Delicious. Adore you. Angel.”

“Can you get me the glass rack? I'm almost out of flutes, these fucking idiots—”

“Ariel, no I'm super weeded, I have to bus—”

“You're fucking drinking espresso, I'm fucking weeded.”

“Okay, okay.” I held my hands up. A man in a navy suit holding a glass of Champagne knocked into me.

“I'm sorry,” I said with my meekest smile.

“Hey,” he said, “I know you!”

He didn't, but I nodded and tried to move past him.

“Isabel! You were at Miss Porter's with my Julia. Julia Adler, do you remember her? You're all grown up! I haven't seen you since you were a child.”

“Um, I'm sorry, that's not me.”

“No, it's you, of course it's you. Your parents were in Greenwich.”

I shook my head. “I don't know what Miss Porter's is, I don't know a Julia, my name is not Isabel, my parents aren't in Greenwich.”

“Are you sure?” He narrowed his eyes and pointed the flute at me. I didn't know how to defend myself, since I didn't know Isabel. Or exactly what I was being accused of. In my bones I thought, The customer is always right.

“But that's funny, isn't it?” I said, trying to appease him. “We all look like other people, you know?”

I smiled, big, with all my non-Isabel teeth, and pushed past him.

It was crowded. The bar didn't have orchestrated turns the way the tables did. Stools were vacated and refilled immediately by people on their second drink, ready to order ten minutes ago. There was no grace period. Already the next round of guests was pressing into the backs of the current diners, hovering when desserts were dropped, stalking people that had asked for the check. And this was the weekend—these weren't our poised regulars. Loud, anxious, steaming. I pushed myself into a group, a man and two women, all of them reeking of cigars. He said, “She's getting in tomorrow. So I'm on my best behavior tonight. The boss is back.” The women smirked and leaned their glasses in closer.

Music ran too loudly through the speakers. I looked at Nick, who was looking at Ariel, mouthing for her to turn it down. The music amplified the guests, they screamed above it, gesticulated harder, everyone suddenly grotesque.

“Are you all done?” I asked the couple at bar 4. I winced. The Owner made it very clear that “Are you all done?” was awful verbiage.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I meant, may I?” I offered my palms to them. They were young—late twenties—but fully polished, aspiring to appear older. She had a sharp, severe bob, a pink silk dress, scornful eyebrows. He was square-jawed but conventional, and reminded me of rugby. They must have been fighting, because she looked at me like I was intruding, and he looked relieved. I stuck one arm between them, trying to gain access.

“I'm sorry,” I said again, groping for the first plate. “I'm just going to…if you don't mind…” I pushed my shoulder between them and the girl twisted in her seat, sighing. PR? I thought. Assistant to an assistant? Gallery front-desk girl? What the fuck do you do for a living? I pulled the largest plate first. I grabbed the silverware off the others and stacked them next to the lamb chop bones and gratin grease. Someone bumped into my back and I clenched my teeth. But nothing budged.

I leaned into the boy as I reached. I gave him a helpless look and he stacked two far plates on top of his plate and moved them toward me.

“Careful,” the girl said, “or you'll end up working here.”

It's never too early for the c-word, I thought. The boy put his hands in his lap.

We weren't allowed to half clear, everything had to go at once. I took his stack, but they were uneven, since like me, he didn't understand how to clear. I knew it was too many plates—not for Will or Sasha, but too many for me. My arm started burning. I made a lunge for her bread-and-butter plate. The knife, still buttered, slid onto her lap and she screamed.

“Oh god, I'm so sorry. It's just butter. I mean, I'm sorry.” She looked at me, mouth open, horrified, as if I had assaulted her.

“It's silk!” she wailed.

I nodded but thought, Who wears silk while they eat? She threw the knife back up on the bar, and I saw the grease sinking into the fabric. I couldn't grab it, my hands were fully loaded. The song ended. I swiveled to look for help.

Two plates slid off my stack and hit the floor. The precise, unmitigated snap of breaking. The room halted, no noise, no motion.

Sasha was next to me, smiling like he had found me at a crowded party.

“Pop-tart made a mess,” he said under his breath. “Who taught you how to clear?”

“No one,” I said, and shoved my plates at him. “Where were you?”

He went past me toward the couple, offering her club soda, napkins, a business card, and promising to take care of the dry cleaning. I picked up the pieces of the broken plates. The man in the navy suit who had called me Isabel caught my eye, and I moved my shoulder up in front of my face.

“Butterfingers, huh?” said Scott when I went to the broken-glass bin. “Pick up.”

“I'm sorry. I'm not good at clearing. I told him.”

“Pick up!”

Ariel flew into the kitchen and yelled at the dishwasher, “Papi, vasos, vasos, come on.”

Will came up the stairs from the cellar with flattened boxes, a broom, and a full dustpan.

“Don't worry about the wine room,” he said to me. He pushed the broom into my hands. “The maid will get it.”

“I was coming back for it,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

My breath jumped hurdles. Each one shook me. My eyeballs vibrated and I couldn't hold on to an emotion: rage, shame, exhaustion, dehydration, hunger—a cradle of twitching wires in my chest. I kept blinking, not knowing if my eyes had dried out or if they were about to run over. There was a hand on my back and I had a vision. I was going to throw this person up against the pastry cart with superhuman strength. I would hold a knife at their throat and scream, Don't fucking touch me. It would roar out of me. And everyone would have to listen, and nobody would ever touch me again.

“Breathe,” she whispered. “Your shoulders.”

Simone's hand smoothed the line from my neck to my shoulders, like she was smoothing out a tablecloth. She squeezed and it shot pain into my elbows.

“Pick up!”

“Will you inhale? And now out.”

When I exhaled I thought I might black out.

She said into my ear, “You need to stop apologizing. Do not say you're sorry again. Practice. Do you understand?”

“Pick up, are you fucking deaf?”

I ran a bar mop over my face and nodded for Simone. She squeezed again and gently moved me forward. I covered my hands with the bar mop.

“Picking up.”

THE DAY I COULD
three-plate-carry came and went. It wasn't some sort of victory. No one congratulated me. We started from zero at the beginning of each service, and wiped the board clean at the end. But movements became sleeker, elongated. I became aware of being onstage. I gave a trail of my fingers as I set down each plate, as if performing magic.

I became aware of the ballet of it. The choreography never rehearsed, always learned midperformance. The reason you felt like everyone was staring at you when you were new is because they were. You were out of sync.

The way Jake used his foot to catch the sliding glass door of the white-wine fridge, or how Nicky tapped the pint glasses apart when they stuck together from the heat of the dishwasher and flipped them in his hand before he started a drink, the way Simone poured from two different bottles of wine into two different glasses and knew when each glass was full, how Heather flew through the Micros screens like she had written the program, the way Chef absentmindedly slapped the silent printer and it burped up a ticket, the way Howard could direct us with his eyes from the top of the stairs, how everyone ducked under the low pipe going into the basement.

“You'll know you have the job when it becomes automatic,” Nicky said to me early on.

We said, “Behind you,” and the person nodded. They already knew. The “behind you” was more for the guest, a formality. We tracked each other's movements with touch, all of us all over each other. If I fell out from under the spell, I went with one of Sasha's tenets that I overheard him declaim to a sixty-year-old woman at table 52.