Sweetbitter (8 page)

I ducked into the cellar with the milk crate. The sign above the door said Beware of Sediment and I started laughing again. It took me a long time to restock. I was still terribly inefficient. But I brought up bottles he hadn't put on my list, things I'd seen him sell and knew he needed. I swept the room too, still grinning.

A LOT OF WHAT
I couldn't place about Simone was explained to me with the sentence, “She lived in Europe.”

I don't know how a phrase so vague explained why Simone could drink without getting drunk. Why she had such an affected way of speaking, like a retired professor at her country estate, even in the midst of thirteen emergencies. Why she could wander into and out of conversations like a character in a Chekhov play who has been listening but hasn't actually
heard
a thing. Why she was at once disheveled and precise. Her lips blinkering red lights.

She started at the restaurant when she was twenty-two. She had left before, more than once. I heard rumors: She had been engaged to the heir of a champagne dynasty…they moved to France…She left him and wandered the uncharted bulk-wine backwoods of the Languedoc and Roussillon, the lavender-soaked filthy roads to Marseille, a slow boat to Corsica…back to the city, back to the restaurant…references to hard-baked afternoons in lemon groves in Spain, to time in Morocco…How she was engaged a second time to a regular at the restaurant, a publishing scion, but again she had ended up staying and he'd never returned…

Hints of this from her, but mostly I heard it from others. The wreckage of powerful men added to her presence. I only knew that she was not of my world. She had barely a trace of the city, of the struggle, on her. Just the dust, which she shook off with a thoughtless dignity.

IT WAS WELL
past two a.m., it was Park Bar, and I needed to stop drinking. The tables were dizzy, I said to them, It's too early, spinning tables, calm down! Will took my elbow and then we were in the bathroom. He sat on the toilet and pulled me onto his lap.

I took two bumps using my wine key. I took them off the knife that cut the foil so cleanly for Simone. I had been practicing in the mirror. The bottle can't move, it can't wobble as you cut, tear, insert, twist, push, spin, twist, pull. Don't hide the label. Cultivate stillness. Gentility when you remove the cork. Give the wine some grace, some space to breathe, Simone said.

“She can swirl wine in her glass. Without moving her hands,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

My eyelids dropped, blackness. I felt him rubbing small circles on my back.

“You're making me sleepy,” I said.

“That's good,” he said, and I thought I felt his head touch my shoulder, thought I felt him twisting me toward him.

The drip flooded down my throat, dirt, Splenda, sulfur, my eyes ventilated. I sat up and unlocked the door. The tables had resolved themselves. Park Bar had large windows, and on evenings when the temperature of the air complemented the temperature of your skin, they opened them and let the street mingle.

Jake was outside smoking. He was presumably meeting Vanessa, who usually sat at a table with other servers from Gramercy. His T-shirt had once been white and was now nicotined, eroding, neckline torn. He only ever wore the same black jeans that gaped at the knees, the bottoms cuffed high over rough leather boots. The streetlight hit his collarbone. He turned and sat in one of the windows, Vanessa standing above him, her arms crossed, her face turned toward the park. His spine in his shirt, like some ancient draped artifact.

I shook Will off me. He went out to smoke with Jake. I sat next to Ariel and Sasha. We only sat at the bar now that something was clearly going on between Ariel and Vivian. It was just Terry tonight though, unfurling postrush.

“How are you holding up, babe?” Ariel asked.

“Better. I'm probably just tired.” I pretended to stretch my neck and looked at Jake.

“Don't do it,” Ariel said. I turned back to her, fixed my hair.

“I'm not doing anything.”

“You're looking for trouble.”

“Look.” I lowered my voice so Sasha wouldn't hear me. “He's very attractive. But whatever, right? Why is everyone so afraid of him?”

“Because he's textbook, that's why.”

“Baby Monster,” Sasha said, hitting me hard on the shoulder. “You been for reals hungry? I tell you what the fucking problem in America—when I first got here I ate M&M's for three days, that's all, I think I'm dying in some fucking hellhole in Queens and rats eat my face. Now I'm a fucking millionaire, but you don't forget hungry like that.”

I twisted a napkin and sealed my eyes to the black lacquer of the bar. I felt it—Jake's absence. I stretched my neck again and looked out the windows. Just the wind dusting up the bare street.

“I'd like to read it,” I said to Ariel. She heard me. “The textbook, I mean.”

Will came up, ordered drinks, and looked at me. “You want one more, right?”

“F
UCK BRUNCH.
”

Scott was bloated, red-eyed, but standing. The rest of his crew were walking bent in half.

“It's not technically brunch,” I said. Chef always said brunch wasn't a meal, and I loved passing that on to the servers from Coffee Shop and Blue Water who had to stand outside on their patios serving eggs Benedict.

“Fuck lunch.”

“I knew you were in trouble, Scott. I told you it was time to go home. You wanted to stay.”

I had left Park Bar at three thirty a.m. right when the cooks were getting another round of Jägermeister shots. I had taken one and thought I might throw up on the floor. Instead I threw myself into a cab and threw up in my own toilet like an adult. I was proud of myself.

I'd volunteered to cut the butter. The hot knife slipped into the chilled sticks effortlessly. The pats clung to the wax paper. It had the same orderly rhythm of folding napkins, repetition and satisfying progression. My fingers were shiny.

“Fuck brunch forever.” Scott moaned. “Where's Ariel?”

“She's dining room today. Sorry you're stuck with me.”

“Get Ariel, I need her treats.”

“Treats?”

“It's an emergency,” he yelled.

“Okay, okay, I'll find her.”

She was standing at the service bar having an espresso and talking to Jake.

“Hey Ariel,” I said, turning to the side so he wouldn't think I was trying to look at him. “Scott needs you. In the kitchen.”

“We're in a war,” she said. She was beaten up around the eyes, but fairly fresh for someone who'd only slept a few hours.

“Whatever,” I said. I wished my hair was down so my neck and cheek weren't so vulnerable. Jake in the mornings, before service, precaffeine rush, bags under his eyes. Not interested, I told him with the angle of my head. “He just said it was an emergency.”

She went into the kitchen like she was ready for a showdown but Scott was abject. He leaned over his station with his head in his hands.

“What's up Baby Chef?” Usually they would start fighting, he especially hated that name, but he moaned instead.

“I need help.”

“Apologize for hitting on her.”

“Ariel, I wasn't. I swear. That girl loves cock, I can't help it.”

“Bye-bye,” she said and stuck up her middle finger, the nail painted black.

She turned to leave and he yelled, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I will never look at her again, I have a small dick, I'm insecure, I'm untalented, I'm stupid, I will cook you whatever you want for breakfast.”

She stopped.

“Steak salad. And dessert. And whatever new girl wants.”

“Fine. Hand them over.”

“You're disgusting. But you're not untalented. I want to be fair about this.” She clapped her hands. “Okay, beverages first.”

Sundays had a candid feeling. There were no laws, no stakes. Howard and Chef were both off, as was most of the senior staff. Scott ran the kitchen and Jake was the most senior on the floor. It was his only day shift, and it was clear he was in a fog for the entire service. It was also Simone's day off. The people who remained on this pared-down crew were usually mildly hungover at best, actively ill at worst.

Ariel pulled down a stack of clean quart containers and headed into the wine cellar. Those quarts, which once housed minced garlic, shallot vinaigrette, aioli, tuna salad, shredded Gruyère, they came back as “beverages.”

“It's just Sancerre on ice, splash of soda and lemon. Stick a straw in it and it looks like seltzer.”

“I need the treats, Ari, I could've had Skipper make beverages.”

“Skipper?” she asked me.

“Barbie's little sister.” I shook my head. “I've given up. Each one is better than the last.”

She had a handful of blue pills.

“Two for you because you're huge, and we will split one because we are tiny.” She broke a pill in half and handed it to me.

“I haven't eaten,” I said. “Also, what is it?”

“Adderall. Fixes everything. Obviously.”

Obviously.
I took my half and sucked on my straw. I felt dizzy as soon as I swallowed. It wasn't noon yet.

“Delicious.”

Scott gulped his down in two sucks and handed the quart back to her. He was sweating, breathing hard, and I had a vision of him collapsing during service, a bear keeling over.

“Refill, refill.”

“You're going to have to teach Skip how to do this stuff—I have work to do,” Ariel said, but took the quarts and headed back into the wine cellar.

“What do you want?” Scott looked at me sideways.

“What?”

“What. Do. You. Want. To eat.”

“Um.” At my hesitation he moved on to other tasks and I saw the precious opportunity slipping away. “What's in the omelet?”

“I have zero fucking idea, what do you want in the omelet?”

“Chanterelles,” I said.

Scott made a disapproving grunt but didn't deny me. He reached into the lowboy and started cracking mottled brown eggs into a clear bowl. He turned up the heat under a small black skillet. The yolks were a vivid, livid orange.

“They're nuclear,” I said, leaning in to watch. Last night's booze radiated off him. But Scott's tattooed hands took flight from muscle memory: he frothed the eggs with a fork in two swipes, touched his finger to the pan to feel the heat. He turned the flame down and slid the eggs in, he dipped his hand into the salt and flung it, he tipped the pan to all the points on a compass, letting the wet egg slide under the set edges.

The chanterelles had been prepped earlier, they were waiting, wet and caramelized. He spooned them into the middle. He rolled the eggs, using only the tine of a fork and the movement of the pan. It was all one motion. The skin of the omelet was flawless.

Ariel came up with new beverages for us. Her eyes flashed when she saw my omelet and we dug into it from opposite ends. I sipped my wine through a straw. I saw whole peaceful countries built on perfect omelets and white wine spritzers. Nations at war drinking before noon and then napping.

“Is that Scott's chaser?” I pointed to a fourth quart container.

“No, it's Jake's. Will you drop it off?”

I shook my head.

“Come on, babe, por favor, I'm super behind.”

“It's on your way,” I whispered.

“Take him the drink and stop being a cunt,” she whispered back.

“Ugh,” I said. “Too early for the c-word.”

I wiped my mouth with a bar mop and ran my tongue around my teeth for stray bits of parsley. As I picked up the drink, the first ticket came through, as grating as a lawn mower starting.

Ariel said: “It's never too early for the c-word.”

Scott said: “Fuck brunch.”

I said: “Cheers.”

My last sip of wine was still humming in my throat as I approached him. He was leaning against the back bar with his arms crossed, face toward the window. There was no one to serve yet. I put the drink down. I tapped my fingers on the bar and decided to leave it at that, but then said, “Jake.”

He turned gradually, surprised. He didn't move.

“This is for you. From Ariel,” I turned to leave.

“Hey, I need bar mops.” He took a sip. The key to dealing with Jake was that I told myself it was all in my head. He rarely engaged with me. The problem with that method of disavowal was the oysters. I thought maybe something had shifted, but I didn't trust it. But when he asked me for more bar mops it was obvious. He was flirting.

“I already gave you the par for the bar,” I said carefully.

“I need more.”

“There aren't any more.”

“So we're going into a busy Sunday lunch service with no bar mops on the bar? What is Howard going to say about that?”

“He's going to ask why you wasted all your bar mops.”

Jake leaned forward on the service bar, close to me. He smelled sour and fragile, and said, “Get me fucking bar mops.”

I rolled my eyes and walked away. But my stomach flipped, it kept flipping. How many times had Nicky said that to me and I just nodded.

My secret stash was in my locker—as far as I knew I was the only one to have thought of this. Since the management kept them locked up, I figured I should as well. I finished my beverage before I dropped them off. He was annoyed by the six new guests in front of him, and I said to myself, Leave the bar mops, walk away. Instead I said, “Jake”—the charge I got from demanding his attention, from making him look at me—“can you make me an Assam?”

I DON'T THINK
I said it well before. His teeth were slightly crooked and when we did last call he would unbutton the top of his shirt, his throat pulsing like something that had been caged. His hair was irreverent after eight hours of bartending. He drank like he was the only person who understood beer. When he looked at you, he was the only person who understood you, sipped you, and swallowed. Someone told me his eyes were blue, someone else that they were green, but they were gold in the center, which is entirely different. When he laughed it was rare and explosive. If a song came on that affected him, let's say Miles Davis's “Blue in Green,” he would shut his eyes. His eyelids would flutter like he was dreaming. He was making the bar and guests disappear. He would disappear too. He could turn himself off like a switch and I stood in the dark, waiting.

IT WAS IN
the autumn that what they called “our people” returned. In thirty years, Nicky had never forgotten a regular's drink. If they caught his eye when they walked in, the drink would be ready before they had pocketed the coat check ticket.

Simone had never forgotten an anniversary or a birthday. She would be silent throughout the meal, only to appear at the end with complimentary desserts, Happy Anniversary to Peter and Catherine, or whatever, written in chocolate ganache. But she had a million tricks the other servers emulated. When a guest particularly enjoyed a bottle of wine she made a pressing of the wine label, scraping it onto a clear sticker and putting it into an envelope. Sometimes she and Chef signed it. I couldn't figure out the exact cause-and-effect relationship but her wine sales were leaps ahead of everyone else's.

We had support. At every preshift the hostess reminded us of who was coming, their table preference, their likes, dislikes, allergies, sometimes gave a summary of their last meal, especially if it had been questionable. But whatever computerized tracking system they used—and I'm sure it was top of the line—it couldn't stand up to the senior servers and their memories. Their innate hospitality. Their anticipation of others' needs. That was when service went from an illusion to a true expression of compassion. People came back to the restaurant just to have that feeling of being taken care of.

They had to be kept at a distance, that was key to the relationship. The intimacy was confusing because the line was so firmly drawn, no matter how many times the regulars wanted to believe that they were family. From Walter: “Regulars are not friends. They are guests. Bob Keating? A racist, and a bigot. I've waited on him for a decade and he has no idea that he's being served by an old queen. Never show yourself.”

From Ariel: “Never go out with regulars. Sometimes they ask about my shows and it's so awkward. These people don't even like music. Or, oh god, once this woman wanted to get a nightcap and Sasha recommended Park Bar as a joke, and she was actually there. Just not right.”

From Will: “The biggest mistake I made in my first year was to accept opera tickets from Emma Francon. I thought, This is awesome, I put on my suit. I know she looks good for her age, but there is a twenty-year gap there, I thought it was totally innocent.
La Traviata,
a hand job in the taxi, followed by two nights where she totally embarrassed herself at the bar. We never saw her again. Howard was not happy.”

From Jake: “They're all better looking with a bar between you and them.”

“I FORGET
your hand doesn't naturally go that way,” said Will, catching me. He crossed his arms and watched.

I was in the server hutch by the handicapped bathroom, out of view, practicing my three-plate-carry. Some of the backwaiters could do four-plate-carries, three plates solidly fanned up one arm and one in the other. The plates were organized, so they could flick down the first plate to position one and use the now-free arm to arrange the other plates from open-armed swoops on the left side of each guest. The plates were always placed according to the way Chef designed the dish, like a painting hung properly on a wall.

I put the second plate on my wrist and it dipped.

“There are three prongs,” Will said. “Your pointer and middle together, the soft part right here,” and he touched the bottom of my palm where it went to my thumb, “and this—your steering wheel.” He pulled my pinkie up vertically.

It felt wrong. My pinkie deflated.

“Maybe my hands aren't big enough.”

“It's not optional. Chef is going to keep thrashing you until you can do it. It's like you're half a food runner right now. If the kitchen boys can do it, you can do it. It's not a Mexican secret.”

“SHE'S SHRINKING AGAIN,”
said Nicky. Will nodded gravely and we all stared at her.

Even I noticed that Rebecca was acting strange. She was a hostess and we had barely any overlap, but she was polite, deferential once she saw that I was aligned with Simone.

Overnight she developed the whiff of an unstable woman, something like plumeria body lotion from the drugstore. She scooped together compositions at family meal, then talked instead of ate. She hovered, hawkish, as we finished our food.

Simone said, “There's a moment in every female's career when her wit blackens.” I saw it with Rebecca. Instead of laughing she began to say, “Ha,” as if writing a message over a great distance.