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“Yes, here.”
“But this place is like, booked up for a year, and a meal is more than a rent payment.” I know, because my dad brought me here after I moved home like he was showing me off. He’s never quite made peace with the low rent of his upbringing. He started teaching auto shop at the same high school where I teach now, and worked his way up the ladder somehow to be voted in as school Superintendent.
The power lit him up, gave him that sense of self-worth he’d been searching for his whole life but somehow, it doesn’t sit naturally with him. There’s a sense of having to prove to everyone who he is, what he has, and it never seems to be enough.
“Not your concern. Come on.”
Inside the front door, the gleaming glass and white walls make me feel dirty even though I showered this morning. The lithe, Morticia Adams impersonator at the hostess’s stand makes zero attempt to hide her disapproving eye roll as we approach.
“Do you have a reservation?” she asks in a nasally, bored monotone.
Chewy snaps his tongue over his teeth, pulling me by the hand next to him as she looks me up and down, holding back a disgusted choking grunt.
“No reservation but I have this.” He reaches into his back pocket with his free hand and pulls out his black leather wallet, the attached chain jingling as he pulls out a worn white business card and hands it to her. She takes it from him, touching it as though he’s handed her a used tissue infected with the plague, but when she turns it over a look passes over her face. A moment later she looks at Chewy, then at me, then back at the card.
“One moment.” She clears her throat and disappears through the dining room toward the back.
“What’s going on?” I look around to see the staff and other patrons glancing our way and a few whispers pass back and forth. “Let’s just go to Rooster’s. I could go for some greasy fries and a burger.”
“You don’t eat burgers or fries,” he answers and I’m taken aback.
“How do you know—” I start to ask when the sleek, black haired hostess returns, trailing behind a man in a suit who is now holding the dirty white business card, looking from it to Chewy before he stops a few feet from us, taking a long, irritated breath.
“I’m sorry. Our tables are full for the evening. I do suggest you make a reservation next time. As well as take note of our dress code.” He nods toward the wall next to the entry door and I look over to see a list of the preferences for patron’s attire, but Chewy doesn’t unlock his eyes from the gray-haired man in the black suit.
“That card says it gives me a VIP table at the time of my choosing. Signed by Phillipe Prescott, Chef de Cuisine and owner.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how you acquired this, but it is impossible for me to honor. I think it would be best if you dined elsewhere tonight.”
I start to tug on his arm but he shoots me a look and I stifle my moment of pity, thinking he must be humiliated by the treatment. His manner is calm but defiant and watching him stare down the insult in the eyes of the hostess and manager without a hint of embarrassment has my heart beating fast and my nipples hard enough to cut glass.
The air turns heavy in the silence as my skin prickles with a chill and I feel very exposed under the bright lights inside the entryway of the uber-sophisticated restaurant.
As the standoff turns almost unbearable, Chewy’s head turns toward the open restaurant, where a table at the front is being served, and I hear a low chuckle rumble from him as I glance at the hostess who is biting her bottom lip.
I know that look.
Yes, he’s sex on a stick and as high-brow-bitchy as you were to him, you’d offer up any hole of his choosing with the snap of his fingers.
“I think it’s best if I dined elsewhere tonight as well.” Chewy reaches out and snaps the white card from the man’s hand, making him wince and step back. “I’ll make sure I mention you when I let Phillipe know I stopped by.” Chewy puts the card back in his wallet then scratches the side of his face, his black beard sounding rough as his fingers move up and down before he finishes. “I’ll also let him know the asparagus is overcooked.”
Chewy tips his head toward the first table, where the woman wearing a Chanel suit is holding up her fork, a stalk of asparagus speared on the tines drooping in a sad horseshoe shape as she frowns at the vegetable.
