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"Excuse me," she says. She has a thick European accent, perhaps Spanish or French. I can’t exactly pinpoint it. "I need service!" she cries.
"Oh, of course. I’m sorry." Moving to the computer, I pull up the reservations screen. "Do you have a reservation?"
Her face turns angry, as if I have just challenged her somehow. "No. My family wants to eat. We are very hungry."
I swallow and look back at the packed restaurant. There isn’t a single empty seat in the whole restaurant. There are actually already people sitting in chairs that were brought in by the waitstaff from a back hallway. We are over capacity, even at the long marble countertop that serves as our bar. Every single seat was reserved months ago, and it is bordering on insanity that this woman doesn't understand that.
"Ma’am," I say. "Unfortunately, we don’t have…"
"No! That is not acceptable. We will eat now." The woman puts her arms out, and her children filter into her embrace. She looks at me as if she has somehow presented an argument that is undeniable.
"As you can see," I say. I turn and wave a hand to indicate the dining room. Our entire restaurant is full at the moment. "We are not taking walk-ins. There are guests with reservations all the way up until nine thirty.”
She arches her brow and crosses her arms. "That is unacceptable. I know chef André. He would be extremely dissatisfied if he knew that you were turning me away right now."
Casting a sneaky glance around, I try to get Anna’s attention. But she is off on the other end of the restaurant, beaming at a cluster of customers as they interact with her.
Chef André is both the chef and the owner of this establishment. But I don’t know him, and I don’t feel like heading back into the kitchen and asking him at this exact moment is really wise.
I steel myself and force a smile onto my lips. Looking at the woman, I bow my head. "I’m sorry. We are booked. Perhaps you would like to make a reservation for the future?"
She turns around, swinging a hand wide to indicate the empty benches in the foyer. "We can just sit there. No problem."
My brow furrows. "I don’t think…"
The woman once again slams both of her hands down on the host stand, making me jump. "You are an idiot! You are terrible at your job. They should not let you work here. I am not just going to leave here with my family. My family is hungry, and we want to eat Chef André’s food!"
"I’m sorry…"
"No!" She turns and points to the bench. "Go sit down, kids. We are going to eat here. Your mom said you would eat at Tusk, so you will eat at Tusk. Don’t make me do something rash."
The last part was obviously meant for me. I realize that at some point, her accent fell away and now she is talking with a normal American accent, possibly one that says she was raised in Boston.
"Ma’am, I don’t know what you want me to do. I can’t seat you. There is literally nowhere to sit in the restaurant. Those benches are not tables, they are a waiting area. What you are asking for is against the restaurant’s policies."
"You know what you are? You’re a bitch and a liar. We have seats right here." She waves her hand at the benches again. "Now get us some menus and some waters. Better yet, get us another person to deal with. Someone who doesn’t shake and tremble at every little thing that is said to them."
That’s the moment that Brian appears, straightening his navy suit and looking between myself and the customer skeptically. "What’s going on?"
I draw in a gulp of air and try to answer, but the customer cuts me off.
"Your hostess is a moron," she says through clenched teeth. "I tried to explain to her that I am a friend of chef André's. Aclosefriend. But she says that she can’t seat us, even though there are plenty of chairs right behind me."
Brian tilts his head to the side. His lips purse, and he squints at me. I am so flustered. I can feel tears pressing at the corners of my eyes, threatening to descend. My face burns.
Brian smacks his lips and arches a brow at me. "Maybe you need to go on your break. Go take ten minutes in the back." His gaze narrows on me. "Now."
The customer looks at me with a little smirk as I walk away. I turn and duck my head, weaving through the tables, trying not to knock into anyone as my tears fall.
Heading into the back hallway, I run into Chef André. He is maybe forty years old; his dark hair is starting to thin on top, and his frame is angular and athletic. Someone once said to me that you can never trust a skinny chef, but I just try to smile, pretending that I am not crying as I try to sneak past him.
He approaches from the back door, having just been outside. He takes one look at me and exhales a long sigh, smelling like he just smoked a cigarette. "What is your name?" he asks.
I stop and wipe away my tears the best I can. "Talia."
"Okay. There are a lot of rules for working in a restaurant. But one of them is that there are no tears. Or rather, maybe that should be the number one rule. In any event, I think I will send you home early."
God, how embarrassing. I shake my head, trying to wipe away my tears. "I swear, Mr. André, I don’t normally cry at work."
