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I grab my iPad to look up our recent orders. “Okay, hang on. Let me see what’s up.”
As I scroll, she gets increasingly worked up. “Also, Wes, I can’t find the balsamic. I think we’re all out. I need it for the vegetable reduction.”
“What does Enzo say?”
“He told me to tell you.”
Thanks, buddy.
I’m having trouble making sense of the orders in front of me, so I reach into my pocket and pull out a couple twenties. “Here you go. Run to the corner store and get what you need for now. I’ll straighten this out with the supplier.”
She holds her chin up bravely. “Good thinking, Wes. I’ll take care of that right now.”
With a nod, she leaves my office, her sneakered feet clomping all the way down the stairs until I can’t hear her anymore.
Jesus. Did I mess up an order? Or two? I never do shit like this. No doubt I’ve been distracted lately, what with the developer issues and all, not to mention how getting to ‘know’ Livvy has taken up space in my brain. And yet, I still don’t understand how I could be messing things up. I’m the ‘numbers guy.’ I’m logical, uptight, anal—you name it—and that’s what makes me good at what I do. My lack of emotion drives Owen and Enzo crazy sometimes, but they don’t seem to complain when I show them how profitable our little venture has become.
I wonder if they’re as distracted as I am?
Just then, Owen pops his head in. “Dude,” he says, his expression a mix of amusement and wanting to murder someone. “I just got a complaint that someone’s bruschetta is too crispy.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
Over-crispy bruschetta. Funny-not-funny.
“Is it who I think it is?” I ask.
Every restaurant has its share of notoriously difficult regulars and EastSide is no exception. For the most part, regulars are a blessing. But there will always be a few who believe that since they come by all the time and drop a shitload of dough, they are entitled to a level of VIP service that’s all but impossible to provide.
“Yeah. You know, the older woman with the big round glasses. She’s a hoot, but she loves nothing more than tearing me a new asshole in front of her old-lady friends. It’s like she comes here just for that purpose, to show how much clout she has.”
I’ve no doubt Owen would like to tell this woman to go fuck herself, but you can’t do that, not in the restaurant business, nor in any business, no matter how abusive the customers get. Jesus, that would be rich, for the entire Upper East Side to find out that one of the owners yelled at a sweet old lady who made a simple little request. News like that travels faster than a New York minute. Our business would dry up so goddamn fast it wouldn’t matter that there are developers after our space.
Restaurant life is crazy, but I love it. Stupid shit like this morning’s, minor annoyances in the grand scheme of things, remind me of what I get out of bed in the morning for.
After Owen lets off his steam, I head down to the basement to check the wine cellar inventory. I’m entering the cool, dark room to make sure I haven’t screwed up those orders when my phone lights up. I consider ignoring it because when it comes to our wines, I really can’t mess up—we make too much money from them—but when I see it’s our lawyer, I jump on the call. Nothing else could get my heart pounding right now than hearing from him.
“Wes, I’ve got news,” he says.
I brace myself for impact. Our attorney is a real poker face and you never know if what’s coming at you is going to be good or bad.
“Fill me in,” I say.
“I think we can get a temporary injunction based on the info you provided.”
“Hell yeah!” I scream, my voice echoing back from the dark corners of the cellar.
I doubt anyone up in the restaurant heard me, but I also don’t care if they did. I’ll take this bit of good news. I need it, dammit. We all do. I finally feel like we’re on the offensive rather than continually playing defense. It might be a small win, but I’ll take the motherfucker.
A victory, no matter how small, calls for celebration. So between lunch and dinner service, I run over to Pawsh Pets to make sure Livvy leaves her evening open for us guys.
“Hello, Weston,” her assistant Jewel says in a flat, droning voice.
“Jewel. Nice to see you.”
Silence.
“Yeah, well, is Livvy here?” I ask, wondering why she’s looking at me like she wants to kill me.
