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I’d heard of businesses in the city that clear out their inventory and disappear in the middle of the night to avoid paying bills.
A scratchy uncertainty washes over me, and I shiver even though the shop is more warm than cool with the sun shining in. Then, I see someone come out of the store and lock the front door behind himself.
The landlord. I know him. He has three dogs.
He sees me looking out the window and waves, then hustles across the street to me while dodging traffic.
“Hi there,” I say, opening the door for him.
“Livvy, hi.” He purses his lips. He’s clearly upset.
“What’s going on over there? What happened to the shoe store?” I ask.
He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, a sure sign he’s having a shitty day. “The fuckers split overnight. Owed me six months back rent. They took every last shoe and piece of furniture that wasn’t nailed down.”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
“Did you see anything? Did they tell you anything?” he asks.
I shake my head. “They never really talked to me when they realized I wasn’t going to buy any shoes,” I say with a weak laugh. “I’m really sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Oh well. Guess it’s a write off. Let me get some dog food while I’m here.”
I hand him a basket and he starts filling it.
Wow. A business splitting in the middle of the night.
“You sure you didn’t see anything, Livvy?” he asks again.
“I’m sorry, but I’m usually out of here before dark. I was probably gone well before they did the deed.”
But I do know who might know something—the guys in the restaurant next door. Does that mean I now have an excuse to talk to them?
Thank you, Universe.
5
OWEN
When the lastcustomer from lunch filters out and the prep cooks are getting things ready for dinner, I finally take a deep breath. Weston’s up in the office crunching numbers or something, and Enzo’s in the kitchen scolding someone for dropping a very expensive cut of meat on the floor. I know this because I can hear him yelling over the blaring house music we allow in the ‘quiet hours,’ the short time we’re closed between lunch and dinner.
Funny thing is, these quiet hours are anything but, with employees joking around, just-washed pots and pans clanging together, and the local farming co-op bringing in last-minute items for the night’s service. We’re fully booked and it’s going to be a wild one.
I love it. I really do. I love every positive thing about the business, from our top selling dishes and most expensive bottle of wine, to the negative things liked clogged grease traps and no-show employees. Nothing can kill the feeling I have when I’m at EastSide.
I type tonight’s dinner menu into my laptop so I can send it to the printer down the street. Normally, we have crap like this done a day or two in advance, but we never got our sunchokes today and they were supposed to be served with our smoked-seared squab.
It’s a bummer, but shit like this happens all the time in the restaurant business. You just have to roll with it.
I clicksend, and look at my watch. I have a special arrangement with the counter girl at the print shop, who works on my stuff as soon as she gets it. It’s our secret, of course—we can’t let the other local businesses know I’m jumping the queue. In return, I bring my friend there a tasty treat.
“Dude,” I call to one of the kitchen guys, “can you package me up something for the girl at the printer? Maybe one of those pine Pavlovas?”
He hustles off to the cooler while I check my phone. I’m not a big fan of the pine-infused Pavlova, but Enzo insisted on it, saying ‘resin flavors are the next big thing.’ I’m not sure I agree, but the man’s got good instincts. I save my battles for other things.
Heading down to the printer, boxed dessert in hand, I notice the shop across the street is dark, with afor rentsign in the window. Wasn’t that place open for business just yesterday? I can’t be sure. Because it was a women’s shoe store, I never paid much attention. Aside from the beautiful women working there.
I zip past Pawsh Pets, where a pissed-off looking cat is sitting in the front window batting a beat-up toy. I’ve shopped there a few times and the owner—whose name I can never remember—is always helpful. A bit of an odd young woman smelling of citrus and wearing socks with her Birkenstocks, but beautiful in a girl-next-door sort of way. Not at all glamorous like so many other women in New York City, and especially not like those who frequent my restaurant. There was something comfortable about her as she pulled a pen out of the mass of hair gathered on top of her head, and hand-wrote my receipt. I almost told her about my cat Cheddar, but no one knows I have a pet feline. I just said I was picking up something for my mother’s cat.
