AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Today she must be in the back of the shop. The cat stares me down as I pass by, showing its teeth once or twice.
I deliver the Pavlova to my inside girl, who runs to bring me my menus the moment I walk in. A couple other patrons look our way when I hand over her treats, and she blushes as she coos, “Thank you, Owen.”
She’s a sweet thing. But just a kid.
On my way back to EastSide, I duck into the corner market.
“I don’t know why you drink that shit,” Sal says when I plop two sixes of Bud Lite on the counter in front of him.
The man loves to bust my balls.
We’ve had this conversation a hundred times. “I told you, Sal, I get tired of that fancy Japanese stuff we have over at the restaurant. Sometimes a guy just wants his Bud.”
He snorts. “Owen, even I don’t drink that stuff.”
I raise my hands in surrender. “Look, you can be as prissy as you want about your beer. It’s all good, my man.”
Sal scowls. Actually, he always scowls. He’d look put out if he won the damn lottery. It’s like his face is fixed that way. I do get a smile out of him from time to time, but even then, it’s only half a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, pretty boy,” he snickers, handing me my package.
But I don’t leave just yet. I want something else. I’m just not sure what.
I look around the market, pretty much like every other one in the city, with its small, overpriced, but convenient selection of necessities—some canned goods, some questionable produce, and lots of junk food and alcoholic beverages. Then I spot what I want.
Sal snorts his disapproval again. “Goddamn, Owe, don’t tell me you eat this crap. With all the fancy shit you got over there, like sea urchin balls and such, you want chips and onion dip?” He wrinkles his nose in outright disgust.
Which makes me laugh.
He adds the new items to my bag, shaking his head like my lowbrow purchases are a personal insult. “Don’t you get decent food at the restaurant? Forfree?”
I shrug one shoulder. The paradox of restaurant life. “Look, just because someone works in a restaurant doesn’t mean they get to eat there. It’s busy during mealtimes and besides, sometimes I want a goddamn potato chip. Ya know? Sea urchin balls don’t always cut it. But I appreciate your looking out for me, Sal. You’ll make somebody a nice wife someday.”
He scoffs and waves me out of the store. “Yeah, yeah. Get out of here, pretty boy. And trim that damn beard.”
I wave goodbye over my shoulder.
Love that guy.
6
OWEN
Eight quick hours later,the customers are gone and Weston, Enzo, and I are ourselves. I grab the Bud Lite from the back of the walk-in cooler, where I hid it in a box markedlardto keep sticky fingers off it, and break open a cold one at our favorite table, a corner banquette where we can see the whole restaurant.
I raise a bottle and the guys join me. “To another killer dinner service, gentlemen. Boys, we are officially minted motherfuckers. How many restaurants are profitable in their first two years?”
“I dunno, but we are, motherfuckers!” Enzo hollers, still in his food-stained chef jacket.
“That’s right,” Weston adds. “You know you’ve arrived when people are more interested in Instagramming their food than eating it.”
Another record-breaking month. It doesn’t get any better. Except for a great review from the local paper, which put us on the map in only month two.
Thank you, restaurant critics.
“I don’t even care that two teenagers were caught having sex in the ladies’ room tonight. Let them have at it. Nothing’s going to ruin this,” I laugh.
I couldn’t get mad, anyway. I did the same thing back in the day. Only I wasn’t stupid enough to get caught.
Enzo slams his fist on the table, rattling the beer cans. “Guys, we are the Kardashians of the culinary world. Well, with less drama and more talent.”
