AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She sighs and stacks the papers on the counter into a neat pile, fastening them with a paperclip. Then she moves over to the wall where cat food is displayed and begins straightening the cans.
I take that as my cue to leave. “I hope you’ll stop by tonight, Livvy. We’d really like to see you.”
She doesn’t say a word, just waves over her shoulder. I really want to stick around and continue to my attempt to smooth things out, but I’ve got to get the damn menus and get back to the restaurant.
Maybe she just needs some time.
I leave, the bells on the door screeching into the silence.
I hustle down to the printer and drop a bag of charcoal matcha macarons on the counter in front of my contact there. She’s wearing her badge today, for a change.
“Ellen! How’s it going?” I ask, taking the menus from her.
She looks from side to side, leaning over the counter toward me. “Owen, I have to tell you something,” she says in a low voice.
Holy shit. What could be so serious? She’s on a diet and doesn’t want my treats anymore?
“What’s up?”
She looks around again, apparently about to tell me something she shouldn’t. “When you get out of the store, look at the document on top of the menus. I can’t say any more.”
With that, she grabs her macarons, stuffs them in her apron pocket, and gets back to work.
Jesus. What’s all the drama about? She used the wrong paper for the menus?
I get outside the printshop and walk a couple store fronts down the street. If what she’s telling me is so top-secret, I guess I’d better be discreet until I know what the hell is going on.
I reach into the large envelope holding the night’s dinner menus and see the top page is indeed different from the menus, in both color and size. I slide it out and turn it around to find a photocopy of a restaurant review from today’s paper.
A review of EastSide.
41
OWEN
At the startof its meteoric ascent to the top of hip, new dining establishments in the City, EastSide didn’t just push culinary boundaries, it catapulted them to previously unexplored dimensions, earning them the prime spot as poster child of avant-garde cuisine.
But time marches on and just as we age, so do restaurants. What was once an electrifying dining experience at EastSide has now become, at best, a low hum.
Today, their dishes seem reminiscent of their glorious past, but are now lacking a certain spark. The intricate dance of flavors is still there, but feels rehearsed, no longer spontaneous, surprising, or delighting, which once made EastSide so unique. While a few stalwarts are still reminders of the restaurant’s zenith, they are now just islands amidst mediocrity.
And it’s not just the food. The service, once a seamless dance of precision, is now disjointed. The wait between courses can be lengthy, and the servers look flustered.
I’m happy to say all is not lost. The wine list, curated with a creative and discerning eye, still offers a robust, eclectic, if not expensive selection.
As I’m sure we all do, I remain hopeful that EastSide, with some serious reflection and rejuvenation, may be able to reignite its former flame. To do this, it would do well to study other failed culinary darlings of the City, dissecting their downfall, while forging ahead with the renewed, daring spirit that once set it apart. The three young men running EastSide, all very nice guys, have many years in the restaurant business ahead of them. Let’s hope it doesn’t all end here.
But as we know, I’ve been reviewing eating establishments in the City for a long time. Can restaurants recover from a fall into tedium? I can safely say rarely, if ever.
Time will tell if EastSide can fight its way back to the spotlight that made it an instant success. For now, we remember and hope.
As soon asI’m back in the restaurant, I find Weston in the kitchen and thrust the review in his face. “What’s this?” he asks, turning the page upright. “Oh, I haven’t seen the paper yet today.”
But as he skims the article and realizes what it is, his eyes get dark. Before he’s even done reading, he looks like he’s ready to punch someone or something.
“What the fucking fuck?” he roars.
Every head in the kitchen turns our way, and I’m relieved we’re not having this conversation out in the dining room in front of customers.
