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Enzo joins us and reads the review. When he finishes, he explodes with a litany of swear words.
He’s crushed. Just absolutely crushed. While we all run the restaurant with equal weight on our shoulders, this is no doubt the biggest blow to Enzo, whose menu designs are his pride and joy.
If I could have handled this without involving him, I would have. Mister-wears-his-emotions-on-his-sleeve takes stuff like this hard.
“What the fuck, Owe? Where’d you get this? Why is it a photocopy?” he asks.
“When I went to pick up tonight’s menus, the girl at the printer shop told me she’d slipped something into the package. She was cagey, like she’d get in trouble or something for doing it. When I got outside, I found this article with a note she’d attached that someone had come in and had one thousand copies printed off.”
Enzo looks like he’s going to get sick. He grabs a chair and drops his head into his hands. I put a hand on his shoulder, like that’s going to help.
Now, not only is everyone in the kitchen trying to eavesdrop, they are also inching closer, hoping to find out what the drama is all about. I don’t blame them.
“Guys, get back to work,” Enzo hollers, like he has eyes in the back of his head.
Weston groans, rubbing his temples. “What’s the fucking deal here? Why the shit review and why would anyone make a thousand copies of it?”
I say what we all already know. “If you make a thousand copies of something, that means you are going to distribute it. It’s that simple.”
But distribute to whom? And why?
Enzo pounds his fist on the stainless-steel prep table. “How in the fuck did this happen? The critics love us. At least, they used to.”
It’s true. We’ve gotten nothing but the highest praise since the day we opened. What changed? Not to say we’ve ever rested on our laurels—that’s not how we roll—but did we take something for granted? Have we slipped?
Is this the reason our bookings are down today? And for the rest of the week?
Something flip-flops in my stomach and I, too, pull up a chair next to Enzo.
Weston paces. “Guys, something about this doesn’t smell right. You don’t go from being at the top of the heap one day to the bottom the next. This is suspicious.”
“Do you… do you think someone ‘encouraged’ the restaurant critic to write this?” I ask quietly, with air quotes around ‘encouraged.’
I almost don’t say it out loud because I don’t want to believe it’s possible. Aren’t journalists supposed to be objective? Above influence?
Or I am a fucking naïve idiot? The only one who doesn’t know how the game is played.
I look to Weston. Enzo and I both do. He’s been immersed in the business world since before he could walk, and we often turn to him with our questions.
He nods slowly. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Someone wants this city block badly. Badly enough that they are willing to pay off people, like the slimeball who wrote this. It’s just too much of a coincidence.”
“I… I didn’t think much of it, and didn’t think to mention it, guys, but our bookings today are down. And they are for the rest of the week.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Enzo asks.
I shrug. “I thought it was, you know, just one of the ups and downs any restaurant sees. But… maybe not.”
Fury crosses Weston’s face. “Fucking dirtbags. The sooner they damage our business, the sooner we’ll hit the road.”
I consider sharing my exchange with Livvy and decide I’ve delivered enough bad news of the day. But my concerns about her are weighing on me. “By the way, I poked my head into Pawsh Pets on the way to the printer. Livvy had some papers she didn’t want me to see, but I did anyway. She’s in debt. A lot of debt, at least for her.”
“Maybe they’re fucking with her business too,” Enzo says.
Weston shakes his head “It’s not a maybe. It’s a definite.”
I glance at my watch. “Hey, it’s time for the dinner service. We gotta hold it together. Freak out later.”
Enzo looks around the kitchen and claps his hands loudly. “All right, everybody. Back to work.”
