With a Twist (36 page)

“You’ve driven her
out.”

That’s how Quinn found out Natalie had taken the managing job at Le Bristol. He’d stopped by the Wild Hart in the morning to let his parents know the good news that he’d quit the
Sent
and had jumped over to the
Standard
. Instead, he found himself staring at long faces and putting up with abuse from his mother’s razor-sharp tongue. He had the feeling he was going to be on her shit list for life.

His first day at the
Standard
had gone well. He was still riding the high of telling Clement to stick it, and he felt even better knowing his new editor in chief, Carl Koski, considered Quinn’s defection quite a feather in his cap and couldn’t wait to run his article when it was ready. It didn’t hurt that Quinn knew most of the reportorial staff, the newspaper biz in New York being one big round of musical chairs.

After working until about eleven that night, he again headed over to the pub. It was jarring seeing his dad behind the bar; the old man was moving slowly. Quinn slipped behind the bar to pour his own whiskey. “Dad, you have to—”

“I know,” his father said, irritated. “I’ve got Brendan on the case, and the guys from the firehouse. We’ll have someone soon.”

“You need help right now.”

His father drew himself up, insulted. “I’m not a helpless thing, you know. I can manage.”

Quinn held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay. Didn’t mean to offend.”

He poured the whiskey shot down his throat, noticing that Clement wasn’t at his usual seat at the bar. Predictable. Now that he didn’t have Quinn to annoy anymore, he’d probably stop coming in.

He quickly scanned the dining room for Natalie and spotted her talking to the table of firemen. It pissed him off sometimes, the way they all looked at her ass when she walked away. Well, he didn’t have a right to feel ticked anymore, did he?

“We heard from your brother again this afternoon,” his father said. Liam had already called once to let them know when he arrived in Ireland.

“And—?”

“Goin’ mad with boredom already, or so he says. He’ll wind up in Dublin, mark my words.”

Quinn nodded, making a mental note to give Liam a call to see how he was doing and let him know he was now at the
Standard
. He couldn’t believe how much he missed his broody little brother. He chuckled; he was sure that whole dark, Heathcliff thing would play well with the ladies in Ireland, same as it had here. Women seemed to love men who gave the impression they were tortured souls. And the fact that Liam was so handsome—hell, if there were any single women left in Ballycraig, he’d have his pick.

Natalie eventually came to the bar to place orders. Quinn was shocked by the twinge of pain jabbing him when she came near.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hello.” She began pulling out bottles of Sam Adams.

“I hear you’re leaving next week.”

“Yes. I have a managing job at Le Bristol.”

“Congrats.”

“Thank you.”

“Look,” Quinn said, “I hope you’re not leaving on my account.”

Natalie laughed incredulously. “Always with the ego! You’ve known all along that managing is what I’ve wanted to do.”

“I know.” Jesus, why was everyone jumping down his throat tonight? “It’s just that the timing is suspicious.”

“Let’s just say I had a number of epiphanies the night I broke up with you.”

Ouch.
“I have a new job, too.”

“Yes, I know. Your friends told me earlier this evening. They left early because they figured you’d be out with your new coworkers tonight. Anyway . . . congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

He wanted to say something to amuse her, to tease her the way he used to, to try to break the tension, but he knew it would be no use. He deserved any frostiness that came his way.

“Good luck finishing your article,” she said, walking away with the firefighters’ drink order. His father was checking the ice machine, pretending he wasn’t listening. When their eyes did meet, Quinn held up a warning hand.

“Save it.”

Her first day
at Le Bristol, Natalie had to actively fight the nausea she’d woken up with. She got in hours before the restaurant opened so Lemieux could explain the “basic deal” to her: how she’d be responsible for scheduling and making sure there were enough waitstaff available to work peak times; how she’d work with him on the food and supply orders; how she’d be the one dealing with food vendors and service providers. Last but not least, she was the one who’d have to deal with customer service. “Basically, babe, you’re the smiling face of the restaurant so I can stay in the kitchen and do my thing,” Lemieux told her.
The thought terrified her.

By 6 p.m., every table at the restaurant, all reserved months in advance, was taken. The clientele was entirely different than the casual customers who ate at Vivi’s, or at Dante’s, for that matter. It was an affluent crowd of variant ethnicities. At first this pleased Natalie; this was just the kind of upscale restaurant she’d dreamed of managing. But over the course of the evening, she came to realize that casual had its advantages. Worse, Lemieux was insane.

The first problem came with an older couple in their late fifties, one of those couples who seemed to have been married so long they had exhausted the art of conversation years ago. Their waiter came over to Natalie where she stood at the small podium at the front of the restaurant, talking with the hostess.

“Table number five says their food is taking too long.”

“I see.” Natalie patted the young man’s shoulder. He was new, too, and he looked as overwhelmed as she felt.

Natalie made her way to the table, where the couple sat in cranky silence.

“Sir, madam—Adam tells me you are unhappy?”

“The food,” the woman said with a sour face. “We’ve been waiting over half an hour for dinner.”

“I see. I’ll go and try to find out what the holdup is.”

“Thank you,” the woman said coldly.

Filling with dread, Natalie entered the kitchen, assaulted by a wave of heat and sound as she pushed through the doors. The cacophony was overwhelming: people yelling orders, people yelling at each other, meat sizzling . . . again, so different from Vivi’s. Then again, Vivi’s kitchen staff only consisted of two other people beside herself.

She had to admit, though, that the mingling aromas wafting through the kitchen were mouthwatering, even though it was hard to pick out individual smells. Even so, she detected some garlic and some sage. Something was being sautéed in wine. Fine French food.

One of the line cooks saw her enter and hustled over. “What’s up?”

“There’s a couple out there complaining their main dish is taking too long.”

The cook sighed. “Mario!” he barked.

Mario was the sous-chef, in charge of running the kitchen. Natalie had met him earlier in the day. He looked annoyed at being interrupted as he yelled at one of the kitchen staff who was swirling chocolate syrup on a plate, and crying.

Mario came over to Vivi and the line cook. “Yeah?”

“There’s some couple out there complaining their food is taking too long,” explained the line cook.

Mario looked at Natalie. “How long they been waiting?” “Half an hour.”

“Idiots.”

“What do you want me to tell them?” Natalie asked.

“Rick will talk to them.”

Natalie thrust her head forward slightly as if she hadn’t heard correctly. “Rick?”

“Yeah. It’s his place, he likes to talk to the customers himself when there’s a complaint.”

Natalie nodded as Mario screamed, “Rick!” at the top of his lungs. She was surprised to see him working the line, chopping vegetables. She took this as a sign of solidarity with his staff, as well as humility. She was wrong about the latter.

Natalie explained the situation to him.

“What table are these pains in the ass at?” he asked her.

“Five.”

“Follow me.”

Heart in throat, she followed him to the table.

“Hi,” he said to the couple tersely. “I’m Rick Lemieux, the executive chef. I hear you have a problem?”

The woman drew herself up imperiously. “We’ve been waiting over half an hour for our food.”

“What did you order?”

“Casserole of roasted pork with potato and onions. My husband ordered casserole of roasted duck with turnips.”

“Good choices. Now tell me why you’re here.”

The man blinked. “What?”

“Tell me why you’re eating here tonight.”

The man replied as if it were self-evident. “Because the restaurant has a wonderful reputation.”

“Give the man a cigar.” Rick put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Can I let you folks in on a little secret?” he whispered. The couple froze. “The reason my restaurant has a wonderful reputation is because everything here is cooked to order. Fresh. Made with love and care. Made with pride. That means it takes time. You want fast food, go to McDonald’s.”

Natalie suppressed a gasp, but the woman at the table didn’t.

“There’s no call to be rude!”

“You want the best French food in the city or not? If you do, then cool your jets and relax. Have another glass of wine or something, all right?”

Natalie held her breath, waiting for them to leave. They didn’t. She followed Rick back toward the kitchen. “Fucking idiots,” he muttered. “I hate cooking for fucking idiots. I wish I could give every customer who comes through the door an intelligence test first.”

Natalie’s heart was about to burst through her chest with anxiety, but she had to speak her piece, because she was confused. “I thought one of the first rules of customer service was ‘The customer is always right,’ ” she said quietly.

“Not here, babe. The rule here is, ‘Rick is always right.’ If people don’t like it, they can go eat elsewhere. We’re booked six months in advance, and we have a waiting list of people hoping for cancellations. Those putzes over there who think they’re better than everyone else?
They don’t deserve to eat here.”

By the middle
of her second week at Le Bristol, Natalie not only knew Lemieux had indeed tossed her in the deep end of the pool, but also that she was drowning. Setting up hours for the waitstaff was no problem. But she had no idea what she was doing when it came to dealing with the food vendors. Rick and Mario really did the ordering, but she was responsible for following up and complaining, and God knew that Rick had lots of complaints. She asked Mario for guidance, but she could tell he was becoming exasperated because he really didn’t have the time to help her out. And then there was the issue of Rick Lemieux himself.

She suspected he was a bit odd when he had asked her those irrelevant questions at her interview about death row meals and desert island discs. But now, seeing him in action, it was confirmed. Every time there was a complaint from a customer (and thankfully, there weren’t many), her stomach knotted, knowing he was going to saunter through the kitchen doors and start lobbing insults. On her second night, someone complained that their fruit compote wasn’t warm enough, and sent it back. Rick reheated it until it was bubbling and then brought it out to them himself. “Hot enough now?” he asked, once again cowing another diner into silence. On her fourth night, a smarmy, sniffy, solo male diner complained that his glazed carrots weren’t glazed enough. Rick came out of the kitchen and handed him his apron. “You know so much about glazed carrots, pal? Come back in the kitchen with me and show me how to prepare them.”

The man recoiled, appalled. “How dare you?”

“I own the restaurant. And guess what? You’re done. I’m kicking you the hell out of here.
You don’t even have to pay. Just go.”

The man rose, threw his napkin down on the table, and stormed out.

“
Au revoir,
dickhead,” Rick said to applause from some of the other diners. Natalie didn’t understand how he got away with it. The public had to
know
they risked abuse by coming here. Yet night after night, the place was packed.

She realized she wasn’t only shocked by her boss’s behavior; she was scared of him. He was a tyrant. No one, staff included, dared disagree with him. Yet those who worked for him took whatever abuse he dished out because they thought it was a great honor to learn to cook under this lunatic, and the customers kept coming because the food truly was magnificent.

Her grace period lasted approximately one week before Lemieux started hurling insults at her as well. How stupid was she? He yelled. How fucking hard was it to yell at the produce guy? Each night she’d come home and cry, too upset to sleep.
This is what you wanted,
she reminded herself. But not this way, being belittled day after day. It wasn’t her dream to work with Lemieux. And so she quit. She didn’t care if it meant having to completely reevaluate whether managing a restaurant was what she really wanted to do. Life was too short to be miserable on a daily basis. She would go back to the Wild Hart and ask for her old job back.