Chapter 6 #2
“Honestly, she’s a glorified dishwasher and she acts like she’s actually got some talent just because Jean-Rémy said a few nice words. She’s delusional.”
It is verbatim what he said the first time, though we’d not been bold enough to approach Granby before.
Something else inspired his diatribe all those years ago, but it’s of little import what it was.
The meaning is clear: Despite my efforts to sing his praises and to say the right things in the rooms that matter, every word of these insults has been living in his head, bubbling below the surface just yearning to escape.
Even with fifteen years of growth and maturity, I find the barbs sting as badly now as they did then.
The difference is that now, as the old maxim goes, I know it really is him, not me. I’m sure I did and said the wrong things from time to time, but this outburst has nothing to do with me and everything to do with his own insecurities.
Last time I gave him hell right then and there in front of God, Cecil Granby, and all manner of lesser mortals. I won’t let him slide this time, but I will respect myself enough not to air my grievances in public.
I clear my throat, and he turns slowly toward me.
“I—uh—wasn’t talking about you?” He stammers his words, and they sound pathetic to everyone in earshot. Especially me. His friends scatter to other parts of the ballroom like so many rats. Apt, really.
“I never said you were. Sounds like you have a guilty conscience, Edward.” I endeavor to remain the glacial Scandinavian ice queen. Unflappable. He isn’t worth the indignity of rage and tears.
“Why don’t we go talk outside?” Edward suggests, as the color drains from his face. At least he has the good manners to appear ashamed.
I spin on the ball of my foot. He can follow me or not.
The cool air on the street outside is a relief after the ballroom’s oppressive mugginess.
It’s not even nine yet, so the French Quarter is just coming to life.
People are finishing their dinners and finding their way to the bars and jazz clubs.
It’s decadent and seedy, and not my scene at all.
I enjoyed it well enough back in my twenties, but I feel utterly out of my element now.
I turn to Edward and only hope he’ll make his excuses brief. I’m already longing to find my way home.
“Listen, I—” He runs his fingers through his hair, unable to complete his sentence.
“Let me help. You bad-mouthed me in front of your friends who work in the same industry as I do because you feel insecure about your own career.” The words aren’t laced with rancor but are as cold and as matter-of-fact as I feel.
“I’m not insecure.” His response is knee-jerk. And also a damned lie.
“Then what on earth was that? A demonstration of your confidence? Sure didn’t look like it from my angle.” I cross my arms over my chest, silently daring him to contradict me.
He shrugs and fails to meet my eyes. He rubs the toe of his shoe absentmindedly against the rough asphalt of the curb.
“The question is why, Edward? I’ve done nothing but be supportive. To speak your name to the right people whenever I can. Like that one—” I gesture back to the ballroom with my thumb. “I could have talked myself up to Cecil but chose to shift the attention back to you.”
His eyes finally reach mine, flashing with rage. “Fat lot of good that did. He all but said he hated my food.”
The old me would have told him placating lies, but I don’t have the same investment here that past me did.
“He didn’t. He let you know it isn’t up to par.
And you know what, Edward? It isn’t. You phoned it in because .
. . I don’t know . . . making appetizers is demeaning or something? That’s all on you.”
“So you have it all figured out after working in a kitchen for six months and the ink still wet on your diploma?” This is the side of Edward I saw at 540 Blake. Cold, bitter. And it makes me sad that he’s letting his ego choke out his talent.
I don’t flinch at the ice in his gaze. “Of course I don’t, but I don’t need ten years in a Michelin kitchen to know you blew it today.
And it’s not like you to fumble. And it sure as hell isn’t like you to talk about me the way you did back there.
Tell me what’s wrong, Edward, or I’ll go back in there, find your boss, and ask him myself. ”
His mouth drops at my pronouncement. “What has gotten into you? You’re never like this. You usually try to calm me down and smooth things over.”
I toss my hands in the air. “Well, that wasn’t working, was it? I’m trying a bit of tough love for a change. Your ego can handle it.”
His eyes drop again, but he wills them back to mine. “I got moved to lead the brunch shift.”
The breath catches in my throat. I didn’t give him the chance to disclose this last time.
No chef likes brunch. It’s an amalgamation of bland, heavy food and some of the nastiest customers we’re bound to see in a week.
But I latch onto the key bit of information: lead.
These changes happen when someone is getting auditioned for a promotion.
If he shows some initiative, he could earn a spot as sous-chef under Jerome himself.
“Brunch sucks, but that’s a promotion, Edward.”
“It’s brunch. No one cares who leads brunch.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Hotel Esmeralda is a dead end for me.”
I soften. “Maybe it is. If so, move on. But maybe it’s not.
Maybe you can do something innovative and make Jerome take notice.
If you’re lead, brunch doesn’t have to be the endless sad parade of soggy waffles and curdled hollandaise if you don’t want it to be.
You could turn Esmeralda back into the hot spot it was twenty years ago if you’re creative enough. ”
“Like I said, no one pays attention to brunch.” His eyes stare down the street, like he’s longing for an escape.
I feel every bit of my thirty-seven years as I touch his shoulder. He looks at me hopefully, wanting me to comfort him like old times. Like I always do.
Did.
But I can’t do it anymore. My eyes lock with his.
“Grow up, Ed. At the end of the day, restaurateurs pay attention to exactly one thing: receipts. You lead a brunch that outgrosses dinner on the regular, and he can’t ignore you.
And you could absolutely do that. But you can’t just go half measures like you did tonight. You have to step it up.”
He stays silent a long moment. “Listen, I’m sorry about what I said back there. I was an ass.”
“Yeah, you were.” I’ve not been sugarcoating my words up to this point, and it seems too late to start now. “I’m not sure what I did to deserve to be the butt of your jokes.”
He shrugs. “You didn’t have to mention that Jean-Rémy has taken you under his wing to Cecil. You know that connection would help me more than you right now.”
“So I’m supposed to pretend like what you said is true?
That I’m nothing more than a glorified dishwasher?
I graduated from the Culinary Institute of America with top marks.
I’m not some fast-food fry cook. And even if I were, I’d deserve better than that.
I’ve never treated you with anything less than respect, and a good boyfriend would never treat me with anything less than the same. ”
God, saying that feels good. It’s shuffling off a leaden mantle I’ve been wearing far too long around my shoulders. It’s not the emotional diatribe I hurled at him before, but closer to an accurate assessment of his character flaws. An assessment he needs to hear.
He stays silent.
I manage to keep my anger in check, but only just. “First of all, no task in the kitchen is beneath you, not even washing dishes. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be. Second, you shouldn’t want me to make myself smaller to make yourself look bigger.”
I fix Edward with a hard gaze. Nothing. No rebuttal, no apology.
“A real man wants more than arm candy. A secure man would lead with the fact that I’m doing well at my job. But that isn’t you. Not yet anyway. I hope it will be someday.”
He takes another long pause. “So this is it, then?”
I nod. I take a few moments to gather myself to end things the way I should have fifteen years ago.
“Edward, you are talented and ambitious. I admire those traits. I hope you realize they aren’t enough.
You have to believe in yourself before your confidence comes out in your food.
What I tasted back there? It was timid. And you’re better than that.
Or you could be if you tried. You need to get out of your own way or you’ll just keep tripping over your own feet. ”
He scoffs—actually scoffs—at me. “I don’t need a lecture from some fresh-out-of-culinary-school kid about how to run my career.”
“So glad you figured it out in the whopping five years since you’ve been out.” I turn and leave him on the hotel steps without a second glance.
After just half a day here, it’s beginning to feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome in this enchanting, maddening city.
This tumultuous period in my life. I don’t linger or make pleasantries on my way out.
I take the long walk home to change and fetch my backpack and say a quick prayer that I can make the last bus to the airport and whatever awaits me there.