4. CHAPTER THREE #2
Believe me, I tried to get other servers.
But at the beginning of peak season, private dining is a really tough fit, and no one does it quite like Nance.
I needed an adult who could be professional around the clients, so the J-1s were definitely out; too many of them are just here looking for a good time and I couldn’t be responsible for a celebrity encounter ending up on TikTok.
The main dining room was also short-staffed, so I couldn’t in good conscience pull from there.
I would have served David Krumholtz myself, but I had too much running around to do between the two spaces, and we’d been trained (by my father) that private dining clients are to receive a dedicated server, not a multitasking mid-level manager.
I wasn’t responsible for direct oversight of the pub, but these were desperate times and I needed someone immediately.
I ran down the flight of stairs separating main dining from the Diamond Mine Tavern.
Upon entering, I saw that they were understaffed as well – but they had a bartender plus three, and could stand to lose a body for a few hours.
She was the only native English speaker there.
Her hair reminded me of a ripe Honeycrisp apple, red with traces of pink, but it was neatly twisted up into a bun minus the few loose pieces framing her face.
She looked about my age, and was hustling a tray of lobster grilled cheese sandwiches over to a party of two in the corner.
As she walked back toward the kitchen, I stopped her. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m not sure we’ve met, but I’m Brady Hawthorne, Assistant Manager of Personnel –”
“I know you. You’re Chef Brax’s son.” The corners of her mouth turned up.
I looked at her nametag. “Gretchen,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Brady.”
She shook it, and the baby soft skin of her palm lingered on my own. “Can I get you something?”
“I need a favor,” I explained. “Do you think you could handle yourself with poise in front of a famous person?”
“Depends,” she said. Her pink lips stretched into a smile. “Who is it?” she asked, in an exaggerated whisper.
“David Krumholtz.”
She knit her eyebrows together, thinking. “I know that name.”
“He’s been in lots of stuff. Everything from Oppenheimer to Harold and Kumar go to White Castle. Most recently, he was in The Studio on Apple TV.”
“That’s it! I watch that show. And I remembered him from 10 Things I Hate About You .” Her eyes got wide. “Wait. He’s here? Seriously?”
“I know, I know,” I said, not in the mood for games. “Listen, I just need you to be professional.”
“Of course,” she replied. “Just, damn, you know? That’s really cool that he’s here.”
“Yes. Cool. Great. Wonderful. Come on, then. Follow me. ”
“Um, okay.” She set her tray down on the bar.
We climbed the stairs to the lobby, then traversed the grand banquet hall towards the back of the room where the staff quarters are hidden, adjacent the main kitchen.
“I’ll get you a uniform,” I said. “What size?” I gestured at her body, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you should never assume anything when it comes to women and clothing sizes.
Gretchen looked down at her standard-issue oxford pub shirt and black pants. “I don’t know. Like, an 8? Medium? Whatever you think would fit?”
“What about your feet?”
“My feet?” she echoed.
“Your feet,” I nodded. “You can’t wear those shoes. They’re fine for the pub, but not for private dining.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m a seven and a half.”
“Okay. Be right back.” I went into the supply closet and pulled a crisp white shirt, black fitted dress pants, and a brand new pair of Nine West pumps, still in the box.
The garments were covered in plastic, having just returned from the dry cleaners.
I handed the outfit to her and pointed to the staff dressing room.
I told her to put her things in a locker and try to change quickly.
Then, I sat down and placed my head in my hands, in an attempt to wish away the throbbing.
About five minutes later, Gretchen returned. I gave her a once over. Despite her obvious discomfort, she looked the part. I mean, minus the phosphorescent hair, but really, beggars can’t be choosers.
“Great,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“I, um –”
“What?” I checked my watch. David Krumholtz’s reservation was for 6:00 p.m., and it was 5:50.
“I’m not great at walking in heels,” she confessed earnestly. Her eyes grew wide with the admission. Under different circumstances, I would have found her concern charming.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. This is the uniform. Rules are rules.”
She let out a nervous laugh. “You really think David Krumholtz is going to care if I wear my own, significantly more broken-in shoes?”
I shook my head. “No. But Chef will.”
“Oh. Okay.” She nodded. “Got it.”
Gretchen was doing fine. She was composed, got David and his colleagues each a drink, brought out the bread plate with the bean dip and garlic spread, and ground the fresh cracked pepper over it without making a mess.
She walked a little slower than I would have liked, but she was being careful, and that was fine.
Until she fell.
I didn’t see it happen. I walked in just as I heard the word, “Shit!” and only saw the chaos that ensued after the tray came crashing down.
David shot up from the table, holding his pants away from his manhood (smart move, too, because Chef Brax basically lights those steamers on fire before plating them).
Gretchen was on the ground, possibly in pain, the tray beside her.
Lobster macaroni and cheese dripped from the edge of the table in clumps, hitting the industrial carpet with a splash, like chunks of orangey-pink vomit .
“Oh, my God,” I exclaimed, hurrying over to the table. “I am so sorry. She’s new – well, not new, just, she’s from downstairs , and, um –”
“I’m fine,” David Krumholtz replied. “It was an accident. I, uh –”
“We have pants in the back! I’ll grab you a whole new outfit,” I said, realizing that I was about to dress a famous actor like a member of the waitstaff.
“Are you okay?” he asked Gretchen, who was scrambling to get up.
“Yeah,” she said, removing her shoes. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to –”
“I know,” he said to her. “Don’t worry about it.”
Those lips – I could see the bottom one starting to tremble, so I leaned down to Gretchen and said, “Listen, Stumbelina, if you start crying, you’ll make this a whole lot worse than it has to be.” Then, I left to grab the clothes.
The news made it to the kitchen at lightning speed, and by the time I returned to the private dining room, my father was there.
In the havoc that followed, David stripped off his pants, gratefully accepting my offer of pressed khakis and a clean shirt.
Gretchen was cleaning up the floor, her feet bare, piling individual steamers onto the tray and swallowing her tears, and my father was clearing the table.
“Get a new tablecloth, now, Brady,” he said to me.
“On it, Chef,” I replied. I grabbed new linens, napkins, silverware, dinner plates, and tasting plates. High-tailed it back to the room and Gretchen was gone, along with the fallen tray .
My father and I worked in tandem, wordlessly, to get Krumholtz and company seated and re-situated with fresh drinks and food.
Everything was on the house, my father insisted, and I was to stay put in the room and serve them myself.
David Krumholtz, class act that he is, didn’t make a big stink about it.
“Shit happens,” he told me. “Really. Every now and again I ask my wife to aggressively throw food at me. Keeps me humble,” he laughed.
Some people are just nice like that.
Unfortunately, Chef Brax is not one of those people.
Later that night, my perfectionist father had no trouble eliminating me from both his place of business as well as his house.
“That was an embarrassment to my kitchen, Brady. How could you call in a rookie for one of the most exclusive guests of the season? You never took my work seriously,” he accused me, all but foaming at the mouth.
“You try being in the service industry. See how easy it is.”
I laughed when he said that – probably not my best reaction.
“Are you kidding me?” I retorted. “I am in the service industry! More than you are – you don’t serve food; you cook it!
Do you think it’s easy managing the schedules of a bunch of college kids who ride bicycles to work and come and go like the wind?
Do you think it’s just no big deal handling reservations, seating people, covering two dining rooms with barely any help? ”
Instead of a normal response, my father slammed his fist down on the butcher block counter and said, “How dare you speak to me like that? You call yourself a manager? A manager handles things, Brady. A chef should never have to leave the kitchen to work the floor. But you think you’re so fucking great?
Then I’m sure you’ll manage just fine living somewhere else. ”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“I want you gone by this weekend,” he enunciated for emphasis.
“I’m sick and tired of you belittling everything that matters to me.
” His eyes overflowed with venom and fire, reminiscent of the fights he used to have with my mother back when she was still around.
I knew better than to ask if he was serious.
As I walked out of the room, shaking my head, he called after me.
“And good luck finding a job as cushy as the one I gave you.”
Just like that, I was fired and homeless, all at the hands of my own father.
We avoided each other for the remainder of the week.
I reached out to my core people directly.
Nance was beside herself; she felt responsible, she said, and all but begged me to let her petition my dad to get my job back.
Trish and Monty were sorry to hear about my departure as well, but in this business people come and go, and often they run into each other again at some other restaurant. Happens all the time in Cape Cod.
Nance had an in with Luis, a line cook at the pub who had to go to the Dominican Republic for the summer to take care of his ailing mother.
This left his apartment vacant. He wasn’t planning to sublet it, because it was too much of a hassle to move everything into storage – so Nance was able to get me in there, basically as a couch surfer, for the summer.
Luis put all of his personal affects in his bedroom, leaving me a sagging sofa, a bathroom, and a kitchen to call my own until August 31st. All I had to do was cover his rent and utilities.
Of course, nobody mentioned that it was a subterranean situation, as if I was some kind of hibernating gopher.
“Yo,” Big Mike says, lumbering over from the garbage can. “We good?”
“All set,” I reply.
I climb into the passenger seat and absorb the way the illegal tints make the morning sun look like midnight. “Dark enough in here for you?” I joke.
“Don’t talk shit about my whip,” he laughs, turning up his system and bobbing his head up and down to the beat of some indie rapper named Larry June.
The engine roars as he backs the truck up carefully, creating more air pollution than my Hyundai Elantra could generate in a week.
And, while one might expect a truck like this to peel out onto the street, Big Mike cautiously makes a right turn and proceeds to drive the speed limit all the way back to my new digs.
“Sorry I couldn’t hang out for longer,” he comments with a smirk. “Gina made these plans weeks ago.”
“It’s all good, bro. I really appreciate your help. Have fun at your spa day.”
Mike laughs, a hearty sound that starts deep in his belly. “Someone’s jealous.”
“Just don’t let her try and wax you.”
“Nah. We already discussed that the girls could only use me for rubdown practice.” He winks.
Big Mike’s girlfriend is in cosmetology school to become an aesthetician but two of her friends have their final next week in massage therapy.
They’re “studying” on Big Mike this afternoon.
“It worked out perfectly. You strained my poor muscles all morning with hard labor, and now they can knead out all the knots in my back. I earned it.”
“You got work tonight?” Unsurprisingly, he’s got a decent side hustle as a glorified bodyguard.
“Indeed I do. So, it’s extra important that my body be worshipped like the temple it is before I have to go put it at risk in service of others tonight. Should be good money, though. Two-hundred bucks for basically showing up and standing around for like an hour. Can’t hate on that.”
“You’ve got the life, man. I’ll just be over here scouring the internet for a new job and reorganizing the boxes in my glorified crawl space.”
“Could be worse,” Big Mike reminds me, pulling into the parking lot in front of my new abode. His flaming hair peeks out from the sides of his kelly-green Celtics hat. He is sunshine, personified.
I bite my tongue, tempted to comment that it could be better, too. But then I remember the thing he said earlier. “Obstacles are just opportunities in disguise, right?”
Big Mike nods, cheesing. “Hard facts, my man.” He juts his chin out towards what I imagine is the garbage shed. “I just saw a honey walk right in there. You could wife her up, for all we know.”
“Oh, yeah?” I pause, looking for evidence of this sighting. Suddenly, the shed door swings open and a short, bald man emerges carrying a stack of mail. I turn to Mike. “That her?”
“Maybe you’re right.” He shrugs. “Maybe my tints are a little too dark.”