Chapter 12
So, you have two years of experience as a server?
I ask Emilia, who is sitting across from me.
She nods politely. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Purrito as he tries to charm someone into giving him a piece of chicken from a quinoa salad.
While the woman is photographing her beautifully-plated bowl of food, the kitten rolls onto his back, treating her to his very best Puss In Boots impression.
It’s a spot-on imitation that he’s used many times by now.
All in all, his efforts have helped him put on at least an extra pound over the past two weeks.
Yes, ma’am, Emilia replies. I worked at a tapas restaurant in Ibiza Town for two years.
I pause to blink a few times. Ma’am. The realization trickles in that this job applicant is nineteen years old, which makes her ten years younger than I am. I squeeze my lips together and scratch my cheek as casually as possible.
Emilia takes a sip of her Keep Calm & Carrot On and continues, The place was bought up by some big chain, though. I honestly really preferred the small-business vibe it had before.
She swirls her drink around with a paper straw while I bite my lip and give her a look of understanding. I can definitely empathize.
I’d love to know why you’d like to work at La Sirenita.
This is the kind of cookie-cutter job interview question that I would hate to have to answer.
What do I think she’s going to say? That she’s always dreamed of working at La Sirenita?
That she has a boundless passion for serving smoothies? Emilia draws up her shoulders.
The location is gorgeous, she replies with a nod at the crystal clear sea water. I think it would be incredible to spend every day at the beach.
I let out a sound of approval and I’m about to open my mouth to say something, when my eyes fall on Purrito whose teeny paw is centimetres away from swiping the protein out of the Instagram model’s salad.
Purrito! NO! I shout in response to his grabby claws.
Emilia follows my gaze and her reaction is instantaneous.
Things spin into slow motion when I see Purrito’s paw reach the edge of the dish and knock it over.
I witness the first quinoa kernels slowly approach the ground as Emilia explodes into some kind of primal scream—in the slo-mo thing my brain is doing, she sounds like a stoned leopard, maybe?
She then runs toward the scene, catches the bowl at the very last possible second, and places it back on the table.
While she gets back up, she flashes me a look of relief.
The startled woman clasps a hand to her chest, thanking Emilia profusely while a deeply offended Purrito darts away under the lounge set.
I get up, wipe my sweaty palms on my apron, and hold out my hand.
You’re hired.
A few years ago, my vacuum cleaner broke. It wasn’t entirely unexpected since I’d had the appliance since my university days and, especially in those days, I really put it to the test sucking up the weirdest possible objects.
After it broke, it only took about 15 minutes for me to drop a storage jar full of rice.
Glass shards and grains were scattered all over the floor and I’m certain I still have a piece of glass embedded in my foot because the broom I used to sweep up the whole mess was entirely inadequate for the job.
I suddenly appreciated my gone-too-soon appliance more than I ever had when it was still alive.
That is, until the mailman delivered my new robot vacuum.
It wasn’t long before I’d named her Meryl Sweep.
Meryl helped me out in ways I hadn’t even realized I needed.
She cleaned in corners I didn’t know existed, and did all of it without me ever having to ask.
Emilia is just like Meryl. She busts her ass every shift without ever complaining.
Classic annoying customer jokes like, yikes, mind if I do the dishes instead?
when they’re presented with the bill, are no match for Emilia’s perpetual smile.
She is funny, creative, and she’s the brains behind our new signature dish that we named after everyone’s favourite customer-magnet: the Purrito Bowl.
The patio is packed again tonight and I can’t help but admire how Emilia hustles from table to table.
Clara, our other new hire, is trying her best, but Emilia is a bona fide natural.
Her honey-blonde locks and cheerful face are enough to wrap any guest around her finger—the tip jar has never been this full.
Admittedly, that could also be the result of cutting back Beatriz’s shifts to the bare minimum hours outlined in her contract.
I walk a new group of guests to their table and flip open my notepad.
What can I get for you this evening? I kindly ask a woman who’s wearing gemstone earrings so enormous that her earlobes are stretched to capacity.
Her cocktail dress is cut low in the front and the carat-count for her earrings is probably higher than the number of hair strands on her husband’s head.
Our usual clientele consists of protein-chugging beefcakes in their twenties who are just one step removed from strapping on a holster to carry around their selfie sticks.
The lack of holsters, however, can’t prevent them from whipping out said selfie sticks Once Upon a Time in the West-style as soon as a playful breeze sweeps through their hair.
One sultry gaze later, there’s yet another #thinkingaboutyou post live on Instagram.
These guests are different. They look like the types to own the social media platform instead of posting on it. The woman takes a seat and casts a musing look in my direction.
I’ll have a glass of the Eberle Barbera, please, she replies, tapping her long, manicured nails on the table. A puzzled look appears on my face. Did they even look at the wine list?
Great idea, my love. Let’s have two of those, the man adds to her order.
Um... I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that one isn’t on our menu. We actually mainly serve local products. Our house wine comes from a vineyard in Ibiza and we also have a rioja produced on Formentera.
The woman purses her lips and gives her husband a disapproving stare.
I want the Eberle Barbera, she insists and her husband reiterates, Two of the Eberle Barbera, please.
I open and close my mouth, giving the couple a flabbergasted stare.
The man furrows his brow. Ideally the 2014. That’s the best year for a Barbera, but we’re not overly fussy. The 2016 would do the trick, too, even though the signature oaky finish is less prominent with that vintage.
I’m still at a loss for words, but I finally shake my head and scribble their order down on my notepad.
I guess these people aren’t familiar with the concept of no as a real answer.
I head over to the bar and pour two glasses of the Formentera rioja.
The man mentioned an oaky finish and the label on this wine claims to have exactly that.
When I return to the table, the woman has just ripped the shiny wrapping paper off of a tiny square box. Lifting up the lid, she reveals two sparkling diamond studs. She blinks a few times, then squints as she studies the stones.
Honestly, Rupert, it’s a miracle the miners even found these stones, she bites, snapping the lid back onto the box.
They’re barely visible. Rupert just rolls his eyes and I’m not sure whether I should turn away or put the wine glasses down on the table.
Something tells me the woman’s mood is about to get even worse once they discover they’ve been served the wrong wine.
Still, I go with the second option and set the glasses down in front of them.
The man thanks me, then takes a sip from the glass and follows it up with some extremely snooty lip smacking. Perfect. I can tell you found the 2014 Barbera. That oaky finish is outstanding and I can taste the fruity notes of raspberry. His wife follows his lead and nods in approval.
I choke back an epic laugh as I write down the rest of their order.
By the time the final guests have left the patio, I’m tallying the register over at the bar.
Emilia and Beatriz are sweeping up all the napkins and coasters that were dropped on the ground and they carry the last stray glasses inside.
Since Emilia arrived, Beatriz’s performance has shown some improvement.
Even though she won’t be named Employee of the Month any time soon, she’s cut way back on her whining and she actually seems to be trying a bit harder.
Everything okay, Eva? Emilia asks with a smile as she carries the last chair into the restaurant. You look worried.
With scrunched eyebrows, I stare at my new calculator and decide to recount the cash. I think we’re short, I reply, flipping the fifty euro bills through my fingers. That’s the third time this week.
Emilia looks at me with concern in her big brown eyes. Ugh, that sucks, she says as she cleans the beer tap and wipes a damp cloth across the bar. Are you sure your count isn’t off?
I hum affirmatively and count the cash for the third time tonight. There’s a hundred and thirty euros missing, I add. Beatriz calls out a goodnight from the kitchen and I hear the door close behind her.
Emilia rakes a hand through her hair. Can I give you a hand with the count? she offers, pulling out the barstool next to mine.
I smile and shake my head. Oh gosh, not at all. It’s been a long day. Go home, get comfy, and rest up. We need you in fighting shape. I wink at her and decide to count the loose change again. I can’t imagine that’s where the discrepancy is, but maybe it will help balance the difference a little.
Are you sure? she asks again. When I nod, she unties her apron, grabs herself a beer from the fridge, and walks toward the staff entrance. Okay, then. Have a great night! And with that, she leaves the restaurant.
I let out a deep exhale. After counting the change, there's now an extra 50 cents missing. Why on earth do we suddenly have significant register shortages? This never used to happen. What changed since last week?
Then realization jolts through my body. A week ago, we had two fewer people on staff. Clara and... My gaze drifts over to the swinging doors that Emilia just walked through a moment ago. They’re still swaying in the doorframe.
Shit.