My twenty-year-old self would have been disgusted, but when it started drizzling at five in the afternoon, and I was scheduled to meet the two new bussers twenty minutes before dinner prep—six—I accepted the ride downtown Glenda next door was offering. She asked after Doreen, said it had been too long since we'd been over for drinks. I agreed.
Because she saw how I'd tried to shield my newly spotless bike from the water, loading it into her Honda's hatchback, she backed up between the restaurant's dumpsters for me.
I grabbed my roll of knives and told her to drop in this week, tell the hostess she was my guest and, once again, she said she might just do that, thanks. Did she know Doreen was gone? Was this a game we were playing? I didn't know, but it was too late to stop.
I nosed my bike into the space past the line of coat hooks, chained it to the handrail like always. The components alone are probably two grand—all Campy, all high-end—and, while I'd like to think restaurant staff are good people, I also consider myself something of a realist.
Only one of the bussers showed up for my hands-on training. I should have gone easy on him, repaid his loyalty or discipline or stupidity or whatever it was, but instead I just heaped all the attitude and scorn I had on him, and told myself that this is how it is for everyone, starting out in the kitchen. You're tough or you're gone. If I was chasing him off with this, then I was doing him a favor.
He must have needed the work.
The three times I came out to talk to tables—the first was someone I'd worked with years ago but wasn't thrilled to see, and the other two were first dates showing off their food IQ, but masking it as simpering complaints—I made sure to linger long enough to see whether the groups huddled on the wrong side of the hostess podium were glittering with raindrops or not.