Sweetbitter(25)

And people too, with their secret crafts, their secret fluency in other languages. The sharing of secrets is a ceremony, marking kinship. You have no secrets yet, so you don’t know what you don’t know. But you can intuit it while holding yourself on the skin of the water, treading above deep pockets, faint voices underneath you.

—

THEY FOLDED NAPKINS and I refilled pepper mills on table 46. They talked as they did every day. I listened in my trance as I did every day. Up front, at the café tables, Howard and a young woman sat in interview fashion. I kept thinking about my cardigan, and how they must have all been there that day but I’d seen no one. I couldn’t remember the interior of the restaurant besides the hydrangeas and Howard’s hands that sat on the table. This one was not wearing a cardigan.

“They can’t be serious, interviewing her.”

“Maybe she got lost on her way to Coffee Shop.”

“Or that place in Times Square where they wear bikinis.”

“Hawaiian Tropic, don’t hate.”

A few peppercorns slipped through my fingers when I tried to funnel them. They bounced on the floor, popping when the servers walked over them. Fine, spicy gravel around my feet.

“They make crazy money there.”

“You wear a bikini. It’s one step away from a strip club.”

“But an important step.”

“Listen, I will personally volunteer to train her.”

“I bet you will.”

“When she looked in the mirror was she like, This is an interview outfit?”

“Does she think her tits look real?”

“Jealous?”

“I bet Jake fucks her first.”

I dropped more peppercorns, they scattered. I took a new handful and they stuck to me.

“No, she’s kitchen material.”

“Not Asian enough.”

“Why don’t they put a sign up that says you must be this much Asian to enter?”

“She’s straight off the boat.”

“But what boat?”

“Ask Sasha if she’s Russian.”

“There’s no way Zoe will let Howard hire her.”

“Please, Zoe’s interview outfit wasn’t much better.”

“I bet this girl has a lot of experience.”

“Yeah, at what would be my question.”

“Enough,” I said. I stood up and wiped my palms off on my apron. They all turned to me, surprised I was there. “Don’t be mean. We can just be honest. I’m sure she’s a very nice girl, but she’s too pretty to work here. She’ll never make it.”

Jake behind me. I felt him like a few degrees of temperature change, a prickling. He said into my shoulder: “That’s what we said about you.”

—

“THIS IS the glory month, hmm?” Simone said, transfixed over a crate of chanterelles. They were sheathed in dirt, her fingers streaked with it.

Yes, those were luminous September days. The afternoon light pearling, the mood alert, turned-on, compassionate. Out in the Greenmarket people circled patiently, holding cartons of prune plums, ears of the last silken corn, thin-skinned lavender eggplants. The air vibrated like the plucked string of a violin.

“I knew from those rains last week, I just knew it. Look at these.” She passed one to me and I inhaled. She wiped the tip of my nose and I drew closer to her. Simone unheated, unrigid, as if we had no work to do. The crease of concentration between her brows ironed out. Her attention felt like a warmer current of water.

“I’ve put together a stack of books for you, including that wine atlas you’re always peeking at in the office. You can have an old copy of mine, you should have one at home. I’ve been meaning to bring them but perhaps you can come by my apartment, since it seems you’re in the East Village on your days off.”

I cringed again at being caught with Will on the outside. “I’m happy to come. Whenever.”

“And it’s time for you to open a bottle of wine.”

“Not for a table!” I saw myself being pushed overboard, Simone with a knife at my back, the sea black, turbulent, bottomless.

“God no. Not for a table. We can practice tonight after close.”

There was a low white fridge that they called the cheese larder. Next to it sat the day’s cheeses. Orange spotted rinds, ashy cones, teal-veined cheeses all breathing under a mesh dome. She took a wood-handled spade and dug into them. I looked around to see if we would be caught, but the kitchen was miraculously empty. She went around a corner and came back with a cluster of grapes. Their musk was a solo performance—all the other scents dimmed.

“Spit the seeds.” She spit two black seeds into her hand. I had already bitten them, bitter and tannic.

“Mine didn’t have any.”

“One of the three fruits native to North America, that distinctive Concord musk. The great irony of our country is that we produce the greatest table grapes in the world and yet can’t seem to figure out how to make wine. Arturo?”

A dishwasher was going by, carrying a bus tub of muddlers, cocktail shakers, strainers.

“Arturo, do you mind asking Jake to make an Assam? He knows how I like it. Thank you.”

Arturo smiled and winked at her. This was the same man that growled at me when I asked him where to put the recycling. I hadn’t seen Jake come in—did he just appear when Simone needed her tea made? His effect must have shown on my face.