Sweetbitter(36)

“No,” Simone said. She walked away from Jake and I thought I saw a trace of annoyance on him. I assumed that expression was for me. “I have a moment if you’re ready.”

I nodded.

“But no talking. And grab an extra napkin.”

“For what?”

“The Eriksons just sat on 36. You’ll see. Let’s start a sweep.”

—

WE STOOD at the top of the stairs, surveying the expertly coiffed heads of the guests spread below us.

“In the early years the restaurant was surrounded by publishing houses and literary agencies that had moved down here for the cheaper rents. The Owner befriended them and we became the de facto headquarters for their lunch meetings. Many have moved elsewhere, chased out of here by inflated rents. But they have remained loyal, and we treat them accordingly.”

She made tiny motions with her chin and eyebrows and directed my gaze toward different tables in the room. “Editors are soigné, midlevel employees you want to take note of. They generally ask for the same table as their bosses but we’re not always able to accommodate.

“37, Richard LeBlanc, he’s an original investor, with his own venture capital firm. He’s more important because he and the Owner were roommates in college. 38, the architect Byron Porterfield with Paul Jackson, architecture critic for The New Yorker. 39, a sort of general Condé Nast table, today those gentlemen work at GQ. The man in sunglasses at 31 is the photographer Roland Chaplet, and the man whose eyes keep rolling back into his head is his gallerist Wally Frank. 33, Robert and Michael, you will notice a Vieux Télégraphe on the table, it’s Michael’s, never pour for Robert, he doesn’t drink. They just adopted a little girl from India, they bring her on Sundays, she’s an angel. 34, Patrick Behr, former editor at Saveur, incredible food writer, hmm, I hope Parker told Chef, they are drinking the…” She paused, having met Patrick’s eyes, and left me. My head spun.

“Now the napkin,” she said when she returned. She led me toward table 36. “Good afternoon, Deborah, Clayton. What a pleasure. I’m glad we didn’t lose you to California.”

“Always nicer leaving LA than arriving,” said Clayton, a fat man with an orange tan. His wife was long necked, razor thin, and wore big sunglasses.

“Simone, tell me, is it possible to get the burger without the bun? Or have you come up with a gluten-free alternative?”

“Deborah, let me see what I can do. Last time you had it wrapped in lettuce.”

“In LA they call that ‘protein-style,’?” she said.

“Before you make any decisions, may I tell you about the specials?”

While Simone pointed out the specials, Deborah took her napkin and put it on her lap. Simone handed her another one without pausing her recitation.

“I don’t get it,” I said when we got back to the hutch.

“She doesn’t eat. When service is over both napkins will be in the bathroom trash can, full of food.”

“No way.” I looked back at the woman. “But…I mean…why come here? Why spend the money?”

“Are you not listening to me?” Simone asked while entering orders into the computer. “Everyone is here because everyone else is here. It’s the cost of doing business.”

—

SIMONE’S TOUR further enforced that I was on a pedestal at the center of the universe, and perhaps Deborah Erikson’s extra napkin was the first stranger’s secret that I learned how to carry. The life of this woman was so insidiously but totally disturbed—and she was buffered from it by a staff of people, of which I was now one. After service I went to the tiny front bathroom and dug through the trash. French fries, four gnocchi, wilted lettuce, and an entire rare burger, the napkin stained with blood.

—

I STARTED WRITING letters to no one. I thought I was writing toward the center, a place that did nothing but receive. After I wrote them in my head I floated them toward the bridge and left them there for the wind to carry the rest of the way. They weren’t interesting enough to write down. It was just the feeling of conversation I was after.

—

I CURSED NICKY under my breath while I unloaded the boxes of glass-bottled water that we got from Italy. The bottles were shapely, green, exotic, weighed a ton. The offices were quiet and the door to Chef’s office was ajar.

He was sleeping with his jaw cracked wide, head hanging off the back of his chair. A glass of brown liquor was in his lap, nestled against his stomach. It jiggled with each breath. He was red-faced and perspiring even in repose. His desk covered with yellow and blue invoices. A half-empty bottle of George T. Stagg bourbon was perched on his desk, still with the bow on it.

Next to him was a stack of the night’s expired menus. He changed the specials every day. The mornings were filled with printing, with changes, edits. Behind him was a paper shredder, the bin half removed and overflowing. A four-foot-high trash can touching the desk was full of paper. And here he was at midnight shredding what he had spent all day creating. I was touched by his sleep. The scope of his job expanded, it filled up the room. I leaned in farther and saw more, clusters of shredded dinner menus all over the floor, tumbleweeds, as tangled as hair.

“I think it’s really good,” I said, and I closed the door.

—