The Chicken Sisters(40)
Frankie showed signs of wanting to follow the camera, but the rest of the staff were making sure she put in a full night’s work, and more than once Amanda saw Gus save her when she set off from clearing a table with far too heavy a tray. She’d learn—and judging from the crash Amanda heard from the serving station at one point, she was learning the hard way, like they all did. She wanted to rush back to help with the mess and make sure they got all the glass, but things were too busy out front. Instead, she found herself pointing the district’s new art teacher toward the bar and promising him the shortest wait she could manage.
“Oh man, I told you to come in, didn’t I? I didn’t know it would be like this—we’ll get you guys in as fast as we can.” She smiled at him, then peeped at the sleeping baby strapped to his chest.
“That’s okay,” his wife said. “We don’t care. This is fun. Not exactly what we expected when we left St. Louis.”
“Tell Mary Laura drinks are on us,” she said. “See you next week?” Last Tuesday, his weekly day at the elementary school, she’d been volunteering and wild with excitement. By Tuesday next this would all be over, but there wasn’t even time to think about that now.
Frannie’s party atmosphere kept flowing even when, leaving a few cameras behind, Sabrina slipped out, presumably to go do the same thing at Mimi’s. As the tables cleared out, Mary Laura started passing around samples of her concoctions, and Amanda, who liked her drinks sweet and embarrassing, grabbed the excuse to order a Long Way from Long Island Iced Tea to top off her Sex on the Prairie. By the time she noticed that Mary Laura had commandeered the letter sign outside (Happy with Your Messy Life? Fight the Food War with a Not-So-Sparkling Wine) she was utterly sold on the idea of the drink specials. It was brilliant. She felt brilliant. Even the text from Kenneth she found on her phone once she finally retrieved it from Mary Laura—a little snarky, but a good idea—didn’t dampen her mood.
The staff gathered around the bar as the various cleaning tasks wrapped up, playing to the camera as they postmortemed the night. Amanda felt a surge of love for them all. These were her friends. These guys were awesome. She never wanted to leave them. Gwennie had had multiple tables with toddlers and had taught one to say, “I love Fwannie’s best.” Mary Laura reported that the Soured on the City was going to be a permanent addition to the cocktail menu. Frankie’s feet hurt, casualties of the cool-but-flat Converse sneakers, and Gus offered to carry her to the car as the Food Wars crew started to fold up, shut down, and grab their own drinks.
Amanda really wasn’t ready to go home. Tomorrow, once the professional chefs showed up, things would probably be far more tense. This was the fun part, but she, as always, was heading home with the kids. Reluctantly, she got up to follow Gus out, but Sabrina, back from Mimi’s and still going strong, stopped her. “Gus can drive, right?”
Amanda nodded.
“Let me take you home, then. Stay and debrief. I want to hear everything.”
It was a tempting idea, and Gus seconded it, hefting his sister into a better piggyback position on his back while she shrieked.
“We’ll just go home, Mom. You stay. It’s okay. Frankie needs her beauty sleep,” he said. That earned him a swat on the head from Frankie as he hauled her out, leaving Amanda behind.
Sabrina was describing the night at Mimi’s. “They ran out of all the pie except banana, and someone offered your aunt Aida a hundred dollars to make her a chocolate cream to take home, and she gave her this look and said, ‘Young woman, I do not bake the pies. I present them.’ I just love her—she’s perfect. And your town is really coming out for this. I had to stop that one big guy from talking to the camera at both places.” She grinned. “I showed Mae your drink specials. She said they didn’t have anything to do with anything, but Andy and your mom laughed.”
Nancy, coming in with fresh bar towels, raised her eyebrows, and then a look of understanding rolled over her face. “Oh,” she said. “I get it now. I was kind of wondering why all the New York stuff. You were trying to get at Mae.” She shook her head at Amanda. “It’s not about Mae, Amanda. It’s about Mimi’s and Frannie’s.”
“I know,” said Amanda. “It was just a joke.” She could feel her high slipping. But it was a joke. And clearly everyone had loved the drink specials—Mary Laura’s beer pitcher tip jar with its COWS HATE BEING TIPPED, BUT BARTENDERS DON’T sign was stuffed to overflowing.
“I get it,” said Nancy. “Just don’t take it too far. We don’t need”—she cast an unexpected glance at Sabrina—“any family drama.”
Damn it, now Nancy was managing to sound like Mae. Amanda stared down at her drink, and her mother-in-law handed Mary Laura the bar towels. Mary Laura set them on the bar and offered Nancy a glass.
“To a Frannie’s victory,” Mary Laura said, toasting cheerfully—hoping, Amanda suspected, to break up the mood. Nancy toasted, then slid her glass, still mostly full, back to Mary Laura. “One to hand wash, then,” she said, “so we don’t start the day tomorrow with any dirties. I trust you’ll all clean up after yourselves. I’m going to bed. Amanda, honey, are you sure you don’t want me to run you home?”
After a glance at Sabrina, Amanda shook her head. Nancy was clearly going to pour cold water on her with a lecture about keeping things professional, but Amanda thought the little dig at Mae was funny and clever and well within the bounds of making Food Wars fun without “drama.” “I’ll get a ride,” she said.