"Look. It's nineteen-fifty an hour. Six shifts. And you pick your hours. Find me a deal that's as good as that. We could use you, Lola. And besides, you won't even seeme."
There was a pause. And I waited for her to hang up.
Only, she didn't.
"Fine. But here's the deal. I work one evening a week."
"One?" I said, incredulously.
"I'm not kidding," replied Lola.
Some of our waitresses worked three evenings-some two, even. But one?
"That's not really-" I said, but then I heard Lola sigh on the other end of the line, and backed up again. "Okay, okay," I said. "You do one close. Six shifts. And you work the bar. Zeke says you know about wine."
"Yeah. A bit."
"Thank you. There's no way I can get you to do two evenings?"
"No. It's really important."
"May I ask why? Only, Zeke's gonna want to-"
"I have a kid."
"Oh," I said. "Right."
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"So I'll see you Tuesday?"
"Yeah. Thank you, Lola. See you Tuesday."
She put the phone down, and I was left with the strangest feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Like someone had just walked on my grave.
Lola
If Anyone Tell You Waitressing is an easy job, they're a liar.
I'd always been good at it-my sunny personality and big smile were an enormous help. ButThe Blue Orchidwas like nowhere I'd ever seen.
An elegant, grand dining room spread across the ground floor. White tablecloths and silver cutlery spread across the room. The private dining rooms were up a wide, spiral staircase at the back of the room, beautiful and spacious, hidden behind sliding screen doors. The walls were covered in historical memorabilia, pictures of Manhattan from before the era of skyscrapers. It was like something out of a history book. And the food?
Oh, the food was something else.
Sumptuous roasted chickens, with crisp leafy salads. Juicy steaks and fries delivered on silver platters. And classical French cuisine, right from the history books. Stuffed ducks and grilled fish, simple salads and home favorites, like cottage pie and beef bourguignon.
Pretty soon, I was working the floor, taking orders, making recommendations. I familiarized myself with the menu. But working at the bar with Andy, the wine sommelier? That was a different story.
At first, I got the impression that Andy didn't like me very much. He was a sassy character, with a lean physique and a salsa dancer's hips. He'd moved to New York from Baltimore to be an actor, but like so many people, he'd wound up working in restaurants through his twenties. But Andy was a smart guy with a nose for wine, and before long, he'd wound up as the wine sommelier at the Blue Orchid.
"What do you mean, you can't tell the difference?" he said, when I asked him about two equally ancient bottles of thick, blood-red Châteauneuf-du-Pape. "Sweetie, you need to widen your palette. Otherwise this-" he gestured between us, "ain't gonna work out."
It turned out that compared to Andy I didn't know much of anything about wine, but I sure knew how to make a nice Manhattan. And there were plenty of orders for them.
But it all changed one fateful afternoon, when I'd been working with Andy for a few weeks. As he worked quietly and quickly at the bar, he started to hum a song. It was "I Got Rhythm," my favorite Gershwin song.
I was trying to keep quiet and do my job properly, but I couldn't help it. I always sang to myself while I was working-it helped keep me cheerful and get into the rhythm of service. And the tune was infectious. In no time at all, I was singing along with him:"I got rhythm, I got music, I got my man, who could ask for anything more?"
I sent off a round of drinks, and when I turned back, I saw Andy staring at me.
"Where Did you learn to sing like that?"
"Oh, it's nothing," I said, laughing nervously as I reached for another highball glass. I measured a few shots of tequila in and stirred them with some lime. "I used to be a jazz singer."
"Oh yeah? Where'd ya play?"
"I played at the Blue Note once. And the Rose Room. That was my last gig in New York. Maybe six years ago?"
I knew the date off by heart. It had been the day I reached my third trimester.
"You played theBlue Note? That's crazy! Girl, with pipes like that, you should have been a star. That said, with hips like these, I should have been In Cats. But you can't always get what you want, huh?"
I laughed, and from that moment on, Andy and I got along like a house on fire. He began to introduce me to the staff.
I wish I could say the same about Alex Lowe.
Now that Alex had got me where he wanted me, I thought he'd have softened a little.
But I was wrong. For starters, every time he came in, there was always something.
"Straighten those bottles, please. This isn't a speakeasy."
I smiled politely, and did as he told me.
When he occasionally stopped by in the evenings, he'd wander by the bar.
"Are you cleaning this thing every night?"
"Yes."
"It's dirty."
The bar was spotless. Even I could see that.
But the niggling wouldn't stop. Eventually, it got so bad that he was even criticizing my outfits. "Have you got any better shoes?" Alex said to me one morning, when I came in. He was at the bar with a cup of coffee and the morning papers.
I rolled my eyes at that. But Alex wouldn't let it go. I walked around to the bar and got the key for the cellar. But before I could go down, I heard his voice again.
"I asked you a question, Lola."
"Why does it matter what shoes I'm wearing when I'm working behind the bar? And going down into the dirty cellar?"
I couldn't help it. I had to answer back this time.
"That doesn't matter," said Alex gruffly. "It's about taking pride in your work. And besides, you're not always behind the bar. "
"Okay, Miranda Priestly! New shoes coming soon."
"Who's that?" muttered Alex before he wandered off.