Food Whore by Jessica Tom Page A

catch up with reality, to preserve Jake’s gratitude for the sliver of good I’d done, despite the sliver of transgression afterward. Though my sorry heart knew it had been more than a sliver.
    Carey ran up to me and I tensed as she approached. “Wait, so what was the deal on Saturday?” Her stare was so intense, I had to avert my eyes.
    â€œI forgot something in my locker. Jake said that I could have a break before I went back to the coatroom.”
    That wasn’t too bad a fib. Anyone could have done the same.
    â€œEveryone thinks I saved the day, that I spotted him first,” Carey said, her eyes sharp and frighteningly alert. Carey was the queen of data capture, and I could tell that I was now under her microscope. “But I just stumbled on him. How long were you standing there? Why didn’t you recognize him?”
    â€œRecognize him?” My voice quivered, so I slowed it down, became conscious of my exhalations as I lied. “It was my first day on the job, and I’m not a restaurant person. I didn’t even know what he looked like.”
    Carey backed off, but not without a slow squint that stopped my breath, heart, and head.
    â€œOkay,” she said. “I believe you.”
    It occurred to me that I should have sounded baffled and out of my depth, but I worried I couldn’t get the tenor right. Better to keep quiet, let the moment pass, and let Carey come to her own conclusions with as little information from me as possible.
    We stayed there in silence for a ­couple more seconds, then she shook her head as if she had thought better of what she was about to do, and walked away.
    T HAT NIGHT Iemailed Michael Saltz. I needed to get everything out on the table so I could put this saga to rest: What did he want from me? What was he doing at the restaurant?
    Then I’d be done with it.
    Hi, Michael. Today the team at Madison Park Tavern met about your meal on Saturday. I shouldn’t be emailing you. But can you tell me why you were there and why you asked me so many questions? I’m confused as to why you wanted to talk.
    He replied immediately.
    Tia, don’t be afraid to shine. Things are about to get good.

 
    Chapter 7

    T HE NEXT NIGH T , M A D I S O N P A R K T A V E R N ’ S O W N E R, GARY Oscars, was dining at the restaurant with a laptop. We never would have allowed guests to do that, but of course he was an exception. He owned six restaurants across the city and typically only tended to the new ones because they got the most press. But tonight, Madison Park Tavern had his full attention. Chef Darling and his cooks could hide in the kitchen, but Jake and the waitstaff had to bear the brunt of Gary’s manic energy.
    I poked into the dining room a ­couple of times and saw him calling for poor Jake, who had to run over while still looking calm in front of the guests. Angel, Chad, and Henri checked their phones compulsively. Chef Darling left the kitchen more often than usual, especially given that Gary was in the house. He kept checking in with the hostess, who would shake her head and tap her foot, sharing whatever anxiety he had. I saw Carey run up to Chef Darling, nod, then check her phone, too.
    â€œWhat’s going on? Why aren’t ­people at their stations?” I asked Carey.
    Carey shot me an incredulous look. “The New York Times review? It comes out tonight.”
    â€œBut it’s Tuesday. Aren’t the reviews published on Wednesdays?”
    â€œYeah, in the paper. But it’ll be posted online sometime tonight,” she said, eyeing Chef Darling through a small window in the kitchen door.
    We spent the night totally distracted. Everyone wore a look of worry, from the dishwashers to the line cooks to the hostess with her perma-­smile. I heard some guests mumble that the ser­vice had gone downhill. But if only they knew the Times review was upon us. Even Jake had turned his attention away from