only at a reputable and popular spot, and even that made her cringe. Maybe some place intimate and innovative, some place chef-owned. Not, she thought, sauté at a yuppie dump Zagat rated high teens.
“You have to face facts, Georgia. It isn’t going to be easy to get hired after this review. You need to consider your options.”
“I know, I know. But it’s too depressing to think about it now. Can’t we talk about it later—like next year?” Drunk and suddenly tired, Georgia felt as deflated as the tires on the mountain bike Glenn never rode yet insisted remain in the living room should the urge ever strike.
The waiter walked over with a tray and two orangey-pink drinks. He placed them on the table. “Georgia Peaches. Peach schnapps, brandy, cranberry juice—the first request the bartender’s ever had for one of these. From the gentleman overthere, who says a Georgia Peach for a Georgia peach.” He pointed to Pierre. “Or something like that.”
Georgia held up her drink in acknowledgment, smiling tightly at her former boss’s glowing head.
“Is that Pierre du Mont?” Bernard asked.
Georgia nodded.
“That’s what I thought,” the waiter said. “And the bartender was wondering if you’re the Georgia who got slammed in that Mercedes Sante review.” He pointed to the drinks on the table. “Hence the Georgia Peach drinks.”
“Yes, I am, and, yes, I get the Georgia Peach reference, thanks.”
Apparently reading her gesture as an invitation to chat, Pierre pushed back his chair and walked toward Georgia, his bleached-blond friend in tow.
“Georgia,” he boomed. His voice was almost as big as his body.
“Why, hello, Pierre. Thanks so much for the drink.” She stood and they exchanged air kisses.
“Terrible break for you, Georgia. Just terrible. That Mercedes Sante is a real killer.” He chuckled, shaking his head.
“Yes, well, I’ll get over it, I’m sure.”
“This too shall pass,” offered his girlfriend with a nasal twang. “I’m just amazed you’re out in public today. I mean, after what she said about you, I don’t think I’d show my face for like a year. You got chutzpah, honey.” She folded her arms across her ample chest and tapped a stiletto-clad foot.
“Well,” Georgia said, sitting down, “what can you do.”
“And to come here of all places. Everybody knows this is like the in place for restaurant people. I’m sure half the place is talking about you.” The girlfriend looked around as if to prove her point.
Georgia’s mouth dropped open. “You’re right,” she said quickly. “I hadn’t thought about that, but thanks for pointing it out.”
“I insisted she meet me,” Bernard interjected. “I’m BernardLambert, the GM at Marco.” He offered his hand. “I’ve been fielding calls from restaurateurs across the country who are dying to snap her up.” He dropped his voice. “On the DL, a certain Chicago restaurant with a three-letter name is very interested.”
“Is that so?” Pierre patted Georgia’s back. “And to think I was about to offer you sous at my Boston place opening this fall. If you change your mind, let me know.”
“You should think about it,” the girlfriend said. “No one in Beantown will know who you are, or that you got a half fork from the
Daily
. You can leave your rep behind.” She winked a clumpily lashed eye. “Y’know, I didn’t even realize they could give a half fork. I think you might be the first to get one.” She paused to adjust the strap of her leopard-print cami. “One-half, I mean.”
“You’ve got lipstick on your teeth,” Bernard said, pointing a finger to the slash of magenta across her tooth. “Wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself”—he gestured to the room—“here, of all places.”
She tongued her tooth and shot Bernard a dirty look. Pierre excused them, but not before offering Georgia his card. “I’m serious about Boston. Think about it.”
Georgia nodded. “I
“You have to face facts, Georgia. It isn’t going to be easy to get hired after this review. You need to consider your options.”
“I know, I know. But it’s too depressing to think about it now. Can’t we talk about it later—like next year?” Drunk and suddenly tired, Georgia felt as deflated as the tires on the mountain bike Glenn never rode yet insisted remain in the living room should the urge ever strike.
The waiter walked over with a tray and two orangey-pink drinks. He placed them on the table. “Georgia Peaches. Peach schnapps, brandy, cranberry juice—the first request the bartender’s ever had for one of these. From the gentleman overthere, who says a Georgia Peach for a Georgia peach.” He pointed to Pierre. “Or something like that.”
Georgia held up her drink in acknowledgment, smiling tightly at her former boss’s glowing head.
“Is that Pierre du Mont?” Bernard asked.
Georgia nodded.
“That’s what I thought,” the waiter said. “And the bartender was wondering if you’re the Georgia who got slammed in that Mercedes Sante review.” He pointed to the drinks on the table. “Hence the Georgia Peach drinks.”
“Yes, I am, and, yes, I get the Georgia Peach reference, thanks.”
Apparently reading her gesture as an invitation to chat, Pierre pushed back his chair and walked toward Georgia, his bleached-blond friend in tow.
“Georgia,” he boomed. His voice was almost as big as his body.
“Why, hello, Pierre. Thanks so much for the drink.” She stood and they exchanged air kisses.
“Terrible break for you, Georgia. Just terrible. That Mercedes Sante is a real killer.” He chuckled, shaking his head.
“Yes, well, I’ll get over it, I’m sure.”
“This too shall pass,” offered his girlfriend with a nasal twang. “I’m just amazed you’re out in public today. I mean, after what she said about you, I don’t think I’d show my face for like a year. You got chutzpah, honey.” She folded her arms across her ample chest and tapped a stiletto-clad foot.
“Well,” Georgia said, sitting down, “what can you do.”
“And to come here of all places. Everybody knows this is like the in place for restaurant people. I’m sure half the place is talking about you.” The girlfriend looked around as if to prove her point.
Georgia’s mouth dropped open. “You’re right,” she said quickly. “I hadn’t thought about that, but thanks for pointing it out.”
“I insisted she meet me,” Bernard interjected. “I’m BernardLambert, the GM at Marco.” He offered his hand. “I’ve been fielding calls from restaurateurs across the country who are dying to snap her up.” He dropped his voice. “On the DL, a certain Chicago restaurant with a three-letter name is very interested.”
“Is that so?” Pierre patted Georgia’s back. “And to think I was about to offer you sous at my Boston place opening this fall. If you change your mind, let me know.”
“You should think about it,” the girlfriend said. “No one in Beantown will know who you are, or that you got a half fork from the
Daily
. You can leave your rep behind.” She winked a clumpily lashed eye. “Y’know, I didn’t even realize they could give a half fork. I think you might be the first to get one.” She paused to adjust the strap of her leopard-print cami. “One-half, I mean.”
“You’ve got lipstick on your teeth,” Bernard said, pointing a finger to the slash of magenta across her tooth. “Wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself”—he gestured to the room—“here, of all places.”
She tongued her tooth and shot Bernard a dirty look. Pierre excused them, but not before offering Georgia his card. “I’m serious about Boston. Think about it.”
Georgia nodded. “I
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