second, and does an about-face.
“What’s the vegetable?”
“Cauliflower.”
“That was lunch.”
“Okay—albino broccoli.”
“Make that no vegetable.”
Manny goes to the bar and pours himself a Diet Coke with lemon, then has to pick it up with both hands. The UConn game is over and the new game is close to halftime. On the other TV, the Weather Channel is showing exactly what it showed three hours ago, and he reaches up and changes to Channel 30, right down the road from them, and gets the national news, video of shoppers milling around malls—the usual story about retailers counting on the Christmas season, as if the economy is solely dependent on the holidays. The other local channels tell him nothing, so he settles for ESPN with the sound turned down and stands there sipping. The teams mean nothing to him, and by the first commercial he’s paying more attention to the liquor bottles tiered three deep across the mirror, worried that his inventory won’t match. Even wholesale, a fifth of Chivas costs a lot, and while the amount won’t be held against his check, if he wants his own place again, Manny needs to show headquarters he can manage his resources. After the Lobster’s performance, he can’t afford much spillage.
He keys on the top shelf of scotches, the colors designed to draw the eye like fine wood. The Chivas is almost full, but he doesn’t remember the Crown Royal being so low, and he’d swear he just replaced that Dewar’s, down to a couple fingers. Yes, this morning, because Dom was late. Before he can investigate, Roz calls from the break room that his dinner’s ready.
He can’t quite rid himself of the suspicion as he eats, pulling a stool up to the far end of the table, way down by the Frialators (he has to get his own napkin and silverware, and from habit sets himself a place). The fear, of course, isn’t that Dom’s pouring himself drinks but stealing whole bottles—open, for his own consumption, or sealed, for resale. A few years ago they had a problem with a summer replacement hiding wine in empty boxes behind the dumpster. Manny has no reason to think Dom has been anything but solid, but strange things happen when people know it’s the last day, as if the rules have been suspended.
He frowns over Ty’s scampi, plated as if for a critic, the headless necks of the shrimp pointed toward the center of the dish, bodies arranged in a symmetric swirl, tails overlapped around the edge counterclockwise, parsley flakes for garnish. It’s the chain’s most popular dish, simple, and horribly boring for any real chef. Ty’s been making it for Manny nearly ten years, and tonight it’s as fine as ever, the garlic biting through the buttery richness, a breathless hint of white wine to finish. The pilaf is fluffed and light, not wet and heavy as he’s had at other Lobsters. It’s not Ty’s fault they’re closing—but Ty knows this; Ty would never doubt himself. And it’s not their last scampi either: It’s on the Olive Garden’s permanent menu.
Ty’s farther up the table on his own stool, chewing a toothpick and leafing through an old Old Car Trader .
“Chieftain,” Manny says to get his attention, then waggles his hand palm down to show it’s only so-so, earning him a quick finger.
The deejays change at six, the new guy making a big deal of how long it took him to drive in, telling everyone to avoid the roads if they don’t absolutely have to be out, advice Manny silently rejects. This is the beginning of the Lobster’s volume hours. Now he wonders if their numbers were hurt not only by the construction on 9 but all the snow last winter. He tells himself he’s giving up the guest count (sixty-one, pathetic for a Saturday, honestly not worth opening for).
In the corner by the dishwasher, Rich and Leron are playing a form of horse with the dead biscuits from lunch, using the garbage can as a basket. When Manny’s finished, Rich comes over and takes his plate,
“What’s the vegetable?”
“Cauliflower.”
“That was lunch.”
“Okay—albino broccoli.”
“Make that no vegetable.”
Manny goes to the bar and pours himself a Diet Coke with lemon, then has to pick it up with both hands. The UConn game is over and the new game is close to halftime. On the other TV, the Weather Channel is showing exactly what it showed three hours ago, and he reaches up and changes to Channel 30, right down the road from them, and gets the national news, video of shoppers milling around malls—the usual story about retailers counting on the Christmas season, as if the economy is solely dependent on the holidays. The other local channels tell him nothing, so he settles for ESPN with the sound turned down and stands there sipping. The teams mean nothing to him, and by the first commercial he’s paying more attention to the liquor bottles tiered three deep across the mirror, worried that his inventory won’t match. Even wholesale, a fifth of Chivas costs a lot, and while the amount won’t be held against his check, if he wants his own place again, Manny needs to show headquarters he can manage his resources. After the Lobster’s performance, he can’t afford much spillage.
He keys on the top shelf of scotches, the colors designed to draw the eye like fine wood. The Chivas is almost full, but he doesn’t remember the Crown Royal being so low, and he’d swear he just replaced that Dewar’s, down to a couple fingers. Yes, this morning, because Dom was late. Before he can investigate, Roz calls from the break room that his dinner’s ready.
He can’t quite rid himself of the suspicion as he eats, pulling a stool up to the far end of the table, way down by the Frialators (he has to get his own napkin and silverware, and from habit sets himself a place). The fear, of course, isn’t that Dom’s pouring himself drinks but stealing whole bottles—open, for his own consumption, or sealed, for resale. A few years ago they had a problem with a summer replacement hiding wine in empty boxes behind the dumpster. Manny has no reason to think Dom has been anything but solid, but strange things happen when people know it’s the last day, as if the rules have been suspended.
He frowns over Ty’s scampi, plated as if for a critic, the headless necks of the shrimp pointed toward the center of the dish, bodies arranged in a symmetric swirl, tails overlapped around the edge counterclockwise, parsley flakes for garnish. It’s the chain’s most popular dish, simple, and horribly boring for any real chef. Ty’s been making it for Manny nearly ten years, and tonight it’s as fine as ever, the garlic biting through the buttery richness, a breathless hint of white wine to finish. The pilaf is fluffed and light, not wet and heavy as he’s had at other Lobsters. It’s not Ty’s fault they’re closing—but Ty knows this; Ty would never doubt himself. And it’s not their last scampi either: It’s on the Olive Garden’s permanent menu.
Ty’s farther up the table on his own stool, chewing a toothpick and leafing through an old Old Car Trader .
“Chieftain,” Manny says to get his attention, then waggles his hand palm down to show it’s only so-so, earning him a quick finger.
The deejays change at six, the new guy making a big deal of how long it took him to drive in, telling everyone to avoid the roads if they don’t absolutely have to be out, advice Manny silently rejects. This is the beginning of the Lobster’s volume hours. Now he wonders if their numbers were hurt not only by the construction on 9 but all the snow last winter. He tells himself he’s giving up the guest count (sixty-one, pathetic for a Saturday, honestly not worth opening for).
In the corner by the dishwasher, Rich and Leron are playing a form of horse with the dead biscuits from lunch, using the garbage can as a basket. When Manny’s finished, Rich comes over and takes his plate,
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