The small bell rang for the third time and Amanda Mitchell cursed under her breath. She rushed along the main floor of the restaurant, her ponytail pulling behind her, feeling like a chain, hoping that none of her tables stopped her for another request.
She made it to the last table, the kitchen door in sight. She could see into one of the small windows as the head chef, Emilio Rockner, moved left to right, looking like a ghost in his white attire.
A hand reached out and grabbed her wrist, stopping her.
“Miss…”
Amanda stopped and looked down to the woman. She had to be well past the middle age point of her life yet she insisted on dressing and putting enough makeup on to give the allure that she was in her late thirties.
“What can I get for you?” Amanda asked.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Emilio reach out and slam his fat hand on the bell in the back. The ringing pierced Amanda. Part of her wanted to turn and kick the kitchen door open, grab the bell and drop it into the deep fryer.
What restaurant still used a fucking bell like this?
“I could sure go for a cup of coffee,” the woman said.
“No problem,” Amanda replied. Her eyes moved to the three other patrons at the table. “Anyone else?”
The other woman looked her husband, as if she needed approval for a cup of coffee. Her husband looked at her and nodded.
“We’ll take coffee too,” the other woman said.
“Ah hell, make it four,” the final member of the group called out.
Amanda offered one last smile and then snuck away to the kitchen.
She stood at the hotplate and took the two plates waiting for her. Her eyes were locked onto the back of Emilio, praying he wouldn’t turn around. He never had anything nice to say and it seemed he hated his life for being stuck in the kitchen of a semi-fine dining restaurant.
It wasn’t Amanda’s fault for that, and if anything, she understood how he felt. Her dream job certainly wasn’t serving food to people five to six nights a week. Hell, it didn’t even cover all her bills, thanks to mounting debt that continued to mount. Amanda knew how much time she had left to borrow on her credit cards before everything came to a head but she didn’t want to think about it. Thinking about it made her sick.
She managed to get the plates into her hands while Emilio scolded one of the line cooks for not gripping a steak the right way.
She turned, feeling home free, when the door to the kitchen opened again.
If there was anyone else equally terrible in the restaurant, it was the owner’s wife. Barbara Shameski looked like a clown. That was easiest – and nicest – way to put it. Her eyes were always caked in shades of blue and she wore a red lipstick she that didn’t do a thing for her lips. She drew her lipstick line past her lips, perhaps to give the illusion of big, pouty lips, but anyone who saw Barbara expected her to pull a balloon from her pocket and twist it into a dog.
“Amanda, so glad I found you,” Barbara said. She stood taking up the way out of the kitchen.
“Yes,” Amanda said. “I have to get these plates to ta-”
“We’re short tonight,” Barbara said. “As always. We need you to cover a double.”
“Barbara, the food…”
“Beverly called off,” Barbara said. “Her hip’s bothering her again. Poor thing. Wish she could just get it taken care of. She’s so afraid of surgery. Like, come on, what year is it?”
Amanda cringed hearing the word like coming from a woman as old as Barbara.
The plates felt like weights in Amanda’s hands. Her muscles grew sore as she inched towards Barbara. It would be the only way to get her to move.
Barbara owned a restaurant but refused to do anything with it. She hated dirt. She hated grease. She hated touching other people’s food. She basically hated anything to do with the restaurant, unless it was the end of the night and it came time to
She made it to the last table, the kitchen door in sight. She could see into one of the small windows as the head chef, Emilio Rockner, moved left to right, looking like a ghost in his white attire.
A hand reached out and grabbed her wrist, stopping her.
“Miss…”
Amanda stopped and looked down to the woman. She had to be well past the middle age point of her life yet she insisted on dressing and putting enough makeup on to give the allure that she was in her late thirties.
“What can I get for you?” Amanda asked.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Emilio reach out and slam his fat hand on the bell in the back. The ringing pierced Amanda. Part of her wanted to turn and kick the kitchen door open, grab the bell and drop it into the deep fryer.
What restaurant still used a fucking bell like this?
“I could sure go for a cup of coffee,” the woman said.
“No problem,” Amanda replied. Her eyes moved to the three other patrons at the table. “Anyone else?”
The other woman looked her husband, as if she needed approval for a cup of coffee. Her husband looked at her and nodded.
“We’ll take coffee too,” the other woman said.
“Ah hell, make it four,” the final member of the group called out.
Amanda offered one last smile and then snuck away to the kitchen.
She stood at the hotplate and took the two plates waiting for her. Her eyes were locked onto the back of Emilio, praying he wouldn’t turn around. He never had anything nice to say and it seemed he hated his life for being stuck in the kitchen of a semi-fine dining restaurant.
It wasn’t Amanda’s fault for that, and if anything, she understood how he felt. Her dream job certainly wasn’t serving food to people five to six nights a week. Hell, it didn’t even cover all her bills, thanks to mounting debt that continued to mount. Amanda knew how much time she had left to borrow on her credit cards before everything came to a head but she didn’t want to think about it. Thinking about it made her sick.
She managed to get the plates into her hands while Emilio scolded one of the line cooks for not gripping a steak the right way.
She turned, feeling home free, when the door to the kitchen opened again.
If there was anyone else equally terrible in the restaurant, it was the owner’s wife. Barbara Shameski looked like a clown. That was easiest – and nicest – way to put it. Her eyes were always caked in shades of blue and she wore a red lipstick she that didn’t do a thing for her lips. She drew her lipstick line past her lips, perhaps to give the illusion of big, pouty lips, but anyone who saw Barbara expected her to pull a balloon from her pocket and twist it into a dog.
“Amanda, so glad I found you,” Barbara said. She stood taking up the way out of the kitchen.
“Yes,” Amanda said. “I have to get these plates to ta-”
“We’re short tonight,” Barbara said. “As always. We need you to cover a double.”
“Barbara, the food…”
“Beverly called off,” Barbara said. “Her hip’s bothering her again. Poor thing. Wish she could just get it taken care of. She’s so afraid of surgery. Like, come on, what year is it?”
Amanda cringed hearing the word like coming from a woman as old as Barbara.
The plates felt like weights in Amanda’s hands. Her muscles grew sore as she inched towards Barbara. It would be the only way to get her to move.
Barbara owned a restaurant but refused to do anything with it. She hated dirt. She hated grease. She hated touching other people’s food. She basically hated anything to do with the restaurant, unless it was the end of the night and it came time to
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