watched it with the anticipation of the ball dropping in Times Square. It was New Year’s Eve here every night.
A man at table twelve beckoned Adrienne over with an impatient finger wagging in the air, and immediately the spell was broken. Didn’t he notice her dress, her shoes, her champagne? She was the hostess here, not his bitch.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?”
He held up the basket of doughnuts. “What are
these
? If I’d wanted to eat at Krispy Kreme, I would have stayed in New York.”
Adrienne stepped back. The man had very close cut ginger-colored hair and so many freckles that they gave him patches of disconcertingly brown skin. He wore strange yellow-lensed glasses.
Adrienne glanced at the basket but did not take it from the man. Table twelve: she tried to remember if he was a VIP.
“Have you tasted the doughnuts?” she asked. “They’re not sweet—they’re onion and herb doughnuts. If I do say so, they’re delicious.”
The woman to the man’s left had very short black hair and the same funny glasses with lavender lenses. “I’ll try one, Dana.”
The man named Dana thrust the basket at Adrienne’s nose. “We don’t want doughnuts.”
“But you haven’t tried them. I assure you, if . . .”
“We don’t want doughnuts.”
Adrienne took the basket, but the man, Dana, was holding on tighter than she expected so the exchange took on the appearance of a struggle. The basket zinged into Adrienne’s chest. There was a smattering of applause and both Adrienne and the man named Dana pivoted to face the rest of the room. The applause was for the sun, which had just set.
“Would you like bread and butter, sir?” Adrienne asked. “Or we have pretzel bread. That’s served with the chef’s homemade mustard.”
“You have
got
to be kidding me.”
“I’ll get you bread and butter, then.”
“Yes,” Dana said. “Do that.”
Adrienne walked away thinking
Asshole, asshole, asshole!
What could she do to get back at him? Order the chips and dip for all the tables surrounding his? Run her tongue across the top of his perfect cake of sweet butter?
She searched for a busboy, but they were all humping—pouring water, delivering doughnuts—so that now the worst thing about the ugly freckled man who looked at the world through urine-colored glasses was that he was forcing Adrienne into the kitchen.
She pushed through the door. Hot, bright, quiet. Eddie wolf-whistled and Adrienne felt all eyes on her. Including Fiona’s.
“Did you get those avocados?” Fiona asked.
Adrienne had spent a good part of her day at the beach wondering how to get Fiona to like her. But now, thanks to a man named
Dana,
she was in no mood to be joked to or about. “No, chef.”
“What are you doing in here, then? It will be at least another six minutes for the chips. Right, Paco?”
Pfft, pfft, pfft.
“Right, chef.”
Adrienne put the doughnuts on the counter in a way that indicated slamming without actually slamming.
“If table twelve wanted to eat at Krispy Kreme, he would have stayed in New York.”
“The salient phrase there is ‘stayed in New York,’ ” Fiona said. “And people wonder why I don’t come out of the kitchen.”
“Is there bread, chef?”
“Of course.”
“Where?”
“We went over this last night, did we not? The bread is where the bread is kept.”
“I don’t know where that is,” Adrienne said. “You never told me. So, please. Chef.”
Fiona eyeballed her for a long time, long enough to indicate a showdown.
Fire me,
Adrienne thought. Fire me forasking for bread for a man who looks like one of the villains in a Batman comic. But instead of yelling, Fiona smiled and she became someone else completely. She went from being a little fucking Napoleon to a china doll. She reminded Adrienne of her favorite friend from Camp Hideaway, where she had been shipped the summer her mother was dying. In the second that Adrienne was thinking of this other girl—her name was
A man at table twelve beckoned Adrienne over with an impatient finger wagging in the air, and immediately the spell was broken. Didn’t he notice her dress, her shoes, her champagne? She was the hostess here, not his bitch.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?”
He held up the basket of doughnuts. “What are
these
? If I’d wanted to eat at Krispy Kreme, I would have stayed in New York.”
Adrienne stepped back. The man had very close cut ginger-colored hair and so many freckles that they gave him patches of disconcertingly brown skin. He wore strange yellow-lensed glasses.
Adrienne glanced at the basket but did not take it from the man. Table twelve: she tried to remember if he was a VIP.
“Have you tasted the doughnuts?” she asked. “They’re not sweet—they’re onion and herb doughnuts. If I do say so, they’re delicious.”
The woman to the man’s left had very short black hair and the same funny glasses with lavender lenses. “I’ll try one, Dana.”
The man named Dana thrust the basket at Adrienne’s nose. “We don’t want doughnuts.”
“But you haven’t tried them. I assure you, if . . .”
“We don’t want doughnuts.”
Adrienne took the basket, but the man, Dana, was holding on tighter than she expected so the exchange took on the appearance of a struggle. The basket zinged into Adrienne’s chest. There was a smattering of applause and both Adrienne and the man named Dana pivoted to face the rest of the room. The applause was for the sun, which had just set.
“Would you like bread and butter, sir?” Adrienne asked. “Or we have pretzel bread. That’s served with the chef’s homemade mustard.”
“You have
got
to be kidding me.”
“I’ll get you bread and butter, then.”
“Yes,” Dana said. “Do that.”
Adrienne walked away thinking
Asshole, asshole, asshole!
What could she do to get back at him? Order the chips and dip for all the tables surrounding his? Run her tongue across the top of his perfect cake of sweet butter?
She searched for a busboy, but they were all humping—pouring water, delivering doughnuts—so that now the worst thing about the ugly freckled man who looked at the world through urine-colored glasses was that he was forcing Adrienne into the kitchen.
She pushed through the door. Hot, bright, quiet. Eddie wolf-whistled and Adrienne felt all eyes on her. Including Fiona’s.
“Did you get those avocados?” Fiona asked.
Adrienne had spent a good part of her day at the beach wondering how to get Fiona to like her. But now, thanks to a man named
Dana,
she was in no mood to be joked to or about. “No, chef.”
“What are you doing in here, then? It will be at least another six minutes for the chips. Right, Paco?”
Pfft, pfft, pfft.
“Right, chef.”
Adrienne put the doughnuts on the counter in a way that indicated slamming without actually slamming.
“If table twelve wanted to eat at Krispy Kreme, he would have stayed in New York.”
“The salient phrase there is ‘stayed in New York,’ ” Fiona said. “And people wonder why I don’t come out of the kitchen.”
“Is there bread, chef?”
“Of course.”
“Where?”
“We went over this last night, did we not? The bread is where the bread is kept.”
“I don’t know where that is,” Adrienne said. “You never told me. So, please. Chef.”
Fiona eyeballed her for a long time, long enough to indicate a showdown.
Fire me,
Adrienne thought. Fire me forasking for bread for a man who looks like one of the villains in a Batman comic. But instead of yelling, Fiona smiled and she became someone else completely. She went from being a little fucking Napoleon to a china doll. She reminded Adrienne of her favorite friend from Camp Hideaway, where she had been shipped the summer her mother was dying. In the second that Adrienne was thinking of this other girl—her name was
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