does she know
about relationships. Let’s be honest here. Lucy’s never really had a boyfriend
so she’s not one to be dishing out advice.
“Will you just forget him?”
she says when she comes into work. “You’re miserable and it’s not making it
easier on any of us.”
This infuriates me.
Why do I always have to be the happy one around
here?
Why does Mario get to waltz in
and be the big mean boss?
How come Lorenzo gets away
with yelling at the waiters?
I’m not hurting anyone. I’m
just not smiling like normal. At least not until the guests come in.
If there’s one thing I’ve
gotten to be very good at over the years it’s acting. My father taught me to never let the customers know you’re upset.
“If they see that,” he says, “the dream is over.”
My dad has this theory that
people go out to eat to escape their problems, their worries, and their
everyday. When they enter a restaurant, they step into a dream world where
they’re kings and have complete control.
It makes sense if you think
about it. At a restaurant, you get to choose what you want to eat, have other
people prepare it, serve it to you, and clean up after you.
Which is exactly why I’ll
plaster a smile on my face from 5:00 to 11:00 tonight.
Even if Drew doesn’t call me.
Some therapists might call
this “repression,” but I call it getting through the night, and if that means
I’ll be lying on a couch in a few years, talking about my childhood while some
shrink takes notes, so be it. Lucy thinks that one day I’ll just explode, but
that’s not likely.
I can’t even imagine the look
on people’s faces if I just started screaming and throwing pasta in the middle
of the dining room one night.
Not that I would ever do that
or anything. Talk about ruining the dream.
“What are the specials
tonight?” I ask entering the kitchen with a pen and paper in hand. We open in
ten minutes, so the waiters need to know this info, like now.
“We only have one,” Lorenzo
says with a smile. “Penne all’ arrabbiata. Angry penne, just for you.”
He and Mario laugh and I storm
out of the kitchen.
Stupid brothers. They think
they’re so funny.
I fume as I stand by the
hostess podium. I get nine more minutes to brood and I’m using every last
second.
“Did you get the specials?”
Dante asks. I look to see the rest of the waiters gather by their station, pens
in hand. They’ve sent a family member to try to talk to me.
“Get them yourself,” I snap.
Dante scowls and walks past me. I watch him enter the kitchen. A few minutes
later he’s in the back, telling the waiters the specials of the night. As soon
as he finishes, he switches on the music and dims the lights, signifying that
we are now open for business.
I take a deep breath and
smile.
As the night drags on, the
heat continues to rise. I’ve lowered the air down to forty degrees, but the
meter is still reading eighty-two. That’s twenty degrees cooler than the
outside air, but still not enough to make a comfortable dining experience. Each
year, about a hundred thousand people gather on the Island for the Fourth of
July, and everyone uses their air conditioning on full blast. This year is the
worst yet, as the temperature is forcing the electricity into overdrive.
At around 7:00 the lights
flicker. It’s just a momentary lapse of power but is enough to send a hush
through the noisy restaurant. I look around and see people fanning themselves
with their cloth napkins, wiping sweat from their brows. I don’t think anyone
has ordered the penne all’ arrabbiata; who needs the extra heat on his plate?
That’ll show Lorenzo for
trying to make fun of his only sister. His twin.
But I start to worry that
maybe it’s too hot. Last year, Mario suggested back up air conditioners, but
the project was too expensive so my parents decided against it. They should
have listened. Instantly, I imagine a customer revolt, where people decide
about relationships. Let’s be honest here. Lucy’s never really had a boyfriend
so she’s not one to be dishing out advice.
“Will you just forget him?”
she says when she comes into work. “You’re miserable and it’s not making it
easier on any of us.”
This infuriates me.
Why do I always have to be the happy one around
here?
Why does Mario get to waltz in
and be the big mean boss?
How come Lorenzo gets away
with yelling at the waiters?
I’m not hurting anyone. I’m
just not smiling like normal. At least not until the guests come in.
If there’s one thing I’ve
gotten to be very good at over the years it’s acting. My father taught me to never let the customers know you’re upset.
“If they see that,” he says, “the dream is over.”
My dad has this theory that
people go out to eat to escape their problems, their worries, and their
everyday. When they enter a restaurant, they step into a dream world where
they’re kings and have complete control.
It makes sense if you think
about it. At a restaurant, you get to choose what you want to eat, have other
people prepare it, serve it to you, and clean up after you.
Which is exactly why I’ll
plaster a smile on my face from 5:00 to 11:00 tonight.
Even if Drew doesn’t call me.
Some therapists might call
this “repression,” but I call it getting through the night, and if that means
I’ll be lying on a couch in a few years, talking about my childhood while some
shrink takes notes, so be it. Lucy thinks that one day I’ll just explode, but
that’s not likely.
I can’t even imagine the look
on people’s faces if I just started screaming and throwing pasta in the middle
of the dining room one night.
Not that I would ever do that
or anything. Talk about ruining the dream.
“What are the specials
tonight?” I ask entering the kitchen with a pen and paper in hand. We open in
ten minutes, so the waiters need to know this info, like now.
“We only have one,” Lorenzo
says with a smile. “Penne all’ arrabbiata. Angry penne, just for you.”
He and Mario laugh and I storm
out of the kitchen.
Stupid brothers. They think
they’re so funny.
I fume as I stand by the
hostess podium. I get nine more minutes to brood and I’m using every last
second.
“Did you get the specials?”
Dante asks. I look to see the rest of the waiters gather by their station, pens
in hand. They’ve sent a family member to try to talk to me.
“Get them yourself,” I snap.
Dante scowls and walks past me. I watch him enter the kitchen. A few minutes
later he’s in the back, telling the waiters the specials of the night. As soon
as he finishes, he switches on the music and dims the lights, signifying that
we are now open for business.
I take a deep breath and
smile.
As the night drags on, the
heat continues to rise. I’ve lowered the air down to forty degrees, but the
meter is still reading eighty-two. That’s twenty degrees cooler than the
outside air, but still not enough to make a comfortable dining experience. Each
year, about a hundred thousand people gather on the Island for the Fourth of
July, and everyone uses their air conditioning on full blast. This year is the
worst yet, as the temperature is forcing the electricity into overdrive.
At around 7:00 the lights
flicker. It’s just a momentary lapse of power but is enough to send a hush
through the noisy restaurant. I look around and see people fanning themselves
with their cloth napkins, wiping sweat from their brows. I don’t think anyone
has ordered the penne all’ arrabbiata; who needs the extra heat on his plate?
That’ll show Lorenzo for
trying to make fun of his only sister. His twin.
But I start to worry that
maybe it’s too hot. Last year, Mario suggested back up air conditioners, but
the project was too expensive so my parents decided against it. They should
have listened. Instantly, I imagine a customer revolt, where people decide
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