The Queen of Minor Disasters by Antonietta Mariottini Page A

to
all walk out together, and the restaurant is left empty. The phone rings.
    “Stella,” Stacy, the owner of
Sea Breeze says. She sounds frantic.
    “What’s going on?” I ask.
    “Is your power out?”
    “No, it just flickered a
little but it’s back on.”
    “Ours has been out for forty
minutes,” she says in a panic. “I think we need to close.”
     Every restaurant’s biggest
nightmare is losing power during service. Not only will they lose the business
of the night, and get a bad reputation for canceling their reservations at the
last minute, but they’ll also most likely lose all of their inventory. I know
they have a huge walk-in fridge and matching freezer, probably stocked with
thousands of dollars’ worth of food.
    “If you need to use some of
our ice, feel free to come by and take it from the machine,” I say. Our ice
machine is located in our refrigerated storage off the kitchen. It has a
separate door to it so they could come in, unnoticed. “I’ll unlock it for you.”
    “Maybe I will, at least for
the expensive stuff,” she says. I imagine her making a mental list of filet
mignons and king crab legs. “There’s one more thing,” she continues. “Our best
customers, Mr. and Mrs. Klean, are coming in twenty minutes. They’re with a
party of six. Can you squeeze them in?”
    It’s strange that I never
heard of the Kleans. We generally share the same clients since our restaurants
are only three doors apart. I scan my reservation list. I’m actually
overbooked, and squeezing in a six is nothing like squeezing in a two. But I
feel bad, imagining what would happen if we had to cancel on our best customers
at the last minute.
    “Ok,” I sigh. “You can send
them over. I’ll figure something out.”
    “Thank you so much,” she says,
sounding relieved.
     
    I try to reorder my
reservation list and tell the waiters to rush everything along. If they move
quickly enough, and if people don’t linger, I should be okay. I’m nervous
because we have no waiting area, so if things don’t work out tonight, people
will have to wait outside in the sweltering heat.
    The Kleans arrive to find
their table all set. They’re in their early fifties and look like Island
Royalty. He’s tall with sable hair and not a speck of grey. His skin is bronzed
and he wears casual khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt. She’s petite, just
slightly taller than me, and embraces her height by wearing flats. Her peach
Capri pants offset her deep tan, and her silky blonde hair is pulled into a
tight bun. She wears a tight white t-shirt and a yellow cashmere sweater tied
over her shoulders despite the heat.
    “It’s warm in here,” she says
under her breath.
    Take off the cashmere, girlfriend.
    The rest of their party is
dressed similarly in Ralph Lauren Polo. One man wears navy blue shorts with
tiny whales embroidered all over them, thus proving that money certainly
doesn’t buy taste. Honestly, there should be a law saying that no male over the
age of six is allowed to wear shorts like that.
    As I collect their menus Mr.
Klean raises his eyebrow and looks at his friends. Do I have something on me?
“Your table is right this way.” I flash them a big smile.
    They follow me to the back of
the restaurant. Table fifteen is the last on the right, before the waiters’
station. They don’t look too happy with it, but since the restaurant’s packed,
they don’t have another option. Brittany is their server, so hopefully her
bubbly attitude will rub off.
    People just love her.
    Whenever we have new guests in
the restaurant, I try my hardest to impress them. Usually people love the food,
and are used to the tight atmosphere. Most shore restaurants pack their guests
in like tuna in a tin.
     At best, people finds this
cozy and intimate.
    At worst, they complain about
the noise and having the waiter reach over them to serve the table.
     I agree that it’s not exactly
fine dining, but we try to make it