The woman was apparently preoccupied. But soon as she finished tying her apron, even before she said hello, she turned around so her back faced Bill.
“See if my bow is straight,” she said.
The French Maid’s outfit was classic red trimmed with black. It had full shoulders which fell to a low-cut for the bosoms. The apron was small and rounded, designed to cover just down there. It had a black-ribbon sash that tied in a big bow on the back which is what the woman wanted Bill to make sure was straight.
Before he even knew her name, Bill reached to the bow, took both ends of it, pulled them tight and straight and made sure everything was tight, straight and even.
“All good,” he said.
“I’ll check it in a minute,” the woman said, turning to face him and Jimmy now. “Hi Jimmy,” she said. Then, “I’m Jo Ann.” She reached out a hand for Bill to shake.
“Bill,” he said. They shook hands and looked at one another, really looked at one another, for the first time.
Jo Ann was older, maybe fifty, maybe forties, Bill thought. She was full-figured and big-bosomed, her hair colored dirty blonde. She had reading glasses sitting on her nose and was made-up to a T. She wore flats now, like slippers, but later, for the dinner service, as Bill would learn, the waitresses had to wear open-toe heels.
“Can you cook?” she asked Bill.
“Can you wait tables?” Bill responded.
Before he’d been a cook, if someone had asked him a direct question like that Bill would have looked down to his feet and shyly said a simple yes, or I like to think so, or something to that effect. He’d learned quickly that the cook had to be in charge and being in charge meant you had to assume the lead from the start. Give nothing, get everything was the bottom line of the cook-waitress relationship, and then once the relationship was established it could become give what you want, if anything, and still get everything.
“Touché,” Jo Ann said.
“Where’d they get him?” she asked Jimmy.
Jimmy was standing with his hands in his pockets under his apron. He just shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know the answer yet.
“Where you work before?” Jo Ann asked.
“Down in Columbus. You want to see my driver’s license?”
Jo Ann smiled. “From New York, huh?”
“How could you tell?”
“I can see this is going to be interesting,” Jo Ann said. Then she did a complete turnaround for Bill. “I look okay?” she asked.
Bill didn’t answer immediately. He was calculating. His gut told him tell her to turn around again and let him see her ass. His mind told him he was on probation for ninety days before the union protections kicked in. So he decided to stay quiet and not respond at all.
“Well?” she said.
“Fine,” Bill said. That said, he walked past her toward the little kitchen.
Jimmy didn’t follow immediately. He and Jo Ann talked for a moment, Jimmy’s heavy Greek accent evident. Bill could hear bits of the conversation, her questioning him about the new cook, Jimmy saying he didn’t really know anything other than that this was his first day and they would all see if he could do the job.
Kalista broke it up. She burst through the double doors from the pantry carrying two espressos. She stopped by Bill who was standing by the entrance to the little kitchen and handed him one.
“I put two sugar” she said. “Squeeze the lemon around.”
Then she went over to Jimmy with the other one.
First thing Bill put on the counter in the kitchen was his espresso. He rubbed the lemon rind around the rim of the cup, found the garbage and discarded the rind. He used the little spoon to stir the thick, black liquid.
It was damn good, he decided after tasting it. He was gonna like this place, he thought.
