The view of the room was not perfect from inside the kitchen. Across from the kitchen’s service window was a service area, a full set of shelves with all china and linens and cups and saucers, just about anything and everything needed for the dining room. Another station like this, but much smaller, was situated along the counter wall where the window ended, directly in front of the walk-in wall on that side.
From the Garland side Bill could see toward Caesar’s maître d’ stand, not even all the way past the shelving to the stand itself. From Jimmy’s side, Bill could see a few tables along the wall out past the shelving.
They started clean-up a little later. Kalista, dear aunt that she was, kind lady to Bill always, brought them espresso. Bill stood by Jimmy. He didn’t even bother to start wrapping the food yet.
He could see past the end of the shelving, mostly to the front corner of the room. Rosie and Edelgarde stayed around there. They were talking, sipping coffee after eating their dinners. Kalista had given them baklava, homemade. She had offered some to Jimmy and Bill too. It was so sweet, so good, you could choke.
While everyone was hanging out, Caesar did the tally. Bill saw him stop in the corner and talk to the girls. When he was gone, presumably back to his maître d’ stand, Edelgarde came over to Bill, stood close to him as she could be from the other side of the counter.
“Hundred twenty-six,” Edelgarde said. “That’s the count. Best we’ve ever done on a Tuesday.”
“Good, Bill said. “So you made money?”
“We always make money,” Edelgarde said. “This is one of the fanciest places they have in Cleveland, relatively speaking.”
“And the men like the uniforms too,” Bill remarked.
“Don’t you?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“So they get a good look. And that’s all they get.” Edelgarde smiled. “Policy is no dating customers.”
“And you never have?”
“Nope. Never.”
“What about co-workers?” Bill asked.
“It’s frowned upon. No set rule that I know of.”
“You never told me about Millie,” Bill said.
“Ask Rosie,” said Edelgarde. Then she leaned in just a touch more, a scooch closer. “You can more than look, you know,” she whispered, “with both me and Rosie.” She winked at Bill, straightened up, headed off.
“Ya,” Jimmy G said. All the while he’d stayed silent. Now he looked up at Bill from where he sat, looked up over his reading glasses at him. “They all like you. Millie too.”
Before he’d been a cook Bill would have wondered about this, about his being attractive or appealing to women. Suburban had wiped his handsomeness doubts from his mind. Whether it was the power-position or just that (and they didn’t know this) he’d lost 70 pounds and was a svelte, sleek, skinny one thirty-five, or that he was young and seemingly confident — whatever it was – restaurant women threw themselves at him, sometimes very openly, very ardently, sometimes very persistently such that he had difficulty reasoning why he shouldn’t have some fun.
That he was married now, really married, actually married, ceremony, ring and all, did make a difference, and while he’d been all-but with Arlene, a friend and then friend with benefits, and all-but with her after he was married, so far he was still mostly straight with his wife and trying, trying oh-so-hard to remain so.
Here, up here, was Millie and Rosie and Edelgarde. Jesus Christ. And it was only the second day. When it rains it pours.
“Ya,” Jimmy said again. Then he put the newspaper down on his counter, took off his reading glasses, put them away carefully in their case which he stored on an upper shelf over his counter, finished his espresso. “You did very good tonight,” he said as he stood up. “No matter what Caesar tells the chef, I know, the girls know, the banquet chef knows. Very good,” he said.
