organized chaos. “Can I help?”
“Grab an apron,” Christopher says.
“We’re fine,” I tell Aaron. “Actually? We’re great.”
I wipe my hands on the white apron around my waist. “That’s sexy,” he says.
“The apron? Gee, do you have mother issues?”
Aaron laughs. “My mother never wore an apron. We had cooks. I lost my virginity to a cook.”
“Me, too,” Christopher says.
“Chrissie!” I swat a rag at him.
“What?” He moves out of rag reach. “I thought we were sharing.”
“You have work to do,” I tell him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Christopher says. “Go tell it on the mountain.”
Whatever chaos has ensued gets rehashed at the end of the night, which is 9 P.M. on weekdays and 10 P.M. on weekends. When the restaurant is cleared of its final customers, I turn on all the house lights and turn up the music to get the waiters through the drudgery of cleaning their tables and their workstations. In the kitchen, the San Padres turn on their Mexican disco to help get them through their closing work.
The waiters finish before the San Padres. As each waiter finishes, we congregate in the middle of the restaurant and chitchat about customers, ourselves, and the world. Whatever is most interesting. I cash out the waiters, exchanging real money for the tips left on credit cards. If all has gone reasonably well, both Café Louis and the waiters have made money. For the past two weeks, everyone has been happy. Including me.
Sally looks at me with sleepy headlights when I rouse her from her parking spot where she’s been lolling all afternoon and night. I drive to Mom’s townhouse, famished. The house is always dark, Mom already asleep. Quietly I invade the kitchen. What do I eat? A leftover-filled sandwich, of course. With mustard. Good mustard.
Saturday Night Special
At seven o’clock, the door opens. In walks a delivery man wearing a Hunter Farm T-shirt and holding three stacked boxes of produce. This guy is white; our usual delivery man is black. “Where’s Eddie?” I ask the man as he hands me the delivery list to sign. His hat is pulled down over his face as he opens each box for me to quickly inspect.
“Eddie doesn’t make Saturday night special deliveries,” he says. “Sorry to bring this through the front door. No one answered my knock on the kitchen door. I’ll carry this stuff to the kitchen.”
“Sorry about the mix-up,” I say. Once again, I botched the ordering. “Please tell Joe that I apologize.”
“Apology accepted.” The man raises his head, and hat, and I see Joe Hunter. He hoists the boxes to his shoulder and walks toward the kitchen. “Be right back.”
But he doesn’t come right back. Fifteen minutes later, I abandon the hostess desk, to see what Joe is doing in my kitchen. Peering through the kitchen window, I see Joe talking to the cooks. Entering through the swinging door, I hear Joe speaking in Spanish to the San Padre brothers. “What’s going on in here?”
Joe smiles and holds up a bunch of green herbs. “Lemon verbena. The newest thing in my herb house.” Joe holds the lemon verbena out to me. “Smell.”
Leaning forward, I put my face near Joe’s hands and inhale. “Lemony.”
Joe looks at my face intently. “Really good with fish.”
“I bet.”
“Thought you’d like to try it,” Joe says. “A little present.”
“Thank you.”
Joe hands the bunch of herbs to Horatio, who says, “Gracias, amigo.”
“De nada,” Joe answers. Then he looks at me, and puts his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “So. How you been?”
Glancing at the San Padre brothers, I see them grinning, looking from me to Joe. I point to the dining room. “I have to get back to work.”
Joe follows me into the empty restaurant. “I can see that you’re really busy.”
Trying to look industrious, I walk back to the hostess desk and start rifling through the reservation book. Joe follows me. Quietly, he says, “I’ve been thinking about you.”
I look at Joe and smile. But he doesn’t say anything further. My boredom segues into frustration. I’m not interested in playing games. Aaron told me how he felt. Why can’t Joe? Put up or shut up. “Thanks for the lemon verbena. I’ll see you around.”
“Kicking me out?” Joe asks with a smile.
“Do you want to stay? If you’re hungry, you can have a seat at the counter.”
Joe shakes his head. “That’s why I haven’t asked you out.”
“What’s why?”
“You’re a hustle bustle. I’m a slow and steady.”
I think about that for a moment, then say, “I don’t get it.”
“I like