Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [39]
“Mira, stop screaming at me. I didn’t get the orders, and I didn’t get any message. And don’t go accusing Nicola—get a grip, Mira. Why would she have taken them out? Call Eddie and Rob and get them to send over an emergency delivery. Just deal with it, okay?”
“I’ve already called them and made arrangements to make sure that we have food here today, but Jake, this is something we have to deal with now. We can’t go on like this. If nothing else, we have to think of Grappa which, I might remind you, is our livelihood.”
“You’re right. We are going to have to make some changes. Listen, I can’t talk about this right now.” He lowers his voice, and I’m having trouble hearing him over the piped music at the gym.
“Jake, can’t you get down here and help me sort out this mess? I’m going to be at least an hour behind in prep, and God knows what Rob and Eddie are sending over. I could really use the help.”
Jake doesn’t say anything, and if it wasn’t for the iron-pumping music in the background I might have thought he hung up. Finally, he says, “No, Mira, I cannot come down there right now. I’m busy.”
“Busy! You’re at the fucking gym, Jake! And this is your fault. Nicola—”
“I’m not going to sit here and have you insult Nicola. Nicola had no reason to remove those orders. You’re the one who screwed up, Mira. I’m done.” And suddenly he has hung up on me.
No reason for Nicola to remove the orders? Without even trying I can think of several. For starters, it’s a quick and easy way to make me look bad. Also, she’s been around long enough to know that I’m the one who’s on when the deliveries come in and that I’m the one who’ll be sweating to organize emergency deliveries and scrambling to put together a menu on the fly. And perhaps more significantly, it forces Jake into the position of having to choose whom to believe—Nicola or me. If Nicola was feeling slightly uncertain about which way Jake was leaning, then this little tactic might just be a good barometer. What was beginning to be absolutely clear was that Nicola was willing to sacrifice the restaurant to get to me.
When news of their affair had first spread, everyone told me it wouldn’t last. It was just a fling, not uncommon, especially for men of a certain age who are trying to adjust to fatherhood. I’d done my best to believe them, despite mounting evidence to the contrary and, until as recently as that afternoon in the apartment, had even entertained the possibility, albeit a slim one, that Jake might want to come back. But lately, I’d begun to seriously doubt that she and Jake were just a fling. She was, I feared, going to be around for the long haul. That meant only one thing. I would have to buy Jake out.
For the next five hours I do not have another thought in my head that does not involve managing this crisis. When Eddie calls to deliver the bad news—no squid to be found anywhere in the city—I send one of the prep cooks to Dean and Deluca to check the price of squid and to make some discreet inquiries as to how much they have on hand. I throw a twenty at her and tell her to buy me half a pound so I can check the quality. The grilled calamari and spinach antipasto has been a mainstay since we opened, so paying a premium to keep it on the menu is a no-brainer, providing the quality is sufficiently high. I get one of the line guys to pull the lunch menus and type a new one that I dictate while pulling stuff from the walk-in and freezer. Today, our prix fixe menu will feature cucina poverta: polpettone alla napoletana, an Italian meat loaf; pappa al pomodoro; a ragout with sausages and peppers; and braciole (providing Rob, the meat guy, comes through in time).
When the meat still has not shown up by ten I’m on the phone yelling at some hapless office person, although it’s just about hopeless, because, unless the meat shows up in the next five minutes, there will not be enough