Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [77]
Harvey turned and left the kitchen, casting an uncomfortable glance at Mel, who seemed to be flirting dangerously with dismemberment over the Hobart.
WHEN TOMMY ARRIVED at two o'clock, there was a trio of musicians in the front cocktail area. Three white men—a pimpled young bass player with taped horn-rimmed glasses, a wrinkled piano player, and a clarinetist with visible dandruff—were playing Dixieland music to a nearly empty dining room.
Two regulars in Yankee warm-up jackets sat at the far end of the bar, away from the musicians, drinking Bloody Marys and reading the sports pages. A stick-thin young man, sweating in his leather jacket, was engrossed in conversation with Karen. Hector was on the pay phone. Cheryl was standing at the service bar, talking to the bartender.
"I don't believe it," said Tommy when Cheryl came over.
"Thought he'd forget all about it?" said Cheryl, looking at the musicians.
"I hoped he'd forget it," said Tommy. "And Dixieland . . . I hate Dixieland . . ."
"Oh, they play other music too," said Cheryl. "Somebody requested 'Girl from Ipanema before. You missed it."
"Oh, no . . . No, no, no . . ." groaned Tommy.
"Yes, yes, yes . . . " said Cheryl.
"All we need now is for somebody to request 'Happy Birthday,' " said Tommy.
Cheryl indicated four adults sitting with two loud children in the rear of the dining room. One child was in a stroller; his mother, a large woman in a Busch Gardens T-shirt, pushed him back and forth with her one free hand while she shoveled eggs Benedict into her face with the other. The other child, a paunchy little boy of six or seven, ran in circles around the tables making engine noises.
"Maybe it's one of those darling children's birthdays . . . Should I ask?"
"I'll kill you." Tommy shook his head and walked over to the bar for a Bloody Mary. The bartender was cutting fruit for mimosas and other champagne cocktails with a boning knife.
"Expecting business?" Tommy inquired.
"Maybe tomorrow," said the bartender, putting down the knife to make Tommy's Bloody Mary. "How do you want it? You like 'em spicy?"
"I want mine strong. Blow my fuckin' head off. I want my head to bounce off the bar when I finish it," said Tommy.
Cheryl patted Tommy on the ass as she headed back to check on her table.
"How many we do today so far?" asked Tommy.
The bartender shrugged. "It's been dead." He pointed at the musicians, just beginning 'La Bamba.' "We've had three walkouts . . . Not music lovers . . ."
Tommy took his drink off the bar, threw his celery garnish into the bartender's trash can, and walked through the dining room and down the steps to the kitchen.
WHEN HARVEY CAME OUT to the bar, the waitress with the nose ring didn't even bother to get up. Hector was still on the phone. The musicians were halfway through a tortured rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In," and an older couple had joined the four adults with the children in the rear of the dining room. The couple were clearly arguing between bites of omelette, but the music drowned them out.
"Isn't this great," said Harvey expansively. "Aren't they good?"
Cheryl just nodded and grinned.
"It takes time," said Harvey, looking around the restaurant. "Takes time for the word to get out. Once people hear about the music, about the food . . . they'll come in. They'll come in. It takes a little time. I'm putting an ad in the Voice: Jazz Brunch. Ten dollars with free choice of Bloody Mary, Mimosa, champagne cocktail. I'm thinking of like a New Orleans theme . . . " He took the little notebook out of his pocket again and wrote "New Orleans Brunch. Creole Food. Talk to chef."
Cheryl took the opportunity to slip away to the waiter station. She had stashed a book behind the cappuccino machine. Through the curtain, she caught a glimpse of Harvey, standing in the front window, wringing his hands and watching the street traffic.
Thirty-Two
IT WAS AN UNUSUALLY cool, gray late-summer afternoon. Harvey emerged, flushed and glowing from a half-hour sun-treatment at the Rising