"We'd like to start with a bottle of wine," he said happily.
At the restaurant, I couldn't help but watch how people ordered. Some asked for food as if it was a feast, enjoying the cadence of dishes they were setting up, while others, like this man, ordered stooped slightly over their table and pandering to me as if he didn't want any trouble. He had a cheap sharkskin jacket whose patterned clashed with the basic, thin patterned shirt. His pants were of the same plastic material as the jacket and were cut to suit - well - any buyer. The restaurant usually didn't attract this kind of customer, but every night brings a surprise.
Perhaps what did get them inside was his guest, she was beautiful. Thick brown, straight hair the color of rich chocolate. She had tied it back with a simple bone pin, but the decadent waves of mole tumbled and curled in the bun. Her complexion was somewhere far from here, Iranian, I believe, arrogant tight eyebrows that seemed to hate the candles and soft, red lips drawn in a contemptuous frown. Her hands were clasped tightly across her lap. It was apparent they had fought, she didn't want to be there, or the price that she agreed to was not enough to buy her company and her attention.
There is no mystique without its victim. "When something is hidden," Big Berto would say, "something is lost." He was a fat poet, that one.
But he was right. And the worn red walls and dim lighting created some mystique. But what gave it its color was the appetites of its customers.
One night - or was it morning? I was helping the kitchen team clean the dishes when Berto passed by and opened the back door that lead to the alley. In walked the tallest, darkest man I had ever seen. He dressed in a black shirt with white pearl buttons and a dark purple three-piece suit that clung to his thin frame. His eyes were wide, and his gaunt face stared straight ahead, walking through the hot steamy kitchen like a zombie. Julio bumped my arm to stop me from staring, urging me to get back to work. But looking down, trying to avoid it all, I saw his hands dripped with blood, and his shoes left pooled outlines in the puddles on the porcelain floor. He was flanked by silent men who floated soundlessly around him and out into the dining room. He ordered the broccoli rabe and ziti and waited extra long as I ground a dark cloud of black pepper onto the plate. I'd never taken him for a vegetarian.
"Would you prefer red or white, sir?"
"Well... you see... I don't know... what do you think, honey." He threw his wet glance at her. He smiled encouragingly hoping that question would draw her out of her cloud.
"What do you recommend?" She asked me. Her eyes were hard. Old. Angry.
"I can bring you a list, and we decide from an area?"
"That sounds very good," she said without a smile.
I returned with the list a moment later.
He was imploring her in weak whispers to uncurl from the flower of her anger.
I went back to the kitchen and waited quietly over soda water. The pace of the restaurant was more marathon than sprint. Only a handful of tables and no one ever seemed to be in a rush.
My mind wandered back to her. Her in her oxblood dress wrapped around perfectly shaped breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra, and my mind wandered down around her tummy and navel and then her hips as they sat on the chair. I wondered if she was wearing underwear. She smelled like the flowers you'd see at a beach or on a highway.
A hot splash snapped me back to the kitchen. I looked up to see all the crew staring at me. I looked down to see the contents of a carbonara striping my uniform.
"Oh shit! we're sorry!" Terezio yelled out.
"What the fuck guys?"
"Did you see the plate?" asked Terezio, it went "wooooo..." he drew an arc that had it sailing through the air and barely missing me.
"We got extras," said Ernesto, the line chef. "Change in the bathroom."
By the time I hung the spare pants and pressed shirt on the hook and pulled off my pants down to bra and panties, there was a knock at the door.
Then someone jiggled the doorknob.
I didn't panic. The bathrooms were unisex, and it was common for someone to try one knob, see it was locked, and go to the next. Discreetly hidden under the lip of both sinks were the necessary feminine products. Berto also had me fill them.
I did panic when the door opened.
It was her.
In her hand, she held a small hairpin.
