BY V. J. HAMILTON
Copyright is held by the author.
Charles Riordan
A LIGHT snow was falling as Charles Riordan left Restaurant Chez Matisse and made his way down College Street. His breath roiled white and fuming as he cursed the day he had set foot in the pretentious café where Sue waited tables. How dare she — how could she?
He would get even. She would be sorry. A top-notch reviewer like Charles Riordan had to merely insinuate a troubled relationship with food inspectors to ruin the reputation of a restaurant, its chef, and all personnel. Pink slips all around, followed by the whack! of permanently closing shutters.
During the recession, people went out less often, but they researched their options more. Charles used to write dull complimentary reviews, “puff pastry,” and had only five dozen followers. Then one night, a vulgar waiter had given Charles “attitude” and he had retaliated, sending the legendary Ristorante Milano down in metaphorical flames. The review began:
“Waiter, There’s a Fly in my Maalox
Starting with the recycled gearshift oil the onion rings are fried in, moving to the goose-gristle morsels tucked in the soi-disant chicken pot pie, and ending with the congealed Benylin Throat Ointment that is decoratively drizzled over my tiramisu, your faithful reviewer is having trouble finding a kind word, or even a neutral syllable, to spare for Ristorante Milano.”
His review spewed forth another 800 words of vitriol. It went viral and the demand for RiordansRestaurantReviews.com grew exponentially overnight. “Triple-R” became famous in the Golden Horseshoe, then all over North America not just as a reviewer but an influencer in all matters requiring gallant good taste.
Triple-R combined “Candid Camera” with malicious, cut-throat rankings. Millions of viewers loved to see enraged chefs, conceited maître d’s, and bumbling servers exposed in his clandestine videos. (Occasionally a restaurant got wind of an upcoming exposé and would offer a significant sum not to be reviewed at all.) Within two years Charles was able to afford a lime-green Alfa Romeo 8C Spider and an imposing stone mansion in Forest Hill. Times may have been tough in general, but they were bountiful for Charles in particular.
He traveled to restaurants all over the continent but this month he was staying local. There was one nearby establishment he had not yet rated. He had been to Restaurant Chez Matisse a few times, both with and without Henley, his best (and nerdiest) buddy since high school, but Charles found it impossible to focus on food.
He only had eyes for a certain beautiful young server, the olive-skinned grey-eyed Sue. She enchanted him with her lilting accent and pleasant aspect. He had glimpsed a thick book — what was it? The General Theory of something? — it must have been a book of love spells and hexes — that she kept stashed behind the cash register. A woman of mystery.
“Talk to her,” Henley had urged, when Charles had confessed his lingering obsession. For a professor, Henley was uncommonly full of common sense.
But tonight, Charles could barely put two words together to place his order. He had a bad case of the what-ifs. What if Sue thought he was a loser, without a “real job”? He used to work in capital markets and was downsized when the big bank outsourced. His last girlfriend had dumped him in the midst of his tectonic career shift from finance to food, and the memory still rankled. What if he told Sue he was a critic — would she think him a stifling nag, unable to love something or someone wholeheartedly? What if she found out he was a food critic, with his sights set on her restaurant? They would have to break it off; he had to remain as the Unknown Customer.
Near the end of his Chez Matisse meal, Charles cleared his throat and made a superhuman effort to overcome the what-ifs: he had pronounced the coriander-crusted tuna steak with coconut rice “delicious” and, above all, complimented Sue on the “outstanding” service. Strong words for a critic who makes his living by quantifying degrees of imperfection!
“Thank you,” she replied with a solemnity on par with his effort of dining discernment.
After the meal, Charles cleared his throat again, and offered her a lift home. “With the snow and all,” he explained. An unexpected vulnerability thickened his voice. Car fob dangling, he fumbled around trying to express compelling reasons — the wind was picking up, her shoes weren’t made for snow, his car was just a minute away — when some over-muscled meathead had interrupted them. A week earlier, when Charles was scouting the place out, he had seen the guy hanging out at Chez Matisse, chatting up an ancient Italian couple.
“He-ey sweetie,” the meathead said to Sue, “it’s a blizzard out there. Lemme give you a drive.”
“Excuse me,” Charles said. “My friend and I were talking,”
“Friend?” sneered the meathead. “She’s mine, buddy.”
With annoyance, Sue said, “Both of you — get out — I’m working the next shift.” She crossed her arms and stared them down. The lout grumbled “g’nite” and stomped off.
With a pang of regret, Charles tucked his silk scarf around his neck, shrugged on a cashmere hound’s-tooth overcoat (both favourably reviewed at Triple-R), and slipped out the door. At the corner of College and Howard, he turned and looked back. Matisse, Matisse, the big neon sign blinked slowly, like a heart pumping its red essence away.
The restaurant door opened again and Sue, in a wafer-thin jacket, carrying a crumpled paper sack, hurried out. So she was coming off shift; she’d just wanted to get rid of him. Downsized again, Charles immediately turned away. Play him for a dupe, would she?
He licked his upper lip and caught the coolness of a snowflake on his tongue. Which headline, he wondered, would attract the most clicks: “Bugs Bump up Beefsteak Protein” or “Would You Like Flies with That?” He laughed softly; Sue had no idea who she was messing with.
Syrita Huyghens
A light snow was falling as Syrita Huyghens removed her “Sue” badge and left the diner. She made her way up College Street, in the direction opposite the fretful professor.
The professor had surprised her with his offer of a ride. Maybe she had refused it too rudely. He seemed like such a shy fellow, a classic case of scholarly absorption. He ordered straight from the menu, ate attentively, and often jotted scholarly musings in his Moleskin notebook. Her sympathy was aroused because Papa, too, was an inveterate scribbler. She had been tempted to accept his kind offer. Except it might have sent the wrong signal.
Snowflakes made a nimbus of light around each streetlight she passed. If the snowfall got any heavier, it would dissolve the glue holding together her paper bag of leftovers — yet another structure in her life that turned mushy and undependable. Syrita’s stomach growled in anticipation of the cheese sandwich she had squirrelled away. She would save the pastries for breakfast. Day-old day-olds: that’s what they would be by tomorrow. She didn’t care. Every nickel she saved on food was a nickel to spend next year on tuition.
No way would she take a ride from Beefcake George. He always ordered beef Bourguignon. He talked like he was the star of his very own action-adventure movie — traveling forth every day to fight new fires. Or maybe set them; it was hard to tell with George. She suspected any ride with him would turn into an all-night party at the Copa Cabana Dance Cove. Tonight she’d kept George out of the kitchen and was determined to keep him out of her life.
Syrita’s knees were numb with cold. Yes, a ride would have been nice. She could have asked the professor for his opinions on that textbook she was reading by Keynes, The General Theory of Employment. But maybe not; she might sound ignorant. Her face burned at the thought.
She guessed he was a professor, since he hung out with Professor Henley, who taught first-year economics and usually ordered lobster vol au vent, hold the peas. It was a humongous class — that’s why Henley didn’t recognize her.
Whenever the shy professor showed up alone, he spent his time furiously writing. Perhaps they were notes for an article on “Economically Depressed Urban Regions”? Or “Educational Challenges of the Under-Employed”?
Yes, she could accept his ride next time and ask him about his article… maybe offer some observations. Working-class conditions weren’t about to improve any time soon. The guys on pogey, like Beefcake George, dropped by less often, and not with the same generous tips. The Golden Horseshoe was losing its shine — a drop in manufacturing jobs, losses in the construction sector, and then the service industries like hers suffering the ripple effect.
Rumour had it that Edna and Leo Dinapoli would be cutting back the servers’ hours. They sat quietly at a small out-of-the-way table every night, keeping an eye on things. But who could tell? Rumour also had it that Beefcake George had a crush on her, and Syrita knew that was a lie. She was three cup-sizes too small to be his “type.” But he was up to something, her instinct told her. George had obeyed all too quickly when she’d asked him to leave. Was he about to star in his own bust-‘em-up scene by jumping chef Antoine with a steak mallet? No wonder Leo barred all visitors from the kitchen.
George Freanes
A light snow was falling as George Freanes slipped out the front door of Restaurant Chez Matisse. His ego stung, but he knew to hide it.
He made his way around to the back of Chez Matisse. Clumps of ice meant the push-handle door had not clicked fully shut, so he kept it easy-to-open by wedging in a small piece of cardboard.
Winter was a slow time for construction work. Plus, the real estate market was hollowing out. What was a guy to do? George had support payments due — if he wanted to see little Chloe again, that is. Ah, dear little Chloe! The bliss on her face as she nibbled her Chunky Monkey ice cream. Banana and fudge, a heavenly match!
So, when Edna DiNapoli had come to George’s boss with a problem, he had listened to her proposal.
“Leo’s out of his mind,” old Mrs. DiNapoli had said. “Chez Matisse loses money every day, and I say, close it down! But Leo won’t listen.” Her eyes were ringed with shadows. “At least we have this.” With loving familiarity, she patted a fat manila envelope. George glimpsed the logo of an insurance firm on one corner. His heart sped up, but only a little.
“I can fix it,” he said, hoping the crackle of confidence drowned out the thud of doubt. Chrissake, a recession was not the time to develop a conscience.
“What’s the catch?” George’s boss asked.
“It must look like an accident. Not just to them,” Edna said, tapping the insurance logo, “but it must look that way to Leo, too. It would kill him if he knew I did this to his beloved Chez Matisse.” Her lips turned resolutely downward, in the manner of one who always had to make the hard decisions in the family. “It must be after-hours. No one harmed. I leave it to you. Sterno cans, oil in the fryers, flammable cleaning fluids, whatever… don’t tell me the details.”
“Yeah, combustibles,” George drawled. “But we need to talk about timing. Does anyone hang around after hours, Mrs. D? Like cleaners or — I dunno, dumpster divers?” He felt queasy about emergency responders. “Oh — and no guard dog, I hope?” The prospect of a dog dying made him utterly incapacitated.
Edna told him he’d have to figure out the best time to act. George’s boss named the price, and the deal was set. Thanks to his misspent youth, George reckoned he’d have no problem starting a fire. (Who said those weren’t “marketable skills”?) The only problem was continuing a fire — nurturing it to the point of total conflagration. Even the historic premises on College Street had to obey minimum standards such as fire-retardant insulation.
He needed full access to the kitchen. This was tough. Leo ran a tight ship; he was paranoid about inspectors and competitors and fanatical foodies getting too close to the inner workings. And Leo sat there with Edna every night.
George had the floor plan but maps always baffled him. He needed to see ovens, fire-starter, and buckets of tallow. George would have to persuade someone to admit him to the back — and it obviously couldn’t be Mrs. D.
He spent weeks getting to know everyone from Antoine the dour chef to Herb the bashful dishwasher, and decided the fastest route was chatting up the pleasant-faced girl who worked at the front. Sue said she was Dutch Suriname, whatever that was. Her musical laugh reminded him of Chloe. Whoops, he almost forgot: she wasn’t “Sue,” either; that was just her work tag. She’d told him her real name, and George tore up mental carpet looking for it the next day. It had something to do with sweetness. Not Sugar. Maybe Splenda. No: Sweetie. Yeah, that was it.
But Sweetie was being very uncooperative tonight. “Get out! You’re not allowed here!” she said, the first time he got close to the kitchen door. Heads were already turning toward him, like he was an intruder. Edna was distracting Leo with an overturned glass. At least the toff sitting at the front hadn’t noticed. Nose in a book, or head up his arse, something like that.
Then, George thought: why not offer Sweetie a ride? He would say he had parked near the alley, and it would be shorter to go out the back way, and, besides, her boots and coat were there. But the toff had beat him to it, damn his sorry hide! He knew Sweetie was lying when she said she had to keep working. The place, in this snowstorm, was practically empty. Still, George made a big show of leaving; he had doffed his cap and wished her “good night” on his way out.
Outdoors, he had circled to the back. And then — bonus — he’d seen the back door hadn’t properly closed.
The plan would reach its conclusion tonight. After lock-up, George would slip in via the wedged door. He would “accidentally” overturn the bucket of used fryer-oil. Used tallow burned long at high heat. And oh, another “oversight”: the warming oven would be left on, but he would snuff out the pilot lights, so the kitchen would fill with natural gas. George would leave the walk-in cooler door ajar. The motor would keep starting and stopping all night, vainly trying to cool down the open walk-in. At some point a spark from the stop-start motor would ignite the roomful of gas. That’s how he would do it — so much closer to a real accident than using a detectable accelerant.
George paused and looked back down the alley. Snow was forming a soft ridge along the top of the painted sign: Restaurant Chez Matisse – Contemporary French Cuisine. Snow was good; it was filling in his tracks around the diner. Like white-out on a court order.
He pictured tomorrow: The regular customers would be hungry and sad, their mouths pulled into tight Os of amazement. All his doing. The DiNapolis would be there, too: Leo, heaving buckets of water on the flames, and Edna, telling him to mind his heart.
But there would be a nice chunk of money in his bank account. And for once, a little respect. And all the Chunky Monkey his l’il girl would want.
Wouldn’t Sweetie have a shock when she came to work tomorrow to see a three-alarm fire instead? George imagined her in that ugly uniform and her Comfa-foot shoes, standing there, with tears on her face. Wishing she had been nicer to the customers last night. But his vision wobbled slightly. Somehow Sweetie’s face became mixed with Chloe’s face — they both had such round pillowy cheeks — and George’s smile began to fade.
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V. J. Hamilton has published in CommuterLit, The Antigonish Review, and Litro Online, among others. She won the EVENT Speculative Fiction contest. Most recently, her fiction appears in The Hong Kong Review.