Page 37 of Pity Play

The kitchen door opens and a middle-aged woman with bright red hair walks in. “Luke Phillips! Jim said you were back, but I didn’t believe him.” She strides toward me with her bony arms outstretched and doesn’t stop until she nearly has me in a bear hug. She’s a lot stronger than she looks.

“Tanya,” I say fondly. “I didn’t know you were still here.” Tanya has been working for my dad nearly as long as Jim has. It says something about a person who can instill that kind of loyalty in his staff. Even though we’re having troubles, my dad has always been steadfast. He stands by people, and treats them with respect. Most would find him the ideal employer.

“Where else would I be? I love Pop’s.” Then she asks, “How long are you going to be here?”

“Until we know more about how Dad is healing.” I add, “Don’t tell him I’m working here, okay?”

She waves her hand in front of herself. “I know you’re a big secret,” she says, not seeming to think this is an odd thing.

“Are you working the night shift with me?”

“I’m closing.” She pulls a pad of paper out of her apron and asks, “You running any specials tonight?”

Her question catches me off guard. “Since when has Pop’s offered anything that’s not on the menu?”

“Couple years now,” she says. “Your dad has been shaking things up a bit.”

“Really?” My dad has never been one to shake things up. “Like what?”

“Ohhh, let me see.” She taps her head with the end of her pen before saying, “He did this great blackened catfish a while back and served it with garlic mashed potatoes. Folks loved it!”

“He did what?” I told my dad this morning that I served the same thing at my restaurant, and he practically choked on the fact that I served fish with mashed potatoes instead of coleslaw.

“He says folks like a change occasionally. So far, he knows what he’s talking about.”

I can’t help but wonder what other specials he’s served and make a mental note to look through the desk in his office. Until then, I turn toward the walk-in to see what I can offer tonight. “Come back in five, Tanya,” I tell her. “I’ll have something for you by then.”

Walking into the refrigerator, I discover a number of unexpected things, including pea clams and zebra mussels. I serve both at Capon. As far as I know, my dad has never offered them. They weren’t in the refrigerator last night, so I can only assume he ordered them ahead of time, like he plans his specials in advance.

I check the pantry and make sure we have plenty of linguini, before ringing the bell to call Tanya back in. When she returns, I tell her, “Tonight’s special is steamed clams and mussels in a white wine garlic sauce with a side of linguini. I can probably throw together some garlic bread to serve with it.”

“Folks love that one!” she says enthusiastically.

“You’ve served it before?”

“Several times. It’s a big hit.”

I’m totally confounded by this. When did my dad step outside of his comfort zone? But instead of asking, I want to know, “Is there a line cook on the schedule for tonight?”

“You need a line cook?” Tanya teases. “Your daddy does this all on his own.”

There’s pride in her voice and I like it. My father has always been a hard worker. That’s one of the biggest things he taught me. That, along with never ask someone to do something for you that you wouldn’t do yourself.

“I guess I’m just used to a bigger restaurant,” I tell Tanya. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

She winks at me. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, too. You learned from the best.”

The rest of the night is a blur of activity. It feels good to be cooking. It takes my mind off wondering how I’m going to get my dad to open up to me.

At eight o’clock, Tanya leans her head through the window. “Last order just came in.”

My last order at Capon isn’t usually until after eleven. I reluctantly realize that it’s nice to do what I like to do without having it eat up my whole night. I should be cleaned up and out of here in an hour which is four full hours earlier than if I were cooking at home.

I wonder what would happen if I changed the hours of Capon so I could knock off early? I’m guessing the first thing would be a slew of bad press. Nobody closes early in the city. Not only do people organically eat later there, but there’s the whole post-theater crowd that needs to be catered to.

Ah, well, I love my job, so there’s no use complaining. I guess I’ll just enjoy the earlier hours while I can. The downside is that now I have plenty of time to worry about seeing my dad tomorrow.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

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