Page 33 of Tarek

“Sir, she didn’t have a reservation. So, I told her to leave. The rules say if someone—” She had the nerve to try to cover her ass.

“Shh, no one gives a fuck about the rules that I wrote at this moment.”

The hostess wipes her tears away.

“Apologize, now. Her name is Ms. Penelope Holt.”

The hostess swallowed and stare at Pen, “I’m so sorry Ms. Penelope Holt.”

Penelope looks at her in disgust and says nothing.

“Now the same restaurants that you told Ms. Penelope to eat in, are the ones you will have to go find a job at. You’re fired.”

“But, Mr. Fairisles,” she hiccups, her breathing sounds rushed.

Bending down to her ear, I whisper, “Would you like me to have security escort you off the premises?”

Her voice trembles. “No, sir.”

“Pick up your check tomorrow night. Leave now.”

It’s a rare day that my employees see me angry, because I run The Glass House like a well- oiled machine.

“You okay?” I inquire as I look down at Penelope.

“Yes, I am good. Can we go in, we’re causing a scene?”

“Sure,” I stride into the dining room with long purposeful steps. Penny is running to keep up with me. The eyes of the patrons are on both of us, I can hear Penny’s small hellos as we pass by the tables.

As the kitchen doors flap open, the smell of roasted meats and sauteed vegetables greets us.

Marco, as if sensing my unease, begins to clap loudly, the sound cuts through the bustling kitchen.

Instantly the staff goes silent, and everyone watches Penelope and me.

“We have a special guest tonight–This is Penelope,” I announce, my voice cuts the air.

A soft chorus of, “Hi, Ms. Penelope,” goes through the room as the staff all try to greet her.

“Oh my God, Tarek you are making a scene, stop this,” she tugs at my sleeve.

I look down at her, and she instantly falls silent, dropping her hand to the side.

“Ms. Penelope is a VIP guest like my guys. She has a table, she doesn’t pay for food, and she doesn’t have to have a reservation.”

“What? Can we pause for a second, Tarek that’s just—” Her words are cut short, when she sees the look in my eyes. Instantly she changes her tone. “Yes free food, yes of course. I mean yay.” She raises a fist and shakes it in a mock victory.

“Are there any questions?”

“No, chef,” they all say together.

“Continue with your work.”

They all resume working.

“This way.” Her palm tightens around mine, as I take her past the kitchen into a small alcove. In it there are two chairs, a table covered in white linen and dinner settings.

I pull out the chair for her, allowing her to sit.

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