Page 18 of Beauty and Kaos

Natalie. The other Aurora cocktail server with Raven, and one of my top-tier curiosities.

The table requests several items, so I grab a pitcher of tea and a handful of napkins, pausing at the kitchen window.

“I need a side of ranch and BBQ sauce, please,” I shout.

“BBQ sauce is twenty-five cents extra. I need to see a ticket,” one of the cooks answer from the back. I watch him shaking pans over a fire and realize he’s the only one in a white chef’s jacket.

“You guys charge extra for BBQ sauce?” I ask skeptically, wondering why they’re nickel and diming condiments when they have a restaurant full of people out there.

“Sauce is made in-house, this is a policy. It’s on the menu. You should read it. The customer should read it. Y’all can read it together. Then send me a ticket,” he replies flatly, never turning around to address me.

“Relax, Lloyd,” Zaden says, rolling his eyes as he walks out from behind the grill to the cooler doors along the wall. He grabs several soufflé cups of sauce from a tray and closes the door, sliding them across the window to me. “She’s new. Cut her some slack.”

Lloyd shakes his head. “Next one needs a ticket, new girl,” he shouts. I share an astonished look with Zaden.

“He takes himself very seriously,” I whisper as I grab thesauces. An amused smile tugs at Zaden’s lips, but he keeps his mouth shut tight. I walk back to Natalie’s table, filling drinks and ensuring they have everything. When I return, Evan calls for a ribeye time and sticks the ticket he’s holding back in the hanging line.

“We have a few minutes, come on. I’ll show you around real quick,” he says, and I nod, following him. He leads me around the dining room, pointing out table numbers, bar seat numbers, high tops, and booths. Sections are six to eight tables, and they rotate every day. Live music on the center stage on the weekends, and dinner service ends at eleven. Friday through Sunday, they open for night club hours until four in the morning following dinner service. He leads me up one of the spiral staircases, and along the wall is another line of high-top tables, with space to dance near the railing and a smaller secondary bar.

“Check this out,” he says, leading me down a long, darkened hallway to a door. When he opens it, sunlight floods the room, and we step out onto a large half-circle deck overlooking the ocean. Posh little seating areas are arranged along the railing, surrounding a large round jacuzzi in the center. Evan pushes a button on the wall, and several gas fireplaces leap to life near the chairs with mirrored containers of dancing orange flames.

I walk up to the railing, looking out at the ocean. The salty breeze tumbles loose tendrils of purple hair across my face, but it can’t obscure the boats. Not much farther away than before, and still searching.

“It’s even better at night,” he says, stepping up beside me. “With the lights, and people dancing. We get VIP clients from time to time. I take most of them over to Aurora, but people like it here. It’s laid back.”

“Aurora?” I ask, glancing over at him. “Your Dad owns that one too, right?”

He nods. “He owns eight businesses on the beach and two more in town. I like Aurora. Nice views, good atmosphere. Like a little piece of the big city in a tiny town.” He meets my gaze. “You should check it out sometime.”

“I will.” If that’s what it takes to get under his skin, I will.

“Come on,” he motions. “Let me show you the kitchen.” I follow him back down to the kitchen and through the swinging doors. It’s a chaos of motion. People moving around each other, grabbing pans, plating food. It smells divine. Rock music blares from a Bluetooth speaker on a shelf near the grill, and I watch Zaden flipping steaks and shuffling meat in tune with the beat. Flames lick at his tattooed forearms, moving skillfully over the grill, his shirt pulled taunt against the muscles in his back as he arranges plates and juggles utensils.

By the third time Evan says “Ivy,” I remember that’s my name and glance over at him.

“Shit, yes. Sorry. I’m just… hungry, and it smells good in here,” I cover.

“Employee locker room is over there. Dry storage is through here,” he motions, moving on, showing me where to stock to-go containers, straws, and napkins. “Walk-in cooler is this one,” he adds, opening the heavy metal door to reveal lines of perfectly organized shelves. “We slice two buckets of lemons in the morning, and they stay on the bottom shelf by the door. Then we refill the iced bucket by the drink machine as needed. Bar fruit is over there, help Nick out when he needs it because we’re down a bartender right now.”

I nod. “Got it.”

“Good. Then follow Giana, and see if there is anything you can do for her. Grab a menu. Learn it. Know the sides, you’re going to need to list them. Drinks, we carry Pepsi, not Coke. Full bar, obviously. Drink specials are on the board beside the hostess stand. There, on the wall beside the window,” he points toward a dry wipe board where several things are messily scribbled in black. “Lloyd writes our specials, fish of the day, and any 86 items. Watch that. It will change throughout the service. Any questions?” He pauses, then holds up a hand to stop me. “About the restaurant, not about true crime, media rumor-mill bullshit.”

I swallow my actual response. “I guess not.”

“Good. Let me know if you need anything.” He walks off back through the kitchen doors, and into the dining room.

“Ivy, huh?” I hear from beside me, and glance over to see Zaden passing through toward the walk-in. “So you do have a name.”

This guy. “Yeah, I just wasn’t giving it to you.” I watch as he pauses, eyebrow raised, with a glimmer of challenge in his eyes. I stride past him, not giving him a chance to counter. I find Giana in the madness of the dining room, and assist with her tables. She eventually finds me a lap apron and a notepad, and I tie it on, sliding the notepad into the front pocket. I take notes, but not about the ingredients in the fry batter, or whether we use peanut or vegetable oil. I’m writing names. I’m meeting people, and trying to figure out where they would fall on the murder mirror.

When the tables are caught up, Giana motions for me to follow her, and we head through the kitchen and out the backdoor to the employee deck. She lights a cigarette and leans back against the railing.

“As soon as we start the two-for-one drafts, it stacks the tables. Get ready.”

“More than it already is?” I ask, honestly impressed. The Sandbar definitely sets a new bar for high volume in my work experience.

She nods. “Like we need bait to bring these guys in. Seems like it’s Alabama and Tennessee this week. Rowdy drunk, and tip like shit.”

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