He Giveth and He Taketh Away

My coffee tastes like it was steeped in tar. And not the delicious tar in cigarettes.
Speaking of which...
Every place I lay my cigarette, the smoke heat-seeks me like a puny human target, a representation only in blobs of colour, just like in Predator.

Elapsed time: 3 minutes

Okay, I think I've momentarily shielded myself from its hungry envelopment.
There is a pain behind my left eye. The seeing eye.
My shoulders are elevated approximately 2" higher than their usual station.
2 new vertebrae have freshly fused.

See, this is the reason I choose to only drink beer.
Wine makes me feel like ass the next day.
Especially when there were 12 different wines tasted the night prior.

I blame the Doyenne.

Doyenne Kim, my sweet boss from the one night a week engagement at the Cheer's Equivalent bar, is also the part owner of a charming restaurant down the street. The well behaved sister restaurant. The restaurant that encourages shushing. The sister restaurant had become a regular brunch place for me when I would find myself alone on Sunday mornings. It is because I am friends with most of the staff. It is because of menu items like the 2 massive yet fluffy pancakes that each cover a 12" plate, topped with Chantilly crème and pure maple syrup or the truffled scrabbled eggs on a bed of baby spinach served with smoked salmon and homemade biscuits that have garnered this restaurant the title of Best Brunch in Toronto.

It's all really a little too much, a little too late.

I met the Doyenne about 12 years ago when we worked directly across the street from one another. West End Girls. She would visit my bar after a long managerial shift, seeking salvation from corporate bureaucracy in a funnel shaped vessel containing exactly 3oz of clear liquor and a dangled tendril of citrus zest. She would come in with a buddy. Most girls enlist The Buddy System at bars. It makes us look less whory, I guess. Sometimes she would complain about her day. Other times she wanted nothing to do with rehashing a 12 hour bout of irritation. She and I liked each other right from the start. The thing about the Comrade and the Doyenne is not everyone likes us from the start.

My friend Ian, the fella I used to make out with in public from time to time has worked for the Doyenne for several years. For the first 3 years he didn't like her one bit. Some people think she's a bitch. He was a Believer. But, then something cracked. Perhaps it was he. He realised how incredibly fair she is. He realised how incredibly generous she is. He saw how much time and energy she devoted to her restaurants. He realised just how much she cared for every single soul that works for her. Over time he became her confidante. She would cry on his shoulder. As tough as nails as she presented, there was a little girl inside who was very, very scared of ever failing.

She took on partners. How can I possibly start a business alone? Each time she took them on they were all very excited about the new project. Initially. Eventually the novelty wore off and they became less diligent in their end of the bargain. Sure it's my business, but I don't want to be working 14 hours a day. They wanted their lives back. This cute little dream was sucking up way too much personal time. Her time and energy never wavered. Fear of failure kept driving her on. She took on partners in hopes that some of the responsibility could rest on shoulders other than her own. And now, one week after a series of glowing reviews and months of legal fees which have accumulated to $50,000, one of her business partners has stolen her restaurant from her.

Initially he wanted to be bought out but she couldn't swing it. In the process he considered that perhaps she could be bought out. He could run this tall ship on his own. So what if all of his old staff thinks him rude and ineffectual? He could batton down hatches she not only created, but over the years had lovingly massaged, dressed and wiped the mouth of. She set a price that she thought he couldn't reach. He couldn't even pay his rent. How the hell could he buy a business? She didn't count on the deep pocketed friends he had accumulated. Effective Friday, tomorrow, the deed will be transferred over to someone who has had nothing to do with the restaurant in years, other than call the cops on her and sporadically issue out idle threats and the occasional harrassment. In a few more days there will be nearly a dozen unrooted souls with shaky pens writing out rent cheques where no money resides in fictious Swiss bank accounts.

Several Mondays ago, at my one night a week engagement, I found the Doyenne in the farthest reaches of the prep kitchen huddled in the corner. Scared, tired and bawling her eyes out. To her it's okay to be eating off of dinged plates with mismatched flatware. She doesn't cut her lip very often on the chipped glasses she imports home from restaurant castoffs. She doesn't need much. She gets by. Half the time she doesn't take a paycheque. It's part of the sweat equity, she reasoned. She wasn't scared, tired and crying for herself. She feels the ultimate responsibility for the staff which may be thrown on their asses effective Friday.

She found a tiny silver corona around the dark cloud looming overhead. Going through the corporate credit card statement she discovered that she had enough credit left for one fabulous night on the town with the men and women she's thought of as extended family for the last 6 years. A loophole. One last hoorah.

I don't work at the sister restaurant, the one stolen away. I really shouldn't have been there. It wasn't really my place. The Doyenne asked that I come for moral support and because I make her laugh. Il Pagliacio. Small price to pay.

My Fatty noted the other night that sometimes when there is no sound in laughter it can look like someone's crying.
Someone... please make a sound.
Most people stifle tears by consuming a shitload of booze.
The only way I know how to stifle tears in others is with misdirection.

I had a few people come over to my place prior to the fabulous night out. Cartman sounding Mike (who does double kitchen duty at both restaurants), my Robert, a gay Mensa smart male who is a damn fine specimen particularly to girls (creatures he wouldn't touch with a 10' pole. Strike that. He would if given enough of a sedative first) and Ian, the aforementioned previous maker-outer-with pal-o-mine who was a great friend of mine but kind of messed things up a bit when he launched into a 5 minute Fuck You session with the Comrade over a lecherous rogue who happens to be Ian's best friend.

Ian did apologise for his bad behaviour. Though forgiven, there is a bit of stale residue applied on the sweet detection area of my mouth.

[buzzer rings]
[unlatch door]
[In walks a blonde haired, blue eyed, handsome young man wearing a pea coat, a light and royal blue striped button down shirt, and a shiny red tie with tiny flecks of blue creating a diagonal pattern]

The Comrade: Ian... You look like a Jehovah's Witness.
Ian: No! I look good!
The Comrade: You look like a good looking Jehovah's Witness.
Ian: Mike? What do you think?
Cartman sounding Mike: I didn't want to say anything, dude. Please don't make me describe it.

[another buzzer sound]
[re-opens door]

The Comrade: Robert!
Robert: Hello, darling.

Robert had on a taupe safari type heavy shirt, 3 buttons undone creating a plunging neckline revealing wife beater; his dark tie which bypassed the collar in its entirety, was done up simply around his naked neck like fabric jewellery.

The Comrade: You look fantastic!
Ian: His fucking tie isn't even around his collar! How does he look fantastic?

I change the topic by chugging my beer.

Ian: Robert, you'll tell me. What do you think of my shirt and tie combination?
Robert: Well...
Ian: Do I look like a Jehovah's Witness?
Robert: Well...
The Comrade: Truth, Robert. Truth.
Robert: Yes.
Ian: Fuck.

After an hour, like Old Mother Hubbard, my fridge had gone bare by the time of departure of the staging area.

We met at George, the new gorgeous dining room complete with open concept gleaming kitchen that one can press one's nose against large panes of glass and spy techniques of properly seared, forced engorged goose livers. The price points are so high that the clientele is mostly made up of aged millionaires trying to spend the last of the kitty before their precious offspring fights over the remains. No, no. Not the urn with Daddy's precious carbon matter. The rest... even before the body's turned cold and rigid, the game of tug of war will have begun. These millionaires still manage to leave a crappy tip.

At a vote it was decided we would have an 8 course tasting menu complete with complementing wines. Some of the pairings were genius. Some, I felt were a bit overrated. As for the food, some of the savoury offerings made me squish my face up to something on the same flattering scale as this.

Seated next to me was the lovely Doyenne. She wore a tasteful sequinned cream sweater and swishy black skirt.

Remember why you're here.
Right... make her laugh.

The Comrade: [beating a dead horse] Jehovah's Witness.
The Doyenne: I think he looks more like an encyclopedia salesman.
The Comrade: Ian! I think I'm missing the volume M-N.

Ian hates me now.
And that's okay.
It's misdirection.

Not enough toasts were given. Not as much appreciation was displayed to the fine young lady who gathered everyone together. I suspect a great deal of grace and gratitude was in everyone's heart, but it was unable to be expressed in fear of breaking down. Losing composure. Looking like a blubbering idiot at $150/head.

I looked down the long table.
Longer faces.
A couple of quivering chins.
Brave faces which when they thought no one was looking, had eyes cast down. I could see the reel played in their eyes. Their interpretation of This is as Good as it Gets.

I'd written about that state before. Working in an industry which is demanding of spirit, often leaching of soul, there are some wonderful yet rare moments of respite which are near perfect, when all the stars are aligned and all the assembled ensemble cast are chemically perfect in union. But nothing lasts forever, alas. Not in a frozen state, anyway.

The Doyenne, just as everyone who's worked for her, will be just fine. Already she's plotting her next strategy. Perhaps she'll make pies. I like pies. I like making pies too. Maybe I'll help. And just like everything she's done in the past, her initial ideas will mushroom into bigger, grander things that she could never have imagined without trying. She is a mentor to many. Myself included. Though it took her a half dozen years to receive the kind of reviewed recognition every restauranteur seeks, there will be a day in the future where this young lady, our Doyenne, will receive The Best Damned Pie award. Mark my words.