As Carnival season advanced on them, the magic of automobile ownership had worn off fast. Though their odd hours made Rickey and G-man less vulnerable to it than some, every New Orleans driver got caught by a parade eventually. There was nothing glamorous or cool about trying to find a way across St. Charles when Orpheus was rolling. On Ash Wednesday morning, Rickey ran over a broken vodka bottle and got a flat tire. He thought this was a bad omen, and G-man had to talk him down. “Dude—any other time of year, maybe so. The day after Mardi Gras, half the people driving on the avenue are liable to get that kind of bad omen.”
“But it was a liquor bottle.”
“What’d you think was gonna be laying in the street on Ash Wednesday? Coke bottles?”
For the first time in their lives, they had work responsibilities beyond putting out the food. They met with Lenny a couple of times a week to learn the rudiments of leasing property, buying equipment, hiring staff, and so on. Sometimes Bert Flanagan sat in on these meetings; more often it was just the three of them. The amount of knowledge they needed was overwhelming, but Lenny turned out to be a good teacher. He was patient and didn’t mind explaining something two or three times if necessary. “I didn’t understand any of this shit at first,” he said. “The only way you really learn is by watching it and doing it.”
One night G-man was at the Apostle training the new cook, A.J. Rickey was off, and around ten o’clock he decided to go over to Sundae Dinner. He had just about decided to recruit Lenny’s chef de cuisine, a tall, bone-thin young man named Tanker. The silly-assed food made it hard to tell whether Tanker was a good cook, but Rickey liked his attitude. The first time they’d met, Tanker was working the Sundae Dinner sauté station. “How do you think of so many ways to make food into sundaes?” Rickey asked him.
“You really want to know?” said Tanker. “I take two ramekins and a buncha slips of paper. Whatever meats I got, I write them on one bunch. Then I think of things I can scoop, like, say, sweet potatoes and crabmeat mousse, and I write them on the other bunch. Then I pull one slip out of each ramekin and that’s my special.” He’d said this right in front of Lenny, who just laughed. Tanker did not laugh, but winked solemnly at Rickey.
Rather than unnerving him, this little glimpse into the bowels of Sundae Dinner made Rickey more confident about working with Lenny. Lenny was always looking for the next gimmick. He’d never quite found it here, but the gimmick at Liquor was already built in and Lenny liked it. Rickey and G-man would just have to keep him from trying to fuck around with it.
Tanker had showed him around the kitchen, which also reassured Rickey: the place was huge, but set up so well that nobody seemed to scramble. Everything they needed was at arm’s length. The stations were arranged in a way that made sense. The hoods and range tops were at a comfortable height. Rickey remembered Lenny’s beautiful home kitchen and gave silent thanks that Lenny either knew how to design a workspace or hire somebody who did.
Tonight Rickey sat at Sundae Dinner’s bar talking to Tanker and his girlfriend, Mo, the bartender. Tanker had just finished his shift and Mo was closing out the bar. Even in her regulation black pants and white button-down shirt, Mo managed to look as if she had just stepped out of a 1940s noir movie. She wore her long auburn hair rolled at the nape of her neck, and her dark red lipstick gave her a mollish look. She made blood-orange screwdrivers that were among the tastiest drinks Rickey had ever had.
“So what’s Lenny got to do with this place you’re opening anyway?” Mo asked.
“Nothing really,” Rickey said. “He’s an old friend. He’s just showing us the ropes.” He hated lying to other restaurant people, but he didn’t want word of Lenny’s involvement with Liquor to get out yet.
“Well,” said Mo, “after seeing some of the stuff he makes Tanker cook, I hope he’s not giving you too many tips on the food.”
Rickey laughed. “What’d you make tonight? Wasabi mashed potatoes with chocolate sauce?”
“That might’ve been an improvement,” said Tanker. “My big dinner special was crabmeat ravioli with a raspberry beurre blanc. Yeah, raspberry.”
“Lenny’s idea?”
“But of course, my good man.”
“Listen, Tanker, what are you gonna do after this place closes? If you’re looking for a job—”
“I got no idea,” Tanker interrupted. “Haven’t even applied anywhere. I’m feeling kinda fried, and we got a little money saved up. Me and Mo might get out of New Orleans for the summer. My folks used to take me to Colorado. It was nice—I’d like to go back sometime.”
“They got mountains there?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe! I didn’t even know what they were at first. You ever been to the mountains?”
“Not hardly. I saw the Catskills when I was at cooking school, but other than that, I never been much higher than Monkey Hill in the Audubon Zoo.”
“Uh-oh,” said Mo. “Boss in the house.” Rickey turned and saw Lenny coming through the graceful archway that separated the foyer from the bar.
“Hi, guys,” said Lenny. “How many’d we do tonight?”
“Hundred and twenty-five,” Tanker told him.
“God, this place is a mausoleum. You think people know we’re closing? Is it in the rumor mill?”
“Not that I know of,” said Tanker. “People got ESP about that kinda thing sometimes, though.”
“That’s for sure. Say, Rickey, you busy? I need to talk to you.”
“I gotta go pick up G pretty soon.”
“Why don’t I ride over to the Apostle with you? I can cab it back here later.”
“Well,” said Rickey. He looked uncomfortably at Tanker and Mo, who were watching this exchange with great interest. “Sure. You want to go now?”
“Unless you have something else to do.”
“No, I’m ready. Let’s go. Night, y’all.”
“Night,” said Tanker and Mo. They watched Lenny and Rickey walk out together, then raised their eyebrows at each other.
“What do you think that’s about?” said Mo.
“Rickey’s restaurant,” said Tanker. “I think Lenny’s some kinda silent partner, and you know what else? I think Rickey’s gonna ask us to work there.”
“Should we?”
“Maybe,” said Tanker. “As long they keep Lenny away from the food.”
“Pretty funky car,” said Lenny, sliding into the Satellite’s passenger seat. “Where’s your beads?”
“What beads?”
“I thought there was an unwritten law that every car in New Orleans had to have Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rearview mirror.”
“I hate those things. In fact, I hate Mardi Gras.”
“Spoken like a true local.”
“I don’t know about that. My mom’s lived here all her life and she still loves it. Goes to a shitload of parades, goes out masking with a bunch of her friends on Fat Tuesday. But she’s an accountant. She used to do the books for Lemoyne’s, but she never worked in a kitchen. That’s what made me start hating the whole Carnival season—the way it can put you in the weeds no matter how much of a roller you are.”
“You might change your mind once you’re the owner. You’ll still work your ass off, but you’ll see the profits coming in. Gives you a whole new perspective.”
“Yeah, I can believe that.”
When Rickey cranked the engine, a Snoop Dogg tape came to noisy life in the player. He snapped it off and pulled out of the parking lot. “So what’d you want to talk about?” he said as they drove up St. Charles.
“I wanted to see when you guys could go look at some properties. I saw a couple that I thought might work. How big a dining room are you thinking of? How many do you want to seat?”
“Sixty, seventy.”
“That’s pretty small. This place will draw big, I’m telling you.”
“I don’t want a huge restaurant,” Rickey said firmly. “I thought a lot about this. I want a small crew, a place I can reall
y control.”
“Figures. I pegged you for a control freak the first time we talked. Anyway, I’ve got my eye on a few places—one in the Warehouse District, a couple Uptown, one in Mid-City. Mid-City still has some run-down areas, but it’s coming back.”
“I hate that expression,” said Rickey. “Coming back. All it means is that white people are moving in. What happens to the people who lived there before? They’re moving to the projects, and we’re supposed to be all happy that the neighborhood’s coming back?”
“That’s very idealistic, Rickey. You sure you wouldn’t prefer a career in political activism?”
“Fuck you.”
“Well, come on. You’re not kicking some poor black family out of the home they’ve lived in for fifty years. You’re leasing a piece of property in a commercially zoned area, most likely a property that was empty before you got there, maybe even dangerous. Where’s the harm in that?”
“I just don’t want to improve the neighborhood so much that people have to start moving out.”
“That’s unlikely. But you’re in business now. Be realistic.”
More even than the expression “coming back,” Rickey hated being told to “be realistic.” As far as he could tell, being realistic had never gotten him anywhere. He hadn’t been realistic in fourth grade when he made up the Job Week skit that cemented his friendship with G-man. He hadn’t been realistic when he got himself kicked out of the CIA. He certainly hadn’t been realistic that day in Audubon Park when he conceived the idea for Liquor. He thought of telling Lenny all this, but decided not to. Instead he just said, “I hear you.”
“That’s something people say when they’re listening to me but not agreeing.”
“I agree with you. Mostly.”
“Well, I guess that’s all I can ask for, huh?”
“Right,” said Rickey, pulling up in front of the Apostle Bar. “It sure is.”
Mike Mouton was tired of hearing about the Apostle Bar’s great new menu. He’d been hungry after work tonight and had decided to go check out the place, hoping it would be terrible so that he’d have a snappy comeback for people who raved about it. Unfortunately, his dinner was excellent: a special of melt-in-the-mouth pork rillettes with brandy-soaked dried cherries and a salad made from arugula and mâche. Mike didn’t even know where to get mâche. Escargot’s would never bother with such a thing.
He sat alone at a corner table, picking at the last shreds of food on his plate and keeping an eye out for Rickey. Even after eleven, the place was pretty crowded; he thought he could pay up and get out without taking a chance on running into Rickey or his partner. If the food had been bad, he might have glanced into the kitchen and made a mock-sympathetic remark about how hard it was to live up to a good review. He realized, though, that they’d just laugh at him.
He looked up to signal the waitress. Instead he saw Rickey coming through the front door with Lenny Duveteaux. Lenny’s hand was resting lightly on Rickey’s back, and they were chatting like old friends.
Mike looked away, but Lenny had already seen him and was heading over to his table. “Hey, Mike! How about this place? I think these guys are real rising stars.”
“It was good,” said Mike.
“Aw, I bet it was a lot more than good. Say, you know Rickey here, don’t you? Didn’t you guys use to work together?”
“Yeah,” said Rickey. “We sure did.” He looked down at Mike for a moment, his eyes burning like twin blue lasers of hate. Then he turned abruptly and headed for the kitchen.
G-man was not particularly surprised to see Rickey looking pissed off. He was, however, a bit surprised at how hard Lenny was laughing.
“What the hell was that all about?” said Rickey.
Lenny wiped a tear from his eye. “I was just teasing him a little. Did you see the look—”
“Just teasing him! Don’t you think he’ll figure something out?”
“Restaurant people will find out I’m working with you, Rickey. You know how the grapevine works. Don’t worry—it’ll take awhile to filter down to the public.”
“What’s going on?” said G-man.
“Mike’s out there. Lenny practically grabbed my ass in front of him.” This assertion sent Lenny off into fresh gales of laughter. Rickey glared at him, then turned to G-man, who tried to suppress his own grin.
“Go ahead and laugh, you fuckers! Laugh yourselves into a couple of coronaries for all I care.” Rickey picked up a basket of Ponchatoula strawberries, sniffed them, and tasted one. “These are nice. I saw some last week that were still a little too hard. What are we doing with them?”
“A.J.’s gonna make a strawberry shortcake,” said G-man. “But back up a minute. You said Mike from Escargot’s is out there? Eating?”
“I’m not surprised,” said Lenny. “You hate somebody and they get a nice review, you go eat at their place hoping it won’t be all that good. But we busted him. He was probably hoping to sneak out without seeing you guys, and Rickey and I just walked right in on him.”
“What’d he have?” said G-man.
“I couldn’t tell. He cleaned his plate.” Lenny began to laugh again. A little reluctantly, Rickey joined him.
“Was he by himself?” asked A.J., the new cook.
“Yeah. Yeah, he was.”
“He had the rillettes, then. I sent ’em out. That’s the only single we’ve had in over an hour—all the rest were deuces and four-tops.”
“Ha!” said Rickey. “Those rillettes are killer. I made ’em myself last week. Best thing I’ve cooked in ages.”
“See?” said Lenny. “Gives you some satisfaction, doesn’t it?”
“I guess,” Rickey said doubtfully. As a matter of fact, Mike’s visit did give him some satisfaction. When Lenny first played him the tape of Mike’s phone call, Rickey had wanted to kill the guy or at least injure him severely. But that was his past coming out; in the Lower Ninth Ward you had to know how to fight just to survive your childhood. Mike was from a different world, and people in that world found an enemy’s success much more burdensome than an ass-kicking.
Lenny decided to stay and drink with Anthony, and A.J. thought he could hold things down for the last couple of hours, so G-man left with Rickey and they were home by midnight. It was almost like a vacation. Rickey stopped on the porch and got mail out of the box: a gas bill and the new issue of Gourmet. He flipped the magazine open at random. “I hate this question-and-answer column. ‘What is an egg wash?’ ‘How can I keep cheese from sticking to the grater?’ They ought to have Shoemaker magazine for people like that and Gourmet for the rest of us.”
“Do I detect a note of snobbery?”
“Yeah, talking to Tanker makes me feel like a snob. He knows a lot about food, G, maybe more than we do, and he’s doing bullshit at Sundae Dinner. Raspberry beurre blanc? I ask you.”
“Ugh.”
“Why do people eat stuff like that?”
“Lots of them don’t,” G-man said reasonably. “The place is closing, remember?”
“Well, but Lenny’s not stupid. How come he ever thought it was a good idea?”
“I guess nobody ever really knows what’s gonna hit in this business. Lenny’s first two restaurants were slam dunks. Maybe he got to thinking he couldn’t make a mistake.”
“I hope he’s not making one with us. What if our gimmick is as stupid as Sundae Dinner’s and we just don’t know it?”
G-man shrugged. “What if it is? We’ll still be serving really good food. It’s not gonna be like Sundae Dinner. You can’t ignore the gimmick there. People who don’t like our gimmick can ignore it and still get a great meal.”
“I guess,” said Rickey. “It’s still pretty scary, though. I mean, Lenny Duveteaux asking me when I want to go look at property for my restaurant.”
“You’d be crazy if you weren’t scared right now. Anybody who’s planning to open a restaurant ought to be scared. Ought to have their head examined too, probably. But you’re smart t
o be scared. Keeps you from fucking up.”
“You don’t seem scared.”
“I think of Karl Malone,” said G-man. “When I get scared, I think about the Mailman taking it to the basket. Yeah, I see you laughing, but it works. Karl Malone doesn’t stop to be scared of whoever’s defending him—he just drives.”
Rickey riffled the pages of his magazine. “I can’t just drive,” he said. “I mean, I can most of the time, but sometimes I start freaking out about everything. You know that.”
“I guess I do.”
“So you got any other suggestions?”
“Well … I still say an Our Father once in a while.”
Rickey glanced up, but G-man was looking away. “You do? Seriously?”
“Yeah. I don’t mean to, but I’ll be thinking about some problem, and all of a sudden I’ll find myself in the middle of one. Old habit, I guess.”
“Does it help?” Rickey was curious.
“Doesn’t hurt,” G-man said a little uncomfortably. “It kinda drowns out the noise in my head.”
“I’d love for something to drown out the noise in my head, but I don’t think praying would work. I never even learned how to do it.”
“You’re making things too complicated,” said G-man. “Remember our rule back in the Ninth Ward? The one that was guaranteed to get us through any situation?”
“‘There is always alcohol,’” Rickey quoted. G-man got two bottles of beer from the refrigerator, opened them, and set one in front of Rickey.
Rickey picked up the bottle and took a long swig. “It’s nice to have a night off, at least.”
“We’re so pathetic.”
“Why?”
“We get home by twelve and we think it’s a night off.”
“You’re right. We need to do something to relax.”
“I got an idea,” said G-man. “Let’s open our own restaurant.”