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When I arrive at Chow just before three pm, Tony's already zipping between his roles as organizer, table setter, and cook. I blast through the front toward the kitchen and immediately start helping the overwhelmed chefs.
I hear the click of a gas lighter repeat too many times behind me and turn to find Helen frowning at the stove.
"What's the matter?" I say, without stopping my washing of salad greens.
"This stove … it's not coming on."
I finish rinsing and dry my hands quickly as I move toward it, inspecting under the cap and trying it myself.
"The guy told me this happens sometimes," I say, frustrated as I look at the piping behind it, "and that it would clear itself up soon."
I slam the cap back and try again, feeling a release of endorphins as it fires up.
"Thanks, chef," Helen says as I check the clock and see that we're only two and a half hours away now.
I get back to the veggie rinsing, so on edge now that it sounds like there are a hundred people chattering in my head, willing the minute hand on the clock to move a little slower. In the rush to prepare stations, check sauces, and ready ingredients, the time disappears …
"Uh … Willow?"
I turn to look in the direction of the trembling voice.
"Yes, Shane?"
"Are you sure we have enough squid?" he says, as he glances in the ice box uncertainly.
"Of course. We had a delivery just this morning."
I hear Jack's rhythmic knife-chopping stop suddenly, and look up again to find Shane and Jack looking nervously at each other.
"Uh … no. We didn't," Shane says.
"Yes we did," I say, trying to stop the feeling of my heart plunging into my gut. "It would have come before nine-thirty."
"I was here at eight," Jack says. "And we haven't gotten any deliveries today."
I stare at them for a few seconds, mouth going dry, babbling voices in my head getting louder, then drop the salad and push past them on a desperate march toward the storage area at the back.
Nothing.
I yank open the industrial freezer, slimly hoping there was a mistake in storage, but find only the meager supplies left over from training last week.
"Fuck!" I yell. A primal scream that serves only to keep me from combusting with my own anger. I grab the door frame for support and breathe deep, not even the coldness of the refrigerated air able to cool off the lava of my furious blood.
I scramble to pull my phone from my pocket and call the distributor, about ready to tear him limb from limb over the connection, cursing out his entire lineage with every ringtone that he doesn't answer, until it clicks over to his voicemail and I unleash a tirade of war-mongering proportions, gripping the phone as tight as if it were his neck.
The noise in my head is almost unbearable now, a background whine that sets my nerves jangling, my muscles taut. I march back through the kitchen to Tony, who's hurriedly directing the waiters as he rearranges napkins and place settings.
"Tony!" I say, while I'm still crossing the room. "We have a problem."
"You're telling me," he says, rising as I get near.
"The fucking seafood delivery is- Wait. What are you talking about?"
Tony's face is a picture of rare concern.
"Well … remember when I said we didn't have to worry about overbooking, because it's not like every single person would show up for their reservation anyway?"
Suddenly it hits me. The voices in my head aren't actually in my head. The thrum and chatter of a crowd … is coming from outside my restaurant. I can see a few people milling about through the glass, but now I move purposefully to the door.
"I honestly didn't expect this kind of turnout, Willow!" Tony says apologetically as he follows me.
I slam through the entrance doors and step out onto the sidewalk, the scene stretching out before me like a punch in the gut.
"Holy shit … "
The crowd is thick, and stretches off down the entire block. It's the sort of crowd that would have been an effort to handle even on a good night at Knife, more like a political protest than a line for a restaurant.
"What the hell, Tony?" I say, hands on my head as I struggle to find where the line ends. "Did you offer people free meals or something?"
"Of course not," he says, shrugging diffidently. "I guess I just underestimated how good I am at promotion."
I peel my eyes from the scene to direct my frustration at my business partner.
"It's not going to be good promotion when we have to turn away two thirds of these people, and the other third has to wait over an hour for their food. We can only seat eighty people, for God's sake!"