“Yeah, didn’t you hear him?” the woman crows.
Hehadn’theard them. Frankly, he was fixated on the words stacking up behind his glued-shut lips. Thinking about how expensive getting his advanced sommelier certificate is going to be. Obsessing over whether his dream to leave Bethlehem and start working for an establishment that actually wants andvaluesa sommelier would be another nail in the coffin at Martin’s Place. And last but certainly not least, staring at that white napkin which is now soaked to an unsightly light yellow at one edge.
“Apologies aren’t going to cut it,” the man repeats with an emphasis on each word. “Darling, grab your sweater, and let’s go.”
The couple huffs once more before marching to the exit. Bells above the door sing out a bright, happy jingle that couldn’t be more wrong for the moment.
“Julien, let’s take a walk to my office,” Uncle Martin says as Julien’s boss and not his parental figure. It’s a dreadful tone that makes his stomach bottom out.
Before nodding and following behind, Julien scoops the sullied napkin from the table and takes it with him. This napkin, unlike his mind and temperament, is a mess he can handle.
Uncle Martin instructs him to sit in the chair in the corner of the small, cramped room. On a nearby metal shelf, Julien clears a space and unrolls the napkin before grabbing a tissue from the full box on Uncle Martin’s desk. While still listening, he starts soaking up the excess oil, watching it bleed from the napkin onto the tissue.
“What’s gotten into you?” Uncle Martin asks, slumped forward on his elbows, neck craned upward. “You haven’t been acting like yourself.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Julien says with a huff, standing and crossing the room to a cabinet. He pulls bicarbonate of soda from it and, using the container’s tiny plastic spoon, sprinkles a little onto the napkin.
“I hate to be the broken record here and sound like that jerkoff,” Uncle Martin says, using his favorite cussword, “but an apology won’t cut it. You’re losing me business.”
Julien watches as the sodium bicarbonate clumps up, pulling the oil from the napkin. Truthfully, he relates to that oil stain, spread too thin in the wrong place.
For a while, he made peace with the fact that he’d probably inherit Martin’s Place from his uncle when the time was right. A slow passing of the torch. Aunt Augustine and Uncle Martin tried for a long time to have a child with no luck. After the second IVF attempt, pre-Julien’s arrival in their lives, Aunt Augustine decided they’d invest the money in a time-share in Florida they’d visit for biannual partying. Now Julien watches the restaurant every time they venture off—though there are older, more seasoned employees available to do so—and every time, Uncle Martin goes misty-eyed with visions of the future.
Julien dreads those two weeks every year.
“That’s not my intention. I’m sorry. I’ve been...distracted,” Julien says, which is at the very least not a lie. Last month, his landlord hiked his rent, severely throwing his precise and careful budgeting out the window. Because they’re blood and Julien owes Uncle Martin much of his success, he never asks for a raise regardless of how much extra work he takes on. So he skimps where he can: no new clothes, take-out coffee, or having a car of his own.
On top of that, Julien’s friend-with-benefits moved three months ago, and he hasn’t been able to find a suitable replacement since. Not that sex is transactional to him, but it is necessary, and he has specific standards that must be met before he can let go in a way that is both satisfying and helps clear his mind.
Uncle Martin leans back, and the chair beneath him creaks. “Maybe you should think about taking some time off.” It sounds more like a demand than a suggestion. Which is the wrong way to get Julien to listen.
“No. I’m fine,” Julien insists, taking an old toothbrush from the supply closet and starting to scrub at the stain. So fast and so furious, even Vin Diesel would be jealous. “I swear. I’m fine.” His cramping hand muscles protest.
“Says the man more worried about an oil stain than the fact that he lost out on a big tip,” Uncle Martin says, referencing the couple. What Uncle Martin has never understood in his many years of restaurant ownership is that the nicer the purse and the snootier the man, the less they tip. Julien’s not going to feel the loss of less than fifteen percent.
He would, however, feel the loss of a week’s wages. His savings account has taken a hit, and he needs to replenish it to take the advanced sommelier course next year. He completed the prerequisite course and exam a year to the day last Thursday, and it’s time to get moving on the next phase as speedily as possible. The quicker he’s advanced, the sooner he can become a master with all its exclusivity and luxury and big paydays.
There’s a world beyond Bethlehem that he’s never seen. Never had access to. And here, well, there are too many reminders of his parents, of yelling that shook the walls and dirty glasses that piled up in the sink for weeks on end until they smelled or got thrown. Away or at the wall. Both happened frequently. He told as much, through tears, to the kindly caseworker with the sunflower necklace who promised him everything would be okay.
Julien stops scrubbing, ignoring his uncle’s dig at what he knows full well is one of Julien’s OCD triggers. You can explain mental health to a Boomer, but you can’t make them absorb anything you say. “It’s sleep. I haven’t been sleeping well. I promise I’ll do better.”
Uncle Martin sighs and nods. “I’m really going to hold you to that, Julien. We aren’t pulling in as much of a profit as we should be right now. If we don’t make that Best of Lehigh Valley year-end list, I’m afraid... Well, first, I’m afraid we’re going to have to get rid of the time-share in Orlando, which would crush Augustine. But second, I’m afraid that’ll be curtains for us.”
“Don’t say that,” Julien manages to reply while retrieving the stain-remover spray.
“That’s all there is to say about this situation, which is why I have to tell you something,” Uncle Martin says, switching from boss to uncle. Softer gaze, gentler voice. This can’t be good. “We’re going to be making some staff changes. Are you familiar with this guy?” Uncle Martin swivels his phone around to face Julien.
TikTok is pulled up. How did Uncle Martin even know what TikTok was? On the screen is a man with dark brown hair quaffed upward in front, a heart-shaped face with groomed scruff across his upper lip and jawline, and big ears that tip out slightly at the sides. He stands behind a kitchen island without a shirt on. Defined pecs are bisected by a tuft of curly dark hair. Abs chase each other down the front of his torso into low-sitting, neon green joggers.
“What’s up, guys? It’s me, GoodWithHisHandsHarlow, your friendly TikTok mixologist back with another autumn-inspired cocktail.”
The rest of the video plays out at double-speed. Instruction bubbles pop up as he displays the different ingredients. Gin. Orange juice. Pomegranate juice. Honey. Thyme. The ingredients get poured, mixed, and sipped rapidly, yet there are no mistakes, no spills. Two large hands—knuckles lightly dusted with black hair—get their own close-up as precise measurements are taken.
“And that’s how you make a pomegranate gin cocktail,” GoodWithHisHandsHarlow says before “accidentally” spilling the cocktail. It dribbles past his chin and sluices down his bare torso as the music switches to something sexy. Then the video loops.
“I am not familiar with that guy,” Julien says, beating back the slight jolt of attraction he felt when the man capably poured the drink. He saves those thoughts for Friday nights. Or he did back when Colin still lived in his building and not several states away. Besides, any attraction was usurped by annoyance as soon as the cocktail made a river toward the man’s belly button.
Service is not about showmanship. It’s about knowledge and craft.
