1
IZZY
If there is one thing I have learned about working at Notte Bianca, it is that the night always starts quietly and then turns chaotic before you even notice.
By six-thirty the dining room is already half-full. By seven it is completely packed, every table occupied, the bar humming with conversation, the kitchen shouting orders so fast that the words blur together.
A quick look around and I can see that polished glow it always has in the evening: warm lights over white tablecloths, polished glasses, expensive wine bottles lined up behind the bar like trophies. The kind of place people save up to visit for birthdays or anniversaries, or the kind of place people with more money than sense visit twice a week just because they can.
My job as the head waiter is to make sure none of those people notice how close the whole thing is to falling apart.
Head waiter sounds glamorous when you say it out loud. But in practice, it mostly means running around all night fixing problems nobody else has time to deal with. I handle complaints, smooth over misunderstandings, juggle reservations when people show up early or late or with extraguests they forgot to mention. I step in when a table is unhappy with their food, or when the kitchen falls behind, or when someone has had a little too much wine and starts getting difficult.
Basically everything a restaurant manager is supposed to do.
Because Dickhead Donald sure as fuck ain’t gonna.
I weave between tables with the same quick rhythm I’ve had for years now, the tray balanced easily on one hand as I scan the room for problems. It’s a skill you learn after long enough in this job: you stop looking at people individually and start reading the room like a pattern.
“Table twelve needs another bottle of Barolo,” Erin calls as she passes me on her way to the kitchen.
“Already grabbing it.”
Erin flashes me a grateful smile and disappears through the swinging doors.
I grab the bottle from the rack behind the service station and head toward the table. The couple sitting there looks like they belong in a luxury watch advertisement. The man is middle-aged, well dressed, already halfway through his current glass. The woman is scrolling through her phone with the bored expression of someone who has done this dinner routine a thousand times before.
I pour their wine, keep the smile in place, make polite small talk for exactly fifteen seconds, and excuse myself before they can invent something else to need.
Problem solved.
One down.
About fifty more to go before the night is over.
As I cross the room again, Savannah nearly runs into me while rushing out of the kitchen.
“Table six says the risotto is wrong,” she says under her breath.
“Wrong, how?”
“Too creamy.” She blows out a tired breath.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to calm my nerves. “That’s… literally how risotto works.”
“Tell them that,” Savannah says, already moving again.
I sigh and head toward the table.
Five minutes later the risotto is “perfect” and the couple thanks me for my excellent service. Apparently, all it took was explaining the dish in a calm voice and offering to replace it if they still weren’t satisfied.
People mostly just want to feel listened to.
It’s amazing how far knowing that gets you.
When I reach the bar, Amber is already sliding a finished drink onto my tray. “Table eight,” she says.
I pick up the glass. “You’re a lifesaver.”
