New Fic-Wishful thinking -11

I'd expected restaurant success the moment that Jaze said, "As you wish." I thought that I would walk into a full dining room the next afternoon, that Dad would have hired a dozen actors to wait on full tables, to manage the line of eager patrons that already stretched halfway around the block.

Not exactly.

The restaurant looked the same as ever as I tied an apron around my waist. Dad was back in the kitchen. Rob was making himself busy in the Shakespeare Room, obviously still avoiding me.

Same old, same old.

Until I seated David Golden.

The David Golden. Restaurant critic for the Minneapolis Star Tribune.

I smiled and led him to our best table. He ordered an Angry Planet Pale Ale. After a quick study of the menu, he asked for a burger, bacon and Swiss, and a side of sautéed mushrooms.

I barely made it back to the kitchen before squealing in excitement. Rob looked up from the plates he was balancing on one forearm. "What?"

"David. Golden. Out. There. Now."

My father clattered a basket into the deep fryer. "In my dining room? This I've got to see!"

"You can't!" Rob and I said at the same time.

"Just cook up your best burger." I said. "Give him fries and onion rings."

Dad nodded and settled into his role. He didn't dig in the back of the fridge, seeking out perfect mushrooms. He didn't slice into a new brick of cheese. He didn't hand-pick strips of bacon.

He just cooked. Like he always did.

When I turned back toward the dining room, Rob was waiting for me. "Ready?" I asked.

He nodded.

I ducked behind the bar and pulled Golden's beer, making sure that it had a perfect head of foam. Rob stopped by the critic's table with a flawlessly casual greeting, setting down fresh bottles of ketchup and mustard, adding extra napkins.

I gathered up some of the magazines that Dad kept behind the bar for slow afternoons. Pasting on my best stage smile, I approached and asked, "Would you like something to read while you wait?" I thought that Golden's twitching eyebrow was a gesture of approval.

Like magic, everything fell into place.

Dad's burger looked like a work of art and smelled like heaven. Every fry, every onion ring had a perfect golden glow. The tables next to the critic remained open, giving him peace and quiet to enjoy his meal.

And enjoy, he did. He polished off every bite—every crumble of bacon, every fry and onion ring. He ate with the gusto of a man who has a standing appointment with his personal trainer.

Golden paid in cash, leaving behind a twenty percent tip. As the door closed behind him, I realized that Rob and I were standing next to each other, side by side, close enough that I could feel the heat from his body. I felt calm. Accomplished. Victorious.

Rob sighed and said, "There's only one thing wrong."