Catherine's

Catherine’s

Upon my return to New York, my first priority was to find a job. And as my good fortune continued to follow me, I found one within five days. It was at Catherine’s in Midtown Manhattan—a well-established, upscale American Bistro with a Northern Italian infusion. The Italian infusion fit my style perfectly, though I wish it had been Southern Italian. But that wasn’t the issue.

Though I didn’t realize it at first, the issue turned out to be the owner, Catherine Benoit. Catherine, as she demanded to be called—from the lowliest busboy to her executive chef, was a prima donna. The insistence on a single name gave her an air of personage, like Cher or Madonna. She was from old money on New York’s Upper East Side. A trust fund baby, raised with a silver spoon in her mouth and the taste buds to go with it.

She didn’t own Catherine’s to make a living. It was probably more of a tax shelter than a viable business enterprise. However, it employed more than 60 people and, more importantly to her, provided a platform for her to be seen as a mover and shaker in New York’s high society. The restaurant was very popular, with a typical waiting list of several weeks to get a table. However, you could obtain a table on short notice if you were a prominent celebrity, a properly significant politician, or even a respectably notorious figure.

Although Catherine wasn’t always present, she somehow knew if a notable celebrity was planning to attend. On those particular nights, you could always rest assured that she would be there. Catherine would usually swish in just before they arrived, pretending to be busy between the hostess stand and the bar. And then, just as if on cue, she would spin around, give a Tony Award act of surprise and flattery, and then graciously seat the honored guest herself. It was a well-rehearsed performance, one at which she utterly excelled.

Further, though Catherine was probably in her mid-fifties, she dressed and looked ten to twenty years younger. She dressed elegantly and carried herself as if she were born to it, which she was. Catherine was already tall for a woman, maybe five-eight or nine. But she always wore Louis Vuitton three-inch heels, placing herself eye-to-eye with most men. She wore tight black dresses or skirts that accented her curvaceous hips and ass while tapering down her legs to a length several inches below her knees. How she walked in dresses like this, I have no idea. But she did it with the style and grace of a femme fatale. And I should mention she had exquisite taste in jewelry, yet surprisingly, never a ring on the third finger of her left hand. Giving an air of mystery to her personal life outside the restaurant.

So, what was this ‘issue’ regarding Catherine? First, a little background on my position. I was hired as a Chef de Partie, responsible for preparing both cold and warm appetizers. In effect, a station chef. I had two assistants under me; one primarily handled salads, and the other soups and warm apéritifs. However, I remained responsible for the entire section, so the three of us worked as a team. I reported directly to one of the two Sous Chefs, who in turn reported to the Chef de Cuisine, who reported to the Executive Chef. But rest assured, Catherine had her fingers on everything. Although each chef had some degree of autonomy, Catherine was still the ultimate authority, and she never let anyone forget it.

However, all of that was to be expected. The real ‘issue’ was her absolute insistence on no fraternizing among the staff. And when I say ‘no fraternizing’ I mean no suggestive smiles or winks, no slap on the ass, no hint of a romantic interest in any way whatsoever. This rule also applies outside of business hours, as well as in the restaurant. Now, was such a rule legal—probably not. But that made no difference to her. It was a condition of employment, and you had to agree; otherwise, there would be no job.

The origin of this regulation was never explained. And we were always too busy to share in speculation and innuendo. But from what I could tell, it had something to do with her being jilted years ago, left at the altar, so to speak, by the love of her life over an affair he was having with a female co-worker of his. It had nothing to do with the restaurant. In fact, I believe it was years before she even opened Catherine’s. But if true, the incident scarred her in a way that she has lived with ever since.

I never gave the policy much thought. My attention was to get a good job in a good restaurant. And as for my sagging love life, I would just be looking outside of work. Besides, once I was in the kitchen, work was all I thought about. Everyone who worked the back of the house wore chef’s coats, tight-fitting kitchen hats, and most of us wore what are generally referred to as chef’s pants. These pants typically came in dark colors, black with thin white stripes, checkerboard, houndstooth, or, more commonly now, silly designs. They were loose-fitting and almost looked like pajamas. So, there was nothing sexy about them. The staff in the front of the house wore much more stylish clothing, but other than the hostesses, nothing too revealing.

That is where Emily came into play. She was one of the hostesses. Probably in her early twenties —basically my age. A tall drink of water at five-nine or ten, and dressed very much like Catherine, except in a much younger style. For the first five or six months, I paid little attention to her. I knew who she was because, before opening each night, the entire staff would always sit together for family dinner. A common ritual in which we all ate together before opening each evening. The Executive Chef would go over the menu for the night and give a little motivational pep talk, like a football coach before a game.

But somewhere between my fourth and fifth month at Catherines, as I was walking out the back door to head for the subway, Emily was waiting for me in the alley. Now I don’t usually leave the kitchen until close to eleven o’clock. And the people from the front of the house are usually all gone by then. But once a week, the printed menu changes, and the hostesses have to stay late and update all of the menu folders with the new carte du jour. This must have been one of those nights.

It was rather cold that night, and I could see her breath as I approached her. “Hey John,” she said. “Would you mind walking me to the subway?”

“Of course not,” I replied. “Which way are you going?”

“Greenwich Village,” she said as she pointed toward downtown.

“Perfect, I’m heading for East Village myself, I’ll ride with you.”

That must have been precisely what she wanted to hear, as her face lit up. I felt her start to reach for my hand, but she stopped herself at the last second.

The nearest subway entrance was only a block away, and soon we had descended into the bowels of the city. At that hour of the night, the train wasn’t crowded, and for the first time, I actually got a chance to talk to her. She was twenty-one, a New York native, and had lived in Greenwich Village since graduating high school. She attended community college part-time, at her parents’ expense, and lived by herself. But the big news was that she was related to Cathrine.

“You’re what?” I exclaimed.

“My mother is Cathrine’s niece,” Emily casually stated.

“You mean Cathrine is your mother’s aunt?” I questioned.

“Yes, but saying that my mother is Cathrine’s niece makes me her great niece, and that sounds better.”

I dropped the line of questioning after that.

As we approached her stop, she asked, “Would you mind walking with me to my apartment? I don’t like walking alone this late at night.”

For the first time, the issue of fraternization crossed my mind. But it wasn’t an unreasonable request, so I agreed. It was a four- or five-block walk, and though the neighborhood looked safe to me, it was dark, and lower Manhattan seemed colder and lonelier than uptown. Upon reaching her building, she actually took my hand and led me to her door. I was now getting a little nervous, but at this point, I wasn’t thinking of my job; I was thinking about where I would be spending the night with this drop-dead gorgeous girl.

I did spend the night, of course. As I did about once or twice a week for the next five or six months. We were totally discreet about the entire relationship at the restaurant. We rarely, if ever, made eye contact; we never spoke directly to each other; and on the rare occasions when she had a reason to be in the kitchen, we totally ignored one another.

About six months after our first tryst, I was called into the restaurant manager’s office. “John, you can go ahead and pack your knives; we’re not going to need your services any longer.”

“What?” I gasped. “I thought I was doing an exceptional job.”

He leaned back in his chair and sighed, “It’s not your work, John; it’s the violation of company policy.”

I started to argue with him, but I knew it wasn’t his decision. It was Catherine’s, and there was nothing I could do about that. I sat, stupefied, for about 30 seconds, then stood and walked from his office without another word. I left my chef’s jacket and hat at my workstation, grabbed my knives and walked out without a word to anyone.

About twenty minutes later, my phone dinged; it was Emily. ‘Did you just get fired?’ she texted.

‘Yes,’ I typed back.

Seconds later, my phone rang. “John, I am so sorry,” she sobbed.

“It’s okay.” I said, “We knew the risk.”

“Meet me for a drink.”

I agreed, and ten minutes later, we were sitting side by side at a midtown watering hole. “Are you not going into work today?” I asked.

“Shit, no …” she said. “I was fired as well.”

“I thought you were family,” I said after taking the first sip of my beer.

“John … I am so—so sorry.” She pleaded. “We were so careful; I have no idea how she found out.” Emily took an actual gulp of the wine she had just been served. “She’s a bitch, John. A God damn fucking bitch.”

“She’s your—r aunt,” I responded sarcastically. Then, looking over at her, I realized that she was about to cry. “Emily, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” But the remark hurt her, and I instantly realized that the insinuation was hurtful. Turning to face her, I took her hand in mine and apologized. “Emily, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I loved the time we had together, and if the price for that was our jobs. No regrets, it was worth it.”

I think that helped, as she didn’t slap me or break down into tears. But after another sip of her wine, she added, “It’s illegal. She can’t fire us for seeing each other outside of work.”

I tried to be more sympathetic this time. “Maybe it’s illegal, but what are you going to do about it? Sue her?”

“No, I guess I can’t do that. Besides, would it do—get us our jobs back?” Emily paused while taking another sip of wine. “What are you going to do, John? Look for another job?”

“I don’t know,” I said between sips of my beer, “I think I’m going to head south. Get out of this city.” I paused again and looked directly into her eyes. “Let’s blow this berg. You and I—let’s get out of here.”

“I don’t know, John. New York is all I know. The Big Apple, I was born here.” She took another sip of wine. “My entire family is here, including my bitch of an aunt.”

“I was born and raised here, too,” I said, looking back at the mirror behind the bar. “But I have seen the lights of Paris, and Milan, and Naples, for that matter. There is more to the world than NYC.”

She finished her drink, and turning back to face me, with a tear in her eye, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “I’ll miss you, John—I will really miss you.”

I finished my beer, paid the tab for both of us, and, standing to leave, leaned over and kissed her romantically on the lips. Our kiss lasted thirty seconds or longer, and when it finally broke, she was actually crying. “You have my number, Emily,” I said softly. “If you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”