The salmon croquettes were all seated on their individual beds of lettuce, a Warhol-esque display of edible repetition. Ryan had lost count, and was starting over, ensuring accuracy before they went out into the dining area. She nodded to the servers, "Take it."
Ryan surveyed the domestic kitchen--it surpassed any restaurant kitchen she'd ever worked in. Stainless steel countertops, stained concrete flooring, Viking ranges, only the best knives gleaming and sharpened on magnetic strips. Marble and granite counters. The catering crew worked diligently, a well-choreographed ballet of savory and sweet. Ryan walked around, noting the professionalism. Her job was easy with this team...they all respected the craft and had appreciation for the work. No criticisms, no corrections.
A muffled speech could barely be heard in the kitchen for the event in the main section of the house. Dignitaries and politicians sat with activists and businessmen. Ryan jokingly referred to her employer as Madame Tolstoy, a heavyset Russian woman who held these gatherings periodically in her home. Her name wasn't Tolstoy, but something much longer and syllabically challenging. Always the same type of deal....high society food for a mixed crowd. Ryan kept to the kitchen--it wasn't her business to hear the conversations or the speeches.
At the end of the night, Ryan had dismissed most of the crew. She and a promising younger cook stayed to load the remaining equipment back into the van. She went back into the kitchen alone to check that everything was clean, nothing left behind. Madame Tolstoy entered as Ryan was inspecting the grates of the ranges.
"Bravo, my dear, " she said in her thick accent, smiling almost slyly. Ryan turned around, smiling in response. "I hope everyone enjoyed the food."
"Oh the food. The food is delicious!" she said, kissing her thumb and forefinger. "Very consistent with you...I like this very much," she struggled a bit with her English but her appreciation translated well. She handed Ryan an envelope with several crisp bills.
"Thank you," Ryan replied, taking the envelope. "It's always a pleasure to work here. Your kitchen is amazing." She started to walk toward the door, politely indicating her departure.
Madame Tolstoy approached, touching Ryan's hand gently. "You come at night tomorrow..."
Ryan looked a bit puzzled, inwardly panicking that she thought she had tomorrow night off. "Tomorrow? Did we..."
Madame T interrupted, smiling and shaking her head, "No food, but party. You come, I want you here." She handed Ryan a pre-printed envelope with her name printed in cursive. Ryan took the envelope politely. They bid their farewells, and Ryan got into the van.
"So what did you think, Drew? Not a bad night, huh?" she said, closing the driver's side door.
He gave her the thumbs up, eyes sleepy or maybe stoned. "That kitchen was insane. I wish we had half of that stuff at The Nines," he replied. "I didn't even have to use my knives."
"That's money," she replied, nodding toward the house. "I bet she's never even touched an appliance in there." They drove along the winding Twin Peaks streets, headed toward the heart of the city.
"This one," Drew said, pointing to the dilapidated walk-up in the Tenderloin. Ryan handed him a crisp $100 bill, and he palmed it. "Thanks for giving me this chance with the catering gig," he said, leaning against the frame of the passenger door. Ryan nodded. "No problem, Drew. Good work tonight. See you next shift." He closed the van door, carrying his knife case through the iron door to his building.
Ryan pulled the van behind the restaurant, sighing and looking at the clock. 2:13am. She grabbed her wallet and keys from the console, her eye catching her scripted name on the envelope Madame T had given her. She opened it, scanning the somewhat elusive details of the second envelope within: You are Cordially Invited...
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The alarm buzzed at 6am sharp, and Kate lay supine and diagonal across the bed, comforter strewn around her legs, pillow across her forehead. She hit the off button with her left hand, not looking. The faint smell of coffee mingled with the fresh morning air from her cracked window. She yawned, stretched and shuffled to the kitchen in her panties and cami.
Kate took out her favorite mug, the one her sister had given her, filled it with coffee and sipped meditatively. The thick lip of the mug was somehow comforting, almost engaging her in a kiss with each hot sip. She opened the pantry and took out her protein powder, grabbed an apple from the fridge, and looked at her planner on the countertop. Two meetings, an interview with a potential artist to exhibit. She strained her eyes to read what was written smaller in pencil: pInc - 9pm. Kate jogged her memory, flipping to the back of her planner and retrieving the envelope. She read over the invitation to the party at the Twin Peaks address. Her mind pondered the phrases...by invitation only, anonymous indulgence, respectful discretion, innermost desires. She unconsciously ran her tongue along the lip of the mug, her intrigue and imagination overtaking her.
"Shit!" she snapped as coffee dripped onto her feet. She set the mug down on the counter, grabbing a damp paper towel to wipe the coffee from the floor. She glanced at the clock, gasping at the time. Kate downed her protein drink, bit into the apple and ran into the bathroom to start her shower.
