Free Food Whore by Jessica Tom Page B

caught my attention. He handed me his coat with two hands, as if handing a flag to a fallen soldier’s family. I mirrored his movements and his cold fingers touched the insides of my wrists. I watched his skinny silhouette walk upstairs, his slacks hitting more air than leg. He wore a linen shirt with a Nehru collar, the look of a genteel Indian diplomat, which threw me off. But something about him seemed familiar.
    When I got a free moment—­between a fur-­collared jacket from MaxMara and a bag from Ferragamo—­I looked at his coat again, in case it provided a clue. Even in my short coat check career, I knew cashmere was normally just the shell of the coat, with silk or wool for the lining. His coat had cashmere inside and out. It was cold out, but not that cold. Though if I had a coat this soft, I’d find any excuse to wear it.
    A note dropped out.
    Good evening. Stay on your toes tonight.
    A tingle ran down my spine as I turned the velvety blue cardstock in my hands. Stay on your toes? Who should stay on their toes? For what?
    I heard a cough at the coat check opening, then turned and held out my hands.
    It was Jake. “Oh. Hi, sorry, I thought you were a guest.”
    â€œTia. I have a ­couple questions for you.” Jake’s usually composed hands moved double-­time and a cowlick was showing itself on top of his otherwise perfectly styled hair.
    â€œOkay, what do you need?”
    â€œI don’t need anything. I want to know what you know. How is the shrimp toast prepared?”
    â€œOh, um,” I said, collecting myself. “Brioche is marinated overnight in shrimp stock, then caked with Indian prawn and langoustine mousse.” I had read that in Carey’s Wiki last night.
    â€œWhere are the langoustines from?”
    â€œMontauk.”
    â€œAnd how would you recommend serving the salmon?”
    â€œWhich salmon?”
    â€œBoth salmons. The sous-­vide and the salad.”
    â€œThe sous-­vide should be served well.” I remembered reading that sometime between two and three A. M . “Because it stays moist in the pouch no matter what and the greater cooking time allows the flavors to infuse longer. Medium-­rare to rare for the salad, to show off the quality of the product.”
    â€œAnd where do you put the bone bowl for the frog legs in tarragon gremolata?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œDo you put the bowl on the right or left of the guest?”
    â€œNeither. The frog legs are deboned. No bowl is necessary.”
    â€œGood answer,” he said, visibly relaxing. “Listen, we have a full house and thirty PX tables, most of them unexpected. We’re in the weeds in there. This is a very unusual circumstance and I need your help. Will you backserve regular tables so we can concentrate on the PXs? You’ll trail Henri on half his tables and we’ll let the hostess do coat check.”
    â€œBackserve tonight? You mean work in the dining room?” My voice must have jumped an octave.
    â€œYes, work in the dining room. My God, let’s not say everything twice, okay?”
    I immediately lost interest in the mystery note and stuffed it in my pocket.
    â€œOf course,” I said. “Whatever you need.”
    As Jake handed me my white apron, I saw that Jake’s idea of “in the weeds” would have looked serene to 98 percent of other restaurants. But I had already gotten a sense of the staff’s collective competence, and indeed the air had turned tense. In the back, a ­couple of waiters were sorting out the chits, little cheat sheets on tables’ preferences.
    â€œNo! Dean Chariss is on table nine,” a waiter whispered.
    â€œNo, that’s Frank Harris. He’s a friend of Yael Jean.”
    I saw a waitress anxiously watching a wine chiller water bath, waiting for a bottle of champagne to come to the guest’s exact preferred temperature.
    Jake was already in