Sherman Madox folded the table cloth gently like it was a woman. Closing time had arrived and he'd made practically nothing in tips that night. From the kitchen he could hear the chef arguing with the dishwasher like they did every night. One evening it became so wild Sherman ducked as a frying pan peeled through the kitchen door, and flew clear across the dining room, only to land inches from a bottle of scotch that sat on top of the bar next to the maître d's hat.
Sherman just needed five more minutes to put the last of the table cloths away and change his shirt. Then he could make his escape before things became too dicey between Ryan and Emilie.
Emilie ran the kitchen like he was a drill sergeant.
When Sherman began his stint at Lorals they didn't even employ bus boys. The waiters took care of everything from soup to nuts. Since then Lorals had become known as one of your finer eating establishments in Newark, New Jersey: the town that everyone loved to hate, but at the same token the town where tourists saved money on New York City hotels and restaurants.
There was a reason for places like Newark.
Now he had to split his tips with the bus boy. Now he had to duck flying frying pans and testy chefs.
Just as Sherman placed the last table cloth in the closet next to the kitchen Emilie flew out the door cursing at Ryan. Sherman assumed Ryan was lying on the kitchen floor laughing at Emilie like he'd done a hundred times before. Ryan, like a spider with a fly, seemed to relish angering Emilie.
Sherman grabbed Emilie by the arm and said, "Why do you let Ryan get to you, you know that's what he likes."
"I can't help it, Sherman I'm very particular about the way I prepare my meals, and how my kitchen is kept. Ryan knows this. For example, tonight he knows I would never prepare anything but shallots with my boeuf burgoine. The shallots are preferable to the pearl onion! But Ryan, he kept on calling my shallots pearl onions, over and over, because he's aware of how these things get under my skin. I wanted to thrash him with a meat hammer!"
While Emilie finished his sentence Ryan flew out of the kitchen door laughing, proclaiming, "Emilie you're such a wuss, that's why I love picking on you. Really, who cares? Shallot. Pearl onion."
"Well, obviously Emile cares," Sherman said, knowing it would only bring him grief, "so why not just let him be, Ryan?"
"Figured, you would stick up for him, Sherman, an old fucker like you."
"He's not that old, "Emilie interjected, wiping his brow with his apron.
"You like to intimidate people don't you, Ryan?" Sherman said, stepping away from the door, still holding on to Emilie's shoulder, "You get a kick out of it like the way you take joy in getting Emile all worked up. None of it's amusing, Ryan."
Ryan rushed past Sherman and Emile and headed towards the bar. Bringing a glass to his lips he said, "When is he coming? He should be here soon?"
Sherman looked down at his shoes and took a deep breath. Glad at the change of subject Ryan provided, he cleared his throat in a conspicuous manner and said," He usually comes around now doesn't he, Ryan?"
"I'll go get his cup of coffee. Sherman you left one table open didn't you?"
"Yes, Emile, I wanted to stay tonight but I've got to tend to my taxes. Please make sure he gets served all right. Tell Charles I'll see him tomorrow."
