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shouted. It wasn’t a menu meeting; it was a pep rally! “The most popular item on the menu is the steak frites. It is twelve ounces of aged New York strip grilled to order—and please note you need a
temperature
on that—served with a mound of garlic fries. The duck, the sword, the lamb lollipops—see, we’re having
fun
here—are all served at the chef’s temperature. If you have a guest who wants the lamb killed—by which I mean
well done
—you’re going to have to take it up with Fiona. The sushi plate is allspelled out for you—it’s bluefin tuna caught forty miles off the shore, and the sword
is
harpooned in case you get a guest who has just seen a
Nova
special about how the Canadian coast is being overfished.”
    Just then the door to the kitchen opened and a short, olive-skinned man carried out a stack of plates, followed by his identical twin, who carried a hotel pan filled with grilled steaks. The smell was unbelievable.
    “That’s your dinner,” Thatcher said. “I just have a few more things.”
    A third guy, taller, with longer hair, but the same look of Gibraltar as the other two men, emerged with a hotel pan of French fries, and two bottles of ketchup dangling from his fingers. The staff shifted in their chairs. Adrienne wiggled her feet in her slides.
What,
she wondered,
is wrong with my shoes?
    “The last thing I want to talk about is the fondue. Second seating only, four-tops only, otherwise it’s a logistical nightmare. You all know what fondue is, I assume, remembering it from your parents’ dinner parties when you were kids? We put out a fondue pot with hot peanut oil and we keep it hot with Sterno. So already, servers, visualize moving through the crowded dining room holding a pot of boiling oil. Visualize lighting the Sterno without setting the tablecloth on fire. Adding this to the menu tacked
thousands
of dollars to our insurance policy. But it’s our signature dish. The table gets a huge platter of shrimp, scallops, and clams dredged in seasoned flour. They get nifty fondue forks. What they’re doing, basically, is deep-frying their own shellfish. Then we provide sauces for dipping. So imagine it’s a balmy night, you’ve spent all day on the beach, you’ve napped, you’ve showered, you’ve indulged in a cocktail or two. Then you’re led to a table in the sand for the best all-you-can-eat fried shrimp in the world while sitting under the stars. It’s one of those life-is-good moments.” Thatcher smiled at the staff. “This is our last year. Everything we do this year is going to reflect our generosity of spirit. You will notice I never usethe word ‘customer’ or ‘client.’ The people who eat at this restaurant are our
guests.
And like good hosts, we want to make our guests happy. Now go eat. And for those of you who are new—all wine questions go to me—and familiarize yourself with the dessert menu while you chow.”
    Everyone charged for the food. A few more cooks in spiffy white coats materialized from the kitchen. They were all lean and muscular with skin like gold leaf and dark hair. Latino? They looked alike to Adrienne—maybe they were brothers?—but this, surely, was just an example of her ignorance. The most handsome of the bunch stood in front of Adrienne in line. He looked her up and down—checking her out? Her diaphanous top? Then he grinned.
    “Man,” he said. “Everyone’s in the shit back there. Except for me, of course, but I have the easy job.”
    Adrienne peered over his shoulder at the hotel pan filled with steaks. And a vat of béarnaise—how had she missed that? “What’s the easy job?” she asked.
    “I’m the pastry chef,” he said. “You’re new?”
    “Adrienne.” She offered him her hand.
    “Mario. How’re you doing? I heard about you. Fiona’s been making a big deal all week because you’re a woman.”
    Adrienne studied him. Although he looked like he hailed from the Mediterranean, his accent said Chicago. He was