“I know. I’m sorry,” Julien says with a huff, standing and crossing the room to a cabinet. He pulls bicarbonate of soda from it and, using the container’s tiny plastic spoon, sprinkles a little onto the napkin.
“I hate to be the broken record here and sound like that jerkoff,” Uncle Martin says, using his favorite cussword, “but an apology won’t cut it. You’re losing me business.”
Julien watches as the sodium bicarbonate clumps up, pulling the oil from the napkin. Truthfully, he relates to that oil stain, spread too thin in the wrong place.
For a while, he made peace with the fact that he’d probably inherit Martin’s Place from his uncle when the time was right. A slow passing of the torch. Aunt Augustine and Uncle Martin tried for a long time to have a child with no luck. After the second IVF attempt, pre-Julien’s arrival in their lives, Aunt Augustine decided they’d invest the money in a time-share in Florida they’d visit for biannual partying. Now Julien watches the restaurant every time they venture off—though there are older, more seasoned employees available to do so—and every time, Uncle Martin goes misty-eyed with visions of the future.
Julien dreads those two weeks every year.
“That’s not my intention. I’m sorry. I’ve been...distracted,” Julien says, which is at the very least not a lie. Last month, his landlord hiked his rent, severely throwing his precise and careful budgeting out the window. Because they’re blood and Julien owes Uncle Martin much of his success, he never asks for a raise regardless of how much extra work he takes on. So he skimps where he can: no new clothes, take-out coffee, or having a car of his own.
On top of that, Julien’s friend-with-benefits moved three months ago, and he hasn’t been able to find a suitable replacement since. Not that sex is transactional to him, but it is necessary, and he has specific standards that must be met before he can let go in a way that is both satisfying and helps clear his mind.
Uncle Martin leans back, and the chair beneath him creaks. “Maybe you should think about taking some time off.” It sounds more like a demand than a suggestion. Which is the wrong way to get Julien to listen.
“No. I’m fine,” Julien insists, taking an old toothbrush from the supply closet and starting to scrub at the stain. So fast and so furious, even Vin Diesel would be jealous. “I swear. I’m fine.” His cramping hand muscles protest.
“Says the man more worried about an oil stain than the fact that he lost out on a big tip,” Uncle Martin says, referencing the couple. What Uncle Martin has never understood in his many years of restaurant ownership is that the nicer the purse and the snootier the man, the less they tip. Julien’s not going to feel the loss of less than fifteen percent.
He would, however, feel the loss of a week’s wages. His savings account has taken a hit, and he needs to replenish it to take the advanced sommelier course next year. He completed the prerequisite course and exam a year to the day last Thursday, and it’s time to get moving on the next phase as speedily as possible. The quicker he’s advanced, the sooner he can become a master with all its exclusivity and luxury and big paydays.
There’s a world beyond Bethlehem that he’s never seen. Never had access to. And here, well, there are too many reminders of his parents, of yelling that shook the walls and dirty glasses that piled up in the sink for weeks on end until they smelled or got thrown. Away or at the wall. Both happened frequently. He told as much, through tears, to the kindly caseworker with the sunflower necklace who promised him everything would be okay.
Julien stops scrubbing, ignoring his uncle’s dig at what he knows full well is one of Julien’s OCD triggers. You can explain mental health to a Boomer, but you can’t make them absorb anything you say. “It’s sleep. I haven’t been sleeping well. I promise I’ll do better.”
Uncle Martin sighs and nods. “I’m really going to hold you to that, Julien. We aren’t pulling in as much of a profit as we should be right now. If we don’t make that Best of Lehigh Valley year-end list, I’m afraid... Well, first, I’m afraid we’re going to have to get rid of the time-share in Orlando, which would crush Augustine. But second, I’m afraid that’ll be curtains for us.”
“Don’t say that,” Julien manages to reply while retrieving the stain-remover spray.
“That’s all there is to say about this situation, which is why I have to tell you something,” Uncle Martin says, switching from boss to uncle. Softer gaze, gentler voice. This can’t be good. “We’re going to be making some staff changes. Are you familiar with this guy?” Uncle Martin swivels his phone around to face Julien.
TikTok is pulled up. How did Uncle Martin even know what TikTok was? On the screen is a man with dark brown hair quaffed upward in front, a heart-shaped face with groomed scruff across his upper lip and jawline, and big ears that tip out slightly at the sides. He stands behind a kitchen island without a shirt on. Defined pecs are bisected by a tuft of curly dark hair. Abs chase each other down the front of his torso into low-sitting, neon green joggers.
“What’s up, guys? It’s me, GoodWithHisHandsHarlow, your friendly TikTok mixologist back with another autumn-inspired cocktail.”
The rest of the video plays out at double-speed. Instruction bubbles pop up as he displays the different ingredients. Gin. Orange juice. Pomegranate juice. Honey. Thyme. The ingredients get poured, mixed, and sipped rapidly, yet there are no mistakes, no spills. Two large hands—knuckles lightly dusted with black hair—get their own close-up as precise measurements are taken.
“And that’s how you make a pomegranate gin cocktail,” GoodWithHisHandsHarlow says before “accidentally” spilling the cocktail. It dribbles past his chin and sluices down his bare torso as the music switches to something sexy. Then the video loops.
“I am not familiar with that guy,” Julien says, beating back the slight jolt of attraction he felt when the man capably poured the drink. He saves those thoughts for Friday nights. Or he did back when Colin still lived in his building and not several states away. Besides, any attraction was usurped by annoyance as soon as the cocktail made a river toward the man’s belly button.
Service is not about showmanship. It’s about knowledge and craft.
“Well, he’s huge,” Uncle Martin says, inadvertently causing Julien to imagine possibly huge, hidden parts of Mr. Harlow not appropriate for TikTok.
Julien gulps. “How so?”
“He’s got a massive following.” Uncle Martin must know what he’s saying, right? There’s no way these are accidental Freudian slips. “And of course, he’s not hard to look at.”
Hard. Goddammit. “What does his attractiveness have to do with the restaurant?”
“That’s why I hired him.”
Julien scrunches up his brow, missing the implied meaning. “To...be hot?”
“Yes,” Uncle Martin says. “And also to bartend, come up with a creative cocktail menu that will drum up business.”
Julien’s brain is scrambled eggs. “What about my wine pairings?”
Uncle Martin scowls. “We’ll still have those, but for people who prefer hard alcohol, now we’ll have more options.”
Options. That dirty word shows its grimy face again. He’s not sure why it’s dirty. Often, he questions his own brain, still, even at twenty-six, uncertain of its various functions and foibles.
It’s not that he dislikes hard alcohol. He just has a complicated relationship with it thanks to his parents. And wine is far superior in every way.
“Over the last several months, it’s been slow. This might be the boost we need,” Uncle Martin says, growing sullen. “I’m getting up there in age, Julien. I want this place to still be in business when it’s time to pass off the keys, okay?”
Julien doesn’t even notice that he nods until he’s already finished doing it. He doesn’t have the heart (or the guts?) to tell his uncle that owning Martin’s Place is not his dream. It’s never been his dream.
But it will only hurt Uncle Martin’s feelings. And he owes so much to Uncle Martin for taking him in and raising him like his own son.
All Julien says is, “Okay” and then he gets back to work.
Copyright © 2024 by Timothy Janovsky
