A Side of Sabotage Page 5

  “Touch up paint, get the new sign up”—Ping. She stops to check the text, then continues. “One more task: print new menus—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Margaret.” Dad turns around, holding a jar of Dijon mustard in his hand. “What new menus? We don’t need new menus.”

  “Just a reprint and new plastic,” she says. “Some of them are sticky.”

  “Okay, then,” Dad says, his hackles going back down. “As long as we’re clear. We’ve had that same Gusty’s menu for four generations. Every Gusty has cooked it and cooked it the same way.” He spoons some mustard into a small bowl and adds fresh chopped herbs. “It’s never failed us.”

  “I’m not saying the menu isn’t perfect.” Ping. Mom stops to read another text. “But what if we added one dish that is . . . a little forward-thinking?”

  Big mistake, Mom. I back away from the splash zone on this.

  “Forward-thinking? What, does it have to jump onto the plate and turn into a frozen mist?”

  Mom’s getting frustrated too. “I don’t know, Gus. Maybe one dish that demonstrates you could run a Hubert’s kind of restaurant if you wanted to. You’ve already got comfort food covered, but how about an item that competes head-on with one of his? It would be impressive.” She puts her phone on the table. “Everyone in town is suggesting a recipe. Listen to this. These are the texts I’m getting.” She taps her phone. “Beet brownies, kale chips, udon noodles in organic chicken-bone broth—”

  “Let me think about it. You know, it’s not like I don’t know about all that haute cuisine business. It’s just that people will go to Hubert’s once, think it was fun but too expensive, and that will be it.”

  After dinner, I’m walking upstairs to my room, and Dad stops me. “What do you think, Quinnie? Should I trade comfort for kale dust?”

  “I kind of agree with Mom, Dad. What would it hurt to try a Gusty’s version of one of his dishes?” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Just don’t do the bone broth thing, okay?”

  9

  The town is abuzz at breakfast the next morning over the Rook River Valley Advertiser’s splashy announcement. Starting tomorrow, the Secret Diner will begin stealth visits to Gusty’s and Restaurant Hubert. I ask Ms. Stillford if she will mind if we pause the carriage house cleanup to spend a couple days helping Gusty’s get ready, and she seems almost relieved.

  “I’ll tuck it all back behind the doors, and we’ll get around to it as soon as all this hoopla is over,” she says with a definite twinkle in her eye. “This is the most excitement we’ve had around here since the vampires came to town.”

  All day, we bust our butts washing windows, pulling weeds from the cracks in the parking lot asphalt, patching dings on the walls—I even learn what spackle is. And Dominic has polished the Italian espresso machine so the shine hurts your eyes to look at it.

  Six or eight more cars of vacationers arrive throughout the afternoon and stop in at Gusty’s. They’re one-weekers and two-weekers. And Mrs. Billingsley makes an appearance with Groucho.

  “Uh-oh, she’s hee-ere,” I whisper to Ella.

  Mrs. Billingsley hustles in, takes over a table for four—which immediately annoys Clooney—and picks up a menu by one corner, like the rest might have jam on it. She’s probably right, but Mom is planning to solve that problem by tomorrow.

  “Is your chowder creamy or red?” Mrs. Billingsley asks Dad.

  Dad looks at her like he’d like to escort her out, but he says, “We serve New England clam chowder with milk and cream. The red stuff is from Manhattan. We also serve a fish head soup. Which would you like?”

  “What’s the fish in the fish soup?”

  Dad looks around and says softly, “Whitefish heads with some added cheeks, leeks, and potatoes.”

  “I don’t see it on the menu.”

  “It’s not on the menu,” he says. He taps his pen on the order pad. “It’s for local connoisseurs.”

  “Hmm. I’ll have that,” she says. “And a side house salad.”

  Dad’s not sure he heard her correctly. “The fish head soup?”

  “Yes. The fish head soup, please.”

  Dad walks into the kitchen scratching his head.

  Dominic leaves his station at the espresso machine to consult with me at the end of the counter, where I’ve been folding paper napkins. His face is solemn. “I feel betrayed.”

  My mind races through all the things I could have done to make him feel this way. Then he laughs.

  “Hey! Don’t freak out. It’s just that I’ve been here a year, and you’ve never told me there’s a secret soup for real Maiden Rockers.”

  Relief floods through me. “I nearly got away with it too,” I laugh. “Only a few more weeks and our secret would have been safe from you.”

  “No, really, I want to taste this stuff.”

  “Fine. But I don’t want you going and telling all of New Jersey about it.”

  Dominic orders his own bowl of fish head soup, which Clooney takes out to him with a doubting glance. She brings a bowl to Mrs. Billingsley’s table with an even more skeptical look on her face.

  I can only image what Billingsley thinks about the fish head with its flat eye staring up from the middle of the bowl, but she doesn’t flinch. She smells it, runs a spoon through it, and tips a stream of broth back into the bowl. After her first taste of it, she adds some salt, which visibly irritates Dad. Next she scoops a potato cube from deep in the bowl and savors it in her mouth. Then she touches the bowl several times with the palms of her hands.

  “Mr. Boyd?” Mrs. Billingsley calls Dad to her table.

  “Yes? How do you like the soup?” Dad asks.

  “It will do, but you must remember to heat the bowls before you ladle the soup into them. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

  Dad hesitates. I think he’s trying to keep steam from coming out of his ears.

  Dominic swivels in his stool at the counter and calls out to Dad: “Mr. Boyd, this fish head soup is fantastic! But the bowl’s a little too hot.”

  Dad smiles.

  Mrs. Billingsley makes a hmmf sound.

  The next time the café door opens, Mom’s favorite type of visitors walk in—a middle-aged couple with affluent lower New England written all over them. She’s got the sweater set. He’s got the cashmere V-neck. They look around approvingly and select a picturesque table near the window. She takes old Down East magazines off the lending library shelf and delights at how tattered and charming they are. Clooney has menus in their hands in a nanosecond, and just as quickly gets the scoop on them, which she passes along to us. His name is Robert Lewis, hers is Helena Lewis, and they aren’t staying here in Maiden Rock. They’re at a bed-and-breakfast near Scavenger’s Bay, and they caught the article in the paper on their way through Rook River. They’re very polite, according to Clooney. “They never once complained about the temperature of the plates.”

  One thing I notice, though, is that Helena Lewis orders too much, and Robert Lewis picks off her plate, and they don’t take a doggie bag. I kind of take offense at that.

  For her part, Mrs. Billingsley leaves before she finishes her fish head soup. On the way out, she tells Clooney to tell Dad that the salad dressing was a pinch too sweet.

  * * *

  That evening, Ella, Zoe, Dominic, Ben, and I collapse on my family’s back porch. None of our seats could be called comfortable. Mom has been talking about getting new rockers and cushions because the current ones are falling apart, but that’s on hold until after our Gusty’s refresh effort. But we don’t care. We’re exhausted.

  “I’m covered in paint,” says Zoe.

  “You paint like a toddler,” Ben says. “That’s why.”

  “When is your mom getting the new menus?” Dominic asks me.

  “Tomorrow,” I say.

  “Will there be any new dishes on them?” Ella asks.

  “I don’t know. Dad’s thinking about it. I told him he should do one of his dishes in a Hubert style—to
be funny, if nothing else.”

  Dominic, who has been slumped in a rattan chair, jumps up. “I’ve got it!”

  We all yawn.

  Dominic continues, undeterred. “It’s the fish head soup. Hear me out: it’s unique, regional, kinda weird-looking, and above all, delicious. Gusty could modify it only slightly—like, I don’t know, stick kale in the fish’s mouth, add a small slice of beetroot or something.”

  He stops and waits for it to sink in. We all clap.

  “That’s brilliant,” I say.

  “Damn, Dom,” says Ben.

  “Excellent,” says Ella.

  “Crackin’,” says Zoe.

  We all look at her.

  She shrugs. “That means nice.”

  10

  Once my friends clear off of the back porch, I go inside to share Dominic’s idea. Dad is brushing his teeth when I find him.

  “Dad.”

  He spits and rinses. “Quinnie.”

  “Do you have a second?”

  “Of course. What’s up?”

  “In my room?”

  He turns his whole body to look at me, like uh-oh.

  I shut my bedroom door, make him sit on the bed, and clear my throat. Ahem. “I’d like to talk with you about one thing.” I hold up one finger. “And only one thing. About the menu.” And then I say very fast, “AndIwantyoutolistenwithoutinterruptingokay?”

  He rolls his eyes, but he smiles. “Okay. Go for it, Quinnie.”

  “What if you made a small change to your fish head soup and put it on the regular menu?”

  “Honey, it’s off menu for a reason. You know—the heads.”

  “I know, but just listen. You said you wouldn’t interrupt.”

  “Fine. Go ahead.”

  “Let’s say, after you put it in the bowl with the head in the center and all, you put some kale leaves in the fish’s mouth and some grated beets or other root thing sprinkled around, and then sprayed some salt water across the top.” I can see this all going into his brain perfectly. A smile rises on his face. He truly gets it.

  “I love it.”

  “You do?”

  “I do. I think people will see the humor in it. Plus, who knows, more people may try it. It tastes really good—it’s just a little off-putting at a glance. I’ll have your mother push those new menus back a day so we can put this thing front and center.”

  “I’m so glad you like it.”

  He stands up, and I give him a big hug. He squeezes me back like tomorrow’s going to be a great day.

  “Nicely done, Q.”

  “It was Dominic’s idea.” I feel so proud of him.

  “Good man, that Dominic.”

  As soon as he leaves my room, I text everyone. We bounce that high-five hand around for a while, until Dominic starts sending out pi and sigma symbols, and then the thread gets totally random. But before I go to bed, that sweet, goofy guy sends me, alone, a key-to-his-heart emoji. Sigh.

  * * *

  The next morning, Dad’s and Mom’s voices drift into my room and jog me out of sleep. The sun is up, and there are only a few puffy clouds swishing across the sky. I crack open my door. I can’t distinguish what they’re saying exactly, but I hear “fish heads” and Mom laughing. They sound so happy.

  “Quinnette Boyd!” Dad yells up the stairs.

  I run to the landing and see him dressed to leave.

  “You and your friends should come by a little later and try out my new and improved fish head soup—with kale. It’s gonna be a great start to the competition, I think.”

  I’m feeling so upbeat that I offer to go with Mom while she delivers the morning mail.

  We drive up to the post office, which is near Ms. Stillford’s house, and Mom grabs the canvas bag plus a couple plastic cartons of junk mail. She sorts the mail by house number for Circle Lane, then for Mile Stretch Road, and off we go. We drive on the wrong side of the road for a quarter of a mile so she can put the mail in each mailbox. I’ve offered to do it a zillion times, but that would break the rules of the US Postal Service, and Margaret Boyd is a stickler for following official rules.

  Because we’re on the wrong side of the road, which I guess is a rule you can break if you’re following a higher rule, the first mailbox we reach is Ms. Stillford’s, which we fill mostly with catalogs and a couple of magazines.

  We keep going on Circle Lane, all the way to the Maiden Rock Yacht Club, where Mom stuffs a couple envelopes in the club’s box, then to the lobster pound that has become Restaurant Hubert, where Mom has two handfuls of mail to deliver.

  She slows her car to look at the decal on some car parked by the restaurant.

  “What’s that?” I ask her.

  She points down the side of the building, to the kitchen door, where a man with a clipboard is talking to Slick. He looks friendly. Slick is laughing.

  “State health department,” Mom says. “Must be a new inspector. I’ve never seen him before.”

  We complete the circle and head down Mile Stretch Road, dropping mail at the local spiritual center and a few more houses until we reach the Gusty’s parking lot. There, in front of the door, is the same car we saw outside Restaurant Hubert, and the health inspector’s getting out, clipboard and all. I kind of wish we’d arrived in Mom’s sheriff’s cruiser instead of her ordinary real-estate SUV—seeing this guy at Gusty’s makes me feel vulnerable all of a sudden.

  We don’t step out right away. Instead, Mom and I watch the inspector stroll around Gusty’s. He’s touching freshly painted spots on the clapboard, looking in windows, tapping gutters, leaning over to scrutinize the foundation.

  “What’s he doing? That’s none of his business.” Mom gets on her phone and tells Dad what’s up. By the time the inspector walks in, Dad’s waiting at the door.

  “I’m looking for the owner,” the inspector says.

  “That would be me,” Dad says and sticks out his hand for a shake. “Gusty Boyd.”

  The man shakes hands with Dad and gives him a business card. “Spot inspection,” he says without a trace of pleasantness on his face.

  “Okay, where do you want to start?”

  “Just show me to the kitchen.”

  The hair goes up on the back of my neck.

  “I’m going to finish the mail,” Mom says, while I decide to park myself at Gusty’s. From a spot at the counter, I watch as this health inspector guy scours the Gusty’s kitchen, pantry, freezers, stove, ovens—you name it, he has his nose in it. All this time, Dad and Clooney are trying to run the café. People are pouring in, asking if the Secret Diner competition has started, and Dad is twisting his neck trying to talk to each of them and watch the inspector at the same time.

  “Dad, can I help deliver orders?” I ask him.

  “Behind the counter, Quinnie.”

  His answer makes no sense. I don’t think he heard a word I just said, he’s so distracted by the inspector making marks on his form.

  After about a half an hour, the inspector guy scribbles something on the bottom of a form, unclips it from his clipboard, and hands it over to Dad. I can tell Dad’s head is swimming—a lot of things must need changing.

  “So, when does all this have to be done?” he asks.

  The guy points to the bottom of the form. “Right there. A couple weeks from now, I’ll be back to re-inspect. If these items aren’t cleared by then, I’ll be forced to shut her down.”

  Dad points to one line. “This—the tension on the door gasket. What’s up with that?”

  “I put a dollar bill between the door and the unit, and it was too easy to pull it out. The door doesn’t close tight enough.”

  “No inspector has ever done a . . . dollar-bill test,” Dad says. “The door closes fine. There’s no cold air leak.”

  “I can’t help it if other inspectors don’t do their jobs.” The guy walks away from Dad and opens the door. “See you in two weeks.”

  Dad turns and walks toward the kitchen, grumbling and pulling a dol
lar bill out of his pocket.

  * * *

  That night, pretty much all our closest friends are gathered at our house. It’s a welcome home dinner for the Buttermans.

  The adults are all sitting around the dining room table, and the topic has turned to the inspection. My friends and I are sitting on the floor in the living room while Zoe shares Super Soor Fizz Balls and Soor Plooms candies that she brought back from Scotland. The guys make “yuck” noises until the adults tell us to pipe down.

  “It was an ambush,” Ms. Stillford says. “And on the first day of the competition, too.”

  “They don’t have to tell you when they’re coming,” Mom says.

  “Still, didn’t you say he was here a couple months ago?” Zoe’s mom asks.

  “It was a different guy,” answers Dad. “At least I thought it was only a couple of months ago. Maybe it’s been longer.”

  Mom says, “It’s silly stuff like a hairline crack in the plastic grill along the top of the refrigeration unit.”

  “And that’s practically decorative,” Dad says. “It’s been there for years, and no one’s ever written it up before. And this gasket tension business? I tried the guy’s dollar-bill test and nearly ripped the dollar trying to pull it out. But that and the rest still have to be fixed.” All the delight of his tone this morning is gone.

  “I’ll help,” says Owen Loney. “We’ll get it all done tomorrow.”

  Dad and Owen talk about what time they’ll get started, while we stay focused on the candy.

  Ben’s making fun of it. Ella’s not eating it. Dominic braves another piece, and his face twists into a vicious pucker. I don’t want any, and I’m not going to pretend I do. Zoe gets sullen and pouty, but I can’t cope with the small stuff right now. I have to concentrate on the café.

  11

  All morning, while Dad and Owen Loney are tinkering, drilling, and taping like mad, Ella and I poke around in Zoe’s suitcases, look at her books, listen to her stories—some of which are kind of cool—and try on her tartan skirts, which she says no Scottish people wear in real life. This is my part-way apology for rejecting the candy last night, but I’m still distracted. I drift to the window and watch the traffic across the street at Gusty’s.