CreepyFrank
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Jan 14, 2017
- Posts
- 139
Frank Santos put the last touch on the plates and set them in the window. He slapped the bell, and then he turned back to look at the open tickets. Clam baskets. Oysters. Shrimp. Fried seafood, the staple of any roadside eatery in a beach town. Nothing fancy.
"That's it," he said to Mark, his fry cook. "You got it from here?"
"I got it," Mark said, without taking his eyes off the baskets he was setting up. He was a good kid, he was probably ready to take over some of the better stuff, but Frank wasn't ready to let go yet. For over thirty years, he'd run the kitchen at The Sailfin. It was his life, his anchor. The world had changed so much, a lot of it not for the better, he thought, but people still summered on the Cape, and they still loved fried seafood.
He walked out of the kitchen, to stand in the doorway behind the counter where Sandy, the waitress, was collecting the plates he'd just put in the window. She caught his eye and jerked her chin towards the cooler. He stepped out of the way as she snagged a small side dish of coleslaw. Colette's recipe. He felt a lump in his throat, and blinked back tears. Half a year ago, she would have been at the register, supervising the dining room like a captain on a ship.
He looked over, saw Antoinette there, bending down to get a to go box from under the counter, her perfect, round ass pointing back at him. He blinked and shook his head. Yes, he thought. His little Tony was all grown up now, she was a woman. Undeniably a woman, but she would always be his baby girl. He looked around, but nobody seemed to have seen him.
He unbuttoned the chef's jacket he wore, and tossed it in the laundry hamper, went to sit at the counter where he'd be out of the way in his undershirt. He was pushing 60, but he worked hard, all day, stayed fit. He wasn't all cut and carved like some gym rat, he had honest muscle, earned from working hard his whole life. Sandy set a glass of wine in front of him, and the bottle.
"Tony," he said, looking at his beautiful daughter. "Just a little longer, ok?"
After Colette had died, so suddenly, Tony had taken her place at the restaurant. Frank had been close to falling apart. Colette had been his world, the love of his life, mother of his children, his partner is marriage and in the business. Frank was good with fish. He could cook anything, but he did things to fish that made the Sailfin a destination for people that could see past the outdated look of the diner. He was never good with the business side of the business. Colette had handled that.
The kids were never supposed to have to work here. Frank Junior was a lawyer up in Boston now, and Tony had finished college and was starting to go places when Colette died. She'd come to help out for a week or two, and four months had gone by. It wasn't what they had wanted for her. He just didn't know how to do this without her.
"Goodnight, Frank," Sandy said, patting him on the shoulder. "Take it easy, ok?"
He blinked, looking around. How long had he been sitting, thinking about things? Long enough for the last customers to finish eating, and for the crew to close up. Mark was swaggering out of the kitchen, turning the lights off. Tony was cashing out the register.
"'Night, Sandy. 'Night, Mark," Frank said, watching his daughter. She looked just like her mother had, thirty five years ago, when she first started working at the Sailfin. He sighed, softly.
"That's it," he said to Mark, his fry cook. "You got it from here?"
"I got it," Mark said, without taking his eyes off the baskets he was setting up. He was a good kid, he was probably ready to take over some of the better stuff, but Frank wasn't ready to let go yet. For over thirty years, he'd run the kitchen at The Sailfin. It was his life, his anchor. The world had changed so much, a lot of it not for the better, he thought, but people still summered on the Cape, and they still loved fried seafood.
He walked out of the kitchen, to stand in the doorway behind the counter where Sandy, the waitress, was collecting the plates he'd just put in the window. She caught his eye and jerked her chin towards the cooler. He stepped out of the way as she snagged a small side dish of coleslaw. Colette's recipe. He felt a lump in his throat, and blinked back tears. Half a year ago, she would have been at the register, supervising the dining room like a captain on a ship.
He looked over, saw Antoinette there, bending down to get a to go box from under the counter, her perfect, round ass pointing back at him. He blinked and shook his head. Yes, he thought. His little Tony was all grown up now, she was a woman. Undeniably a woman, but she would always be his baby girl. He looked around, but nobody seemed to have seen him.
He unbuttoned the chef's jacket he wore, and tossed it in the laundry hamper, went to sit at the counter where he'd be out of the way in his undershirt. He was pushing 60, but he worked hard, all day, stayed fit. He wasn't all cut and carved like some gym rat, he had honest muscle, earned from working hard his whole life. Sandy set a glass of wine in front of him, and the bottle.
"Tony," he said, looking at his beautiful daughter. "Just a little longer, ok?"
After Colette had died, so suddenly, Tony had taken her place at the restaurant. Frank had been close to falling apart. Colette had been his world, the love of his life, mother of his children, his partner is marriage and in the business. Frank was good with fish. He could cook anything, but he did things to fish that made the Sailfin a destination for people that could see past the outdated look of the diner. He was never good with the business side of the business. Colette had handled that.
The kids were never supposed to have to work here. Frank Junior was a lawyer up in Boston now, and Tony had finished college and was starting to go places when Colette died. She'd come to help out for a week or two, and four months had gone by. It wasn't what they had wanted for her. He just didn't know how to do this without her.
"Goodnight, Frank," Sandy said, patting him on the shoulder. "Take it easy, ok?"
He blinked, looking around. How long had he been sitting, thinking about things? Long enough for the last customers to finish eating, and for the crew to close up. Mark was swaggering out of the kitchen, turning the lights off. Tony was cashing out the register.
"'Night, Sandy. 'Night, Mark," Frank said, watching his daughter. She looked just like her mother had, thirty five years ago, when she first started working at the Sailfin. He sighed, softly.