Chapter 1
Memorial Day
In a spontaneous act of guerilla tango, I tore my wife from
her baking cupcakes and forced her into a tightly held dance
embrace. Fortunately, no one was watching. Pulling her
outside through the back door of our seaside restaurant and
into the unoccupied beach parking lot, we aped arms in
parallel position.
“Beast!” she cried.
I ripped her apron off and led her through an impromptu
tango. Our entire bodies engaged in the complex rhythm—slow,
slow, quick, quick, slow. The tango lesson continued. “One,
two, left leg back on three, four, cross on five, right leg
back on six, seven, close on eight. Good, now repeat.”
The poor woman shook like a fallen leaf.
“Opening day jitters?” I asked, face-to-face. “Remember.
Eight steps and cross at five.” Turning shoulders, I dragged
my shoeless left foot slowly through the sand.
“If you have to speak it, you can’t lead it.” She hesitantly
stepped back on her right and made a half-hearted
embellished kick. “The cupcakes?” she screamed.
“Screw the cupcakes.”
We walked tentatively in an open embrace following an
imaginary circle, a solitary couple dancing on an empty
stretch of beach. Soon, we picked up the pace and closed the
space, intimately attached breast to chest. A few practice
exchanges and then we connected cheek-to-cheek, till our
foreheads touched at the third eye.
She looked down at her watch. “Scissors. The boys are late?”
She stopped dancing and attempted an escape back to her baking.
“I called already.”
Their incoming truck roared louder than the crashing waves.
“Now look what you’ve done, gone and woke the child.”
“Sure I called, to see if they lived. Everyone is waiting,”
I said.
“You’re just a fair weather father. Can’t you have some
blind faith for once?”
Giving up on the tango, we proceeded back to the Shack for
last-minute preparations. Opening night was only three hours
away and our three coming-of-age sons were already late.
Tracey put the apron back on. Fortunately, a black flatbed
loaded with wooden fish crates and nets of clams tore into
the rear lot and screeched to a halt.
“Oh, look, they’ve come to play with us,” Tracey said.
“Morning?” I rolled my wrist inward to show time.
“Gifts from the sea!” Our oldest son, the fisherman, offered
up a freshly caught porgy and kissed it on the lips. As he
affectionately squeezed the body, a dark fluid dripped down
his arm. “Ah, herring for breakfast?”
“Do we really need to know what’s in the anus?” asked the
musician, our middle son, as he helped his brother unload
the dock produce from the truck.
The youngest, the family chef, came out to assist. “I can’t
cook a Montaco without the fish. Where were you guys?”
“I had to check out a blitz. Fortunately, it was a false
alarm,” Arden said.
“Otherwise, we might still be there.” Sky dropped the load
of clams.
Head chef Scott, his mane of hair held beneath a flour sack
cap, confidently strolled past us, canvassing his piece of
turf, issuing opening-day directives. We paid him megabucks
to whisk the crew of seasonal help into a well-bound
kitchen. Gathering the whole staff together in the back prep
room for a last-minute pep talk, Scott preached his
restaurant rules. “We make the big bucks by buying the best
ingredients, preparing it just the way I taught you to, and
persuading the customers to try it.”
My beautiful wife beamed like a proud parent at her son’s
graduation.
He looked each one of us in the eye. “I’m confident. You
kids are the heart of our community. Just do what I taught
you, and the customers will love us. To the Shack!” Scott
raised his arm in triumph.
“Gig Shack, Gig Shack!” the troops cheered.
“Young-ins, to your stations!” Scott railed. One for all,
and all for one, they high-fisted. Some positioned
themselves outside for the first celebrity sighting.
I followed our leader with rapt attention as he inspected
the final dinner preparations. “Tell me, Scott, what is it
going to be like opening a restaurant in the Hamptons? Will
we make any money? Will it make me happy?”
His face cringed as if a failed root canal was calling.
I assumed we would be an immediate hit in this seaside
summer retreat. Our new restaurant would be a neighborly
affair where local youth could grab a Montaco, the striped
bass caught that morning from the shore, or hang for an
impromptu jazz gig. We’d create a beachside Bohemian Bistro
where surfers and surfcasters could share an espresso with
resident artistic dignitaries, such as Paul Simon and Jimmy
Buffet, while admiring my son’s handmade guitars. Meanwhile,
Edward Albee would be entertaining a gaggle of want to-be
playwrights, and Ralph Lauren would be rolling up in an
antique Rolls Royce. Like the announcer’s voice from “Live!
It’s Saturday Night!” we would play “Live! At the Gig Shack!”
Pots and pans clanged like harbored metal boats, waiters ran
to and fro practicing the taking of notes, charred meat
emitted barbequed motes, and expectations of a full belly
churned my stomach’s hopes. Suddenly, the noise from the
dozen cooks and counter staff muted. Scott stopped in
silence. Silence.
I continued talking. “Everyone always said Tracey and I
would be perfect restaurateurs. I’m a natural host and she
loves to cook. Do you think Montauk’s ready for a change?”
Questions I should have asked before opening the door. “My
biggest concern is the effect it will have on my marriage.”
Slowly, ever so slowly, he stuck a pointed finger into my
chest and surgically traced the outlines of my heart, his
hand stopping in the center as it played with an open
button. With expert deliberation, his hands worked, but his
tongue cut like a scalpel. “Doc, you stick to your teeth,”
referring to my dental practice in New York City, “and leave
the restaurant business to me.”
With that, Scott focused his attention on the inspection and
barked more last-minute instructions. Round one went to him
and we hadn’t even opened yet.
Next on the list was the outside beer and wine bar. We
walked through the back kitchen prep area, past the gelato
counter and through the indoor dining area, out a side door
and into the alley. Under an awning, the bartender assembled
the outside wine and beer bar, haphazardly placing the beer
bottles. “Man, this is great. We’re going to rock Montauk,”
said the young man.
“What did I say to you? Line the bottles up neatly,” ordered
Scott, rearranging the beers in size order.
“I thought by nationality,” the bartender apologized.
“Sorry, I’m a bar back.”
Arranging the bottles with stern concentration, Scott said,
“Then get out from behind the bar. If you’re going to be our
full-time bartender, you have to know beer from the
customer’s point of view, as well as the origin and flavor
of every bottle you serve.”
“Yeah, man, I’m down on the beers already.” He took a deep,
satisfying swig of Oregon’s Dead Guy Ale and smiled. “That’s
number thirty-nine on my list.”
“Keep up the good work.” Scott adjusted the sleeve on his
patchwork velvet coat, and we headed back inside to review
the twelve flavors of gelato.
“I’m ready, boss.” The just-graduated-high-school counter
girl said.
“Remember, as soon as a customer places an order, their
mouths start to salivate,” instructed Scott. “They picture
the food before it hits the plate.”
“No worries, boss, your Lamburgini’s a homerun.”
“Ground Moroccan lamb and secret spices on a whole wheat
roll,” the girl said, and then sensually licked the length
of her lips. Confident she could explain the menu to an
incredulous customer, she blushed suddenly with
embarrassment. “The spices are Moroccan, not the lamb? I
think. Sorry, this is my first real job.”
Our food would be substantial, honest fare. Eco-farmed
vegetables simmered into a ratatouille and seasoned with my
garden’s homegrown herbs. Lobster bisque braised in their
shells and the bones of hand-caught black fish. A perfectly
prepared burger with freshly spaded fries. In our food hall,
there would be no simple starch, like they serve Up Island;
there would be no deep-fried, fat-laden, nutritionally
devoid spring rolls and high-calorie wontons—mere spoons to
mop up alcohol and their patrons’ pennies.
Continuing his check-off list, Scott made a virtual tour of
the entire restaurant, from rear prep area to the L-shaped
front counter to the interior seating for fifty, side alley
bar and additional sidewalk bistro seating for thirty. “That
should do it.”
In the corner, the food runner was frenching her boyfriend.
They were inseparable, like twins joined at the lips.
“What’s up, boss?” she chimed in an attempt to untangle her
boyfriend’s tongue from a mouthful of her metal braces. “No
worries.”
Scott’s face twanged as if he had ground down on that same
infected tooth that stood above its socket. He looked away
in disgust.
Our three sons, aged eighteen through twenty-three, swatted
stray flies and shagged odd jobs, this being a family-run,
initially low-budget team.
The only employee besides Scott with any experience was a
seventy-year-old grandma, whom we had stolen from the Fish
Farm for a free agent’s salary. She had worked the food
business for centuries and was slated to run the food prep.
“The cool slaws a’ ready,” she spoke in a Bonacker drawl,
the unmistakable patois of the Lazy Point locals. She waved
a six-inch steel blade like a warm-up bat and added, “You
wan’ a mango salsa?” That woman had cracked more clamshells
than the seagulls’ dive-bombing off Gosman’s Dock.
“No dancing,” replied Scott, rolling his eyes and walking
away briskly. He turned back to me and whispered, “I need to
teach that woman how to use a food processor. Cutting every
cabbage by hand, she’ll be here all night.”
I was the silent partner, as long as I stayed silent.
Otherwise, I was benched.
Tracey had her team raring to go. The fish tacos were
jumping, and the Gig Chips, homemade and spiced, were flying
out of the fryer as we anxiously awaited the invasion of
tourists. Located in Montauk, a seasonally busy pedestrian
spot and surrounded by other, long existing restaurants, we
were bound to be an immediate hit.
Standing in the street, we admired our handiwork. “It was a
steal!” I told Scott the story of how we bought the building
that housed the present-day restaurant. “The broker called
it a real steal.”
“Brokers need to shake the leaves,” he said arrogantly,
winning round two.
“We were always feeding the local kids anyway,” I said,
offering yet another reason our restaurant was destined to
be a hit. “Our house was their food hall.”
Deciding not to comment on that, Scott instead said, “I love
Tracey’s design, the corrugated steel walls.” His eyes
searched longingly for our perpetually busy hostess. “Using
the local phone exchange, 668, great name.”
“The legal name is 668 the Gig Shack, but we refer to it as
the Shack, for short.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
I stuck my hands in my pockets. “Will we ever make a buck?”
“Money, money, money.” Scott fingered his unkempt mop.
I ignored his insult and continued with the story. “It was
originally a rundown ice cream parlor, but Shaggy, the
previous owner, ran it like a regular restaurant. He even
had a full liquor bar outside in the alley. He showed me the
license one time.”
“My menu is going to shake that old timer off his pedestal.
You just wait and see—I’m going to put Montauk on the food
map,” boasted Scott.
“Shaggy is an institution in this town. He was the Grand
Marshal once in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. That’s bigger
than being the mayor of Montauk.” I didn’t know why I was
defending my competitor, who operated another nearby
restaurant, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the
time.
“Just wait till the Hamptons gets a taste of my Lamburgini
and Montacos.” With his floral pants, polka-dotted bandana,
and tie-dyed sneakers, Scott looked like the Jolly Green
Giant perched beside the little table runner. At four foot
eleven, she was Lolita-like, with perky breasts and
tight-fitted shorts inked with “The End” on her ass. The two
made an incongruous couple out on the sidewalk, handing out
flyers to passersby.
“I hope you’re right,” said the runner, surveying the empty
dining room.
Scott promised, “By the end of summer, we’ll be making money
hand over fist.”
“How come nobody’s coming in?” I asked.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the silent partner?” he said,
trying to hand me a stack of flyers. “Here, you want
something to do?”
I pushed the flyers back. “Not my job.”
We circled one another like two male cats spotting new
territory. Which of us would get to leave his scent? He knew
the business, but I had the bucks. After a three-second
eyeball, he retreated into the back prep kitchen. What had I
won?
Eventually, an older couple entered from the front sidewalk
patio and peeked their faces through the open door. They
appeared confused as they searched the corrugated steel
walls for a familiar clue. “Wasn’t this an ice cream
parlor?” they asked. “It looks so clean and new.” Their eyes
searched the hand-painted and artistically calligraphic
blackboard menu. “New ownership?” They looked at each other
incredulously, as if the menu were written in Chinese.
“Try the Lamburgini.” Before I could explain what a
Lamburgini was, they had run out and into Shaggy’s
restaurant across the street.
The evening continued in much the same way. Customers would
look confused and then run to Shaggy for dinner. By the end
of the night, not only weren’t we an immediate hit, we were
completely shut out.
Blame it on the bad weather, the bad economy, or just bad
planning, but our opening weekend was a disaster. The locals
came. More often they went. They’d peek in but preferred to
wait an hour and a half for a table elsewhere. Over our
heads, it rained and rained, another perfect spring day.
That first Sunday night, Tracey and I waited for the Hampton
Jitney to arrive. The rising tension was etched into my
beautiful wife’s brow. Fear had filled the creases the Botox
had missed, her face frozen in a deeply pained frown.
“What was I thinking?” Tracey moaned. “I’ve sunk all our
available cash into this folly. We don’t know squat about
this business. At this pace, we’ll never break even.”
“Don’t fret. The season has just begun.” I placed a hand on
her shoulder.
“No one came, not even our friends,” she fretted.
“It may take a little time for the community to understand
your product. I’m confident you and the boys will be a big hit.”
“Maybe we should have had a hard opening, hired a few
celebrities and invited the local papers for a free bash.
What do you think?”
“Now you’re asking me? You didn’t want any press releases.
You’re still not confident in the staff.”
“But look how packed that new Surf Lodge was this weekend.
They just opened, and they’re already being written up in
the Star. What did I do wrong?”
“They’re just a bunch of drop-in, soft-top surfers! You’re
the real deal.”
“The wave should have been wide enough for us all,” she moaned.
“Surfing is a territorial sport. The wave belongs to the cat
most willing.”
The owners of the Surf Lodge were experienced New York City
restaurateurs. Their big-bucks backer had hired party
promoters, professional press agents, winners of top-chef
contests, and the best looking bus maids and bar boys this
side of Shinnicock. They were an instant hit, shipping out
supermodels and celebrities in long black limos. They’d
already created a new entertainment niche. Overnight, the
Manhattan Meat Market had marched into Montauk and chased
away the local fish.
“The townies aren’t happy their fishnets are being run
through with high-heeled stilettos. The High Liners have no
respect. They think they can park their Lamborghini anywhere
and we’re supposed to eat it? A war’s coming for the soul of
this community and you’re on the front lines,” I warned
right before retreating to the safety of the Jitney commuter
bus to New York City.
“You’re glad to be rid of us, aren’t you?” Tracey said as
she waved me off.
“Call if I can be of help.” I blew my wife a good-bye kiss,
and with sadness mixed with a little glee, escaped to the
relative saneness of my own professional life as a dentist
in New York. She wasn’t altogether wrong in her assessment
of my motives. I dearly love my family, but this new venture
of hers was putting a huge strain on our marriage, not to
mention our finances. There wasn’t much I could do to help
except raise some dough. As Sarah Palin advised, “Drill,
baby, drill.” We needed an income cushion in case the
restaurant failed, though we had projected some initial losses.
The restaurant was such as huge responsibility, and we were
getting by only by the skin of our teeth. We might not
change the culinary world, but we had a lot of mouths to
feed. My wife, our sons, and all their contemporaries were
dependent on my largess. In New York City, the mouths, or at
least the skin of the teeth, fed me.
I had other reasons to be a little gleeful. In New York
City, I lived alone and was responsible only for myself,
like a bachelor, washing the dishes and making the bed when
I felt like it. Tracey was a neat freak, reworking my bed
mess with military precision.
There was another more secretly sinister motive to my
decamping. I’d fallen in love. Living alone in NYC since
9/11, I’d needed to fill the hours of loneliness. In my new,
empty nest with my alternative adult lifestyle, I’d fallen.
I’d fallen head over heels for the Argentine tango. Who
would have guessed I was a great dancer?
“I love you,” I said to my wife each week as I boarded the
Jitney. I spoke without guilt as a recurring image of
swirling tangueros waltzed through slivers of infrared
shadows, a kaleidoscope of last week’s tango milonga. The
visual image still hung thick with the scent of dancer’s sweat.
“Don’t work too hard.” Her smile clouded with worry. “We’ll
be okay. I love you too,” she said, waving good-bye to my
fleeing Jitney.
“You will always be the only woman whose compliments I crave.”
It was the iconic summer of 668.