Every Saturday, Redbeard the Neck Brace and The Little Shit slipped in the door at Fish Bar at the last minutes of final seating and took their spot at Table 19. As soon as they came in, we knew we’d be staying late. They mulled over the menu, asked detailed questions about the specials, and generally took their sweet-ass time, only to order the same things as the previous week: a flight of East Coast oysters, two whole branzini grilled and seasoned with fresh herbs and olive oil, and two mesclun salads, no tomatoes, dressing on the side. Redbeard preferred his oysters naked, but The Little Shit liked a touch of vinegar to cut the brine. No need to bother with the aioli, and DO NOT bring cocktail sauce, Redbeard would say. But my wife, please forgive her, she loves the mignonette. They never tipped more than fifteen percent. We wanted to tell them the kitchen was closed, but if it got back to Andy, the owner, he’d probably fire us. Redbeard and The Little Shit always asked for our star waiter, Kyle, whom everyone called Sweet Boy, and he would usually serve them if we did the side-work. Anyway, we were a pooled house.
Redbeard was a tall man with thinning red hair who wore the same outfit year-round: an off-white turtleneck (paired well with the neck brace), brown wide wale corduroys, and New Balance tennis shoes. He laughed a lot—mostly at his own jokes—and stroked his shaggy, red-orange beard. Judging by the ring of yellow stain, he’d been wearing said neck brace for a long time, though he wasn’t injured or disabled. He claimed to like the way it supported his head; he would nod off at the table before we’d bussed the dinner plates, while The Little Shit was still eating. She was small, blonde, and sour, except for the flirty look she’d sometimes give Sweet Boy after Redbeard was asleep. She wore a navy blazer with a matching skirt and headband, and brought an extra seat cushion. Redbeard was pushing sixty, and she was ten years younger.
Redbeard the Neck Brace was an obvious nickname (we could never agree who among us had come up with it), but The Little Shit had a more elaborate origin story. The oyster shucker—a handsome Argentine man who asked us to call him Buffalo—liked to do imitations. He used a white bar rag for Redbeard’s neck brace, and had invented a routine in which Redbeard (the ardent lover) would chase his teasing wife around their apartment, shouting: Get back here, you little shit!
We were the front of house—white kids from Pennsylvania, Florida, Alabama and upstate, most of us frustrated creatives. The back of house were Latinos from Colombia, Mexico, Chile, Argentina and Ecuador, many of whom were frustrated creatives too. Our manager, Jason, had us share the typical prep work intended to establish rapport between waitstaff and kitchen—servers sliced baguettes and portioned oyster condiments—but we really bonded over Redbeard and The Little Shit. We never learned their actual names.
***
Ten minutes after the cut-off for last seating, The Little Shit stuck her head in the door and looked around for permission to come in. There was nowhere to hide; Fish Bar was small—a five-seater bar and a single row of tables along a banquette—and had an open kitchen. Sweet Boy glanced across at Estéban, the sous-chef, who said nothing and switched the burners back on.
It was raining, and The Little Shit had her cushion in a plastic bag. She took the cushion out, held the wet bag away from her body with her thumb and forefinger, and handed it to Carrie—the server who happened to be closest. “Put this somewhere to dry for me, would you? I need it for the walk home.”
We went over with place settings, water, and a warm baguette with butter. Sweet Boy handed The Little Shit a menu and told her the kitchen was closing.
“My husband should be along shortly, but if you must, we’ll have the usual. No tomatoes on the salads, yes? We’ll have to wait until he gets here to talk about the drinks.”
Redbeard had a ritual with the wine tasting. (Always white first, to go with the fish, and saving the reds for dessert.) He would hold the glass by the stem and swirl the splash ten times—he counted each swirl aloud—before taking the wine into his mouth and closing his eyes for so long we’d worry he’d fall asleep and aspirate. Just as The Little Shit would be about to kick him under the table (she’d only kicked him once, but we kept hoping) he would open his eyes and make his pronouncements. This Gewürztraminer is certainly fruit forward, wouldn’t you say? Lychees, yes. Lychees. Ab-so-lute-ly! Not quite dry enough for this palate, I’m afraid.
When he came in, in no apparent rush, the Beausoleils were already on the table and Estéban was waiting to fire the entrées. Did that keep Redbeard from his wine ritual? “Honey,” The Little Shit said after he’d tasted a fourth bottle. “Make a decision. The ice is melting under the oysters.”
Redbeard pointed at the Muscadet. Sweet Boy brought clean glassware to the table and presented the wine. In the kitchen, Estéban turned to face the burners and salted the fish. Buffalo, who’d been kneeling to hide behind the raw bar, poked his head up to see if they were looking but Redbeard and his wife were engrossed in their oysters. Buffalo stood upright, holding a bar rag across his throat, and mouthed, “Absolutely!”
Sweet Boy stifled a laugh as he hurried back to the server station. He’d only had time to add the drinks to their ticket when The Little Shit turned and raised her hand to summon him. Buffalo dropped the white rag and wiped down the bar.
“Excuse me, Kyle? Since the kitchen is still open, can we add some fingerling potatoes to our order? I suddenly realized I’m famished.”
“No problem.” Sweet Boy nodded at Buffalo, who went downstairs to the walk-in for a portion of potatoes, which had already been wrapped and put away.
It took them almost an hour to finish the main course. We cleared their plates, and Sweet Boy had the dessert menus on the table before the dirty dishes hit the bus bin. Table 19 wasn’t usually interested in sweets—if you didn’t count the red wine—but we were professionals, so we always asked. The chef had left for the night, and Estéban was sitting at the bar with a beer. The rest of us were rolling silverware and sneaking a round of staff drinks. Across the dining room, Redbeard’s eyes were half-closed. “Honey! Wake up!” The Little Shit said. She turned to Sweet Boy. “I think we will have something this evening.”
“Eighty-six crème brûlée!” Buffalo called from the kitchen.
“Heard,” Sweet Boy said.
The Little Shit put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “What does eighty-six mean?”
“We only have the chocolate mousse and the New York-style cheesecake tonight.”
“And which do you prefer?”
“I’d go with the cheesecake.”
“You strike me as more of a chocolate mousse sort,” she said. “Doesn’t he, honey?”
“Absolutely! Let’s get one of each.” Redbeard tilted their current bottle to the side. “We’re just about due for a red, I’d say. How about that Pinot Noir?”
Sweet Boy went behind the bar and knelt on his haunches to pull a Pinot from the lower shelf. He tapped Carrie on the leg. They had been dating for a few months, which we all knew, but were keeping it a secret from the customers. For the sake of tips, Sweet Boy insisted.
Carrie bent down next to him. “Would you take this over to 19? I need a break from them,” Sweet Boy said. She reached into his back pocket for the wine key and gave his ass a gentle squeeze.
Redbeard instructed Carrie to present the bottle to his wife, then stood up and walked through the kitchen to use the bathroom. Sweet Boy and Buffalo were plating the desserts, just out of The Little Shit’s line of sight, when Buffalo started up again. He’d gotten his hands on Estéban’s lucky white towel and was using it as a prop neck brace. The rest of us watched while he chased Sweet Boy around in a small circle, “Get back here you little shit,” until Redbeard the Neck Brace himself walked into the kitchen. None of us had heard the toilet flush. Redbeard pointed at Buffalo, laughed, and clapped him on the back.
“You’re the one they call Buffalo, correct? Well, that’s not half bad! How about a selfie of the twins?” He took his phone out of his pocket and put his arm around Buffalo, who still had the rag around his neck. Buffalo was into it; he loved to pose for pictures. Hearing the commotion, The Little Shit came over and joined them. Sweet Boy took out his phone to document the whole thing.
***
Jason called everyone in for a meeting on a Tuesday afternoon. Estéban made extra portions of staff meal—linguine minus the vongole—and sat with us along the banquette. Jason went over recent sales numbers—Sweet Boy was number one—and then shared some concerns. We’d been short several bottles of wine every month for the past three, which Andy had noticed, and some tableware was missing—in particular the little metal ramekins, the shellfish forks, and the small spoons we used for oyster condiments. Jason was a decent guy. He worked long days Monday thru Friday, and often left Sweet Boy in charge over the weekends (an unusual privilege in the restaurant world). He wanted to keep it that way. So did his wife. But could he trust us to watch the customers and to count the wine appropriately going forward?
How our infamous regulars could be stealing bottles of wine, we couldn’t imagine, but it would’ve been easy enough to swipe the ramekins and the tiny cutlery—in addition to the seat cushion, The Little Shit carried a large purse. After Jason left, Buffalo invented a new story: Redbeard the Neck Brace and The Little Shit were collecting stuff from Fish Bar so they could save money by replicating the restaurant in their apartment. Or no, better—they were using the stolen tableware as props so they could rehearse for Saturdays. Now honey, I want you to practice staying awake while we drink this wine and eat this fish. We’ll keep the place open all night long! Then Buffalo imitated Redbeard singing the Lionel Richie song as he led The Little Shit into the bedroom.
***
Sweet Boy came into work the following weekend with a surprise for Buffalo. He’d taken his photos of Redbeard and The Little Shit to a 3D printer and had figurines made of them. Mini-Redbeard was four inches tall and Mini-Little Shit was about three inches. Every detail was perfect. The outfits. A mini neck brace. Even a mini-seat cushion. Mini-Redbeard was posed with both hands in the air as if he were shouting thanks to the heavens. Mini-Little Shit had her arms crossed over her chest. Buffalo was stoked. While we were setting up, he created a whole scene on the counter of the raw bar using plastic kitchen containers as furniture and we took turns playing out different scenarios. Sweet Boy was in the midst of a lengthy dialogue between Mini-Redbeard and Mini-Little Shit when Andy walked in and sat down at the bar. Sweet Boy slid the miniatures out of sight and went over to take his order. Buffalo pocketed them and took them downstairs to stash in his locker.
Andy didn’t come in often, but when he did, he sat at the bar for hours getting sloppy. We knew he was there to check on us. During service, we paced every course perfectly. We used seat positions. We upsold at every opportunity and pushed all the specials. None of us snuck a single drink. It was exhausting. He was still there when Sweet Boy sent Carrie to Table 19 with the menus.
“Is Kyle busy tonight?” The Little Shit said.
“Darling, don’t hurt the young woman’s feelings,” Redbeard said.
“Oh no, you’re fine.” The Little Shit waved a hand dismissively. “We’ve just gotten used to Kyle.”
“Kyle’s taking care of the owner over there at the bar,” Carrie said. “But I can ask him to come and talk to you about tonight’s oysters when he has a minute.”
“That would be wonderful. In the meantime, might we taste the Sancerre?”
Andy was telling some drunken story, keeping Sweet Boy occupied at the bar. Redbeard and The Little Shit slapped their menus shut. Audibly. Twice. Redbeard skipped his wine ritual and kept looking over to see what was going on with Sweet Boy. At last, he stood up, went over to the raw bar, and said, “Buffalo! How are the oysters this evening? Might I make a request? You’re quite the performer. Do me again, would you?”
“Yes!” The Little Shit clapped at the table. “Do him! Do him!”
“Look man, I apologize,” Buffalo said. “I was out of line.”
“No, no. It was absolutely marvelous. Please, let’s have it. You should be doing that for a living. How did you end up working in a kitchen?”
Sweet Boy was watching from behind the bar. “No,” he mouthed.
“Kyle,” Redbeard said. “Please don’t deprive us of our fun.” Then he approached Andy. “You have a very gifted staff, sir. Our time with them is the high point of our week.”
“Thank you.” Andy shook Redbeard’s hand. “Ky, why don’t we open a bottle of that new Vermentino for the three of us to try? And you can tell our guest about tonight’s oysters.”
The Little Shit came over and took sips from Redbeard’s glass, and the two of them nodded along to Sweet Boy’s best descriptions. When he’d finished, Redbeard said, “Very informative, Kyle! Why don’t you choose a dozen for us? You know what we like.”
“Be sure to get some Wellfleet in there. They’re great right now.” Andy walked Redbeard and The Little Shit to Table 19, and stood there chatting with them about the sustainability of wild Alaskan salmon. He shook Redbeard’s hand again before leaving for the night. Our two regulars were flushed from the attention; they ordered another Vermentino.
Redbeard was in and out of sleep before he’d finished his entrée, but they still got their bottle of red. We were doing side-work and pouring drinks for ourselves at the bar, and soon enough, Redbeard was snoring. The Little Shit asked if she could join us for a glass of whatever we were having. “I don’t think my husband will mind. We can take what’s left of the Malbec home with us.”
It was past midnight—no chance of getting home early—and we couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. Estéban gave up his stool and Sweet Boy poured her a Riesling. We turned up the volume on the music, but she lingered even after we’d finished wiping down the glassware and filling the salt and pepper shakers. Carrie was flipping the chairs upside down onto the tables—except for 19, where Redbeard was slumped and drooling—and Sweet Boy went into the back to get the broom. The Little Shit excused herself to use the bathroom. “What’s taking him so long?” Carrie said when she came around to the bar for her drink.
“The Little Shit followed him,” Buffalo said. “Let’s go see what they’re doing.”
Buffalo told the rest of us later that they found Sweet Boy against the wall, fending off a drunk but surprisingly nimble Little Shit. Apparently, she’d managed to kiss him, but Sweet Boy was tipsy and couldn’t remember how. Carrie broke it up, and The Little Shit sat at the bar for another hour as if nothing had happened. She talked at Estéban—he was too polite to dodge her—and got Buffalo to do his impression of her husband, eyeballing Sweet Boy the whole time. Carrie changed the music to Black Sabbath and, finally, Redbeard woke up and walked his wife home.
***
Redbeard was going easy on the wine–the first bottle was half full–when the kitchen bell rang for their entrées. The Little Shit was outside taking a phone call. Carrie ran the plates over to the table and presented the fish to Redbeard.
“Wonderful,” he said. “And lovely to see you again. Carrie, is it? Tell me something. You and Kyle spend a lot of time together.”
“Our shifts overlap. Can I get you anything else?”
“I don’t mean to intrude, but we’ve noticed how he looks at you and we’re wondering if the feelings are mutual. My wife and I think the world of Kyle. Not to say that you shouldn’t also stay present to possibility. You may be surprised to know that we’re very modern in our thinking.”
“Open relationships have been fairly common throughout history.”
The rest of us took this in. Earlier Sweet Boy had made Buffalo put the miniatures away, because Carrie was annoyed by a bit about drunk Little Shit chasing Sweet Boy around. But she must’ve been really pissed to say something so blunt. When The Little Shit came back to the table, Redbeard was laughing. “Darling,” he said, “this young lady thinks we’re swingers.”
“I don’t think the kids use that word anymore.”
Redbeard reached across the table and took her hand. “I told you they’d notice your little crush on Buffalo.”
Carrie picked up the empty bread basket. “Would you like some more?”
“Yes, please,” The Little Shit said. “More lemon, too.”
Sweet Boy made Carrie stay away from them for the rest of the night and, to make up for her blunder, he invited Redbeard to taste some new reds with him after service ended. Redbeard stopped by the raw bar first, where Buffalo was mincing shallots for a fresh batch of mignonette. “Buffalo! What are we working on?”
“Doing my best not to cry. How was the food tonight?”
“The Fisher Islands were exquisite. Absolutely buttery. Are you working on any new comedy routines?”
Buffalo fidgeted with the bar rag tucked into the front pocket of his chef coat. He pulled out the rag to wipe his knife, and Mini-Little Shit fell out onto the floor.
“Let me get that.” Redbeard went behind the counter and picked up the figurine before Buffalo could stop him. Real-life Little Shit was oblivious, sitting at the table, texting. Redbeard turned the effigy over in his hand. “Quite a likeness. Where did you get this?”
“I don’t know,” Buffalo said.
“Well.” He handed Mini-Little Shit back to Buffalo. “Let’s not let my wife see it.”
***
It was mid-week and Sweet Boy was working a double. When the rest of us got in at 3pm for the dinner shift, Redbeard was just leaving.
“He came for lunch by himself,” Sweet Boy told Carrie. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but he and Andy had a couple of drinks. Then Andy went downstairs–he’s been in the office with Jason for a while–and Redbeard was working on his laptop until a few minutes ago.”
“What did you hear?” Carrie said.
“Redbeard said something about people needing opportunities to meet their potential.”
“Did Andy say anything?”
“He said he’d do more if he could afford to. More what, I don’t know. I got the sense that he’s worried about money.”
Andy and Jason came up to the bar and Estéban made a portion of the special–soft shell crabs with garlic butter–for everyone to try. “That comes with salad and fingerlings as an entrée for $28,” Jason said. “We also have grilled sardines as an app for $15.”
“I need you guys to sell all of these tonight.” Andy forked the last bite of crab and pointed to Jason. “There are a couple changes we want to go over.”
“We ordered more ramekins and small cutlery,” Jason said. “Please, guys, be careful not to toss them when you’re bussing oyster plates. It’s getting expensive. Also, as you know, Kyle’s been acting as floor manager on the weekends, so he’s getting a small bump to make it official. We need to streamline the wine program–he’s going to take over ordering and inventory. I know we’re all guilty of it, but we’re losing money on all the free drinks we pour. We need to minimize comps and no more shift drinks. I put a jar next to the computer. Five dollars per. After hours only.” He looked over at Andy. “Anything else?”
“Thanks, everyone, for your cooperation,” Andy said. “I know some of our regulars are used to special treatment, and if they push back we need to handle that carefully. If you have questions or get any complaints, come to one of us. There are exceptions to every rule.”
Andy left without having more to drink. We thought it was strange, but he said he had to get home for his kid’s soccer game. Jason and the chef went down to the office. Sweet Boy counted the wine and Carrie prepped the oyster sauces. The rest of us sliced baguettes. Estéban was in the kitchen, making fish tacos for staff meal.
“Where’s Buffalo?” Carrie said.
“He was here earlier to prep but Chef sent him out a while ago. Maybe to the grocery store? No produce delivery until tomorrow.” Estéban tonged cabbage slaw into a row of tacos. “It was weird though. I went downstairs around the time he left—I forgot my lucky towel—and I saw Andy leaving the locker bay. Felt like someone had gone through my stuff.”
Sweet Boy stopped counting. “You think he searched the lockers?”
“I don’t know, man.”
Buffalo came in the front carrying two armfuls of groceries. He had earbuds in and was doing a dance across the length of the dining floor.
“Took you long enough,” Estéban said.
“What?!” Buffalo shouted, removing one of the earbuds.
“Better hurry up, man. Service starts in twenty.”
“I know—Chef sent me to ten different places. But it’s fun to shop with the white people. So many options. Sweet Boy, you got my station prepped for me?” Sweet Boy tossed a stale end of a baguette at him. The bread bounced off Buffalo’s shoulder and onto the floor. “You better pick that up before Chef comes up here,” he said.
Buffalo was still downstairs when our first customers sat at the two-top farthest from the kitchen. Carrie put their order in—a dozen Blue Points and two glasses of Pinot Gris—and dropped the oysters on the shucking counter. “Shit,” she said. “What is Buffalo doing now?”
“I’ll shuck.” Sweet Boy borrowed an oyster knife from Estéban. We were running the food and drinks to the table, and Carrie was telling them about the specials when Jason came upstairs. He motioned for Sweet Boy to come down to the office with him. None of us heard what was said.
We had three more parties, a four-top, another two, and one at the bar by the time Sweet Boy came back to the floor. Several portions of oysters were waiting. Still no Buffalo. Sweet Boy’s jaw was set. He said nothing and shucked. The dinner rush was coming in.
Half an hour later the dining room was full and we had a waitlist going, which was busy for a weeknight. Jason stepped in to help because we were short-staffed without Buffalo. We could tell he was upset but it wasn’t the time to ask. For the next three hours, Sweet Boy never left the raw bar and Jason stayed on the floor. We were tense and frazzled. We made lots of mistakes. Orders were brought to the wrong tables, someone spilled cocktail sauce on a customer’s white dress, and Carrie dropped a tray of drinks. There was no fooling around, no chatting, no joking.
It was after last seating when the floor cleared; we had still two tables open, but the entrées were served. Jason ducked downstairs to get his stuff and left out the back. At the server’s station, we whispered about what might’ve happened to Buffalo. Was he fired? Did they send him home for the night? Maybe he just got sick. Sweet Boy came over and said, “Stop. We’ll talk about it later.”
The restaurant finally emptied and Estéban joined us at the bar while Carrie counted tips. Sweet Boy made everyone put in their five bucks before he poured drinks. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “Andy thinks someone on the staff has been stealing. He searched the lockers. Probably because of whatever Redbeard said to him today.”
“Can he do that?” Carrie sorted the bills into separate piles, setting aside a share for the back of house.
“Jason tried to stop him. But they’re his property.”
“Only the kitchen staff has lockers,” Estéban said.
“I have one in case I need to fill in like I did tonight,” Sweet Boy said. “But he didn’t search it, thank god. I have bottles of wine in there that I forgot to take home yesterday. I was going to pay for them with the weekend tip out.”
“Here.” Carrie handed Sweet Boy his stack of cash. “What about Buffalo?”
“The Minis were in his locker. Andy freaked. Said he couldn’t keep anyone on who treated customers like that. Made Jason fire him.”
“That’s not fair,” Carrie said. “What if we went to Andy? The entire waitstaff made fun of them. Redbeard encouraged it!”
“Andy wasn’t fucking around,” Sweet Boy said. “How does it help if we all get fired?”
We texted Buffalo, told him we’re sorry about what happened, and fuck Andy, we’re thinking of him, and let us know if there’s anything we can do to help. He didn’t respond.
***
The guys in the front of house took turns covering the raw bar for the rest of the week, leaving us short a server. We were tired and pissed when Redbeard and The Little Shit came in on Saturday. We set up Table 19 and Sweet Boy took off his dirty chef coat to talk to them about the wine. Redbeard went through a few tastings before ordering the Vermentino again, and as always, the oysters. Sweet Boy shucked while we presented the wine.
“Don’t say anything,” Sweet Boy whispered to Carrie’s back as she ran the plate to the table.
“We have six Malpeque and six Tatamagouche,” Carrie said. “Can I get you anything else?”
“We’re going with a Canadian theme,” Redbeard said.
“Enjoy,” Carrie said.
“Hang on. Carrie? Where’s our good friend Buffalo tonight?”
“I assumed you knew. After your little talk with the owner, he searched Buffalo’s locker because he thought someone was stealing.”
“What? I didn’t say anything to him about that.”
“Right. Well, they found those figurines and fired him on the spot. So congratulations.”
“What’s she talking about, honey?” The Little Shit said.
Sweet Boy hurried over. “Hey guys, let’s settle down.” He turned to Redbeard. “The wine is on us, okay?”
“No, Kyle. Let us finish,” Redbeard said. “I was trying to help the young man. I encouraged Andy to increase his pay so he could devote more time to his creative endeavors. Keep himself out of trouble.”
“Come on,” Carrie said. “We all know it’s your wife who’s been sneaking tableware out in her purse!”
“That is outrageous!” Redbeard stood up and flung his napkin down on the table. His glass of Vermentino toppled and smashed on the floor. The rest of us rushed over with towels and a broom. We told The Little Shit to be careful of the glass, and knelt to wipe the wine off her shoes. The two of them said nothing. After we’d cleaned up the mess, Redbeard said, “Come on, darling. We’re going.”
***
Redbeard the Neck Brace and The Little Shit never came in again, and now Fish Bar is out of business. If you walk past 71st and 2nd, you’ll find a juice bar called Sol Green.
Most of us stayed until the end, but after the restaurant closed, we decided to stop waiting tables. Some of us went back to school for professional degrees. Others took temp jobs, worked in hospitals or construction, became paramedics. Andy helped Sweet Boy get a job as a manager at a Michelin Star farm-to-table in the Hudson Valley, where he lives with his girlfriend. Not Carrie. Estéban became a sous-chef in another seafood restaurant downtown. We saw on Instagram that Buffalo eventually found work at a specialty grocer a few blocks from Sol Green. None of us ever goes in there; in fact, we avoid the whole neighborhood. But he looks good in the pictures.
Kristie Redfield is a graduate of the Bennington Writing Seminars. Her fiction has appeared in Orca, A Literary Journal. In 2021, she received an honorable mention in The Cincinnati Review's Robert and Adele Schiff Awards and was a finalist in the Salamander Fiction Contest and the New South Annual Writing Contest.