The Chosen

She passed the coffee station. The kitchen’s din faded behind her. Going from the kitchen to the dining room was liken to going from one world to another. Humid heat traded places with cool calm, the racket of the dinner rush gave over to quiet conversation and light Vivaldi from hidden speakers. The maitre d’ was expertly pouring Perrier-Jouet for a table of state legislators. A troup of bussers prepared a large banquet table in back for the governor’s party. A smug critic from the Post meticulously sampled an assortment of appetizers: Oysters Chesapeake, grilled Muscovy duck, Crab Meat Flan, and a tuned-up variation of antipasto. He did not look displeased.

Even this late—9 p.m.—every station was full or close to it. The dining room, in three wings, was well appointed, leaning toward more of a social club ambience; Vera had seen to a complete face-lift when she’d taken over as R.M. Rich gray paneled walls rose to a high, raftered ceiling from which hung a great octagonal chandelier. Tapers flickered from inset cherry wood sconces; well-framed nautical artwork adorned the back walls. Vera had made sure to replace the old steakhouse furniture with real armchairs and oak dining tables. The east windows offered a spacious view of the lit city dock and the bay.

My baby, she metaphored. She stood by the service bar, gazing out into the quiet robotic activity of her employees. This used to be the place where diners came as a last resort, because downtown was booked. Now their weekend reservations extended a month in advance. Since the changeover, The Emerald Room had yet to receive a negative or even mediocre review. Whenever celebrities were in town, this was where they came to eat.

“Vera, you want to hear something strange?”

Glasses clinked. Vera peeked into the service bar. Donna, the night barmaid, talked as she automatically washed, scrubbed, and rinsed a flank of #8 glasses in the triple sink. She’d been hired as a big favor to Dan B. Donna was his wife. Donna was also a reformed alcoholic. Vera took her on with a condition: that she get on the wagon and stay there. “One fall, and you’re out,” she was informed. That had been six months ago, and Donna hadn’t had a drop since. Her return to sobriety had changed the telltale dark circles and pastiness into a fresh vitality. She was mid-thirties, sort of short and full-bodied. Twin short blond ponytails wagged as she vigorously bent to clean the bar glasses.

“Sure, Donna,” Vera answered. “I’d love to hear something strange.”

Donna stood up and faced her. Her eyes gleamed. “Someone’s been asking about you.”

“Let me guess. The county liquor board? The health department? Oh_, I know, the feds, right? I knew I should’ve declared that sixty-cent tip I got last week when we were a waitress short.”

“You know that guy Chip, the manager at The Ram?”

“Well, I’ve known him for about five years, so I guess that means I know him.”

“Well, I was talking to him today, and he says this weird guy came in for lunch yesterday afternoon.”

“A weird guy. That’s not strange in this town.”

“So the guy asks Chip what’s the best restaurant in town, and naturally Chip says The Emerald Room.”

“Naturally,” Vera concurred.

“So then the guy asks Chip who’s the best restaurant manager in town, and naturally Chip says—”

“Me?” Vera asked.

“That’s right. You.”

This was obscurely flattering—being