Chapter Eight: Credibility

Credibility: accept credit for your good deeds; refuse credit for good deeds that are not yours…let your conscience be your guide.

It takes Mimi one spin around the tiny office to determine that the Firedrake business records have been purged. The file cabinet is empty, drawers bare except for a couple of sticky pennies. No stacks, no invoices – not even a rolodex of business contacts remains. Okay, Mimi thinks; we start fresh, design our own roadmap for success. Mimi finds only two folders on the very top of a dusty shelf. The pink slip file has three complaints about a server who takes leftover food home for her dog. Ludicrous, she thinks, and pitches it into the trash.
The other file is more interesting. Mimi finds a contract agreeing to a Buy One, Get One Free of Equal or Lesser Value food deal. She shows the contract to Sam, who takes one look and dismisses it. “Ignore it, Mimi. We bought the assets of this business, not the liabilities. We’re a different corporation, and not bound by law to accept this agreement. We won’t honor it.”
“I don’t get it, Sam. What’s Eat-and-Meet? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Here, let me see it again.” Sam snorts as he scans to the bottom. “It’s a scam of very large magnitude. If one of their reps walks in the door, you come find me immediately.” He turns to the last page, and hands it back to Mimi. “Can you read this signature?”
Mimi squints. “It looks like Todd’s name, but I can’t be sure.”
“Shoot, Mimi, Rod could have signed this thing. Give it here.” Sam takes a closer look and becomes indignant. “Good God. This is a two-year contract signed in March of this year.” Sam rips it up and throws it in the trash. “No fucking way, Mimi! We are not giving away food. We’re not a pizza joint.” Sam’s a pilot light in search of a gas leak.
“Now I see,” Mimi slowly says. She cautiously looks at Sam. “We’re getting these weird coupons in the paperwork every night. Not many, but people are using them. I’ve been honoring them thinking maybe George gave some out to his friends as a thank you.”
“Damn it, Mimi! How much have you given away?” Sam ignites.
“Close to three hundred dollars. I’m keeping them in an envelope and thought we’d take the final amount off our payment to George next month, or at least ask him to split it with us.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this before now?” In an effort to put out his raging fire, Sam fills the bar sink with cold water and dunks his head in it. Mimi hands him a towel and smartly steps back. He comes up smoking. “Put signs on the window and on the doors and in the bathrooms, right now! Let these gomers know that the free ride ends today.” Sam dries his head with the towel and reaches in the cooler for an O’ Doul’s, twists off the cap, and swallows half in one gulp. He glares at Mimi. “Water-drinking freeloaders! I don’t want those people as my customers. Send them down the road. Let them put our competition out of business, not us,” Sam yells. He stomps out the door, leaving Mimi to deal with her scorched ass.
The Eat-and-Meet pitch: if you sign this contract, you’ll get free advertising for your company in this four-color, professionally designed book right here. It will cost you nothing. Watch your business increase. The customers will flock to your door! Aw, no, you don’t have to be the owner to sign this. Go ahead. Your boss will be so happy he’ll give you a raise.
The Eat-and-Meet Company sells their coupon books to churches, scout troops, and schools for ten dollars each. The groups sell the books for twenty-five dollars each. The buyer has hundreds of dollars worth of coupons good for free meals at local restaurants. Quite a tidy profit for each party. Nice little fund raiser. And how beneficial to a small, independently owned restaurant looking to increase their customer base. Niiiice fish, purty fish, lots of silver.
The Eat-and-Meet Vice President of Sales won’t tell Mimi and Sam how many books have been distributed in their area – classified information, you know. “But, I will tell you this; you can expect approximately three thousand coupons per year to be redeemed at your restaurant.”
Sam’s eyes are bulging and on the verge of popping out on the table. “You fucking carpetbagger! That’s over forty thousand dollars of our blood, sweat, and tears walking out our front door every year!” His head spin puts Linda Blair to shame. “Mimi, call our attorney.”
The VP doesn’t break a sweat; with a glued-on smile, he looks at Sam and politely says, “Oh, but they will be repeat customers, Mr. Killian.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? These people will eat free in our restaurant once a year, that’s it. They’ll put us out of business. There goes our profit. Mimi, call the attorney right now.”
Still smiling, the VP shoves the contract in front of Sam. “Mr. Killian, look at this contract. Read the fine print. This contract is transferable from owner to owner. In other words, we can and will sue you. Not only that, but you’ll have to come to New Jersey for a hearing in our courts.”
Sam stands up. “Expect a call from our attorney today. Now get the hell out of my restaurant.” The carpetbagger is cool. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Killian. We look forward to doing business with you.”
“Kiss my ass, you fucking shyster!”
Mimi and Sam pay their attorney a handsome fee to change the names of The Firedrake and The Dragon. Effective immediately, The Firefly and The Phoenix are open for business. Neither establishment honors Eat-and-Meet coupons. David defeats Goliath.

Dear Mr. Killian:
My wife and I dined at your restaurant last Friday and were very disappointed. When we arrived at The Firedrake, we were dismayed to find that you no longer accept Eat-and-Meet coupons.
Mrs. Killian made us feel welcome and offered us a glass of free wine if we would stay. My wife enjoyed her white zinfandel very much. Had I looked at the menu before sitting down, I would have left immediately. $13.95 is just too much to pay for chicken and mashed potatoes.
While wishing you all the best, rest assured – we will never return to your establishment.
Sincerely, a Former Customer

Dear Mrs. Killian:
I am appalled and shocked that The Firedrake no longer accepts Eat-and-Meet coupons. My husband and I are newlyweds and received a coupon book as a wedding gift. I don’t care how many free appetizers you offer as a bribe, I will never set foot in your restaurant again. We are struggling to make ends meet and can’t afford to go out to eat without help. We feel cheated out of a very valuable gift. You are an embarrassment to non-profit organizations and are greedy and selfish. I hope you rot in Hell.
Signed, Your Enemy

Dear Owner,
Why did you take kalzone off you menue. It was cheep and I like it. I’m coming back next weekend and it beter be back on, or ther will be truble.
Bye, Chad

Dear Kind Woman Hostess with the Mostess:
Please forgive my stationary. Just wanted to tell you that you are doing a great job, but why did you change the name? It’s not that I don’t like the new one; I’m from the south and love fireflies.
Anyway, I ate at The Firefly last Saturday night and loved it! The food and service were great and the new décor is funky and fun. I just read your review in today’s paper and the critic nailed it: “It’s the party everyone wants to be invited to.” I love that you renamed the bar The Phoenix. That’s good luck.
Keep up the good work! I’ll be back.
Sincerely,
? xxooxo ! (an anonymous fan of your husband’s tush)

To Whom It May Concern:
I understand you no longer take Eat-and-Meet coupons. Good for you! Although I own one of those books, I prefer to pay full price for my meals. As a matter of fact, your prices are too low for the quality of food coming out of your kitchen. Have you considered raising your prices? I’ll support you, and so will my friends.
I’m a little concerned about the downstairs. There’s a rumor going around that you are going to stop playing jazz and feature bluegrass instead. While I am a die-hard fan of Ricky Skaggs, I’m sure that most of your clientele don’t know who he is. How many black people do you know who like bluegrass? Your crowd is diverse. I hope you keep it that way. It’s the only club in town where people of all colors and persuasions mingle so well.
Thank you. Let us know about the music. I look forward to playing in the new and improved Phoenix soon. Do you pay scale?
Sincerely, Al Hampton, bass player, Al and the Beat

Sam is on alert. Filet mignon and shrimp are disappearing from the inventory with alarming speed, but he can’t catch Van in the act. Sam never asks Jarrod to be a spy – Jarrod provides that service on his own. “We’re down to fifteen filets, Sam,” Jarrod mentions. “We sold twelve last night and should have thirty-six left, according to the prep sheet. I only counted twenty-one. Oh, yeah, and I only found one box of shrimp. Did you toss the other one for some reason?”
Sam’s decision to keep Van on has proven to be a poor one. That’s what I get for being a softy, Sam thinks. He asks Van to step outside at the end of the shift, after the cleaning is done. Van lights a cigarette and leans casually against the wall. “What’s on your mind, Boss Man?” Sam is beyond casual. He’s totally relaxed, inhaling a Cohiba and feeling a bit of a tobacco high. He looks at his cigar, then at Van. “I know what you’re up to.”
Van jumps. “What do you mean, you know what I’m up to?”
Sam blows a large smoke ring without taking his eyes from Van. “You’ve been busted.”
Van laughs and shakes his head. “No, no…that was a long time ago. Since you and Mimi bought the place, I don’t even deal outta the kitchen anymore out of respect for you, man.”
“Van, I have two-hundred dollars in my pocket. I suggest you take it and go find another job. Just don’t tell them you worked here, and I won’t have to say I fired you.”
“Fire me? What are you talking about, man?” Van is caught totally off-guard. He was expecting a raise. “Think about it, Van.” Sam is cooler than Minnesota spring water. He blows another smoke ring, reaches in his pocket, and pulls out his money clip. Van starts begging. “Look man, I’m supporting two kids. I haven’t stolen anything from you in two weeks. I swear. My car’s been broken down and I can’t hide the shit anywhere. I won’t steal anything else, I promise. I need this job.” Van visibly shakes; his cigarette makes uncontrollable circles in the air.
Sam shakes his head, takes another long hit from his cigar, and scratches his back on the corner of the wall. “Two hundred dollars, Van. You walk away now with two hundred dollars cash in your pocket, or you walk away with nothing; your choice.”
Van takes a last draw of his cigarette, drops it to the ground, and angrily crushes it to dust. “Alright, damn. Give me the money. You’re one bad mutha fucka, man.” He grabs the money from Sam’s outstretched hand and stuffs it in his front pocket. “You have a check coming next week," Sam says. "We’ll mail it to you. I don’t want to see you around here anymore, you understand?”
“Got it, man. Loud and clear.” Van starts walking without purpose, then changes direction. He looks back at Sam, opens his mouth, and wisely, shuts it.
“Good luck, Van. Don’t put that money in the pipe. Now, get outta here.” Sam feels a pang of compassion as Van’s shadow disappears down the dark street, but that passes with the fading of his next smoke ring. He walks into the back dining room, where Mimi inventories wine. “Mimi, will you see if you can find Warren’s number? It’s time to bring a new dog in here and teach him a few old dog tricks, if he’s still willing.”
Mimi looks up and grins. “It’s in the office – black book, left-hand drawer. Tell him he can stay with us for a couple of weeks if you want to. But tell him he can’t drink if he does.”
Sam ponders a moment. “Maybe he’ll go to AA with me. I’ll make that part of the deal.” Two days later, Sam fills a hole on the line with a new buddy, who, it appears, is quick to reform – a two-legged, easily-trained puppy named Warren.

The applications are stacking up on Mimi’s desk downstairs. Everybody wants to work at The Firefly. Mimi and Sam hire several people who fire themselves. The well-groomed transvestite who can’t work Saturday because he has a sprained ankle, but who can dance in high heels Saturday night; the waitress who arrives late, leaves early and refuses to sell wine because it’s against her religion; the numbskull who, on his application, lists his first name as Marcus and his last name as Marcus; he’s known as Marcus Marcus to the staff, Circus Circus to Sam; Rod’s back-up dishwasher, who speaks no English, locks herself in the women’s bathroom during a Saturday rush and repeatedly yells ‘sheet sheet sheet’ until Sam takes the door off the hinges, gives her cab money, and sends her home; the prima donna Culinary Institute of America boy who doesn’t understand the importance of playing well with others. Circus Circus, indeed.
The core wait staff at The Firefly and The Phoenix is tight, professional. Underachiever Kyle Shanahan is a tall, sparkling cover boy with an eye for a sucker. He can sell sugar cane to a diabetic, and consistently has the highest ticket average. Greg Sanderson – chronically depressed unemployed actor and unpublished writer – is intellectually disheveled and charmingly brooding. His dark good looks, cynical repartee, and deprecating humor appeal to older customers of both sexes; he’s creamy under the crust, like crème brulee. Tom Garland has a Mensa-level IQ and a thimble’s worth of common sense. He checks everyone’s paperwork for accuracy at the end of a shift, but is the kind of guy who needs help sharpening his pencil. He may show up for work in shorts and cowboy boots, or a kilt and tennis shoes – a bon a fide member of the Firefly freak show – but he always gets the job done, and more. Catherine Shiffman, known as Beauty Cat, or simply BC to her co-workers, is small, quiet, and moves with the grace of a panther stalking her prey. Her dancer’s body is rock hard, and she can carry twice her weight in dirty dishes. BC, a vapor trail of speed on busy nights, waits on the most people, but has the lowest ticket average. She’s a table turner – hers is a quantity game. She’d rather sell ten bottles of Beringer White Zinfandel than one bottle of vintage Caymus Cabernet Sauvignon. Every restaurant needs a Beauty Cat. And there’s goofy, smooth Jose Covas – so smooth in his goofiness that one doesn’t recognize the goofy part unless one works with him. He sings with a voice so deep and rich that it’ll make you reach in your pocket and contribute to his American education fund – that is, unless you’re bilingual. Then you might understand he’s singing about making love to your wife and daughter at the same time, or that you’re a cheap bastard who should eat at McDonald’s. The restaurant is Jose’s stage, the customers his willing audience. Sam would insist Mimi fire his ass if not for the business he brings in. Then, there’s Carly Cavanaugh, a buxom, brown-eyed, Irish spitfire. Bronx born and bred, Carly has a work ethic that pleases Sam and Mimi. She comes in early, stays late, bats cleanup when everyone else is too tired to lift another finger, and bosses the boys around like little brothers. Carly would rather tend bar than wait tables, but her edge is a bit too cutting for The Phoenix employees. Dee is Queen of the Downstairs and won’t relinquish her rights to the crown, especially to someone who doesn’t like grits, who doesn’t say ya’ll, and who squawks like a sailor’s parrot. Mimi is the only one who can control Carly when her temper flares. Even Sam appreciates Carly’s need for perfection, although there is usually a war between the stainless steel when Carly’s on the floor. “This dish looks like shit,” Carly might say to the sous chef. “Make it over,” she demands. “Get my order out now!” she screams. And oh, her customers love her hard-edged honesty. “Don’t order the catfish special,” she’ll say. “It’s tired.” Sam asks, “Carly, why didn’t you sell any catfish tonight?” Because it’s tired, Sam,” Carly retorts. “My customers deserve better.” Sam shrugs his shoulders because he knows she’s right.
Tip average is well over one hundred dollars – almost twice that amount on weekends, due in part to The Firefly’s small, but exclusive wine selection. Mimi makes sure her staff knows the wine list cold and hosts a tasting every Saturday night for staff only, but not until all stations are clean and the last piece of paperwork is completed. To taste a bottle of a fine Italian Super Tuscan – something by Angelo Gaja, perhaps – each person contributes what he or she can afford toward the wholesale price. Mimi always makes up the difference, but gives herself an extra pour. These kids know wine!
Mimi enjoys setting up for these occasions; she chooses her wines carefully, polishes the glasses, makes sure the flowers are refreshed and the tablecloth is clean. She wants her staff to have respect for the ceremony, to honor the sacrificial grape. By candlelight and big moonbeams, Mimi hosts a late-night communion on the upstairs patio. She starts with a bottle of Firesteed Pinot Noir and pours a generous ounce in each glass. They swirl, sniff, taste. “Kyle, how would you describe this wine?”
“Light, refreshing, a perfect summer red or quaffing wine.”
“What else, BC?”
“A nice note of spice rounding out the fruit. Perfect with fish or chicken, but not with heavy dishes. Light, like Kyle said, but there’s enough going on to keep it interesting.”
“Everybody agree?” Nods all around, and the next bottle is poured.
“Okay, guys. Now taste the Steele Pinot Noir. How does it compare, Jose?”
“Wow! This is a pinot?”
“Yep. Very different, isn’t it? You have to be able to explain the difference to a customer since the Steele isn’t a glass pour.” Jose takes another sip, and ponders. “I would say the Steele drinks more like an old vine zin – heavy and comparatively full-bodied next to the Firesteed. How would you describe them, Mimi?”
“I’d say the Firesteed is a ballerina and the Steele is a football player. Okay, everybody, rate 'em one to five, five being the best. You know the drill. Hurry up, we have a long way to go.”
“Can we taste the Chianti next?”
“Sure, Tom. Everybody drink up or dump your glasses. Greg, put that bottle of Steele down. Hand it to me, come on. No bogarting the good stuff. We’ll divvy up the leftovers in a minute. Quiet on the set. Everybody have a pour?”
“Yuck.”
“Gag.”
“Hey, I like it!”
“You like everything, Greg. You have a palate of stone.” Greg looks at BC’s notes and feels compassion for the little wine that fails. “Dang, Cat. This isn’t great, but it’s better than a one. What do you think, Mimi?”
“It’s bug spray. I agree with Cat. We ain’t sellin’ it. And now, for our feature presentation, I present our star tonight, the 1989 Bertani Amarone. It’s gonna cost you guys forty dollars. Who’s in? All six of you? Okay, ante up five dollars each; I pour, and there will be no complaints when I pour the most in my glass. Greg, get your grubby little hands off that bottle before I break your fingers.” Mimi looks at the littered table and stops the action. “We need some fresh glasses here. Tom, will you please fetch seven clean glasses and take the used ones to Rod? Thanks. Carly, will you please see if you can round up some bread? We need to cleanse our palates for this one.”
Sam’s in the kitchen putting away his knives when he sees Tom carrying glasses from the patio to the dish room. Carly passes Tom carrying a basket of bread…then Tom resurfaces with more glasses. Under normal circumstances, Sam ignores this post-close show and tell. However, he has just discovered his protégé, Warren, and his sous chef, Jarrod, chugging a six-pack in the small walk-in cooler. “Fuck, boy, you had me fooled,” Sam says to Warren. “Get your ass out of here.” Sam is not in good temper.
Mimi’s rules of engagement include not arguing with Sam in front of her staff, especially during a training session. She’s in church, standing on hallowed ground; she’s preaching to the masses, delivering the message of the grape, and Sam rudely interrupts her litany by throwing the weight of his anger at his wife.“Mimi, what the hell are you doing?” He stands three feet from the table, and glares at her. The staff freezes.
Mimi stares at Sam for a Mississippi second, and slowly says, “We’re tasting wine, Sam, as usual. Everything’s put to bed inside.”
“Damn it, I wish you wouldn’t do that. I can use all the open bottles next week in sauces.”
“Honey, look in the back. There are five bottles you can use. These aren’t glass pours, at least not yet.”
“Then you’re wasting wine! Put them back, now!”
“No, I’m not.” Mimi looks at the wait staff; her face is still, calm. She softly says, “Sam, this is part of the educational process. They have to know what they’re selling.”
“Bullshit! You look like a bunch of damn winos to me. Am I paying for this? By God, Mimi, this is the last time. You waste more money than anyone I know. Why don’t you stop playing and start working?” Sam’s hands are on his hips and he’s mouth-breathing. Mimi excuses herself from the group. “Kyle, everybody, stay right here. I’ll be back in a minute.” Sam follows her inside, his temper growing with each step. “You’re all a bunch of fucking winos,” he screams. “I’m surrounded by alcoholics.” Sam’s a fear-biter, and Mimi backs away slowly. She’s confused, confounded by his outburst. “Sam, I don’t know why you’re acting this way, but now is not the time to discuss it. I’m working as hard and fast as I can, like you. Give me a break. Leave us alone, please. We’ll talk about this when we get home.” She puts her game face on, turns, and walks back to her safe haven. “You guys ready?”
“What was that all about?" Kyle asks. "Are you alright? You’re shaking.”
“Don’t worry about it. Sam’s just cranky and tired.” Mimi takes a deep breath, and smiles. “Okay, where were we? Ah, yes, the Bertani Amarone. Carly, will you open it, please?” Standing, Carly takes the proffered bottle from Mimi, uncorks it easily, and hands the cork to Mimi. “Everybody feel this cork. It’s malleable and spongy, not dry. Good sign. Now, get a little air in there, and stick your nose in it. How about that bouquet, huh guys? What are you picking up?”
“Earth…”
“Leather…”
“Tobacco…”
“Raisins! Why does it smell like raisins?”
Mimi smiles. “Wow, Greg, you nailed it. The grapes are dried on straw mats in the sun – a process which intensifies the flavor of the wine as well as increases the alcohol content slightly.”
“You mean like sundried tomatoes?”
Mimi nods. “Exactly. You’re drinking sundried grapes.”
“Oh my God, this is a mouth orgasm,” shrieks Carly. “How much of this do we have in stock?”
“I just bought two cases. Our supplier has three cases in reserve. Do you think we can sell it?”
“Oh, yeah. I can sell every bottle, no problem,” Carly answers. Mimi looks around the table. The staff agrees. “Even at a buck and a quarter a shot? Tell you what. You guys sell this stuff, and I’ll treat us to the last bottle. Deal?”
“Yes, m’am!”
Tom says, “Queen Mimi, you are the wine goddess of my life. I have to know how you would describe this indescribably delicious wine.”
Mimi is silent. Her movements are slow and deliberate as she gently swirls, releasing her favorite aromas and catching them with her nose. “Let me see…okay, here it is: this wine is a soft, round passionate opera singer dressed in black velvet and rubies, performing under a full moon while standing barefooted in a richly mulched hayfield.”
“Well, damn,” says Greg. “How do we describe it to our customers?”
“Just like that, man.” Jake Reston stands on the top step of the patio, enthralled by the convocation and Mimi’s poetic, visual wordplay. He can’t help but join the church. “I’d buy two bottles based on that description alone.”
“Well, now, that’s the idea,” says Mimi as she turns, wondering whose deep and unfamiliar voice just entered the conversation. She extends her hand to a gentleman dressed in black jeans and a black button-down shirt, cuffs rolled to his elbows. His hand feels like part of her body. “Hi, I’m Mimi Killian.”
“Jake Reston. I’m the keyboard player in Melvin’s band. It’s nice to finally meet you. Is is it okay if I use the upstairs phone? I can’t hear a thing in the bar. You have some frat boys hanging with a bachelorette party. Dee’s selling lemon drops as fast as she can make them.”
Greg jumps out of his chair, followed by Jose, Tom, and Kyle. They playfully make for the stairs. “Is anybody naked?”
“Not yet, but I’ll definitely keep my eyes open.” Jake winks at Mimi, and they laugh. He realizes he is still holding her hand, gently drops it, and smiles. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Mimi blushes, but doesn’t know why. “No, you’re fine. The door’s open – I bet you know where the phone is. But wait; do you like red wine?” Jake nods. “Yeah, I don’t know much, but I like it.”
“Mimi hands him her glass. “Give me your first reaction.”
Jake puts his nose to the glass and inhales deeply. “Smells like feet,” he says.
“We call that barn funk, Jake. Jim’s dirty socks, Rover’s old collar.” He hands the wine back to Mimi, and their eyes lock for just a second. Something subtly clicks into place, easily, like gently-adjusted vertebrae. They both stand a little straighter now.
After evening vespers, the patio is cleared; before the stroke of two a.m., the Killians leave for home. Mimi pauses as she enters the front door. The house is quiet and dark; usually Warren beats them in, takes a shower, and falls asleep to the Comedy Channel. “Where’s Warren?” she asks Sam, the first words she’s spoken to him in three hours. Sam doesn’t answer. Mimi kicks off her shoes, picks them up, and pads toward the bedroom while Sam strips his clothes off at the back door and walks naked to the shower. “Leave the water on, please, I’m right behind you,” Mimi says. Sam ignores his wife and purposely turns off the faucet. Mimi ignores Sam, resets the water and steps in. Sam pees, flushes the toilet, and scurries out the door as scalding water hits Mimi’s back. Mimi gasps, moves away and waits for the water to even out, robbing Sam of a satisfying yelp. She takes her time, allowing the hot water to penetrate her pores. Sam usually leaves her towel within reach, but not tonight. Mimi grabs one from the linen closet and, as she wipes herself down, reaches in the medicine cabinet, removes Sam’s favorite mouthwash, and pours it down the drain. They don’t waste more time on passive-aggressive behavior; both prefer the effects of swift, hand’s on battle to pussyfooting subterfuge. Sam’s in the den arming for battle when Mimi enters; she’s wearing red silk pajamas – a walking bull’s eye.
Sam fires the first shot. “I caught Warren drinking tonight, and told him to get the hell away from me.” He reloads and, narrowing his eyes, draws a bead on Mimi’s chest. “He probably saw you drinking, Mimi, and figured it was alright for him, too.” He drops stink bombs in Mimi’s path for the next two hours. Although Sam’s caustic diatribe shakes her, she holds her ground. They argue until four a.m. – and finally call truce over scrambled eggs and toast. Sam and Mimi never get to the heart of the argument because the stomachs overrule. But, something shifts inside of Sam. Tonight, for the first time, Mimi is the enemy. Alcohol is a cruel temptress and Mimi is her wicked friend.
Warren, heartbroken and full of apologies, stops by early the next morning, but Sam won’t speak to him. The whipped puppy tucks his tail and packs his bags. “Sam has made a difference in my life,” he tearfully tells Mimi as they stand by the back door. “He’s like a father to me.” Mimi hugs Warren. “Give him some time. He loves you, but when he saw you drinking, it knocked him off-center.” Mimi pauses. “Look, Warren. It’s not your responsibility to take care of Sam, okay? That’s Sam’s job.”
“I know Mimi, but I owe him a lot.”
“Do you have a place to live?”
“Yes, m’am, I’m moving in with Jarrod. It’ll be good.” Warren hugs Mimi one more time. “Tell Sam I’ll see him at AA.” By brunch-time, Warren fills a hole at Steeles. The kid speeds around the kitchen like Quickdraw McGraw, confidently expediting, garnishing, and making friends. Sam’s puppy has found a new home.

Melvin decides to pay Sam and Mimi a cold call on Wednesday afternoon. The local musicians look to Melvin for news and informally appoint him as their truth-seeker. It’s up to Melvin to discover the musical future of The Phoenix. Mimi welcomes Melvin and motions toward a seat at the bar. She pours him a cup of coffee. “Black, right?”
“Thanks, Mimi. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by, but I can come back another time if now’s not good for you.”
“Wednesdays are good; it’s a no-stress day for us. We’re as caught up as we can be. Sam should be back in a few minutes. He went to the grocery store to pick up a few things.” Mimi pulls out a cigarette and looks at Melvin. “Will it bother you if I smoke?”
Melvin doubles over in laughter – his body is one big funny bone – and says, “Obviously you’ve been too busy to notice that I smoke and play the horn at the same time,” he chuckles, as he fires up one of his own. “I think my lungs are about double the normal size, and I have a theory that all the bad stuff blows out when I play. My doctor doesn’t agree, and neither does my wife.” Melvin grins. “I’m convinced they’re wrong.”
“I absolutely love your band, Melvin. You guys are total professionals; Dee really appreciates not having to round you up for a set, you know? The crowd really picks up when you’re in the house. Would you consider playing more than once a month?”
Melvin grins. “I’d consider it an honor, Mimi. I might have to pull in different musicians on occasion, but that would be a gas. Melvin Thomas Quartet with Special Guest whoever…yeah, I can cook something up.”
“I’ve hired another bartender to back Dee up," Mimi says. "Have you met him? Mo Bowman. He’s a keeper. Loves jazz.”
“That big brother? I saw him in action last weekend, saw him step right off the floor and plant a size sixteen foot on the bar, reach out, and grab a guy’s collar because he was trying to skate on his tab.”
Mimi laughs. “I saw that, too. He was up and over, got the guy’s credit card, asked how much tip to add on, rang him up, and thanked him. Never missed a beat. The guy tipped him ten bucks. Beautiful!”
“That guy’ll never mess with him again and I doubt anyone else will, either. Don’t let that big grin of his fool you. So Mo likes jazz, huh?”
“Oh, yeah, Melvin.”
“Do you, Mimi?” Melvin’s on task now. He stands up, walks to the pot, and helps himself to another cup of coffee.
Mimi takes a deep draw off her cigarette. She’s transported to another time. She responds, “I was raised on it. I was smoking candy cigarettes, wearing a black beret, and dancing to Sonny Rollins and Thelonious Monk when I was four years old. I love tenor sax, but I love alto even better.”
“No shit!” Melvin steps back and puts his hand on his heart – a dramatic gesture, but given the nature of the visit, the pronouncement is a godsend.
“Really,” Mimi says, smiling. “My mom and dad’s best friends had reel-to-reel in their living room. Jazz, all night long, uninterrupted. One flip of the switch, and we had our own little club. The women and children danced upstairs while the men played poker in the basement. Listening to jazz reminds me of all things good in my childhood. It paints pictures in my head…me dancing with my young, hip mother, mom teaching me to do the camel walk, you know, the ultimate kid experience.”
Melvin nods his head. “See, that fits, now that I think about it. But I heard that you and Sam might turn this club into more of a country scene with bluegrass music.”
Mimi looks hard at Melvin. “Over my dead body,” she snaps. “Jazz works here. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Sam, hands full of bags, kicks the door with his foot. Melvin rushes over to open it. “Hey Sam, let me help you.” Sam eyes Melvin suspiciously.
“No, this is it. I’ve got it. Nothing better to do than hang out in the club when it’s closed?” Sam takes in the scene, sets the bags on the bar, and looks at Mimi, unsmiling. The air becomes a little thicker.
“What’s up, Sam?" Melvin asks. "Just thought I’d drop by on the way home from work and see how you two are doing, maybe talk a little music.”
Sam grunts. “Melvin, I don’t give a shit about music. I’m in the restaurant business. If you’re looking for a raise, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
Melvin shakes his head, and looks concerned. “No Sam, no man, nothing like that. The guys are worried that you and Mimi are gonna change the vibe in here, but Mimi tells me you’re doing okay with the jazz and blues scene.”
Sam can’t let the opportunity pass for a good rant. “Vibe? Let me tell you about vibe, Melvin. If one more of your fucking musicians tries to get free beer from my bartender, I’ll lock the doors. I’ll close this place down and there will be no vibe. You tell them I said that.” Mimi’s smile is turned upside down. “Sam, for heaven’s sake. That’s very rude.”
“So what, Mimi? I like bluegrass! You tell the bands, Melvin, I mean all of them, that I’m a bluegrass fan. I don’t want them in here. Jazz sounds like a mistake to me. Tell them, Melvin. Tell them all what I said. I’m tired of being taken advantage of. Fucking losers.” Sam points toward the door. “Now, excuse yourself. I have work to do. Don’t you have anything to do, Mimi?” Sam grabs the groceries from the bar and huffs, puffs, and blows his way upstairs.
Mimi looks at Melvin’s downcast face and touches his shoulder. “Good lord Melvin, please don’t take that to heart. Sam’s really tired and a bit grouchy right now, that’s all. BMI and ASCAP are pushing for money so we can feature live music downstairs as well as play CDs upstairs. We have to pay a royalty of around twelve hundred dollars – copyright infringement or something.” Mimi shrugs. “But, hey, if some starving musician gets to eat because we pay royalties, then money well spent, I say.”
“Damn if you don’t get it, Mimi.”
“Sam gets it, too. He just hides his soft side. Can’t be too vulnerable, you know. Do me a favor, will you? Let’s keep what happened today between us. Just tell the musicians that life is good at The Phoenix; that jazz will be favored above all. Sam and Mimi say so – you heard it straight from the source. But, also tell them this: no more free beer. Starting tonight, beers are a dollar.”
“Even Beck’s?”
“Yep, even Beck’s.”
Melvin smiles. “That’ll make Jake very happy. Thanks, Mimi.”
“Anytime, Melvin. You’re always welcome here. Stop by more often.”

It’s Thursday night and there’s a small, but enthusiastic crowd in The Phoenix, most who spend at least thirty-five dollars on a splendid dinner upstairs in the Firefly before heading downstairs for jazz. Tonight’s featured performer is Odessa Hargrave, a vocalist of international renown whose two lives are divided by an ocean. Mimi is hopping mad. She’s paying Odessa more than she can afford – more than scale – to perform three sets, and she’s not getting her money’s worth. During the break, Mimi calls Odessa into her office. “Odessa, what’s your story? Is your throat sore?”
Odessa is confused. “No, I’m fine. What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve sung three songs in two hours. What am I paying you?”
“One hundred dollars.”
“So, right now, that’s thirty-three dollars and thirty-three cents per song. Does that sound like a bargain to you? No, don’t answer that.” Mimi’s on a roll. “Let’s see, Odessa. Let’s plug in the numbers here and see what kind of deal I’m getting. Let’s say that each song is about four minutes long. You’ve worked twelve minutes in two hours. Is this what you normally do?”
“No ma’m. Bobby’s the bandleader. I’m just following his lead.” Odessa cuts her eyes at Bobby, hoping for some backup, but Bobby cuts the safety net. “Wait a minute, Odessa,” Bobby retorts. “You’re the leader tonight.”
“Don’t blame it on me, Bobby. I’m here to sing, and that’s all.”
“Bullshit, Odessa. We talked about this earlier. It’s your gig.”
Mimi looks at Bobby and Odessa. “I’ll tell you who the bandleader is. It’s me. And if I don’t hear “Song for my Father” followed by about a dozen more tunes in the next two hours, plus some friendly banter with my customers, none of you will ever be asked here again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Wow. Yes m’am.” Bobby’s a kidder. “We thought you were a pushover,” he says, smiling. Mimi’s not kidding. “Think again. Get a glove, get in the game, or get off my field.”
“I’m sorry, Mimi. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Mimi’s squall is squelched by her sunnier nature. “You’re all forgiven, just make it right.” Bobby and Odessa tuck tail. “Guess she told us, huh?” Odessa says as they linger at the door. “Just goes to show you, Odessa,” Bobby says, “not everybody’s gonna kiss your ass.”
“Kiss my ass, Bobby.”
“Make it bare, baby. Right here. Bend over and I’ll kiss it.”
“Don’t tempt me brother.” Odessa raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow.
Mimi doesn’t look up from her paperwork. “I don’t pay more for nudity.”
Odessa laughs on her way to the stage. “Guess my black drawers will stay on, then.”

Mimi is a businesswoman who respects value for the dollar. Ask any musician who plays at the Phoenix and they will say Mimi’s tough, but she’s fair. She knows music. When the customers are gone and the band is packing up and the beers are a dollar and the paperwork is done and the details of the night are being recounted for the eleventh time, Mimi’s attention drifts. She removes herself from the intimate scene, steps into her office, dimes Jean Luc Ponty’s Elephants in Love and dances with the abandonment of a four-year-old child. If you soften your eyes and gently follow her rhythm, you will see that Mimi dances with her mother, with her sisters, with a protective posse of winged gypsies; you will know that love and goodness keep her on the beat, keep her moving along the serpentine. Mimi is pure energy.