[fact or fiction]

Hook Café:
Where pretention and animosity go hand in hand

By: Elizabeth Doughtery

He slammed down on the keys with frightening vigor, jolting the tempo of the Hook Café from andante to a frantic waltz. Mrs. Dubois puffed on her cigarette and eyed the pianist from her seat four feet away. Benjamin Cash noticed her critical stare and switched up the beat again, initiating a poignant rendition of “Hotel California.” No mirrors hung on the ceiling in the Hook Café, but champagne certainly stood on ice at the table of Peter Long and the Dubois party.

“My father certainly didn’t take it lightly when I dropped out of Duke after my freshman year,” Peter Long said with a flourish of his empty glass. “But, anyway, look where I am now. He’s turning over in his grave with forgiveness.” Fidel jumped off the stool next to the coatroom door and hurried to the table. In order to not fall behind, Isabella Dubois emptied her glass then turned to Peter.

“When did he pass away?” She asked, her expression more matter-of-fact than compassionate.

Peter smiled gratefully at the busboy refilling his drink. “Almost 10 years ago. Died in a car wreck on the way to the club for a charity cocktail party. Never could break free from the sauce.” Peter stared down into the champagne, then looked up, suddenly confused.

“Harold,” he said, his eyes following the voluptuous form of a barely-legal waitress as she crossed the room, “now what were we celebrating again?”

“Isabella’s one-year anniversary of graduating from college.” Harold jerked his head toward the champagne. “The champagne, of course, is meant to get her tipsy so she will agree to at least trying a position at the firm.” Isabella grimaced dramatically. “I cannot understand why she is putting up such a fight. In the old days, children grew up much faster.” Harold chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “But in the meantime, Isabella, I’m sure by now you are looking forward to your summer plans...”

“Yes, very excited,” she said flatly, shifting her gaze from the evening sky to the strange man sitting at the piano. By now Benjamin Cash had finished with the Eagles and moved onto an oddly upbeat version of The Beatles’ “Yesterday.” Harold glanced at the piano and, deciding her eyes were focused on nothing at all, pushed for more details.
 
“And you will be doing what exactly?”

For lack of an itinerary, Isabella desperately looked around the room for help. The busboy remained seated on his stool, chatting on his cell phone with a cousin in Colorado. Jack Diamond entered the Hook Café through the back door, lugging two large boxes, which he placed on the floor behind the bar. He wiped his forehead and leaned against the bar back to rest. He glanced over at Benjamin Cash, flashed a content smile, then looked over to the table where the Isabella was seated. Their eyes locked, then she looked away, more desperate than before. Her eyes fell on the empty hostess stand, and she turned back to face her companions.

“I’m going to work here. As a hostess.”

Mrs. Dubois cringed and finished her champagne. “Well, that certainly won’t do much to further your career,” she said, even the tip of her nose fluttering in disapproval.

“Perhaps it is practical lessons I am needing at this moment in my life,” Isabella said, her indignant reply suddenly more passionate than she believed possible.
 
Mrs. Dubois neglected to consider the amount of passion invested in the decision. Instead, she relied on the time-honored convenience of social norms to keep order intact. “Oh, Isabella, that’s nice, dear, but it’s not appropriate for you to work here.”

Isabella crinkled her forehead and sat forward, leaning into the debate with defiant enthusiasm. “Why not?”
“Because we dine here.”

Isabella looked at her grandfather for help, but Harold Dubois remained silent. Isabella stood with a huff, and marched haughtily to the hostess stand and tapped her right foot impatiently for several moments, refusing to look back at the table from which the Dubois party looked on with great amusement. When no one jumped to her attendance, she marched over to the bar. Jack Diamond stopped unpacking the box of wine glasses and raised an eyebrow, which she didn’t know enough to take as a signal to speak.

“What can I do for you,” Jack said, realizing after a moment that Isabella needed a brief ceremony to initiate communication.

“I was wondering if you were hiring.”

Jack started laughing and didn’t stop until she grew upset.

“Why are you laughing at me?”

“I’m sorry,” Jack said, desperately trying to collect himself. “I’ll have to check with my father.”

He called, “Dad?”

A lamenting squeak of a chair preceded the emergence of the Café owner from his office, where he had been holed up in the days following Joe’s funeral. George realized who was waiting, turned and walked right back into his office.

“Dad,” Jack yelled again. “Is ... Isabella, right?”

“Yes, that is correct,” she said impatiently. Her right foot continued tapping.  A softer squeak sounded and the hesitant wheels of George’s chair matched his lack of enthusiasm toward the forced exchange. He slowly peeked his head out of the door. Jack looked at his father, then back at the admittedly loyal patron.
  
“Isabella was just wondering if we were looking to hire a hostess.”
“No.” The door slammed.

Inside his office, George looked up at the faded photograph of his buddies from college, huddled together on graduation day before entering the stadium for the last hurrah. In the picture George had his arm around Joe’s shoulder and stared straight into the camera, filled with more energy than necessary to take on the world and make his mark. Now, he sat bitter, his heart bordering on shriveled.

He rolled back over to the door and pushed it open. He discovered Jack and Isabella deep in conversation. George removed his glasses and scrubbed the lenses with a worn piece of cloth. He looked again toward the most unlikely pair and cocked his head to the side, taken aback by the warm glow that had emerged from beneath the cold mask of Isabella Dubois.

And as if he had eyes on the back of his head, Benjamin Cash launched into Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold.”