“I’m talking about Frick and Frack,” Ezma said under her breath. “They’re useless.” She slid a glance at two waiters. One, Frick, was a tall thin boy who looked no older than sixteen and was really named Finn. Frack was a girl somewhere around twenty with rosy cheeks, springy brown curls, and curves she didn’t bother to conceal. Her real name was Francesca, but it didn’t seem to fit. Even during this mad rush, Frick-Finn was taking time to flirt with her and Frack-Francesca was eating it up, ignoring her tables.

Kristi scanned the specials. “This is it?” she asked, noting that some of the more popular items, shrimp crepes, crab cakes and crawfish etouffee had been erased from the chalkboard, the faint outline of their Shakespearean names still visible.

“With the oven on the fritz we’re down to a lot of the stuff that was made earlier or can be sauteed. Push the jambalaya and catfish fritters.”

“Okay.”

“Can I get a clean table?” the harried hostess asked of the kitchen staff. She was standing a few steps from the front desk and door where patrons were clustered, waiting. “What about thirteen? Or eleven? I’ve got people who’ve been waiting out front for a half hour!”

“I’m on it.” Miguel, one of the busboys, hurried past and was picking up dirty plates, glasses, and flatware before Kristi finished tying her apron.

Francesca looked up, spied Kristi, and immediately went into complaint mode. “It’s about time you showed up,” she chastised, breaking up her tête-à-tête with Finn. “It’s been a nightmare this morning, let me tell you,” she said, as Finn, with a quick look over his shoulder, turned back to the tables in his section of the restaurant.

Francesca’s cheeks were flushed as she untied her apron, further showing the area of her blouse where the fabric gapped, offering a peek at her lacy bra and cleavage. “People with kids, and I mean young kids, babies, and the tips have been miserable. Just awful. I should have stayed home and called in sick.” She stuffed her dirty apron in the laundry basket and reached for her jacket.

Waa, waa, waa, Kristi thought, wondering if the lousy tips had anything to do with the girl’s obvious lack of interest in her job.

Unfortunately Ezma and Francesca’s evaluation of the situation was spot on. With one oven disabled and a cook out of commission as he tried to fix it, the finished orders were slow to reach the window where the waiters were to pick them up.