The Great Turkey FIasco

You know I do not write very much about my married years and the many funny experiences I had. I suspect it is I worry my "ex" might read one of my silly stories and shake his head in disbelief. I thought this year it would be fine though. We have been divorced for a long time now and almost all of the damage of that fateful Thanksgiving is undone.

I was a new bride at the time. My handsome and very talented new husband was the proprietor of the swankiest restaurant in the swankiest suburb of New York City. His talent was only exceeded by his graciousness and our early days together were filled with much laughter and gaiety. Like most new brides, when I married Bob, I accepted his friends and then their friends as my own.

Bob's best friend Tom was dating a girl named Rachel who quickly became my friend. She was waitressing her way through college and had set her sights on Veterinary school. In quick order Rachel and I became best buddies. She came along with Bob and me when we shopped for wedding rings and did "my face" for my wedding. After I married she and I became the kind of friends that saw each other or called each other daily. There were no cell phones or social networks back then, but if a day passed that we did not see one another we called and caught up on each other's day. It was an easy friendship as we shared a great deal in common and we often found ourselves "on our own" while Bob and Tom went off and immersed themselves in their plans to become the best chef and restaurateur in the history of New York.

A year after I married, the stock market took a tumble, and business was off at Bob's restaurant. In an effort to stoke the coffers Bob designed a wonderful plan for Thanksgiving dinner. Years before major supermarket chains would catch on to this idea, Bob successfully marketed a pre made turkey dinner package. From soup to nuts the package included a traditional turkey feast and it was completely prepared for you. It required a quick heating alone and this allowed you to spend the day with your family instead of slaving in a hot kitchen for hours.

You could purchase the feast in one of two sizes, had your choice of pie flavors. and for an additional fee you can add on a shrimp bouquet to serve as an appetizer. It truly was, at least on paper, a magnificent idea and it quickly sold out throughout Westchester County and the Bronx. With a hundred orders to go our small restaurant was not capable of turning out the meals, so Bob rented the commissary of a nearby nursing home to use the kitchen at night. He hired a temporary staff and ordered the boxes and containers and hired a delivery driver to do the drop offs. Meanwhile reservations surged for Thanksgiving dinner at our restaurant.

The plan was that our day manager, Barbara, and I would remain in the restaurant and handle three fully booked seatings. while Bob would start the day at the commissary. When all the morning packages had been delivered, he would return in our van with the afternoon's pick ups and deliveries.

About two weeks before Thanksgiving Rachel and I were sitting in the back room enjoying a glass of wine and puffing away on our cigarettes (yes we together spent hundreds of dollars together attending every stop smoking seminar and trying every cure on planet but we still puffed). Bob and his mentor Ed were in the next room reviewing their Thanksgiving plan. I don't know if Ed was a silent partner in this fiasco, but I do know he was Tom's Dad and Bob's mentor.

Rachel and I stopped speaking and began earnestly eavesdropping. We sipped wine and eyed each other while we listened carefully to the plan. What happened next was probably the first signal that I was no longer a bride and that Rachel had very little chance of ever becoming Tom's wife. Without exchanging a word and standing up in unison we approached the planning pair together. "Bob" I spoke, "you know I couldn't help but overhear the grand plan here and it sounds so great, but I do not think you have delivery covered? I mean one guy for a hundred drop offs? It sounds too good to be true".

Bob turned crimson while Ed simply hissed at me, "Mind your own business Cathy". Rachel began dragging me out of the room while I babbled incoherent apologies. Once safely out of ear shot, she chided me. "Well it's clear to see who wears the pants in your family". Her eyes twinkled and said "Ed. Big Ed wears the pants in your family". She laughed until she cried while I dipped my manicured fingertips in my wine glass and flicked drops at chardonnay at her.

Now I don't want to make Ed the bad guy in this fiasco but when Thanksgiving morning came and all heck was breaking lose it was Ed who jumped ship first. On Thanksgiving morning I was dressed in my holiday finest, wearing my high heels and taking calls at the podium when it became clear that the first fifty customers had not received their turkey drop offs between nine and twelve as promised. All three phone lines were blazing hot as frantic customers worried about their missing dinners. It was now eleven o'clock and I had no clue where their dinners might be. I could not contact my husband and we were busy preparing the restaurant for the onslaught of diners expected there. Ed was standing in the dining room as Rachel and the other waiters prepared the tables for the day

"Ed, any ideas about where our deliveries might be? I have some frantic customers here and they do not sound happy"? Cars filled with "pick up" pre made turkey dinners began to pull up in front of the restaurant awaiting the 11:30 opening time. I do not recall that Ed answered me at all, but instead picked up his hat and headed for the door. By now I had a pretty good sense that things were not okay. Our delightful manager at that time, Barbara, picked up the phone and began charming people with her delightful British accent and scathing humor. "Oh, your turkey has not arrived yet? You know I am from England and I am not sure the proper time for the turkey to arrive, can you tell me more?"

In the ladies room I kicked off my heels while Rachel stuffed me into a pair of her size two jeans and threw a sweatshirt over my head. She yanked off her waitress apron and grabbed her jacket and our bags as we sprinted to her car. Tying my sneaks on as she sped down the expressway to the commissary we exchanged few words. Once we arrived it was abundantly clear the fiasco was well underway.

Bob was quickly packing our Dodge Caravan with boxes of turkey dinners when he saw us pull up. He did not seem surprised to see us at all and shouted at me "Cath, drive the van back to the restaurant and drop off these boxes. Pick up Sammy (our somewhat bewildered dishwasher) and once you empty the van bring him back here with you. Rachel tossed Bob her car keys and I jumped behind the wheel and off we sped.

By the time we completed our round trip more than twenty cars had lined up for their dinners and the restaurant was teeming with diners for the first seating. Rachel opened to doors to the van and began handing out packages while I ran to get Sammy. Chef was not amused as I explained in my halting French that this was an emergency and I had to take the dishwasher. "Urgence, urgence" I Sammy was grinning at me while I tried my best to explain what type of emergency would involve the skills of a dishwasher, At the same time, Barbara was tugging at my sleeve asking me "What is a shrimp bouquet"? We now have angry callers whose boxes are without their promised and paid for bouquets. I explained to Barbara the bouquet and left her to her own devices. Chef winked at me and directed the prep cook to poach off a few hundred pounds of shrimp. Everyone got their shrimp bouquet that day but it cost us a lot. First there were the 25 wooden bowls we sent them out in (by necessity) and then the shrimp were sent for free due to the inconvenience of it arriving so late.

Back at the commissary Bob began shoving boxes in the van with turkeys and containers of soup and vegetables and pies and rolls and salads. He was moving his operation back to the restaurant while he left Sammy at the commissary to do the clean up. It was one o'clock and most of the morning packages were either delivered or picked up leaving thirty more to go . That and countless more shrimp bouquets. I did not do my usual screaming and crying at this point. I knew things were bad and I also knew that once alone with Rachel I could vent. I kept my cool. Back at the restaurant the three of us began packing up boxes and looking for addresses. It turned out that our delivery guy was just a morning worker and had dropped off about five boxes before he had retired for the day.

After about ten boxes were packed and ready to go I told Bob that we could not make it. I was instructing Barbara to invite the final twenty customers to the restaurant for dinner on the house. Those that could not come down for dinner were offered gift certificates to make up for the ruined holiday. Bob negotiated with me and then it was the final ten customers as he would pack up ten more boxes while Rachel and I delivered.

Neither Rachel or I were southern Westchester County girls. She grew up in Carmel and I had lived in the Bronx or Manhattan in my pre Bob life. We had no directions and no idea where we were going or how to get there. By hook and by crook and with the help of many cigarettes and diet cokes we managed to deliver all the boxes, returning to the restaurant around six. I found Bob sitting on the bottom of the basement stairs with tears in his eyes as a batch of his freshly made turkey soup covered the floor. We had five more boxes to deliver and very little soup.

With five deliveries left to go, we grabbed what we could, packaged it up and put it in the van. Rachel and I sped off. We surveyed our packages and decided we were missing one container of peas and one container of soup. Rachel jumped into the cargo hold and began portioning the peas. With her bare hands she scooped and measured while I drove along. She jumped up front and assured me it would be okay, we were just down one container of soup. I glanced at her in the rear view mirror. Her hair was matted with soup and her mascara was smudged all over her face.She had a pea or two on her collar. "Ow Rachel, you look so bad honey. You just look so bad". Without missing a beat she shot back at me. "I look about the way you are going to feel when you have spoken to our last deliveries". Indeed, all day I had to endure some very angry remarks and accusations. I had not cried but clearly I wished to change my name and never again be associated with Thanksgiving.

Many angry people had said many hurtful things to me but I remained calm and as composed as I could. Around ten o'clock and just before our last delivery would be made (ten hours late), Rachel suddenly pulled the van over into one of the most dangerous looking parking lots in all the Bronx. I begged her not to go but she said that we needed soup and we were pretty much road kill anyway......She trotted back with four cans of turkey soup and tossed them into the last box. A block from the last house on our route we surveyed the property. The entire family was assembled on the front porch waiting for us. Rachel circled and ordered me out of the van. "Stand on the corner and wait for me" she instructed. "No Rachel", I begged. It was the Bronx and its night and it was scary. "Cathy, either you stand on the corner and wait for me or those people back there will kill you". She was right and I did just as she asked.

From my spot on the corner I could hear the family shout at her. Rachel began to cry and told them the most terrible story of her best friend Cathy who had been out delivering turkey dinners when her van overturned on the Bronx Expressway earlier in the day. She was quite the convincing actress and went into great detail about this tragedy. "Omigod" she explained, "it was awful. Turkeys and peas and soup everywhere and I don't know yet if she will live". She did a good enough job and the family calmed down and thanked her. She pulled back up the street, picked me up, and we went back to the nearly empty restaurant.

Once safely seated in our downstairs office I began to cry. Rivers of tears came forth and I began to sob out of sheer exhaustion. Rachel cracked a bottle of Charbaut Rose Champagne and handed me a filled flute. In a short while all the waiters and kitchen staff had joined us and we all regaled one another with our various versions of that day's turkey fiasco. Bob and I never discussed it again.

The next day we woke up with a shot. Bob drove down to the commissary and rescued Sammy. (Yes we forgot and left him there all night) and I began the arduous and painful task of telephoning every single customer, drop off, pick up and dine in and apologizing. We lost thousands on the plan but we never did talk about it again.

As time went on our restaurant days were waning. We had one small blip when somehow our ad for our Sunday brunch ran our home telephone instead of our business number in the local paper. One Sunday morning I work up bleary eyed to our ringing phone. Bob picked up and by rote, began repeating "Okay, party of four, two o'clock, non smoking. Okay we will see you at two". He then paused and added, "I am happy to take your reservation but can you tell me why you called me at home"? We eventually laughed about this quite a lot.

By the next Thanksgiving we were sure we would move on and sell the restaurant. I woke up that morning and was just stepping out of the shower when I answered. "Hello? Is this Mrs. G? Is this Mrs. Cathy G?" A shiver ran up my spine as I recalled last year's fiasco. "Mrs G.this is Mrs K and I want to know where my darn turkey is? I have been waiting for a year now and I do not understand why you have not delivered"? Then I heard the familiar laugh of my dear Rachel.

In memory of my beloved Rachel Gilligan, DVM.