What people are saying …

Opening night Three days before the attack

Blue Gel-Point pen on the backs of misprinted Bar Isabell menus and a pack of linen napkins samples I never returned.

At line up, Chef Mauzy lazily goes over tonight’s special: salt-dried Petaluma duck with coriander-crusted skin, duck bordelaise, and hand-folded ravioli stuffed with sweet potato and sage. “Thirty six bucks. I got ten of ’em.” He yawns and looks around the room, ready to leave. “These are only for those not off the special event

menu. Just the small tops.” When Chef is stressed he plays is super cool and gets really slow, but his eyes glimmer when he holds up his knife-callused hand to keep the room silent. “We’ve been playin’ with something fun in the back. We have a fucking over-the-top chicken pot pie. Come see me if you have a guest that might like it.” He makes a peace sign with his fingers. “We have two.”

BOH lays out Family Meal on the bar. Two large stainless steel mix- ing bowls. One full of greens, herbs, shaved carrots, radish, and vinai- grette. The other, penne, cream sauce, grilled chicken, parmesan, fresh rough-cut herbs, and peas. I plate my food and look over the opening night staff: two bartenders, two-door guys, a busser, Mauzy, two line cooks, two waiters, a dishwasher, two male Talent, three female Talent, three card dealers, two housekeepers, a host in Bar Isabell, and Dani. All in on the secret of opening an illegal business, all taking risk.

The twenty staff are scattered ’round the bar and cocktail tables, stuffing their faces, looking at their phones, flirting, and teasing.

stand and address the team, an eager good-looking crowd, a pirate mix of different shapes, sizes, races, and ages. BOH in white chef shirts and blue aprons; FOH, black button-ups, black aprons; Dealers, white shirts, dark red vests, and bow ties. Talent still has an hour to be live and are in thick bathrobes and slippers.

I address the staff. “For Family Meal, no one’s allowed to work for fifteen minutes. Now, we focus, we connect, we bond. Set your phones to silent. The front door is locked, and all the burners in the kitchen are low.” Tonight’s our first lineup with all the staff, together. “Thank you, everyone! Thanks for all of your hard work. I know it’s been crazy the last few months and fucking nuts the last couple weeks, but today’s the day, and now’s what we’ve been working towards.”

Zeke shouts from behind the bar holding a bottle of prosecco, “Yay to having a busy night, and here’s to getting everyone’s tender parts ticked, their bellies pickled, and minds blown with gargantuan releas- es!” Zeke wants to shake up the bubbles and spray everyone. I shake my head no. His English accent is similar to the pretty ones in “Love Island” or the poor kids in a cool London movie about crime. He’s a short, older guy with a missing right hand, a weathered face, boyish freckles, a red ’n grey beard, and rusty hair pulled into a lazy ponytail.

“And here’s to finally gettin’ some dough coming in, and finally not going out.” Dani’s excited.

“Yay to the old in-out, in-out.” Zeke shakes the bottle of bubbles and thrusts his hips, the staff cheers. Now he looks to Dani to see if he can champagne shower the staff; she waves him off.

I undo the foil and cage on a bottle of Domain Carneros 2012 La Reve. Instead of easing the cork out in an expert hiss, I pull it soon to make it pop. Zeke, happy but disappointed with a just a noise and splash, shrugs and says, “Eh.”

I look around the room and notice, “Anyone seen Mitzi?”

The bartenders open three more bottles and deliver bubbles to ev- eryone. Kitchen staff awkwardly holds the champagne coupes, looking to Chef to see if it’s OK to drink. BOH’s usual jam is to secretly take the edge off with plastic quart containers. FOH is used to drinking in the fanciest glass they can find. Over the excited staff I try to continue my lame rally speech while holding up my wine to toast. Zeke’s already pouring refills. “This is an exciting chapter in Sacramento’s history.

After tonight, to the best of my knowledge, we’ll be the only high-end

gourmet restaurant, bar, brothel, and cardroom in California!” The staff is ready. I’m the most nervous; they can tell.

“I’m the first!” Mitzi burst from the brothel’s cabinet-bathroom en- trance laughing. Her white terry-cloth bathrobe untied, nude, rose- flushed and bouncing, crimson locks flying free. “Ha!” She weaves through the anxious staff and slaps four hundred dollar bills on the bar. “I’m first trick!” She shoots her hip to Kim, ties her bathrobe, and smiles at Dani and me.

I can only laugh and ask with my eyes, “Who?” Mitzi swipes a glass of bubbles, catches her breath, takes a sip, and continues. “Builder Bruce. He’s had a crush on me for-ever. He paid a grand in cash. Just chris- tened Room Nine O’Clock, BT-dubs.” Mitzi holds up her arms and twirls, the staff claps and whistles.

Kim, another pretty waiter now turning tricks, teases and pumps her left ring finger into her right curled fist, mouthing, “Whore.”

Mitzi leans to Kim, “Frank’ll never know. Besides I’ll fund the wed- din’ myself, making this kinda cash.” She slams her champagne, burps, and shoots eyes to Kim. “Bish.”

I cut my awkward speech with, “Here’s to all’a ya, and here’s to mak- ing a shit load’a money tonight!”

We all laugh, tease, and fuck around while shoveling Family Meal into our heads. Then tidy up in the bathroom, rinse bits of food out of our mouths, take a breath mint, and get to work.

Reservations are stacked in the restaurant, best we’ve had in months. A lot of johns are getting dinner, and a crowd attracts a crowd, I guess. Tonight we’re packed with VIP’s, card whales, rich kids on a bachelor party whose dad’s a developer, and the two tech groups Dani brought in. Most people I know from my years behind the bar, goofball per- verts like me, who’re into this type of thing. No soft opening, no free- bies; we’re live tonight. No room for mistakes.