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Thanksgiving is, to put it mildly, a total shitshow. It’s Sydney’s own fault. She puts oranges in the cranberry sauce when that’s not how grandma used to make it. She suggests Auntie Rose brine the turkey next time, even though “we’ve been making it like this for thirty years and no one’s ever said a bad word about it, missy.” She’s taking up space in her poor father’s apartment, not like Cousin Anthony, did we mention for the fiftieth time that he graduated with honors from Yale Law? He can afford his own place, in New York.
By the time she falls into bed her muscles ache like she worked a long shift. Worse than a long shift—at least at the restaurant, the meat wouldn’t have been dry. And no offense to Aunt Martha, but Marcus’s cakes beat her pies any day of the week.
Idea half formed, Sydney reaches over to her bedside table, hand flailing around until she finds her phone. She opens her text messages and scrolls to Carmy’s name, third in her recent conversations, after Marcus sending a gif of a turkey and Cousin Shelly texting eye rolls about Anthony. She opens the thread and is greeted with the message Carmy sent this morning: Thanks for sticking with me.
Carmy Berzatto, ladies and gentlemen, eloquent as always. Though he has one up on her: she forgot to respond at all. Whatever.
We should stay open on Christmas, she types. Limited menu, holiday specials, prep ahead of time, streamlined staff, only volunteers. Family at the end for anyone who wants it. Thoughts?
She hits send. Before she can reach back over to turn off the light, her phone buzzes with Carmy’s response:
Yes.
Sydney laughs to her empty room. Guess she’s not the only one who had a shitty Thanksgiving.
***
It’s surprisingly easy to rustle up a staff. Marcus volunteers right away. When Sydney points out he could prep his cakes the night before he shakes his head like he’s offended and says they won’t be as good that way.
(She worries, sometimes, that they unleashed something in him that would be better kept buried. But maybe it was inevitable, and, anyway, you can’t argue with the results.)
The rest comes together quickly. Gary’s in, and, surprisingly, Ebra. Richie, of course—his ex isn’t going to let him see his daughter that day anyway (not that he tells Sydney things like that anymore, but he’s not exactly quiet when he talks to Carmy). Angel offers to do a half shift on the dishes. Fak’s in for the other half and anything else they need, besides.
That afternoon, Tina finds Sydney in the walk-in to apologize for not volunteering.
“I gotta be home for Louie,” she explains. “It’s been a rough year for him.”
“Yeah, I know. I mean, I, um, I figured.” Sydney pulls a vat of beef stock from the shelves, clutching it tight against her chest. “It’s Christmas. You don’t have to apologize.”
Tina shakes her head. Her fingers rub together, nervous. “It’s been tough for everyone. I should be here. Lo siento. Tell Carmy, okay?”
It’s only then that Sydney puts two and two together: this is Carmy’s first Christmas without Michael. No wonder he said yes so quickly.
“Heard. I’ll tell him,” she promises. “Thanks, Chef.”
***
Sydney owes Tina a bonus or at least an extra night off, because when Carmy suggests they put beef braciole on the Christmas menu, she knows to look for the signs: the way his eyes cut to the left, darting down, the shake in his hand as he runs it through his hair. He’s trying to play the idea off as casual, but this dish means something to him, meant something to his brother.
“Okay,” she agrees, even though she’s never made braciole in her life and hadn’t planned on starting. “Yeah, sure, sounds good.”
“Good.” His eyes find hers, lips tilting into a smile. “Yeah, good.”
She knows him well enough by now to know that means thank you. She smiles back: you’re welcome.
***
Christmas is also, to put it mildly, a shitshow. But it’s not Sydney’s fault. It’s not anyone’s fault, for once, other than mother nature. A snowstorm knocks a tree onto a power line just in time to screw over a neighborhood’s worth of Christmas dinners, and The Bear apparently looks like a good backup option to at least half the families stuck with cold ovens. Good thing they were outside the blackout zone.
Or bad thing, depending on your perspective.
“Merry fucking Christmas to us,” Richie mutters as he pushes past Sydney, knocking her into the counter. She barely registers the pain, already has too many bruises to keep track of and no time to worry about it. “Who’s fucking idea was it to open tonight?”
“Do you not like money?” Sydney throws over her shoulder at him. “Because, like, this is how you make money.”
He glares back, but even he knows now’s not the time to pick a fight. After a few seconds he turns away, shouting, “Someone grab more to-go containers! To go!”
Sydney rolls her eyes and returns to reading out orders. “Twenty braciole all day!”
“Twenty braciole all day,” the kitchen echoes.
Yeah, Christmas is a shitshow, but at least it’s her kind of shitshow.
***
Despite the shitshow, they have family at the end of the night. That’s one thing she and Carmy promised each other when they opened: there will always, always be a meal for their staff. They aren’t failing to live up to the deal on Christmas, of all days.
The spread is a whole staff affair. They sold out for the public, but Carmy saved enough braciole for everyone, and on top of that they have mashed potatoes and green beans and cranberry sauce and gingerbread cookies that snap just right, which Tina left as an apology.
Oh, and these peppermint donuts from Marcus that are absolutely fire. He gets them spot-on, not too sweet.
“Incredible,” Sydney tells him, because that’s the other thing she and Carmy promised each other when they opened: they would always, always be honest about the food. Hold their staff to the highest standard, yes, but let them know when they’ve slayed, too. None of that perfection is expected, why should I praise you for it? shit their old bosses preached. “Honestly, I don’t think I could pull this off.”
Marcus’s smile stretches as wide as she’s ever seen it, dimples popping. “You’re not just saying that because it’s Christmas?”
She raises her hands in mock defense, clutching her half-eaten donut tightly, unwilling to lose a crumb. “Would I lie about food?”
He shakes his head and holds his arms out. “Come on, bring it in.”
She’s not a hugging person, but it is Christmas. She brings it in.
***
Two beers in and a little drunk on the warm laughter of her exhausted, exuberant staff, she notices Richie on a stool in a corner, mulling over his dinner. And—fuck it. It is Christmas, right? The two of them have been trying not to murder each other since Disaster Day, but maybe it’s time they do a little better than that. She heads in his direction.
“Hey,” she says as she approaches. Up close, she can see his plate is still half full. “What, you’re not hungry? You can’t tell me that braciole isn’t fire.”
Richie looks up, lips curling in the disdain he reserves only for her. “It’s okay. Not as good as Mikey made it.”
Sydney tamps down the instinct to push back, defend the dish, needle him because needling is what they do best. That would defeat the point. She closes her eyes, breathing deep, trying to take in what he’s really saying. After a moment, she opens her eyes and sits on the empty stool next to him.
“Is this Michael’s recipe?”
He eyes her, suspicious, like he doesn’t believe the gesture. “What, Carmy didn’t tell you? I thought you two were butt buddies now.”
What he means is they’re business partners—and boy does he hate that. Sometimes she wonders if he resents her more for the way Carmy trusts her than the stabbing thing.
She shakes her head. “No, he didn’t.”
Richie’s eyebrows twitch up. “Well, if you want to know all about it, you can ask shithead over there.” He waves an arm wide, gesturing to Carmy laughing with Fak.
“Yeah, uh, or…you could just tell me?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because…” Sydney presses her lips together. It’s so hard to talk to him without starting a fight. “It’s Christmas. And I, uh, I want to hear it from you.”
Richie ducks his head, poking at what remains of the beef on his plate. He takes a bite, chewing slowly. Finally, he swallows.
“Ah, fuck it. Sure, it’s Christmas, whatever.” He takes a deep breath, eyes still pointed at his plate. “Mikey used to make this shit every Sunday. And it was the best. The best.” Even with his head bent, Sydney can see the smile forcing its way onto his face. “But—and this is an important but, here—it did not start out the best. Oh no.”
Sydney settles back in her stool, preparing herself for the long haul. She should’ve grabbed a beer before she came over, but too late for that now. She gestures for him to go on. “Tell me more.”
Richie tells her more.
***
He moves on from the food, eventually, slipping into reminiscing about bar hops and close calls at The Original Beef. Fak and Ebra drift over to join the conversation, adding their own recollections of Michael’s wildest moments. Sydney’s content to sit and listen, at least until she notices Carmy slip out the side door, pulling a jacket on as he goes. When he doesn’t come back after a few minutes, she follows him.
It’s easy enough to track his footsteps through the snow, harder to ignore the bite of wind against her face. Unsurprisingly, she finds him lounging against a wall, cigarette between his lips. His eyes dart in her direction when she huddles next to him, but he stays silent.
“Braciole was a hit,” Sydney starts, once it becomes clear he’s not going to.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Tonight went well.”
“Maybe, uh…” Sydney rubs her hands together, regretting not wearing gloves. “Maybe we should add it to the menu?”
Carmy takes a long drag on his cigarette, flair a bright spot against the darkness. He wiggles his head, almost a shake but not a solid no. “Too complicated to do every day.”
“Sunday special?”
That gets him: he snaps around to look at her straight on. Even in the dark she can make out his frown. “Richie told you.”
“Yeah, Richie told me.” She waits for some kind of reaction. It doesn’t come. “So? Sunday special? I think it would work.”
Carmy takes another long drag, then nods. “Sunday special.”
Sydney bumps their shoulders together and is gratified when Carmy doesn’t move away. They stay like that, enjoying the first calm of the night for long minutes, until a gust of icy wind hits so hard Sydney’s nose feels like it’s going to fall off.
“Okay, it’s fucking freezing out here, so I’m gonna…yeah, I’m going to go back inside.”
“Makes sense.” Carmy wags his still-burning cigarette. “I’ll follow you in a bit.”
That means he wants to be alone, and that’s fine, Sydney gets that. She presses off the wall, starting back towards the promise of warmth without protest. She only gets a few feet away before Carmy says her name.
“Yeah?” she asks, turning around.
He’s looking at her, intense in that way only he can be, eyes wide and searching. “Why’d you want to stay open tonight?”
Sydney shrugs. “Good business decision.”
“It was, that’s true.” Carmy blows out. The air crystalizes in front of him, a white puff of disbelief. “Why’d you really want to do it?”
Sydney shoves her cold hands into her pockets. She breathes out too, enjoying the way it turns to a white puff, mirroring Carmy. “I wanted to be with the family who gets me.”
“Heard, Chef.” Sydney feels Carmy’s smile as much as she sees it, just a bare hint in the dark. “We should stay open next year, too.”
Sydney smiles back. “Yeah. Yeah, we definitely should.”