Page 6 of Just Like Starting Over
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you never ask for anything for yourself, Sylvia. It’s always about everyone else. You ask for Sierra. You ask for me. You ask for the goodness of the planet and the world at large.” She shakes the spoon vigorously at me. “But you nevereverask for a single thing for yourself. So, if you don’t want the menu to change here and you’re willing to fight about it, something has to be different. And I’m hoping that it’s because you wantsomethingfor yourself.” She abandons the spoon in the stock pot, props her hands on her hips and glares at me. “Tell me what it is or I’ll change the entire menu every hour on the hour, no matter what you say.”
I know she means it. Merrie doesn’t bluff. I look around the bistro, at the work we’ve done renovating it, at the cozy funky vibe and the wonderful smell of Merrie’s cooking. I look out the window and there are two couples reading the menu posted on the door, considering their options more than an hour before we open. This is a good thing and I want it to last.
“I like it here,” I admit.
“Good start,” Merrie cedes. “Why?”
“Can’t I like my hometown?”
“The fact that you left it sixteen years ago and never came back does suggest otherwise.”
“I’m glad to be here for Una.” My grandmother, it turns out, has cancer, though she never told me. She told Luke and that’s part of the reason he facilitated the opening of the restaurant.Evidently, he understood that Una would never ask for help (that’s pretty obvious) and he guessed that I would come with Merrie (also obvious, since we’ve been hand-in-glove for close to a decade) so he meddled in both Merrie’s professional future and my personal situation. The strange thing is that I don’t mind. I’m grateful to him because he didn’t have to bother.
And I know that the nudge he gave me is the one I needed. It feels good to be back.
Really good.
“Something else,” Merrie sings softly.
“I think it will be good for Sierra to be in a smaller town. She’ll have more freedom, and build a closer relationship with Una.”
“Something else,” Merrie sings a little louder.
“And I like it here.”
“I want more!” She flails the spoon again. “Say it all! Sing me the lullaby of what Sylvia wants.”
I’m just annoyed enough to do as she asks. “I would like to stay in Empire. I didn’t come back on my own initiative, but now that we’re here, I like it. A lot. I remember what I loved about it. I want to stay and that means I want you to take it easy on changing out the menu, so that we can build a reliable clientele and establish the business here for more than a single week.”
“Hallelujah!” Merrie cries, raising her hands (and the dripping spoon) toward the ceiling. “Sylvia Kincaid has finally asked for something!” She lowers her voice. “And so I cede, because you make sense.” Then she smiles and I brace for the negotiation. “Three new dishes per day?”
“One,” I counter.
“Two!” she suggests.
“One this first week and we’ll see how it goes. And you will nevereverdiscontinue the steak frites.”
“It’s so boring.”
“It’s delicious.” It’s time for flattery, because yes, that works with Merrie. “You always choose the tenderest steaks, you have such a good eye, and you always grill them to perfection. Your frites are crisp and golden, with just enough salt, and paired with the mixed green salad, it might just be the ideal meal. Your aioli takes it to the next level. I want people to know that the perfection of that meal is right here, all the time, just waiting for them to stop in and order it. No matter what else is on the menu, they can always have awesome steak frites. It will keep them coming back.”
Merrie sighs, but she’s smiling a little. “It’s not that good,” she protests, but this is false modesty. She wants more.
“It’s brilliant. Didn’t you always tell me that a hanger steak is the ultimate test of a chef’s skill in the kitchen? Didn’t you tell me that chefs order steak frites on their days off?”
“I did. It’s true.”
“How can you even consider the possibility of disappointing anyone?”
She laughs. “All right. One dish. Can it be the boar and kim chee?”
“Yes, but not the first week. You need to add your duck confit, I don’t care what’s with it.”
“I can’t get more lamb chops,” she complains. “They sold really well and I’ll run out tonight. That gives me room for another addition.”
“Make that roast leg of lamb with garlic, the one that drips juices all over the gratin cooking underneath. Seven-hour lamb. The smell of that always brings people off the street.”
