Love, Life And Linguine Part 1

Love, Life and Linguine.

by Melissa Jacobs

Home.

"Welcome home." The U.S. Customs agent smiles as she closes my blue pa.s.sport.

Minutes later, a cab carries me away from Philadelphia International Airport toward the heart of the city. Ah, yes. I'm home.

Two weeks in Paris seemed like two months. It was a business trip. I had to go. But I was anxious to return. I'm starting a new chapter in my life. Before I left for Paris, I moved in with my boyfriend, Nick. Technically, my boxes moved into Nick's house. I didn't have time to unpack before I left.

I should have rescheduled the Paris trip. But when else could I have gone? Today is my last day with Dine International. Tomorrow I become the business manager of Il Ristorante, Nick's restaurant.

Not for the first time today, I look at my tote and read the business card placed behind the protective plastic. "Mimi Louis, Executive Restaurant Consultant, Dine International."

Mimi Louis isn't my real name. I was born Miriam Louis. I nicknamed myself Mimi when I was a toddler and couldn't p.r.o.nounce my own name. The Louis? My grandfather left Russia a Luvizpharska and arrived in Brooklyn a Luvitz. My father left Brooklyn a Luvitz and arrived in South Jersey a Louis. What's in a family name?

My name might not be real, but my job is. Seven years. That's how long I've been at Dine International. I'm ready for a change. I'm ready to stop traveling. I'm ready to settle down and work on my relationship with Nick. We've been dating for three months, and I want Nick to be It.

I've paid my dating dues. I had the amuse bouche of boys in high school, the butlered hors d'oeuvres of Penn guys in college and the soup du jour men in my early twenties. When I was twenty-eight, I had what I thought was a main course relationship, but there were too many ingredients swirling around my life. My ambition, his ambition. My traveling, his traveling. My promotions, his promotions. We didn't make time for our relationship, let alone a future. After that breakup, I had a palate cleansing rebound in Florence with Gio the Italian wine maker. Now, at thirty, I'm ready for the entree. The main course. Marriage.

Nick is ready for marriage, too. I know this. How? I know chefs.

Seduction by Risotto Being a woman in the restaurant industry, I am used to being preyed upon by male chefs. But Nick? He's different. For starters, he's the most talented cook I've ever met.

Before Nick became Philadelphia's newest celebrity chef, he was the cook at a thirty-seat restaurant in South Philadelphia. A date took me to Nick's for dinner. It was amazing. The food. Not the date. The next day, I told my bosses at Dine International that we should recruit Nick to be the chef at the new Italian restaurant we were already building on Avenue of the Arts. A month later, the deal was done.

Nick and I worked side by side to create the new restaurant. He flirted with me, and although I was hesitant to get involved with a client, my resolve crumbled when Nick invited me to his house for dinner. His pa.s.sion for food ignited my pa.s.sion for him. Nick cooked pan-seared salmon in white wine and herb sauce with julienned zucchini and yellow squash. And risotto. It was the risotto that did it. The textures of the rice and cream combined with the earthiness of the mushrooms. It was seduction by risotto. I couldn't resist Nick. I didn't.

Mustard Memories "Where are you going, miss?" the cabdriver asks, jolting me away from Nickalicious memories. I have given him Center City as a destination, but it's time to get specific.

"One moment, please," I say. Am I going straight to the office or do I have time to stop at Nick's? There's no room in my head for my schedule. I am BlackBerry dependent. Reaching into my tote, my hand closes around a gla.s.s jar of mustard I bought in a shop near Musee Rodin. I collect mustard.

When I was a child, I would lie in bed at night, trying to stay awake until Dad got home from Cafe Louis, the dressed-up diner he owned in South Jersey. Dad's workaholism made precious any moments I had alone with him. If I could stay awake until Dad came home, I would tiptoe down the stairs so as not to wake Mom, who was usually asleep after a long day of housework, car pooling, and homework.

I adore my mother. She is, as Dad always said, a real looker. Mom has shoulder-length, gray blond hair and dark green eyes. Mom is thin, although she eats like a horse. I wish I had Mom's looks, and metabolism, but I have dark, wavy hair and milk chocolate eyes from my father's family.

As much as I love Mom, I always felt closer to Dad. I loved hanging out in the restaurant with him. I would greet the regulars and they would say, "There's Jay's little girl." On school nights when I couldn't be in the restaurant, I would try to wait up for Dad.

I'd turn on the kitchen lights and be waiting for Dad when he came through the door. "You should be in bed," he would say. It was the opening line of our routine.

I'd say my line. "I'm hungry, Daddy."

"No one should go to bed on an empty stomach," he'd answer.

Sandwiches were our late night snacks. Dad could make a sandwich from anything in the refrigerator. He was a leftover artist, but he never compromised on mustard. "Good mustard makes everything taste better," Dad would say. "Now, my Mimi, tell me about your day. What's the what?"

We continued this tradition through my childhood and adolescence, right up until I left for college. As I got older, it got easier to wait up for Dad, but harder to tell him about my life. He didn't want to hear about boys, but I always wanted to hear the daily goings on at Cafe Louis. First, though, came the making of the sandwich. Dad constantly reminded me about the mustard. "Good mustard makes all the difference," he said. "Are you listening, bubbeleh bubbeleh? Pay attention to the little things in life. Like mustard."

I can hear his voice. Booming, with the Yiddish lilt of his parents. He looked like Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof Fiddler on the Roof. The beard. The belly. Jay Louis is larger than life. Was. He died two years ago.

The Diva "Where are you going?" the cabdriver asks again.

"Il Ristorante," I tell him. "On the Avenue of the Arts."

It's just after four o'clock. I have thirty minutes before my meeting. Just enough time for some smoochies.

You have time for more than that, the diva says. It's been two weeks. I have needs. Wants. Demands. Take Nick into his office and have at it. The diva groans.

Luckily, only I can hear her. Not that I'm embarra.s.sed to talk to her. Men have been talking to their p.e.n.i.ses for eons. Why can't I talk to my diva?

The First Lady The cabbie pulls onto the Avenue of the Arts while I look at my face in my compact.

I need a WASAP. Waxing as soon as possible. With all the traveling I've done over the years, I should have had a waxer in every major city. The rest of me is presentable. Under my white trench coat, I'm wearing my flight suit. Black pencil skirt, white blouse, black pumps. The rest of my wardrobe is more colorful. I like pinks, lavenders, and soft greens. But in my flight suit, I can go from plane to meeting to dinner.

"Traffic," the cabdriver says as he gestures to the cars trying to merge onto Broad Street. When the boulevard twinkles with theater, music, and fine dining, I think of it as the Avenue of the Arts. When it is constipated with cars, I think of it as Broad Street. Same road. Different att.i.tudes.

"I'll get out here," I tell the cabbie. It will be faster to walk the few blocks to Il Ristorante. The cabdriver pulls to the curb and takes my suitcase from his trunk.

"Come on, Olga," I tell my suitcase as I roll her down the street. If Olga could speak, she would no doubt complain. "Why are you hauling my kishkes all over town?" Yes, Olga the Suitcase would speak Yiddish. She was a gift from my father.

As Olga and I roll down Broad Street, a warm May breeze nuzzles my face and refreshes my spirit. Then I spy Il Ristorante and smile at the dinner crowd forming. Should I have called first? Too late now. I'll surprise Nick.

"Welcome home, Mimi!" Gina the hostess says with delight. "Let me find Nick for you."

"You're busy," I tell Gina. Dinner starts in forty-five minutes, and everyone has something to do. "I'll find him."

Civilians are not allowed to roam unattended through a restaurant, but I am the First Lady of Il Ristorante. Nick is the front man, but I influenced everything from the decor to the menu. Then, it was my job. Now, it is my future.

As I walk through the dining room, my eyes evaluate every detail. The purple, gold, and green patterned banquettes. The burgundy and gold striped upholstery on the dark wood chairs. The marble bar enhanced by the enormous gilded mirror hanging behind it. Green plants sprouting from every corner. The decor is posh perfection.

Creating the menu was more difficult than designing the restaurant. At his South Philadelphia restaurant, Nick cooked amazing Italian-American food. His meatb.a.l.l.s were legendary. The move uptown inspired Nick to fool around with cilantro and lemon gra.s.s. Dine International, which owns half of the restaurant, wanted Nick to stick to his roots and not reach beyond his means. Like a culinary Savonarola, I purged the menu of its artistic fusions and reinstated traditional Italian dishes. It worked. The restaurant is a hit.

"Nick?" I ask everyone as I make my way through the kitchen. They shake their heads and don't volunteer to help me find him. "Nick?" I keep going. This Marco Polo game is nothing new. Chefs don't stand still for long in their own restaurants.

Finally I hear Nick's voice and turn toward the dish room. There he is, explaining to the three dishwashers that he wants the silver flatware hand cleaned, not just tossed into the car wash, which is what we call the enormous industrial dishwasher.

"Buon giorno," I say from behind Nick.

Turning, Nick smiles. "Mimi."

"I'm home," I tell him.

Flatware crisis solved, Nick leads me into his office and shuts the door. Nick's office is just as horrid as every other chef's office. Windowless and airless, it's the size of a coat closet. Wedged into the office is a wood veneer desk that looks like it was trash picked. Half of the desk is consumed by a fax machine that overflows with notices from vendors announcing the daily or weekly specials. The other half of the desk is dedicated to a computer, the main server for the restaurant's ordering and inventory network. Since the computer is the brain of the entire restaurant, you would think it would be cared for and protected. Nope. I have cleaned grill grease, olive oil, and tomato sauce from the monitor. From the keyboard I have emptied snipped parsley leaves, dried citrus pith, and salt.

Nick's street clothes hang on the back of the door while his dirty chef pants and chef coats lie in a heap on the floor, emitting the odor of sweat, herbs, and fried food. An extra pair of kitchen clogs wait on a shelf. Unopened mail forms a carpet, cookbooks are stacked in the corners, a half-empty Rolodex yawns on the desk, and an open drawer reveals socks, deodorant, Altoids, and hair goop, which Nick uses to tame his brown, wavy locks. I have often thought that chefs' offices are like the inside of boys' lockers.

Nick sits on his office chair and I straddle him. "I missed you," I whisper and kiss him, gently opening his lips with my tongue. Pesto is what he tastes like, which means his staff has made a fresh batch and Nick's been sampling it all morning to make sure it is up to his standards. I never know how Nick's mouth will taste. It's like an Everlasting Gobstopper.

The diva smiles.

There's a knock at the door. "What?" Nick says.

"We have the specials ready," sous chef Jimmy reports. Nick serves and explains the specials to the waiters so they can accurately describe them, i.e., sell them, to customers. I ask my chefs to do this so waiters don't have to invent descriptions of dishes.

"I have to go," Nick says. He stands, but I bend my legs around his waist. Nick is more than six feet tall, and quite strong. "I really have to go," Nick says. He gives me a last kiss as I plant my feet on the ground.

"I'm going to leave Olga here," I tell Nick. "Will you take her home?"

"Chef!" someone hollers.

Nick nods and strides out the door like a general about to face his army.

I have my own army to face, although I'm doing a retreat, not an advance. I am reporting on my Parisian trip, and handing the client off to Claire McKenzie, my replacement.

"In summary, the opening was a success," I tell the group of people a.s.sembled around Dine International's conference table at this late meeting. "Bra.s.serie Jardin's growing pains are the same as any other restaurant. Chef Galieu's food cost average was ridiculous, until I reminded him that he's playing with DI money. The labor cost is double what it should be, but I expect Chef to fire half his kitchen staff before the end of the month. The wine list needs to be expanded once Chef is convinced that Burgundy isn't the only region in France which makes excellent wines."

My colleagues laugh. To Claire, I say, "You need to be tough with this chef. You need to know everything that goes on in that restaurant. When he cooks, when he doesn't cook, who he hires, who he fires, how much he drinks, who he screws and how much his wife knows. DI's made an investment in this man. Remind him of that. Understand?"

Claire blinks at me. "Okay," she says.

"Mimi," says Peter Exter, president of DI. "Your stilettos will be hard to fill."

My farewell dinner takes place in Dine International's office, which is a renovated brownstone complete with kitchen and dining room. We have to audition chefs, so it makes sense to have our own facilities. What Peter has arranged is a dinner featuring dishes from the four restaurants I opened this year in Philadelphia. Chicken satay with peanut sauce from Kai's Thai, bouillabaisse from Bra.s.serie X, paella from Blanco, and a huge dessert tray from Le Sucre. After dessert, my boss brings out the champagne. Veuve Clicquot. My favorite. "By the way," my boss says, "we didn't get food from Nick's because you'll be eating that for the rest of your life."

"G.o.d I hope so," I say. "Thank you, Peter, for this great party. DI has been my home and you all have been my family. Which is why I feel comfortable saying that, if you really love me, you'll come into Il Ristorante and spend mondo money."

Peter raises his gla.s.s. "Good luck, Mimi. Bonne chance, salud, and sante Bonne chance, salud, and sante."

By ten o'clock, the party is over. I'm only a few blocks from Il Ristorante. Might as well haul my jet-lagged tush over there and wait for Nick. What with all the c.r.a.p in his office, Nick will probably forget about my suitcase.

When I get to the restaurant, the last diners are drinking six-dollar espresso concoctions. Smiling at the servers doing their closing side work, I walk through the kitchen and see the cooks cleaning their stations. When I get to Nick's office, I knock on the door, but there is no answer. Has Nick left for the night? I have to get Olga. Using my key, I swing open the office door.

Nick stands with his chef pants around his knees. A young woman in a waitressing outfit kneels on the floor in front of him. At the sight of me, the girl's jaw drops and I see that her tongue is pierced. That, for some reason, is the ultimate insult. I may have more money, more career success, and more intelligence than that girl. But she has a pierced tongue, and I don't.

Olga, the Diva, and Me Happy? I ask the diva as we stride up Walnut Street toward Rittenhouse Square.

Of course I'm not happy, the diva says. Listen, darling...

I've listened to you quite enough. If I'd gone straight to my office from the airport, I wouldn't have left Olga at the restaurant. If I hadn't gone back to the restaurant to get Olga, I wouldn't have walked in on...that.

It's better that you know, the diva says.

I don't want to know, I say.

Oy, Olga says.

We reach Rittenhouse Square. I sit on a park bench and pull Olga next to me.

I can't believe Nick did that, I say. And in front of Olga.

I saw the whole thing, Olga says.

Tell me what happened, I say.

You know what happened, the diva says. And you know why it happened.

We should go to Madeline's, Olga says.

If I hadn't listened to you, I tell the diva, I never would've dated Nick.

The diva is silenced.

Breakup Cake "Oh, and I didn't even tell you the funny part," I say to Madeline.

There is no funny part, but Madeline is my best friend and will listen to whatever I have to say. She also has to listen because I am shouting. In her apartment.

"What's the funny part?" Madeline asks calmly from her couch.

"I hired that waitress."

Madeline sighs. "Chefs make horrible boyfriends and girlfriends."

"You're a chef."

"That's how I know," Madeline says. "But I'm a pastry chef. Different species."

Madeline is the executive pastry chef at Tiers, the h.o.m.onymly unfortunate name of Philadelphia's top wedding cake shop. Madeline is short and thin but muscular, with dyed blond hair and dramatic black eyebrows. She got through culinary school and pastry apprenticeships not because she is pretty, but because she is talented and hardworking. Yes, Madeline is a tough cookie.

"Nick is evil," she states. Things are simple in Madeline's chocolate and vanilla world.

"I shouldn't have traveled so much. I should've been there for him."

"Don't blame yourself," Madeline says. "Blame him. Blame the girl. She's a traitor." Madeline knows about tarts of all kinds.

"Do you think it was just that once?" I ask quietly. "Just her?"

"I don't know." Madeline's voice has an edge to it. She either doesn't think it a one-time incident, or she doesn't care.

Madeline rises from her couch and goes to her refrigerator. She returns with two forks and a plate, on which sits a piece of hot pink cake.