by Dani McLean
Before I knew it, I was pulling butter and eggs out of my fridge. This called for cookies. The good kind.
Placing my phone on speaker, I started mixing the ingredients. I’d made this recipe so many times that I could do it blindfolded with my hands tied.
Mama picked up after the third ring, sounding flustered. “Hi, honey, give me a second. I’ve got to put a roast in the oven. Here, talk to your brother.”
There was a rustling on the other end of the line, and I wondered which of my three brothers I’d be talking to. I hoped it was my baby brother, Theo.
My two older brothers, Tom and Tyler, were … fine, I guess. But they’d gone all serious as they’d gotten older, their silly competitive nature driving them to constantly one-up each other. Thomas had gotten into real estate (“growing his portfolio” by flipping houses), and so Tyler went and made partner at a law firm. Total pissing contest. Whatever. At least they seemed to enjoy what they did. Although, I felt for Thomas’ wife. Story was, even on their wedding day, he’d interrupted the photoshoot so he could take a business call. I had been lucky enough to catch the tail end of mama chewing him out (fuck reality tv, that was the most entertaining thing I’d ever witnessed).
Anyway, we got along just fine. They’d been as supportive as they knew how to be when I came out, but we were just never that close. Theo, on the other hand. Well, he’d been my first real friend.
“Hey, what are you making?” Theo asked, and I looked over to see that he’d changed it to a video call. Smiling, I leaned my phone against the splash back so he could see me better.
“Mimi’s choc chip cookies,” I said, referring to our grandmother’s treasured recipe.
He looked jealous. “With the brown butter?”
“Is that even a question?” I spooned out the mixture onto a baking sheet before stuffing it in the preheated oven. “I needed a pick-me-up.”
“Everything ok? How’s the bar?”
“Fine. Got an issue with the new owner,” I refused to call Sam my boss. “But I’m figuring it out.”
“You always do.”
“How’s the ICU?” Theo worked as an RN.
“The same.” He sounded tired. He always sounded tired.
“Are you getting enough sleep?”
He scoffed. “You sound like mom.” Which meant no, he absolutely wasn’t.
“That’s not an insult, loser.”
“Mom! Tiff just called me a fucking loser.”
“Language!” Mama called out.
I gave him the finger while he laughed. Little shit. I loved him.
“Sure you’re ok?” he asked, growing serious. “How’s Hannah?”
No one in my family had met Hannah yet, but I’d sent Theo a photo of the two of us together a few months ago when he’d been pestering me about finally getting a girlfriend.
“It’s …” As quickly as I’d prepared a lie, I realized I wanted to tell the truth. This week had really taken its toll on me. “Rough. We just had a fight, and I’m not sure where we go from here.”
“Shit, sorry, Tiff. Want to talk about it?”
“Not right now. Maybe if you get some free time soon, you could drop by the bar? I know your hours are awful.”
“I’ll make time. But, yeah, work is wild right now, so I can’t promise it’ll be soon.”
“That’s ok. It’ll just be good to see you.”
So, yeah. I loved Theo. He was the closest of my brothers to me in age (only ten months apart, go mama) and temperament. He was my baby brother. I would burn buildings down for that dork. But growing up, he’d been invited into the “boys club” while I’d been told to stay with mama and do what good girls should.
It really hadn’t taken very long for me to stop giving a single shit what people said I “should” do.
Of course, I quickly learned a secret. Time with mama and my Mimi was by far more entertaining than anything my brothers got up to. I had, up to that point, known that my mama came from a long line of strong Southern women, but damn.
I learned three important lessons in that time; learn the recipe but always cook from the heart; always say fuck you with a smile, and there was nothing more impressive than someone with a kind soul. I wanted nothing more than to be like them when I grew up. I was in awe. Still was.
“Theo, baby, help lay the table while I talk with your sister.” The image rustled around as the phone changed hands until I was looking at my mama’s beautiful beaming smile.
Seeing her reminded me how badly I wanted to reach through the phone and wrap her in a fierce hug. “I missed you,” I said, feeling a little overwhelmed.
“Oh, sweetie, I missed you more. Gosh, you look thin. Are you eating enough? You know if you don’t get enough sleep that can wreak havoc on your digestion. I saw a show about it last night.”
Goddammit, I loved this woman. “Yes, mama, I’m eating enough. And I sleep just fine.” Most days. I wasn’t going to count last night.
“I don’t know how, working all hours of the day and night.”
“Theo works longer shifts than me. Why aren’t you worried about him?”
“Oh, I am. But Theo is on a journey,” Lord, give me strength. Here we go. “I don’t want to be eighty and still see you behind that bar slinging drinks for the rest of your life. Especially since you keep telling me I won’t get grandchildren.”
Wow, not even five minutes. That had to be a new record. I couldn’t help smiling at her. “Ok, that’s it. Where’s dad?”
“Oh, your father? He’s watching a property brothers marathon. Did you want to talk to him?”
“Nah, that’s ok. I just called to check in, see how you were doing. Chat.”
“I’m wonderful, darlin. It’s you I’m worried about. Are you sure you’re ok? I’m going to send you a new scarf. I know how much you hate the cold.” She was right; I did hate the cold. But it was still July. It wouldn’t get cold for months.
“Thanks, mama. And yes. I’m ok. I just wanted to hear your voice.” The timer went off, and I pulled the cookie sheet out as fast as I could. The smell was amazing, full of vanilla and memories, and I barely missed scarring the inside of my mouth by tearing into one immediately.
“Alright, well, you make sure you’re looking after yourself. You deserve to be happy, baby.”
I swallowed the lump of emotion that rose up. Mama always had a way of making it sound so simple. Just be happy, as if it were that easy.
8
Sam
With Riley gone, the team settled into a stable routine in our second week. I still saw some areas that needed tweaking, but the priority for me right now was the big three:
the décor—and honestly, Harry, what were you thinking?
the name—I’d learned a long time ago that a rebrand was always a good idea,
and the one that I knew I’d have the biggest fight on, the menu.
I could see how the bar had survived thus far. Despite the clashing menu and décor, the drinks were always well made and Tiffany was a highlight. She was, in more ways than one, a stand-out. An exceptionally talented mixologist who deserved to be headlining at a far more upscale establishment than this. In fact, she should have been poached from here years ago. I wondered if the lure of having the run of this place kept her here.
However, exceptional cocktails were great, but smoke machines and custom-made ice weren’t the direction I wanted to go in. I’d seen the locals come but also saw the younger millennial set, who didn’t want trash but didn’t want pomp either. They wanted affordable, well-made drinks that served as a backdrop to a good night. They’d come in groups, talk and celebrate. It didn’t have to be a party. It was a vibe.
Having a list was only half the battle, though. Before I could even think of my next steps, I needed to know what I was up against.
Before I’d even landed at O’Hare, I’d reached out to a few contacts, who passed on the details of a few names. Some I’d heard of, and they’d had varying levels o
f enthusiasm, but more often than not, they always had a cutting remark about Tiffany to add to the conversation, as if badmouthing her would get them into my good books.
It was strange to get protective over someone I could barely tolerate.
It also gave me a rather underwhelming impression of my “peers,” if I could call them that. Jordan hadn’t been misleading; there was an established order here, it seemed, and while they were happy to play nice due to my reputation, they weren’t opening their arms in welcome.
Well, no matter. Jordan had been right about another thing, too.
I was nothing if not persistent.
Stephen Pierce was my highest priority. After the initial article, which had unfortunately compared our reputations against each other, others had followed. Pierce had responded with a series of interviews and comments, where he disputed the idea that high-end bars were losing traction and managed to call me out specifically, saying that “this imagined competition would only have legs if Sam Cooper was close to being on the same level.”
So, that’s how it was going to be, then.
His name had already come up enough that I knew he would be a good ally to have, and now that he’d called me out, I knew it was more important than ever to get on his good side. It was never good business to start with enemies.
But after finally getting him on the phone, it was obvious that Stephen Pierce had an ego that rivaled some of my acquaintances back home.
Hmm.
It would take some time to stop thinking of it as home.
“I wondered how long it would take for you to call me,” Pierce said as soon as I introduced myself. “Heard you’d gotten some criticism recently. Unfortunate, but the sheep always complain about the lions, don’t they? Although, can’t say I completely disagreed, either.”
An ache formed over my left eye, and I shifted the phone to my other ear so I could rub at it. Working in the business I did, you could never forget that there were people like this, but it never got any easier to deal with them. “Oh? Can I ask what in particular you agreed with?”
“Hmm. Well, I don’t usually like to tell others how to run their business,” he said. A baldfaced lie. “But I honestly can’t see how you expect to succeed when you’re stripping your menu of any creativity. Unless it’s a ploy to rid yourself of that bartender of yours.” One guess who he was referring to. “But you really should reconsider the lowest common denominator approach you’ve taken up if you want to be taken seriously.”
My gut instinct was to disregard everything he said. It struck me as a lot of enthusiastic generalities that, combined, sounded like the words of a wise, successful man. The reality likely was that his success came at the benefit of money and connections and was sustained due to the hard work of others.
One thing that stopped me from dismissing his point completely, however, was the echo of a growing sentiment that said, to succeed, I would need to project an air of “luxury” and “exclusivity” with the type of drinks that took a highly skilled person five minutes to make.
Now, there was nothing wrong with that direction. But that wasn’t what I wanted the bar to be. One of the insights I’d gained from my time away had been that quantity didn’t have to negate quality, but it almost always resulted in more profit.
Pierce had it wrong. I wasn’t chasing the “lowest common denominator,” and honestly, he could shove that term up his ass. What I was considering were the customers. And they’d proven, both before I’d arrived and since, that they preferred the more accessible options.
I didn’t like my options here. It was becoming clearer that I would either have to “join the club” or follow my gut. I wasn’t used to going against industry players, and I didn’t enjoy being outwardly antagonistic—despite my actions with Tiffany—especially publicly. But the fact was, I had a business to run. I was aiming for success that would last. And now that I was back in Chicago, I was here to stay.
I wanted to make this work.
Failure wasn’t an option.
Then, I was treated to another nugget of his wisdom.
“See, Samuel,” Pierce said, and I was glad he couldn’t see my reaction because Sam wasn’t short for anything, and his assumption of that, and the false casualness of him using it, said a lot about him. “The thing you need to understand about working here is that we’re leading innovation for small bars across the country. It’s about more than just popularism here. You’ve got to have an edge. Now, don’t get me wrong, I know you have a reputation, but you need more than just some good press in this city. You’ve got to have substance.”
I very much doubted Stephen Pierce knew anything about substance, but I let him continue.
“You’ll find we’re not very welcoming to charlatans here. You might think you can coast on your reputation, but in Chicago, we demand a bit more than some song and dance. Just keep that in mind. Now, if you ever want to see what the best of the best looks like, you’ve got an open invitation to come by my bar, and I’ll show you what we do best.”
“I appreciate the offer, Stephen.”
“Steve, please. We’re all friends here.” I wanted nothing more than to disagree, but I’d played this game long enough now to swallow that instinct.
“Steve. Thank you for your insight. It’s been enlightening.”
“Of course. It’s a tough market out here. I thought I should warn you before you get your hopes up.”
It was a close call to not curse a blue streak after hanging up. Guys like Stephen Pierce were part and parcel of working in this industry, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with them.
A slow grin spread as I tried to imagine Tiffany dealing with them. Now, that would be a sight to see.
Unfortunately, Stephen had had a point. While I was used to meeting the showy expectations of my old stomping ground, the research I’d done so far had shown that wouldn’t play in this market. And if I was going to have any chance of making this work—really making it work—then I needed to understand what would. And for that, I always preferred an insider’s perspective.
Harry answered my call quickly, and today the background was quiet. “I can’t remember the last time you called me this often. I’m going to get a complex.”
Warmth bloomed in my chest. I’d missed this. “I can hang up if you’d prefer.”
He laughed, a reminder of how relaxed he sounded these days. It was good to hear. “How are you? Can I assume this isn’t a personal call?”
“Yes and no. And I’m well. How much have you dealt with Stephen Pierce?”
His scoff told me that my initial perception had been correct. “Very little and yet enough for a lifetime.”
“That sounds about right. How much should I worry about him?”
“I couldn’t say. He’s a pompous ass, but I wasn’t the one lucky enough to deal with him.”
The implication was clear. “Tiffany.”
“Exactly. Why do you ask?”
“Research. From the few people I’ve spoken to, he’s the one the beat. Since I’m trying to understand the ins and outs of the market here, it was easier to go directly to the source. I’d hoped he be amenable to a supportive arrangement. But if the conversation I just had with him is any indication, he’s the last person I should be talking to.”
“I’m sorry to say I won’t be much help there.”
“Good thing I wasn’t asking you.”
“Yeah, ok, rub it in. You’re the successful one.” There wasn’t any malice in his tone, but I knew he had felt overshadowed in the past.
“Sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
“Sam, it’s ok. I was joking. Wow, you sound more wound up than I used to be.”
“Ok, now you’re just being cruel.”
“So, you can throw it but not take it, huh?”
“I see becoming a father has made you more mature.”
He laughed again, and I was interrupted from making any further comments by a sharp knock on
the office door, seconds before a very familiar nest of thick blonde hair and bright green eyes appeared.
“Why am I just now finding out you fired one of my staff?” Her eyebrow was raised in question, and she clearly didn’t care that I was in the middle of a phone call.
“Need me to call back later?” Harry asked, amused.
“No.” I told him, then to Tiffany, “I seem to remember you telling me that you wanted to fire Riley. Am I supposed to believe that you now have a problem with it?”
She didn’t back down. “Are you always this difficult?”
“Are you?” I countered.
“Are you sure you don’t need me to give you two some space? A room, maybe?” Harry cooed in my ear.
“Shut up,” I told him.
“Excuse me?” Tiffany had fire in her eyes. It should have angered me. It absolutely shouldn’t have my skin tingling.
“If you don’t mind, Tiffany, I’m in the middle of something. We can discuss this later.” My tone was terse, but it felt like a dangerous tease, a ploy to get under her skin, revenge for the way she’d so quickly and easily gotten under mine.
She rolled her eyes, then left, shutting the door behind her.
“You know, if you really want to talk to someone who understands the local bar trade, I know who you could talk to,” Harry said.
I closed my eyes. “Please don’t say it.”
“Tiffany.” He sounded far too happy with himself.
I released a long sigh.
“Did you hear me?” Harry asked when the silence dragged out.
“I heard you.”
“It’s not the worst idea.”
“Define worst.”
Harry laughed. “You said it yourself; she’s smart, capable—”
“Incorrigible, sarcastic, confrontational.”
“Look. If it’s really going to be that bad, you can do this on your own. You have before.”
“Yes, but back then, I was the one with insider knowledge, while Piper …”
“Hmm.”
“At least she won’t put you in the same position Piper did.” I could imagine all too many positions I’d like to be in with Tiffany, none of which were professional. I got back to the matter at hand.
