City Kitty and Country Mouse

by Alyssa Linn Palmer

  Michelle comes to hug me too, and I stand, hugging her right back, enjoying the sensation of being loved. Michelle is petite and getting older, but her hugs are strong, her arms wiry. In the last few months, she’s become like a second mother to me. A more attentive, more present mother.

  “I’m so proud of you both,” Michelle says. “And tonight, it will be amazing. I know it will. And Alice and I will run around like crazy ladies.”

  Lucy laughs. “As long as no one drops any plates, we’re good.”

  “It’ll be perfect,” Alice says. “We’re confident.” She pulls out a small notepad and pen from her back pocket. “And I’m set to go.”

  Lucy checks her watch. “We open in one hour.” She glances at me and looks a bit panicked suddenly. “One hour,” she repeats. I rise from my chair with the finished wrapped cutlery. Alice takes it from me.

  “Go get ready,” she says. “We’ll finish up with the decorating.”

  I come up to Lucy and hold out my hand, and she takes it, gripping mine tighter than expected. As we walk back into the kitchen, I can hear her breaths in and out. Her hand is clammy.

  I can remember crazy, chaotic nights in the restaurant biz, the running about and occasional panic as something burned or spilled or was missed. But with the two of us together, I know that we’ll avoid that. Most of it, anyway.

  “What if we mess this up?” Lucy says in a low voice as we step back into the kitchen. “Maybe we should have had another soft opening, but with more people.”

  “We’ll do fine,” I say, taking her in a hug. She clings to me, or rather, we cling to each other. It’s not a sinking ship, but my stomach roils a bit. “There are seats for thirty and we can handle that many. It’ll be the cleanup that gets us, all those dishes.”

  “Dishes I can do,” Lucy says. “That’s easy.”

  “We’ll get all the chicken in first, and get the rice going, and then we can tackle all the rest. I’m hoping we won’t just get orders for one dish, though.”

  Lucy leans back, though we’re still embracing. “We don’t have enough chicken if everyone orders it,” she says worriedly.

  “If we run out, we run out.” I shrug. “We have as much as we can manage, and if we’re short, then we’ll substitute one of the other dishes. People will understand.”

  “I hope so.” Lucy takes a deep breath, drops a kiss on my lips. “Let’s get this party started, Kitty.”

  “Yes, let’s.” I kiss Lucy back, longer this time, no mere peck on the lips.

  “People are lined up,” Michelle says, coming back into the kitchen. “No more kissing, not until after.” She chuckles. “Should I let them in?”

  Lucy and I part. “Let them in,” Lucy says. “And we’ll get rocking.”

  * * *

  I never thought a restaurant kitchen would be so insane. I mean, I’ve seen the shows, MasterChef and a few others, but still…this is something else entirely. Maybe it’s because I’m right in the middle of it, in the middle of the heat and smells and seeing a couple dozen orders up on the rack, Alice’s white notepaper fluttering in the breeze created by the hood fans. The busiest day at the farmers’ market has nothing on this.

  Kitty’s got four plates on what I’ve started considering her side of the kitchen, and she has everything set up and ready to go. On my side, I’ve got the rice cooking in the rice cooker, but a second pot on the stove, because I just know the rice in the cooker is not going to be enough. The majority of the dishes have rice, and the rice in the pot is just about done. I have the tofu happening, but I’m worried it’s not going to be good enough. Fortunately, though, there haven’t been as many orders for that one. The big seller so far is the soy and honey chicken. The fish is a close second, and I check my timer. Only a few more minutes on that steaming, and the fillets will be done. I check the time again and count back in my head. The rice should be done now too.

  I take up a spoon and lift the lid on the rice. There’s a lot of steam, which is good, but when I look at it, I see that there’s still too much moisture. Damn. I give the rice a good stir and put the lid back on. Just a couple more minutes on that. I hope. I will admit that it’s been a long while since I’ve cooked rice without using the rice cooker. It’s not hard, but it’s not quite so easy, either.

  “Fish up?” Kitty asks, turning toward me.

  I check the timer. “One more minute.”

  “And rice?”

  The rice cooker clicks off. Thank goodness. “Yes!” I take up my dish towel and open the rice cooker’s lid, lift out the inner pot. I take it and the scoop over to Kitty’s side. She’s checking on the chicken. And there are daikon fries coming out of the conveyor part of the oven. Everything at once. This is nuts, but it’s exhilarating at the same time.

  “Rice on those four plates,” Kitty says, pointing, “then I’ll get the fries on the plates for the fish”—she waves a hand to a stack of plates sitting nearby—“and then the chicken.” I plate the rice in its molded scoops.

  Not bad if I say so myself.

  “Frisée,” Kitty squeaks, and I turn to look at her. She grabs a metal bowl and takes the frisée out of the fridge below the counter. I turn to grab the truffle oil and olive oil, and when Kitty holds out the bowl of frisée, I hold the open bottles above it.

  “How much of each?” I ask.

  “Five drops of the truffle, maybe six,” Kitty says, “then a couple tablespoons of the olive oil.” Once I do that, my hands suddenly slick with truffle oil, she tosses the frisée with a pair of tongs and then plates it with the rice.

  My timer goes for the fish, and I rush back over, taking the stack of plates with me. Alice is waiting at the pass-through, and Kitty says “Two fish, two chicken.”

  I rush back with the fish, and she plates the daikon fries with both dishes and puts them on the pass-through. Then she grabs the chicken from the oven and starts plating those. I check the next order. Three fish and one tofu. I take up the rice, scooping enough for each, then grab the fish, and then take my scoop to the wok and scoop out a healthy portion of the tofu and broccolini over the rice. Then back to the pass-through. And again.

  And then I realize the rice is still on the stove. Shit.

  I rush back and turn off the burner, and lift the lid.

  There’s definitely no moisture there. I take a sniff, and to my relief, there isn’t that horrible smell of burned rice. A bit of scorch, maybe, at the bottom, but the majority is just fine. Thank goodness.

  “Rice,” Kitty squawks, and I take the empty cooker pot from her and move the pot from the stove to a spot on the counter. We scoop and prepare plates, trying our damnedest not to make things look like a mess. I make more stir-fry, and Kitty puts more daikon fries in the oven.

  And then, about as suddenly as it started, all the orders are done.

  They’re done.

  We’ve done it.

  I look at Kitty. She looks at me. Her hair is coming loose from its ponytail, and her face is flushed, and her toque is askew, and I have no doubt that I look similarly ruffled.

  “I think we did it,” she says, and we lean against each other and against the counter. My hand is in hers, and she squeezes my fingers. “We should go look.”

  “In case anyone’s getting sick from the food?” I joke.

  Kitty nudges me. “Don’t jinx us,” she quips. We tiptoe out of the kitchen and poke our heads around the corner to look out at the dining room. Alice and Mama and Cindy are moving around the tables, taking dishes, talking to the customers, and everything is running as smoothly as I could have imagined. The murmur of voices and conversation is louder here, the clink of cutlery occasionally heard over the chatter.

  “Should we say something?” I ask. I’d thought about it a little bit but could never settle on anything specific. Kitty nods.

  “We really should. Just a brief thank you for coming and all that?”

  “You or me?”

  “Both of us,” Kitty says. “I’ll talk
restaurant, you talk food?”

  I nod. She smiles, and I lean into her for a kiss. “We’ve got this.”

  I step out into the dining room, Kitty just beside me.

  Everyone is talking and eating and having fun, and I’m amazed to see everyone enjoying the food we made. You’d think it should be a given, should be obvious, but until you see it with your own eyes…well, until then it’s just a hope, a wish.

  Cindy spots us and she stands from her table, ringing a spoon against her glass. I glance at Kitty, and she glances back at me, and Kitty gives me a quirky grin. Then she faces our customers.

  “Thank you so much for coming to the first evening for Ming Kitty,” she says, her skilled lawyer’s voice going out over the crowd, projecting to every corner of the dining room. “It means a lot to us that you’ve come and tried our food, and from the looks of the plates, enjoyed it right to the very end.” There’s a slight tinkle of laughter.

  “This is a dream come true for us,” I add, “and it’s one that I’ve always wished for. And I’m so proud to announce that the majority of the food you’ve enjoyed tonight is very, very local. The produce is all from Country Mouse Farms, the honey is from the shop down the road, the Verandah, and the proteins are from the Hutterites.”

  “The only bits that aren’t local are the truffle oil and sauces,” Kitty quips, “so if you know a local source for those, our next pop-up will be even more local than it already is.”

  “Our next dinner evening will be posted on our social media,” I add, “and we’ll put the word out locally too. As a thank you for being our first ever customers, we have two kinds of dessert for you: a homemade red bean soup and locally made ice cream.”

  “Thank you so much for coming,” Kitty says. “You guys are the best.”

  There is applause, loud enough that I feel like my ears are ringing. Kitty squeezes my hand. Mama waves at me from their table in the back. Next to her, I notice an older couple, and the woman looks an awful lot like Kitty.

  “Did your parents come?” I ask her, leaning over, my voice quiet. Kitty scans the room. “There, by Mama.”

  “They did.” Kitty sounds shocked, surprised. But we don’t get a chance to go over there. A woman approaches us.

  “Hi, Kitty! Oh my God, you’ve done something amazing, you two.” She turns to me. “I’m Kitty’s friend Jo Raj, freelance food critic extraordinaire. Can I chat to you about your pop-up?”

  Kitty nods. “Why don’t you come back into the kitchen while we prepare the desserts? Then you can ask us whatever you’d like.”

  “Plus we’ll give you an early taste of the red bean soup,” I add. Jo looks delighted.

  “It’s been so long since I’ve had any,” she says, “and that was only once at a restaurant in Chinatown. I wish I knew how to make it.”

  “I might tell you while we’re plating it up,” I say, “but I hope you’ll come back to our next pop-up for more.”

  “Of course,” she gushes.

  Once we’re in the kitchen, I set to organizing thirty bowls, and Kitty goes to bring out the ice cream from the walk-in freezer. Earlier we had figured on ten bowls of the red bean soup and twenty of the ice cream, with room for refills. We saved a bit of money by buying the ice cream in bulk, but it’s a definite investment, offering it free. But I’m glad we’re able to do something to thank our customers, even if most of them were direct invites. I don’t want this to be our first and last evening.

  “Where did you come up with the idea?” Jo asks.

  Kitty and I look at each other.

  “I met Lucy at her stall at the farmers’ market,” she begins, “and I tasted her blackberries.”

  “Do we get blackberries tonight?” Jo asks.

  “Unfortunately we’re out of them right now,” I reply, “but in future evenings, we definitely will have some. Tonight, though, we have some fresh raspberries for the ice cream.”

  “How did you go from blackberries to Ming Kitty?” she asks. “And how did you come up with the name?”

  I feel suddenly shy. I didn’t think that a reporter would want the full details of our story. I go to pick up the pot of red bean soup and let Kitty answer that one.

  I carefully fill each bowl and listen to Kitty as she tells our story. She is so confident and steady that it’s easy for me to fall into the story, to listen like it isn’t our own.

  “And the name of course,” Kitty says, bringing me back to full focus, “is for both of us, right, Lucy?”

  Jo turns to me. “It’s part of both of us,” I say. “Ming Nhon is my Chinese name, and of course, Kitty for Kitty. It’s both Western and Chinese, like our menu, and us.”

  “That is so great,” Jo gushes, scribbling in her notebook. “I have enough to make an article, and then some.”

  “Fantastic,” Kitty says. “We really appreciate you coming. I hope the publicity will help us on our way.”

  “I think you have a great concept,” Jo says. “And you’ll have a full-time restaurant in no time at all.” She finishes scribbling in her notebook and then tucks it away into her purse. “I’ll get out of your way, and of course, I’m looking forward to that red bean soup.”

  “I’ll make sure you get a bowl,” I promise.

  Mama and Alice appear in the doorway. “Are you ready for us?” Alice asks. They are both carrying trays, and I see Mama has a second one.

  “We are,” Kitty says. Alice comes in and holds out her tray, and Kitty places bowls of ice cream, each decorated with half a dozen raspberries. Mama comes over to me, and I fill her tray with bowls of red bean soup. Then I fill the second tray and lift it up.

  “Ready?” I ask Kitty. She has laden herself with bowls even though she doesn’t have a tray.

  We head out into the dining room. The chatter is still there, a dim roar, but there’s a slight quieting as our customers take in their dessert. To my surprise, I run out of red bean soup and have to go back for more. Mama does too, and Alice has to come back for more ice cream as well.

  After we’ve made the rounds and everyone is eating, Kitty and I start helping Mama and Alice clear the dinner dishes. It’s a lot of trips back and forth from the dining room to the dish area with the three trays, but it’s more elegant than hauling in a big plastic tub like it’s an old-time diner. I scrape the minimal leftovers into the organics bin and stack the dirty plates on the counter, and Kitty finds a spot for all the wineglasses. Alice comes back.

  “You two should get out there and talk to people,” she says. “Let me organize this. Go talk to your adoring public.”

  Kitty sets down her tray. “Yes, ma’am,” she says, and Alice laughs.

  “I’m not old enough to be a ma’am. Go on, you.” She waves us out.

  In the dining room, our customers are lingering at their tables, empty dessert bowls in front of them. We start at the nearest table, where Cindy and a few of her friends have set up camp.

  “So delicious,” one of Cindy’s friends gushes. “You have to tell me when your next night is, because I want to bring all my friends.”

  “We’re not all here already?” jokes another of the women at the table.

  “Other friends,” the first woman replies, sticking her tongue out. It’s hard not to laugh.

  “You’ll be full every night,” Cindy says, “and deservedly so.”

  “Thanks, Cindy,” Kitty says, bending to give her a hug. Then we move on. I keep looking at the table where Kitty’s older almost-lookalike is sitting, and eventually we come around to that table. The woman smiles and rises to her feet.

  “You did so well, honey,” she says, giving Kitty a hug. “And so did your…friend.”

  “Girlfriend, Mom,” Kitty corrects, but gently. “This is Lucy.”

  “It’s so good to meet you, Lucy,” Kitty’s mom says, shaking my hand. It’s very formal, but then, Mrs. Kerr seems like a formal kind of lady. She’s wearing a similar type of skirt suit to the ones Kitty wears to work, but somehow it seems st
iffer, less comfortable. The man with her rises as well and gives Kitty a kiss on the cheek.

  “I always thought you might become a chef,” he says to Kitty.

  “Really?”

  “You were always trying out new recipes,” he says. “It was bound to happen.” He smiles at me. “I’m Clarence, Kitty’s dad.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. “Glad to hear you liked the food.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it,” Kitty’s mom says. I notice Kitty stiffen, but it’s subtle and I doubt anyone else has noticed. “Can we take you two for a celebratory drink?”

  “We have a lot to do,” Kitty says. “Those dishes won’t wash themselves. But how about we have dinner next weekend?” She turns to me. “Would that work for you?”

  “Friday?” I suggest. “I’ll be in the city for the farmers’ market.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Kitty’s mom says. She gathers her light jacket from the back of the chair. “I’ll text you,” she says to Kitty, “and we’ll leave you to your fans.” She gives Kitty another hug, and Kitty’s dad does the same. I want to ask Kitty more about her parents, but we’re beset by Beatrice, and then by some of the other townspeople. By the time we get back to the kitchen to start tidying up, I feel like I’m floating on air.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Washing dishes is soothing. There’s something about how methodical it is, how repetitive, that helps me come back to a less anxious side of myself. I’m still on edge from seeing my parents, and from having them compliment me on our venture. I never thought they’d be proud of this, of my being a chef, a restaurateur. The expectation of having an important job—lawyer, doctor, investment banker, that sort of thing—was always high, always pushed as the best and only option. Cooking, well, that was just for fun at home, if that.