A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors)

by Lodge, Hillary Manton

  Afterward, I asked him again how he’d managed to get in.

  “I simply asked the nice young lady at the door,” he said, wearing his European charm like a strong cologne.

  I knew for a fact that more than a young lady stood between my brother and the interior of the venue. “It’s an invitation-only event.”

  Another shrug. Linn looked impressed, but I wasn’t. I knew my brother could charm the brass knuckles off a bouncer. And not only had he gotten himself in, but he’d smuggled the stranger in as well.

  “I’m Adrian,” the stranger said, rather obviously giving me a visual once-over as he proffered a hand and grinned.

  “He’s the one I was interviewing for the sous-chef position,” Nico explained.

  “Ah,” I said, and found myself taking a defensive step back.

  Adrian stood two inches taller than my brother and possessed the kind of long lashes and ringlets many women would envy. On some men, it would look effeminate, but on Adrian the opposite appeared true.

  He was good looking, and with the show of friendliness turned my way, I suspected the feeling was mutual.

  Not that it mattered. I’d fallen for a coworker once; never again. Adrian could flirt with me all he wanted, but I wasn’t interested. Far from it—remembering how things had ended with Éric made me sick to my stomach.

  “We were thinking of going out for a bit,” Linn said, no doubt thinking she was performing a kindness by extending the evening. “You’re welcome to join us.”

  “We’d love to,” Adrian said, his grin somehow growing wider.

  I narrowed my eyes. “How are either of you here? It’s Saturday night, after all.” Since it was the peak time for diners, almost no one in the restaurant industry had Saturday night off. At least not until midnight.

  “Adrian is the sous-chef for the breakfast and lunch service at Mirrorage,” Nico explained. “And since I’m going to leave Elle at some point, Dad wanted Manuel to get a few Saturday dinner services under his belt.”

  “Fair enough. Mirrorage is a great spot.”

  “So, food?” Linn slung her purse strap over her shoulder. “I’m hungry. I wish the Spicy Pickle were open later. I want their Parisian wrap.”

  “If French sounds good, Little Bird isn’t more than a few blocks away,” I pointed out.

  “If by a few, you mean ten blocks, sure.”

  “I don’t mind the walk, if you don’t.”

  “We shall escort you both,” Nico said gallantly. He offered an arm to Linn, who cackled at him before starting off on her own—a Southern belle, Linn wasn’t.

  Adrian stayed by my side as we walked. “Nico said you’re to manage the restaurant’s opening and possibly continue afterward.”

  “That’s right,” I said, keeping my voice businesslike. “I’m a food writer at the paper.”

  “I’ve read your stuff,” he said. “You’re tough.”

  I bristled.

  “No—tough in a good way. Somebody has to be.”

  “Thanks,” I said, though I still couldn’t tell if I’d been paid a compliment or not. “How are things at Mirrorage?”

  “It’s a good place. The owner’s a fair man.”

  I nodded. “He’s friends with my dad.”

  “It’s good work, but I’d prefer to move to a dinner service. That’s where all the action is.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t understand how you and Nico and the rest of you enjoy that kind of work pace, night after night.”

  “Every seating is an adventure, a race, but one where you have to be precise. It’s like a competition against yourself.”

  “Like golf?”

  “Sure, but with knives and fire.”

  I couldn’t help myself—I chuckled, and Adrian’s smile could have doubled as a flashlight.

  But I didn’t care how handsome or charming he was—I had learned my lesson with coworkers in general and sous-chefs in particular.

  “I brought Adrian because I knew you had to meet him,” Nico told me as we walked inside Little Bird.

  For a brief moment I felt myself go pale. He wanted me to meet him? As in, a setup? Was my brother trying to sabotage the restaurant before it opened?

  My circulation returned to normal when Nico began to recount the interview, Adrian’s credentials, the many things he and Adrian shared in common, and their instant friendship. I nodded and listened intently.

  There wasn’t any need to panic. Sure, there was some kind of flirtatious vibe, for now. But if this was the guy Nico wanted to hire, fine. We would work out a professional rapport. There would be no weirdness. And if necessary, I could hire someone else to manage the place and be done with it.

  Couldn’t I?

  I unrolled my silverware from my napkin, scooting my chair backward as I arranged the cloth onto my lap. A server arrived promptly, and I accepted my water glass with gratitude.

  Adrian clutched his own glass with one hand, stretching the opposite arm over his chair back. “So, are you seeing anyone?”

  I choked on my water.

  Linn handed me an extra napkin. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” I gasped.

  I wanted to say, “Yes, I am seeing someone, thank you very much.” I wanted to say that my near spit-take was not indicative of any awkwardness.

  But Neil and I were only writing letters. And owning up to online dating here, in front of Nico and Linn, was not something I’d prepared for.

  “Not at the moment, no,” I said.

  Linn covered a chuckle with a cough around the time she kicked me under the table.

  I kicked back.

  “Good to hear,” Adrian said. He leaned forward, his knee just barely touching my leg.

  I tried to shift back, subtly, but my chair had stuck to the floor. Worse yet, my legs were crossed and I only had one foot connecting me to the earth. One wrong move and I could topple over. Why hadn’t I listened to my mother when she told me to only ever cross my legs at the ankle?

  “You review a lot of the restaurants around here, don’t you?”

  “I do, yes. So does Linn,” I added, hoping to throw a bit of his attention her way.

  Didn’t work.

  “How does it feel to be the one us kitchen guys sweat over?”

  I parsed through his question, trying to decide if the double entendre had been intentional. But one look at his face—full-on man smolder—and I realized that it had.

  Why were the men who flirted with me the brash, smarmy types? I avoided self-tanner and Lycra like the plague, and yet … here we were.

  “I take my job seriously,” I answered, sounding very much like Mary Poppins. “People choose restaurants to celebrate important moments in their lives, to find relief from the workday, to be taken care of. The best restaurants do those things, but add”—I paused, trying to find the right words—“an element of delight. Of surprise. And the worst restaurants do the opposite of that. So I want to guide people to the good ones.”

  “It’s a social responsibility,” Linn added. “There are so many restaurants in Portland, and the scene is so competitive, we try to direct people to the establishments that get it right.”

  I was grateful for Linn’s interruption, though without it I would have tried to steer the subject to my stance on inter-kitchen dating. But Nico had gotten bored with the topic at hand and instead brought up the latest newsworthy pastry at New York’s Dominique Ansel Bakery. Linn chimed in, and the three of them maintained an adult conversation without me.

  Just as well.

  Nico called me at home after we parted to discuss the evening. “What did you think of Adrian?”

  I stuck my phone between my ear and my shoulder while I reached for my toothbrush. “Can we talk about this later? During daylight hours?”

  “Come on, Jules. Just your first impression.”

  I squeezed a strip of toothpaste onto my brush. First impression? I had twenty. “I haven’t eaten his food, so I can’t say anything d
efinitive. He seemed like a nice enough guy—probably a lot of fun to have in the kitchen. Do you think, though,” I asked, phrasing my words carefully, “that the two of you might be too similar?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m sure you already know this,” I said, my voice dry, “but you’re a lot of personality. Just you, by yourself. But two Nicos in the kitchen? That’s a lot of Nicos. Think about when you and Caterina have tried to cook together.”

  “That’s because Caterina is disorganized and bossy.”

  I did not comment.

  Yes, Caterina was a bit disorganized, and sure, she was bossy—all of us had an authoritative streak. But she also ran a very successful cooking and language program. No, the trouble lay less with Caterina than with the fact that no kitchen in the world was large enough to contain the two of them. If they tried to cook together, half of the food would be burned on the outside and raw on the inside, overspiced and oversalted.

  “You get along with Adrian very well now,” I said at last, having brushed the teeth on the left. “But imagine after a long and busy weekend dinner service, when your customers are cranky and sending things back for no good reason and you’re short two dishwashers and four waiters. Just think on that.”

  “I am the chef, you know. My word in the kitchen is law.”

  “I just want to make sure you’re thinking everything over.”

  “I am. I am a very thoughtful man.”

  “Yes,” I said dryly. “You’re known throughout the land for being extraordinarily contemplative.” I spat a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, just as my phone buzzed. An e-mail? “Hey, it’s been fun chatting, but it’s late and I’m going to bed. Good night, Nico.”

  Truthfully, though, I hadn’t intended on going straight to bed. Instead, I’d planned on sitting down to see if Neil had in fact written me back.

  My hopes were not disappointed.

  Dear Juliette,

  I was very glad to see your e-mail in my inbox. In answer to your questions, no, I’m not related to any Frenchmen or Italians. My father’s people were all Scots—loud, burly fellows with a penchant for grudges and kilts. (As they are my kin, I am not allowed to say “skirts.” But it is a piece of fabric that looks like a skirt, so there you are.)

  My mother’s people are Danish and Swedish. I suspect your ancestors could out-cook my ancestors any day they chose, as neither the clansmen nor the Vikings are known for their culinary prowess.

  From your profile it sounded as though food is a big part of your life. For me, food is a way for my body to gather the nutrients it needs to allow my cells to produce ATP (that’s adenosine triphosphate). But my favorite ATP triggers probably include macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, fish sticks, and vanilla pudding.

  Sorry. It’s not pretty, but I like to be truthful.

  I went into medicine because my parents always wanted me to be a doctor. What they really wanted was for me to be a surgeon, but I don’t have the temperament for it. I’m not particularly competitive. I am good at research, though, and analysis. Working at a research hospital is a good fit.

  This is not to say my colleagues aren’t competitive. But on the whole, research isn’t as cutthroat as surgery can be. Research requires patience and the willingness to do tedious things over and over.

  There is a large medical research community here in Memphis, so there are a lot of transplants like me. I’m originally from North Carolina. It’s a different style of barbecue here (another good way to trigger ATP—barbecue), but it’s growing on me. I miss the ocean, but with the Mississippi I don’t feel as landlocked.

  I don’t know why I’m rambling about the local landscape.

  How’s your restaurant coming? I have no idea about the time lines of that kind of project. Do you have a location? And something else I’ve always been curious about—who makes the menu?

  These are probably stupid questions. If I were asking about antigen development, I would know exactly the questions to ask. But that’s what makes getting to know other people interesting, right? Unlike some of my colleagues, I do believe there is more to life than antigens and antibodies.

  Don’t know what to say after that; everything I could think of sounded cheesy. Oh well. If you’re reading this at night, sleep well (also—I’m guessing you’re a night owl?). And if you’re reading this in the morning, have a blessed Sunday.

  All the best,

  Neil

  By the time I finished reading the e-mail, I realized I’d been holding my breath. It was a good letter, I thought, in a way that reminded me of a Jane Austen novel. He expressed himself well, even using a semi-colon accurately.

  He seemed nice.

  And smart.

  Funny, but not too much.

  You like him, said a rogue voice from somewhere deep within.

  Before I could overanalyze my actions, I hit the Reply button.

  And then opened another tab to research what I could about immunology. After a few minutes of reading, I began to type.

  Dear Neil,

  To be honest, I have no idea how much this e-mail will make sense. It’s after midnight, and I have to wake up for church tomorrow—but what a crazy night!

  I went to a concert with a friend (the one from work I think I mentioned in my earlier e-mail). We had a great time—Portland has an amazing music scene. Not only are there tons of great local bands, but it’s a regular stop for most of the better bands.

  Anyway, my friend got tickets to an invite-only event, which my brother managed to crash—he’s skilled that way. He brought a friend of his, whom he’s decided to hire as our sous-chef, and the four of us went to dinner afterward. It was a little awkward because he was … friendly … and I have (at this point in my life) a very strict do-not-date-coworkers-ever policy.

  I’ve done it before, and it did not end well. At. All.

  I expect that was all clear as mud. Sorry. To sum up, it was weird, but I have hopes that its recurrence can be prevented. In other news, after brunch with my family, I came to the scientific conclusion that my uncle could possibly be my mother’s half brother. Scientific, using the study of a) photographs and b) live subjects. No, no DNA was harmed (or examined, really) through the duration of the study. But the fact of the matter is, my uncle looks like my grandfather—a lot—and my mother doesn’t. And neither do any of my siblings.

  Scientific, right? I thought you’d be impressed.

  The restaurant is coming along well. We’re putting the staff together (hence the sous-chef episode). As far as location, there’s a space my brother would like to use. I’m hoping it works out.

  My brother and I will be working the menu out together; our investor will probably have some say in it as well.

  Never worry about asking (perceived) silly questions about restaurants—at least as long as I’m permitted to ask stupid questions about immunology.

  Everything I know about immunology I learned from Wikipedia. I’m not ashamed to admit it. In fact, I now know the difference between in vitro, in situ, and in vivo. Impressed? Thought not. What area of immunology do you specialize in? (When you tell me, feel free to send me links that might be more accurate than Wikipedia.)

  I do have to agree on the state of Danish and Swedish food, for the most part. The Scottish, however, can make some mean shortbread.

  Do you feel like you’ve settled in Memphis, at least for now? What’s North Carolina like (other than the barbecue—I am, at least, educated in the geography of barbecue)?

  Now for a very important question—what kind of music do you listen to? (Again, I’m from Portland. This is a very big deal.)

  Have a wonderful night!

  All the best,

  Juliette

  That night, I did sleep well, and with a tiny, insistent smile in my heart.

  I did toy with the idea of doing a cook-book.… I think a lot of people who hate literature but love fried eggs would buy it if the price was right.

&nbs
p; —GROUCHO MARX

  I woke up at five Sunday morning with a single stray thought winding through my head. I had no idea what Neil looked like.

  Theoretically, his picture had been available, back when I’d subscribed to the matchmaking service, before I’d impulsively canceled it.

  What if he was really short?

  What if he was too old?

  What if he was ugly?

  And when had I become so very shallow?

  No amount of berating quieted the thoughts in my head. Despite the fact that it was still oppressively dark outside, I struggled from bed, switched on my bedside light, and shuffled awkwardly to my laptop’s resting place in the living room.

  The bright screen burned my eyes. With sluggish fingers, I typed Neil’s name into my search engine.

  Well, there was a Neil McLaren with a burgeoning music career and another from Illinois who was a sex offender. But I quickly located the Neil McLaren, PhD, MD.

  According to the photo on his doctor’s profile, he was … handsome. Light reddish-brown hair. A nice jaw. Kind eyes. Early thirties.

  I could live with that, I decided, and made the trip back to bed.

  The following week, on Saturday, I woke up bright and early. This was partly because I wanted to browse the farmers’ market downtown. Also, I still wasn’t sleeping well, so when morning came, I’d been ready for it for at least an hour or two.

  I examined the bags under my eyes in the bathroom mirror. Either I needed to buy a new eye cream, or I needed to solve this sleep issue soon. I wanted to sleep, but once my head hit the pillow, the stillness allowed plenty of space for my thoughts to roam. I thought about my mother’s diagnosis and ran variations of best- and worst-case scenarios through my head. I thought about Grand-mère, how much I missed her, and how much I wanted to ask her advice. I thought about the photo.

  I thought about Neil—those were my least worrisome moments. And while I tried to pray in the darkness, asking the Lord for peace and sleep, rest only ever visited with reluctance.

  But now, with my sleepless night behind me, I focused on the task ahead. The morning was bright and crisp, the ground damp with dew, the sky dotted with scant clouds. Basically, the perfect Portland spring morning. I threw my trench coat over my outfit, grabbed my canvas bag, and set off for the market.