He would tell her after dinner.
“Tilly, I...” Her eyes turned down to focus on his shoes. He could watch her demo, give her some support before she went onstage, report back to Rich that his review was spot on, as usual, and reassure his mother that he wasn’t turning into his father. “I’d like to spend some more time with you. How about I come watch your cooking demo? That way, at least you know you have one person in the audience to support you.”
* * *
TILLY APPRECIATED DAN’S OFFER to go with her to the demo. Normally she wouldn’t let some stranger pick her up at the Taste. Or kiss her. What were you thinking, Tilly? Chicago was a big city and her mother was constantly emailing her stories about women being abducted by strangers in broad daylight. But she connected to Dan in some way. When he had turned around, a big beer stain on his shirt, she’d felt...well, she wasn’t sure what it was, but she did feel as though she had known him longer than just twenty minutes. Being with him felt a bit like being home. Comfortable. Probably why she’d nearly burst into tears in front of him.
Plus, he was attractive. Not just notice-out-of-the-corner-of-your-eye good-looking, but giggle-with-your-girlfriends-over-a-cocktail gorgeous. Before the hair and the restaurant and her complete lack of time to do anything but work, he would have been the kind of man who interested her. Thick blond hair, bright blue eyes, a strong chin and nose slightly too big for his face. Broad shoulders and taller than she was, without towering over her absolutely average height. The kind of corn-fed, Midwestern man who had wrestled and played football in high school and now played softball for the company team every summer and went boating in Wisconsin on long weekends.
They usually thought blue hair was weird. They were right.
She was still surprised he had asked her to join him. Despite his easygoing, nonchalant manner, he carried with him the air of someone who expected everything he touched to turn to gold. The dark blue of his jeans and bright white of his shirt—minus the beer stain—suggested a man with an eye for perfection.
Though she had stopped being self-conscious about her hair all the time, she had attracted a different type of male attention since the change to blue—the two-eyebrow-piercings-tongue-stud-with-a-tattooist-named-Butter type of men who expected her to buy fetish shoes at the Alley. Men seemed to think she was wild, when in reality she was a thirty-year-old woman stuck with a bet she had made when she was eighteen.
“I would appreciate the support at my demo. Thank you.” She raised her gaze to meet his again and saw a mix of sympathy and unease. Almost as if he wasn’t sure she would say yes. If the look had been pity, she would have said no. Babka was her life. Her work. The review, the cat, the oversalted food were all hers to own and figure out what to do with. She wasn’t interested in a sympathy date.
“You’ve still got twenty minutes. Let’s go back to the aerial dancers, then head over to the cooking tent. In the meantime, we’ll just talk about meaningless things.” He held out his hand to her and she placed hers in it. He led the two of them back to watch the performers and she listened while he entertained her with silly stories meant to do nothing but distract her.
* * *
THEY TALKED ABOUT THE WEATHER and the chances of either baseball team making the playoffs, nothing they needed to focus on. As they chatted, Dan could see Tilly relax. She wasn’t thinking about the demonstration anymore.
He admired her. Many people, forced to face an audience after a bad review, would have backed out of the commitment. The best head chefs were control freaks and perfectionists; bad reviews were not easily laughed off. He knew some who would have gone on a wild bender, then come to the demonstration hungover—if not still blitzed—after a bad review. Not only was Tilly here, she was sober and there were no signs of a bender from the night before. More than sobriety, she was mostly holding herself together. He could support her through this demo without undermining his view of Babka and her abilities as the chef and owner.
The hair was deceiving. She wasn’t just some wild woman his parents would hate, though they would hate her, his father especially. The unnatural hair complemented a determination he admired. With her callused hand in his, Dan found himself feeling more content than he had in years. Too bad this relationship could never be.
He looked at his watch and straightened. Time for her to prepare for the demonstration. “Come on. You can get ready and I’ll get a seat right up front.”
Her feelings ran through her eyes as clearly as a movie on a screen. Nerves and resignation, followed by a fixed resolve.
He gave her another quick peck on the lips. “For luck.”
CHAPTER FIVE
TILLY GRABBED THE bag she had left in the changing room of the demonstration tent and pulled out her clothes. She changed into her chef’s jacket and checks, then sat down on the nearby folding chair and rubbed her forehead. She felt a headache coming on and her stomach did jumping jacks. Nerves.
Not only nerves, but she had been kissed by a stranger. Soundly kissed by a stranger. And she had kissed him soundly back. She didn’t remember the last time she had been kissed like that. Kissed so her toes tingled.
Her last boyfriend had been when she was still in New York, which seemed like decades ago, even if it had been less than two years, and a great kisser he wasn’t. He hadn’t wanted to move to Chicago with her. “Why move when I’ll see you even less?” had been his response to her invitation.
Since Babunia had died and left her money to get a restaurant started, with tons of help from the bank, she hadn’t wanted to waste any time kissing frogs hoping to find a prince. She didn’t have time for frogs or princes.
The nerves were responsible for the headache, but Dan was responsible for the jumping jacks.
At least she was cooking familiar dishes. She had contemplated trying a new dish, but you never knew how a recipe would work out until you’d made it several times under different conditions. A guaranteed success was even more important now, in the aftermath of the CarpeChicago review.
She had the added distraction of a kissable stranger in the audience. She had wanted Dan’s company for a distraction before the demo, but she couldn’t let anything preoccupy her during. Today was as good an example as any for why she shouldn’t go around kissing attractive men.
The tent flap opened and her sister walked in, calm and sedate as usual. Unlike Tilly, who let every emotion echo on her face, her older sister, Renia, was always serene. No matter the situation, tall, thin Renia was walking elegance. All it took was her presence and people responded as if given a drink. Their shoulders fell when the tension left their body and they took deep, relaxing breaths.
The cost to Renia was staggering. Tilly wondered about the last time Renia had allowed herself to feel an emotion. No, she corrected, she didn’t have to wonder. Renia hadn’t displayed any emotion since she was fifteen and busy discovering the many opportunities Chicago offered to a teenager who wanted trouble.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come see you over the weekend. I was out of town at a wedding. Just got back today.” Renia bent down to kiss Tilly’s cheek, then sat, putting her camera bag on the floor. “I read the review. The Eater is a moron.”
“Oh, Renia,” Tilly said, resting her head against her sister. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m so nervous.” Renia began to stroke her hair and with each stroke Tilly’s headache eased. The jumping jacks in her stomach remained.
“You’ll be fine. Better than fine, you’ll be perfect.” As she talked, Renia combed her fingers through her hair. “The other chefs will have nothing on you.”
“Are there any people out there?”
“The chairs are filling. It’s a good crowd for a Monday demonstration.” Tilly stiffened. “Don’t worry—I didn’t see any tomatoes for throwing. They’re here to see you. Mom’s in the audience, too.” Renia laughed. “I think she’s trying to be incognito, but she hasn’t realized she’s the only woman in Chicago who thinks sunglasses and a scarf ov
er her hair in July would be a disguise. She said she didn’t want her presence to pressure you.”
“At least there will be three people in the audience for me.”
“Three?” Renia’s hands stilled for two counts before they continued their combing.
“There’s this man I met at the Vienna Beef stand. His name is Dan, and he bought me a hot dog even though I spilled his beer.”
“And? There’s something else. I can hear it in your voice.” Renia’s fingers again slowed their progress through her hair.
“He kissed me.” The fingers stopped. It was the only sign of surprise her sister would show.
“And? I’m your sister. I get details.”
“There aren’t many details to give. He gave me a kiss, saying it was ‘for luck.’” She left out the first kiss, not for luck, with open lips and the little sound of desire she’d made.
“There’s still more. I know there is.” The fingers had started pulling through her hair again. Whatever shock Renia had felt was tucked away. Tilly didn’t know how her sister managed such control.
“There isn’t more to the kiss.”
“No, there’s more to your reaction. Come on, Tilly, you don’t get kissed by random strangers every day.”
“I’d like to think I never get kissed by random strangers.” She let out a big sigh. “It was just a kiss. But it was the first kiss I’ve gotten in over two years and the first good kiss I’ve gotten since, I don’t know, Culinary maybe. And so I was sitting here getting a headache from my nerves and waiting for my stomach to leap out of my skin and do a little dance on the floor from the kiss.
“And then—” Her words sped up, running together and threatening to crash in a heap on the floor. “I wonder if I’m being silly about a kiss on the lips from a handsome stranger, like I’m some starry-eyed teenager again. And I have to cook for God knows how many people, who have all read a review of my restaurant where the place was almost destroyed because of a stupid stray cat and oversalted food I can’t explain.”
“Good.” The word was no less emphatic for being said in Renia’s serene voice.
“What do you mean good?” She pulled her head out from under her sister’s hands and turned to gaze up at her. “I barely know this man and my nerves are a tightrope. How is this good?”
“Tilly, I don’t think you’ve looked at a man, seriously looked, since your prom date ten years ago. That boyfriend in New York doesn’t count. He was a tool. Since you decided you wanted to own your own restaurant, men are only visible to you if they are head chefs.”
“I look at pastry chefs, too.”
“Tilly, I’m not joking. I’m not saying you have to have a boyfriend, but it’s as if you turned off any sexual or romantic part of you in your determination to own a four-star restaurant before you’re thirty-five. It’s not healthy.”
“I may not date, but you only date men you can push around.” Hurt crept into Renia’s eyes before she could blink it away and Tilly felt bad about striking back. Renia was right and the truth was painful. Her sister dated, but she wasn’t interested in the men she was dating. Tilly didn’t date at all.
“I’m sorry, Rey. I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did.” Renia grabbed Tilly’s head, forced it back around and resumed her calming rub. “And maybe you’re right about me. Fortunately, this conversation is about you. Shall I scope him out for you? Make sure he’s as riveted by your demonstration as he should be?”
Tilly chuckled and enjoyed the comfort of her sister. “No, you’ll meet him after the demonstration. I assume you’ll be sticking around.”
“Of course. I’m here as long as you need me. Now, point him out to me before you get onstage.”
They stood and walked out together. Before Tilly climbed on the stage, she looked out into the crowd, then closed her eyes and wished she hadn’t seen the rows of full chairs. Picturing people naked would only distract her.
Dan was easily found in the crowd. She leaned into her sister and whispered, “He’s the man with the blond hair and stained shirt three rows back, on the aisle.”
Renia looked. Then she shoved Tilly in the side.
“Ouch! Why did you elbow me?” Tilly leaned over in pain and rubbed her ribs with overacted outrage, but Renia didn’t even notice.
“You must be nervous to describe that man as handsome. He’s gorgeous. It’s too bad you caught him first.” Renia looked at Tilly with a wide grin on her face. “You can’t be nervous now. A man like that picking you up while you’re in line for a hot dog has got to be good luck.” A last kiss on the cheek and Renia was off, threading her way through the crowd before finally finding a seat close to the front.
Tilly could easily pick out her mother, sitting in the back, her head bent over a magazine. Renia was right. She was wearing a checkered scarf over her hair, probably thinking Tilly wouldn’t notice the one woman in the audience wearing a babushka like some caricature in a Russian movie.
She could do this. Even if everyone else in the audience jeered, she could talk to the three people there not out of curiosity, but out of support. They would be enough. Tilly climbed into the kitchen and a techy-type guy fitted her for a mike.
“I’ll be introducing you.” Tilly looked up to see an older, smartly dressed African-American woman with glorious salt-and-pepper curls standing in front of her. “I’m Patricia Humphries. We talked on the phone to arrange your menu. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you dropped off your supplies.”
“Yes, I remember. I assume you got the bio I emailed to you.”
“Yes. It was perfect. Are you ready?”
Tilly nodded and followed Patricia onto the stage.
“Welcome, fellow Chicagoans and visitors.” Patricia’s voice boomed over the crowd. “Today, the Taste of Chicago is honored to present Tila Milek. Tila started her cooking career in the kitchen of her family’s Polish restaurant on 45th Street. Healthy Food is a Chicago institution and you can still find her mother in the restaurant’s kitchen, cooking up traditional Polish dishes. After graduating from the Culinary Institute of America, Miss Milek worked in several New York restaurants before moving back to Chicago to start her own restaurant, Babka, in Bucktown. Please welcome a truly local talent, Miss Tila Milek.”
The audience clapped and Tilly saw her sister taking pictures. Tilly’s heart warmed at the sight of her mother giving her a standing ovation and Dan’s thumbs-up.
She took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Thank you. First, I’m going to tell you about Babka. Then I’ll demonstrate some of the traditional Polish food we serve. To give you something to nosh on while I talk and chop, we’re going to pass around podpłomyczki, which is an unleavened bread with a history going back to the ancient Slavic tribes roaming around Eastern Europe. We’ve kept the bread warm from the oven and are serving it with a little pasta rybno-twarogowa, or fresh farmer’s cheese and smoked fish spread.”
Tilly turned to the waitstaff, surprised to see Steve, her runner, with Karen and Candace. When the three stepped forward with encouraging smiles and trays of nibbles, she didn’t wonder where her missing waiter was. She could do this demonstration. She would do this demonstration. How could she fail with such wonderful support?
She smiled back at them and turned to the audience. “Please give a warm welcome to some of my staff from Babka.” Tilly waited for the applause to die down before she continued. “Today is their day off and they are here to give me moral support. As you might have heard, we’ve had a rocky couple of weeks.” The audience laughed and tension left the tent in a whoosh as her wonderful, fantastic, better-than-she-deserved staff headed off the stage bearing food.
“In Polish, babka means two important things. A babka is a tall, yeasted cake and, more important, a grandmother. My restaurant is an homage to both meanings. My grandmother was my favorite person when I was a child. When I told my mom I wasn’t going to work at Healthy Food, but was going to culinary school and start my own restaura
nt, it was my grandmother who helped me fill out the applications.”
* * *
DAN TOOK A BITE of the eggy, chewy bread with its creamy, smoky spread and listened while Tilly talked about her grandmother and her restaurant.
“Babka highlights the traditional Polish foods lost amongst kielbasa and pierogi. Of course, we serve handmade pierogi and house-smoked kielbasa, but we serve some of the lesser-known dumplings, sausages, stews and soups while using fresh, seasonal ingredients.”
When Dan first heard about Babka, he had hoped to eat there on a regular basis and try many of those forgotten Polish dishes. Then the cat, dog and oversalted food had turned him off Polish for a week.
“The nibble you are enjoying is an excellent example of what we serve. Podpłomyczki is as traditional as rye bread in Poland and the farmer’s cheese in the spread is made using milk from a family-owned Wisconsin dairy that raises only Jersey cows.”
He licked some of the spread off his fingers and let it sit on his tongue while he enjoyed the subtle flavors. The cheese had a definite richness to it from the butterfat in the Jersey milk, highlighted by the smoked fish and the bite of the chives. Simple and delicious.
“It’s summer, and summer in Chicago is hot. Like most of you, I want to eat something cooling and traditional Polish food is just what my Babunia ordered. Cold dishes are an important part of any Polish meal and we serve many cold summer soups. Chłodnik litewski, which I’m preparing now, is a beet soup, similar to barszcz or borscht, served cold with crisp summer vegetables and, if you’re feeling fancy, a little chopped shrimp or crawfish.”
Dan ducked his head to get out of the way of a woman snapping photos as if this was a presidential debate and settled in to watch Tilly chop, mix and talk. She was skillful. He couldn’t deny her proficiency, and the demo wouldn’t be enough for him to feel confident in his review. He’d have to see her again at Babka. He was still certain his review was right. All the things that had gone wrong that night couldn’t have been a fluke. Something was rotten in the Polish kitchen. Tilly might be mastering the demo, but she was responsible for the entire restaurant. Whatever the problem was, it was her responsibility. No matter how good a cook she was, she’d failed somewhere as a chef.
Reservations for Two Page 4
