I recently had a small cell lung cancer removed, and my doctors tell me I’m cured, but there is nothing like cancer to wake you up. I’m going to sell out and spend more time with my family. You know, I have been so busy here that I haven’t had time to go back to Cuba, even though they opened the borders. I need to go see my mama while she’s still living.”
I put my hand on the man’s shoulder and said, “I will see what I can do, Senor. I will be back in touch by the end of the week.”
We all stood, shook hands, then Martin and I left with the doggie bags. As we walked back to my car, I asked Martin what he thought of the food.
“It was mediocre but not bad.”
“What were your thoughts about the prices?” I asked.
Martin laughed. “I like free.”
I poked him in the ribs, as if to say,’ you know what I mean.’
“I thought the prices were reasonable, maybe a bit too low for the area. There could be a ten percent increase, and the cost would still be about ten percent less than the rest of the restaurants in the area.”
“If you were going to give the restaurant a review, what would you say?” I persisted.
“I’d have to do the tallies, but I’m guessing I’d give the old building a four out of five. It was immaculately clean but a bit run down and in need of updating. Food, I think, gets a four, but mainly because it was hot and tasted good. Service would easily get a four point five, but I’d want to see it when they aren’t expecting us. I’m guessing when Senor Hernandez isn’t there the service isn’t quite as attentive.”
“Which explains why he hasn’t made it back to Cuba to see his mama,” I sighed.
“Exactly,” Martin agreed. “If I were you, I would be concerned about how well it would function when you aren’t there.”
“I’m not going to buy it,” I admitted. “I do know someone who might. Yes, I agree the only way this works is if the person who takes this over from Senor Hernandez wants to run the place in a similar way.”
We continued to chat about the restaurant: who would be the best buyer for the place and some small, inexpensive ways the place could be improved to support the existing crowd and ensure it survives for the foreseeable future.
As we pulled up in front of Martin’s apartment building, I asked him, “How is your headache?”
Martin hesitated, then smiled. “It’s gone. I guess eating a Thanksgiving meal for brunch is just the cure for a hangover.”
I chuckled. “That, and Abuela’s secret hangover recipe.”
“You should bottle that,” Martin said.
I came around the car and waited for Martin to get out. I was seriously thinking about kissing him, but Martin quickly put his hand out to shake mine. “It was fun, and I appreciate you getting me out. I would have probably stayed in and stared at my bedroom ceiling if you hadn’t.”
I accepted a handshake with a smile. “I am happy we are going to work together. You have some valuable insight, Martin.”
With that, Martin turned toward his apartment building but quickly turned back around and asked, “When are you back in town?”
“Next week,” I replied. “I think I’ll be back Monday of next week.”
“Perfect,” Martin replied. “You owe me dinner at a new Italian place that just opened up in my district. I’ll email you what nights I’m free. Don’t wear white. I hear it is messy.”
I stood for a moment, smiling after he disappeared into his building. I let out a sigh and said to the closed door, “I am not done courting you Martin Williams. You are too much of a catch to let go that easily.” I climbed back into my car and sped off back toward the beach and the condo that, at this time on a Sunday afternoon, would be bursting at the seams with family.
Martin
The following week, Elian met me at the little Italian restaurant that had just opened next to the Lauderdale River Walk. The family had another restaurant in Kansas City, but the granddaughter of the KC restaurant decided she wanted to move to the area and was hell-bent on creating the same quality restaurant that had endured two generations in her hometown.
When we walked in, I was immediately impressed by the atmosphere. The small space was well designed, and the seating flowed well. The music in the background was old-style Italian with a mix of classic arias and just the right smattering of Old Blue Eyes scattered here and there. The music was fun, and it was kept at the perfect level to add to the ambiance but not prevent conversation. The lighting was turned down and small candles were lit on the tables.
There was a short wait I thought must be due to its newness. A small, intimate venue like this one would have a strong following soon. I guessed the older crowd would especially love the atmosphere. When we were seated, the host told us they had a pasta bar tonight and gave a menu of ingredients for the bar, along with the regular menus. She disappeared and returned a moment later with waters in each hand.
I excused myself and got up, using my typical pretense of the restroom as a way to inspect the restaurant without being conspicuous. I spotted the pasta bar tucked next to the alcohol bar and grinned at the ingenuity. From the crowd of people around the pasta bar, I had to assume some of them would decide to grab a drink while they waited for the chef to cook their food. In fact, I noticed several people were standing in the bar area with drinks who appeared to be waiting for their food to be finished.
I returned to the table as a server appeared and brought with her a nice loaf of scrumptious smelling bread. She asked what drinks we’d like. Elian ordered one, but I decided I wanted to see how the bar tender handled what could very likely be a bottleneck from the folks coming to the pasta bar.
I convinced Elian to order something from the menu and asked him to ply the server a lot of questions to try to put her off her game. “I want to see how well the new servers handle a high maintenance customer.”
Elian smiled and said, “I am good at being high maintenance.” I’d been all business and sort of forgot Elian was there as a bystander. His joke brought me back to reality. I smiled and said, “I really do appreciate you coming with me. It helps to appear to be on a date.”
“No problem,” Elian replied. “I like playing the role.”
The server returned with Elian’s drink and asked to take our order. As requested, Elian poured over the menu, acting as if he was indecisive. The young woman smiled patiently, answered a couple of his questions, which he turned into more questions. Nothing seemed to cause the young lady to falter.
“Can you tell me what sounds good?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know, something Italian,” Elian said with absolutely no indication that he was joking.
“Well, that is very easy,” she said with a smile. “When I’m hungry for something hearty, I usually go for a white sauce. The mixture of cream and pasta tends to fill me up, but when I want just traditional, delicious Italian, I go for the red sauces. Of course, if you are really wanting to save room for dessert, the soup and salad are quite nice. The soup tonight is minestrone. It is my grandmama’s own secret recipe that I talked her out of before coming to Fort Lauderdale,” she said.
I caught the ‘grandmother’ comment and quickly asked, “Are you the owner here?”
The woman smiled and answered, “Yes, I am serving tonight to help my new staff get their sea legs under them before they take over.”
“It’s lovely that you are taking such a personal interest,” Elian said. “I grew up with a family that insisted we all be personally involved with the business. You could say that is in my blood.”
Just then, a customer called for her. She turned and said, “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
The lady who had called her seemed to be upset about something. I leaned closer to the edge to hear. “This drink has too much alcohol in it,” the woman said.
The young owner was pleasant and said, “Oh, dear, I’ll take that back and have them fix that for you right away. This is a martini, correct?�
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“That is correct, dear, thank you,” the woman said and turned back to her conversation. The server took the drink to the bar and returned promptly to their table. As she spoke, the bartender himself brought the corrected martini to the woman and waited for her to take a sip. When she smiled, the bartender left and returned to his place behind the bar.
Elian ordered the minestrone soup and the eggplant parmesan. I went to the pasta bar, which had three people in front of me. The chef seemed to be well prepared, though, and it only took a few minutes for the other customers’ food to be cooking as he turned his attention on me.
“Can you tell me what sauces you have here?” I asked. The chef had all the trimmings: the white outfit, the hat, and just the right amount of foodie attitude.
“Of course,” the man said with a slight Italian accent. “The three red sauces are all homemade. You have a traditional beef marinara, an onion-basil and garlic gazpacho, and a bacon marinara with red pepper flakes. That one is rather spicy. The white sauce choices are basic alfredo or a wine and lemon cream sauce.”
Then, I played dumb, asking about the noodles and other ingredients. I had intentionally asked these questions to see if it would interrupt the chef’s routine, and I wanted to see if I could mix the man up. However, I didn’t. The chef answered my questions with respect and expediency—all the time, serving up the food to previous customers.
Finally, I made my mind up and paired white wine and lemon cream sauce with fettuccine and chicken with chopped bacon on top. While the food cooked, I slipped over to the bar and ordered a drink I hadn’t seen on the menu. The bartender smiled. “I like the Moscow Mule myself. I’m afraid we don’t have copper cups here, though. Is it OK for me to put it in a regular glass for you?”
“That’ll be just fine,” I replied. I was impressed by the bartender’s ability to negotiate with me, giving me what I wanted, but also ensuring I understood that the traditional copper cup wasn’t an option. I considered being upset about the lack of copper cups, but I’d already seen how the bartender had managed the upset woman and decided to give him a break. Besides, my pasta order was done, and it smelled absolutely amazing.
When I got back to the table with both my drink and the pasta, Elian smiled at me. “You’ve been busy,” he commented.
“I guess so. Where is all the bread?” I asked.
Elian winked at me. “Sorry,” he replied, and the apology was far from genuine. “That bread was truly out of this world. I thought we should give you a chance to ask for more, just to see the reaction.” Then, he gave me a sly smile that reminded me of a little boy who had just taken one of his mother’s cookies while she was still letting them cool.
“You are naughty, young man,” I teased. When I was about to ask for another loaf, the owner came out with a customer’s order. She dropped it off and turned to us with another loaf. She placed this one next to me, and winking at Elian, said, “I thought this might keep the conversation civil over here.”
Elian laughed in spite of himself. When she was gone, he said, “I like her. I’d try to convince her to join one of my ventures if I were still in the business here and she didn’t own this one.”
“Yeah, I like her, too. She knows what she is doing,” I replied.
The rest of the night went splendidly. The food was on par with the service, and the other customers all seemed to be enjoying themselves. Even the other wait staff seemed happy and competent. When we were done with our meal, the owner came out with two pieces of rum cake and placed them in front of us.
“We didn’t order these,” I said.
The lady chuckled, “It comes with the meal. My granny demands that every customer leaves with something sweet on their tongue. It is supposed to remind you how much we care at Cara Vetchies.”
She winked at us and asked if she could bring us anything else.
“One moment,” I said. I took a bite and rolled my eyes in delight. “I think I love your granny.”
The server laughed at me. I added, “I will have a decaffeinated coffee if you have one available. “
“Yes, we do. It’ll take a moment because we brew our decaffeinated fresh for each customer. Is that OK?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied.
Our server dashed off to get the coffee started. I put my cake aside while waiting for the coffee and was surprised at how fast the woman returned with my cup. “I thought you had to make this fresh,” I said.
“We do,” the server agreed. “We make our own K-cups with our family’s coffee brand. Do you want cream?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” I responded. The woman came out with a small creamer and put it on the table. She seemed to be waiting for me to taste the coffee and add the cream.
I tasted it and smiled at her. “This is good for decaffeinated. What is your family’s brand?” I asked.
“It’s one we have been improving on many years. It’s from Peru but roasted in Kansas City at the little roastery there. When you are leaving, you can stop by the bar. The bags of coffee are there.” She smiled again and left us to the dessert and my coffee.
“This is really impressive,” I said to Elian. “If I were going to buy a place, this would be it,”
“And why is that?” Elian asked.
I put my finger to my chin, acting like I knew what I was talking about. “Clearly, this is a spin-off of another restaurant, so it has the franchise potential, but there have definitely been some improvements here that are likely not what is done in Kansas City. Modernization without jeopardizing the integrity of the food.”
“You have a good eye,” Elian said. “I was thinking the same thing, but I will wait to see how she does a year from now. If she is able to maintain the quality, I may ask her to consider a partnership with me. I doubt it would be able to be successful without the family’s involvement, though, and trust me, I know better than most that family isn’t always interested in the long-term business potential.” Then, Elian laughed, knowing I knew he was talking about his sister.
When the owner returned with their check, both Elian and I congratulated her on the restaurant and ensured her that this was one of the best food experiences we’d had in a long time. The young restaurateur smiled from ear to ear.
“Please tell others,” she said. “It takes good word of mouth to get a new restaurant off the ground.”
“No doubt,” I agreed. “I promise we will share our experiences with anyone who will listen.” I could tell the young woman thought I was talking about telling my friends. She would be surprised to learn I was a critic, and I’d be telling the general public about this wonderful little restaurant. I couldn’t help but hope she was ready for the onslaught of business that was about to hit her.
We walked out of the restaurant happy, full, and glad to have had such a great experience. “I believe this is going to become one of my places to come to when I want to wind down and not write a critique,” I said.
“I have no doubt. I’ll be coming back as well,” Elian agreed.
As we walked to our cars, Elian leaned over and gave me a very civil kiss on the cheek. “See ya soon,” he said. “I like our new arrangement. I can enjoy an evening with you and not have to worry about seducing you afterward. Maybe I need to develop more of these platonic relationships.”
I involuntarily raised my eyebrow but didn’t pursue the conversation. Was Elian trying to make me jealous? Did it make me jealous? Maybe it did. This wasn’t going to work if Elian ran around with several different men. If he was going to make the Lauderdale restaurant world think we were only on a date, then he needed to play a monogamous part. “Let’s talk about that later. In fact, meet me tomorrow for coffee. Should I come down to the beach?” I asked.
“No, I have a meeting downtown,” Elian replied. “I can meet you at eight am, my meeting isn’t until later. Does that work?” he asked.
“Sure, then let’s meet at Crowsters next to my office building. You can park in the office
parking lot and I’ll comp your ticket.”
I left before Elian could put another kiss on my cheek. I was sure this was probably just a European gesture Elian had adopted, but the man smelled just a little too nice to be kissing me, especially after such a delightful evening.
Elian
The next morning, I was at the coffee shop before Martin arrived. I’d texted him to get his coffee order and had it waiting when he arrived.
“You are up early,” Martin said when he came in.
“I was excited to see you,” I replied.
I could tell I’d knocked him off his guard. “That’s good, I suppose,” he replied.
I’d chosen a spot at the counter overlooking the street because of how close the two seats were. When Martin sat down, I could smell the soap on him. I also caught a faint whiff of what must be aftershave or cologne, it was very subtle and extremely sexy. I liked the way his short cropped brown hair fell over his forehead making him appear a bit younger than he was.
“So, what is next on our restaurant agenda?” Martin asked.
“I have to be out of town again next week,” I replied. “In fact, I wanted to ask if you’d be willing to fly out to Dallas this weekend for a little moonlighting.” Martin looked at me skeptically, almost like he could bolt out the door at any moment.
I quickly added, “I’d like for you to critique my restaurant and give me some clues on how to make it more like what you recommended.”
I could tell he was taken aback.
“You know I’m not a businessman, Elian. I just know food.”
“You know a lot more than you think,” I replied. “But if it makes you feel better, it is the food that we are in the business of selling. Being able to find the right mix of good food, good service, and a happy atmosphere are the three ingredients to a successful food business. Correct?”
Martin agreed. “Well, what’s in it for me, Mr. Whitman?” he teased.
Love By Chance (Chance Series Book 1) Page 8