One Menu at a Time

by Carolyn Hughey

  “Fine. Then Bailey and I will be there for dinner.”

  “I’ll take Bailey with me now instead of staying here. This way, it’ll give you more time with your new client and give me more time to fix dinner…and we’ll see you later.”

  I met Milton on the corner of 18th Street and Irving Place at Moe’s Luncheonette. Not knowing what he looked like, I searched the room for someone wearing a red baseball cap—the mother cap—and since I didn’t see anyone with a cap on, I became uncertain and wondered whether he was trying to tell me something. When my eyes keyed in on a man sitting in the back, I waved. Surprisingly, Milton stood up and waited for me to come to the table.

  “Is this my dinner?” he asked eyeing the insulated bag.”

  “It is.” Milton was gawky with dark hair, an unruly beard, and a huge paunchy stomach that hung over his dirty jeans.

  He placed the bag on the seat and suggested I sit. He unzipped the bag and sniffed. “Oh, wow, this is making my stomach growl.” He began moving his head back and forth, checking to see if anyone was watching, grabbed a fork off the table, and dug into the contents. “This shepherd’s pie is incredible,” he said with his mouth full. “I wish I could eat the whole thing right here.”

  A wave of discomfort punched my insides. I didn’t want to say too much and ruin my chances, but I knew if he got caught, we’d both be bounced out of there in a heartbeat. “Eating it now is probably not a good idea. I think the owner might have a problem with that.”

  He quickly zipped the bag when the waitress headed toward our table. “Okay, so tell me about…coffee, please,” he said to the server, and continued talking without skipping a beat, “about your service.”

  “I’ll also have coffee.”

  He finished chewing. “You’re a good cook.” As soon as the waitress left, he unzipped the bag again and ate more of the shepherd’s pie. “I want to eat this whole thing right now.”

  Feeling slightly uncomfortable, I expressed my feelings. “I really wish you’d wait until you’re out of here. This is making me nervous.”

  “I don’t care,” he said defiantly.

  “Yeah, but I do. I set this time aside just for you so that we could discuss my service and I’d really like to do that before the waitress gets angry at you for eating food that I brought in for you. So why don’t we go through your food preferences, we’ll schedule a date for delivery, and then we both can be on our way. How does that sound?”

  He huffed and rolled his eyes like an adolescent as though I was his mother reprimanding him. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

  I was a tolerant person, but I wasn’t sure I could be this tolerant with a grown immature man. “Milton, I’m just not sure you’re ready for my service yet.”

  “Well, my mother says you’re too expensive anyway, and I shouldn’t have paid so much for her birthday present when I could have purchased a ton of TV dinners at the supermarket.”

  I could feel heat rising up the back of my neck and forced myself to remain professional regardless. I’d known I was likely to run into difficult customers like this once in a while—I just didn’t think it would be this soon. Nevertheless, I knew how important it was to maintain my cool.

  “Does your mother realize I’m a trained professional chef? That part of the money you paid me was for the groceries that I pick up? And the containers to store the food in after it’s cooked?”

  “I told her, but she wants me to get my money back.”

  “And what would you like to do?”

  “I want to eat my dinner now, and then I want my money back.”

  I reached inside my briefcase and pulled out my checkbook and wrote Milton a refund. I slid it across the table. “Thank you very much for meeting with me, Milton.” While he was examining the check, which I assumed was to be sure I gave him the correct amount back, I reached over the table and in one fell swoop pulled the bag off the seat, draped the strap over my shoulder, and turned on my heels.

  “Hey, you can’t have that. That’s my dinner.”

  I ignored him, paid the waitress for my undelivered coffee, and exited, heading down the street for the subway to home.

  Okay, so you didn’t succeed in gaining two more customers. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and look on the bright side. You impress plenty of people, just not them. But that’s okay, you’ll have another shot at it tonight with Renee’s neighborhood men you’re going to meet.

  Steam the carrots, the green beans, and cauliflower in separate pots. While they’re steaming, blend the can of tomato soup with the Worcestershire sauce, salt, and pepper in a small bowl and whisk to combine. Drain all the veggies and set aside, and don’t bang those pots on the counter just because you’re angry. Add garlic, butter, salt, and pepper to the cauliflower and mash until smooth and creamy. Allow the cauliflower to cool before adding the beaten egg. Set aside.

  Good things come to those who wait. Right, tell that to your overdrawn checking account. Wrap your mind around positive thoughts and tell yourself tonight will be different. And, then again, maybe not.

  Now sauté those darn onions and ground chicken with garlic, and use medium heat even though you’re tempted to turn it up to high to make you feel better. Once the onions are translucent, drain off any excess fat; add the carrots, green beans, and corn. Pour the tomato soup mixture over top and mix until evenly coated. Using an eight-inch square baking dish, add the mixture and spread evenly. Add the beaten egg to the mashed cauliflower, mix until completely incorporated, and spread over top of the chicken and veggies. Sprinkle the one cup of shredded cheese over top and bake in a 375-degree oven for thirty minutes or until the cheese is melted and golden. Before serving, sprinkle the chopped parsley over top. Serves four.

  I sat at the computer telling myself I needed to perk up and get excited about the prospects of designing a new brochure to use as handouts for my business. I printed twenty-five copies and planned to do another distribution around my immediate neighborhood. I was feeling much better by focusing on the positive as opposed to the negative impact my meeting with Milton had created.

  I exited the apartment and a blast of cold air whipped around me. I tightened the collar around my neck and began dropping off brochures, conversing with a few neighbors who were carrying groceries into their apartments. Afterward, I seized the day by checking spaces for kitchen rentals. Using Cassie’s kitchen in the store was great when she didn’t have classes, but the schedule was booked solid for the entire month.

  My first stop was to Carlucci’s Bistro. Charlie Johnson, Cassie’s friend and former boss from Chez Francoise, had mentioned the owner’s business was going downhill. He thought Mr. Carlucci might be interested in renting out his kitchen space during the four days he was now closing the restaurant. That would give me plenty of time to prepare food and store it in the bistro’s walk-in refrigerator until delivery.

  Vito Carlucci stood behind the counter eyeing the dining room and his late lunch customers when I walked inside. I figured him to be in his midfifties. He was an attractive man with white wavy hair and a nice build for someone his age.

  “Mr. Carlucci,” I said using my most upbeat voice, extending my hand. “You don’t know me, but Charlie Johnson sent me here to talk to you about renting out your kitchen the days you’re closed. Do you have any interest?”

  “Please, you call me Vito.” He dropped my hand. “Okay, what kind of business do you have?”

  “A personal chef service.”

  His lips twisted to the side, clearly annoyed. “It’s people like you who take business away from me.”

  “Nope, it isn’t me,” I defended myself like a child to a parent. “I only have two customers.” Okay, so I fibbed just a tad. I mean, seriously, what could a little embellishment hurt? Besides, he wouldn’t have let me rent the kitchen for one customer, and anyway, I was banking on Renee’s guests being bowled over by my service. And I was counting on luring them into chomping at the bit to be a part of somet
hing so special, they’d recommend me to all their friends. Of course, this was putting the cart before the horse, but I’d been forcing myself to think positive all afternoon—enough to keep me motivated.

  I did feel bad for Vito, though, and wished I could help make his business better, but it didn’t have anything to do with me. I concluded it could only be one of two things: either the economy or his food wasn’t good, but I remained silent and didn’t challenge him. “So what do you think? Are you willing to rent it to me those few days?”

  “If you have two customers,” he said, shaking his clustered fingers in the air in an Italian gesture, “what are you gonna do with it the four days I’m closed? What? You’re a Miss Moneybags?”

  “No.” I grinned. “I’d like to start out just using it for two days. Are you in agreement?”

  “I can’t think now. My head, she’s a-swimming with too many numbers. Give me your phone number and I call you.”

  “Can I see the kitchen and the walk-in?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He shrugged and then the phone rang. He held up his hand for me to wait, but when he began speaking in Italian, I knew it was going to take longer. I dropped the insulated bag I was carrying on the floor next to a chair in the corner and removed my coat, then walked into the dining room. The room was small but adequate. The walls were covered with wallpaper showing a map of Italy. I looked a little closer to see the photographs adorning the walls of what appeared to be a visit to the Vatican and Vito with some older woman, who I assumed to be his mother, posing with Pope Benedict. The two customers finished their meal and kept looking around as though waiting for someone to take their dishes away. I automatically cleared their table and asked if they were ready for coffee and dessert. I don’t know why I did that, but the dining room had such a family-oriented atmosphere, I couldn’t help myself. Vito was still on the phone when I walked in with the dishes. He raised his eyebrows and concluded his call.

  “You want a job?”

  “No, they needed help so I helped them. Can you show me into the kitchen so I can see your setup?”

  “Okay, you come with me.”

  I followed behind and set the dishes down on the stainless-steel counter, the sink filled with dirty dishes. “Where are your employees?”

  “They come later.”

  “So you’re going to leave those dishes for when they come in?”

  “I do.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry, I do.”

  I could see this man needed help. “Where is the coffee and dessert for your customers?”

  “I get, don’t worry.” He paused for a minute. “Okay, you look around the kitchen, I get the dessert.”

  “But I didn’t ask them what they wanted.”

  He shrugged. “Hey, I only have one dessert so that’s what they get.”

  He left the room with two dishes of tiramisu. Unable to let the dishes sit—the man needed help—I filled the sink with water and washed his dishes. A short while later he returned, noticed what I had done, and was shocked.

  “You come work for me. Bring your two customers here and cook for them in my kitchen.”

  I laughed. “That’s the beauty of having someone come to your home. You don’t want to go back out after work, and you don’t have to cook—you just heat it up.”

  He shrugged again. “Okay, so what do you think of my kitchen?”

  “It’s a little disorganized, but you have all the equipment I’d need and I think it will work fine. So what do you think?”

  “I don’t know. How soon do you need it?”

  “Yesterday.”

  He clicked his tongue against the top of his mouth. “You young people,” he scoffed, his hand flying up, “you want everything yesterday. These things take time to decide.”

  “Okay, but I don’t want to disappoint my customers. So if you can’t let me know by tomorrow, then I have to look for another kitchen.”

  “All right,” his hands flew up again impatiently, “you got a deal. So you come by on Monday morning?” I nodded. “What time you come?”

  “Nine o’clock. Is that okay?”

  “I call you later to tell you how much I’m gonna charge you.”

  “Okay.” I handed him my business card. “Thank you, Vito.”

  “Thank you for doing my dishes. But I tell you, if you don’t clean up your mess like you did today, you’re toast.”

  I grinned at his attempt to sound younger. “Of course. You can talk to Charlie about me if you’re concerned.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I will.”

  Relieved, I waved and rushed out the door to the subway. My business was now official. I had one customer—maybe three after tonight, a kitchen to prepare their meals, and Cassie’s refrigerated truck to deliver the food. I was living the dream.

  The train was crowded with straphangers. I worked my way into the center group, wedging myself in between two women. Never the shy timid type, I seized the opportunity to talk up my business and hand out business cards. I was amazed by the amount of people refusing to make eye contact with me, as though looking at me would mean they had to buy my service. I chuckled to myself. If only that were true.

  After several stops, the crowd finally filtered out to a handful of people and I grabbed a seat. I was doubtful any one of the people I’d talked to would call, but I was so psyched, I was talking to anyone who would listen. Hey, it was good practice and I had a captive audience—granted, not exactly volunteers, but attentive. I chuckled to myself. Renee’s guests had no idea what was in store for them tonight.

  When sweat began to trickle down my neck, I realized I was sweltering because I still had my coat on. I unbuttoned it, something I should have done when I entered the train. It was already dark outside. I stared out the window at the flashing lights as we zipped past one station after another when I suddenly became aware of a young guy staring at me. Normally I would have been flattered, but this wasn’t that kind of stare. Nervous tension gathered in my shoulders, causing me to cross my arms against my chest in an attempt to shield myself. I’d show this guy not to mess with me.

  I tried to ignore him by looking the other way, but that didn’t seem to dissuade him at all. I shot my eyes over to him, now determined to stare him down, thinking it might scare him off. His forehead creased into a frown and I did what I always do when I don’t know the answer—I speculated. Maybe he was plotting to rob me. Yeah, good luck with that, bud; there’s no money to be had from this chick, or perhaps it was my expensive coat, the one I’d purchased during prosperous days that made him think I was affluent. Then the panic set in and my thoughts were no longer clear because I was thinking about killers, like the Boston Strangler and Son of Sam, I’d read about before moving to New York. I had wanted to know what I was facing in the city that never sleeps. Yeah, I was notorious for believing nothing awful could ever happen to me because I had a nice face. Surely those crazies could see that. His eyes never left mine. So much for trying to scare him off.

  I averted my eyes again, the panic now rushing through my body at an amazing speed. Temporarily confused about what to do next, I made a speedy move to another seat and almost died when he moved too, his eyes still on my face. I wanted to say something fresh to him. That was my delusional mind talking again, so I nixed the idea, pronto. I looked away, my heart now pounding in a steady gallop and racing full speed ahead.

  My eyes scanned the other passengers, praying I had help at my fingertips, but a deep sense of disappointment veiled over me when I realized there were two homeless people who were passed out and a few others who seemed disinterested in anything going on around them. I moved again and stood right in front of the glass doors, figuring I’d make a run for it as soon as the train stopped.

  Another look in the glass window to check on this guy and he was still staring, but this time, he caught me staring back. He moved slightly closer to me, and my panic escalated. I looked at my reflection again as though trying to convince myself I’d be okay—you know, l
ike having a chat with yourself in the mirror to boost your confidence when I noticed something dark under my eyes. I couldn’t believe vanity had taken over at a time like this, but there it was. I leaned in closer, forgetting about the guy, and saw that black mascara had pooled under my eyes from sweating and made it appear as though I had two blackened eyes. I giggled, wondering if Mr. I-Can’t-Take-My-Eyes-Off-Of-You was a Robin Hood wannabe and thought I’d been the victim of a beating.

  It might have been premature on my part, but a slight relief washed over me, thankful I’d realized what was happening—or maybe I was speculating again, or my mind was still in a naive state. Either way, when my nervous hyena-like laughter echoed above the noisy train, he made a beeline for the door leading into another car and a valuable lesson was learned. Acting like a crazy loon in New York had gotten me a free pass from this train’s Jack the Ripper. I’d be sure to remember this trick for the next time. I suppose if I’d grown up in New York, I wouldn’t be so frightened at night when I traveled alone, but regardless, being cautious was paramount in any city.

  I blew out the air I’d been holding in for the last ten minutes and exited with the crowd, making sure I was surrounded by people, and said a prayer of thanks for the uniformed police officer standing on the platform. As soon as I hit the pavement though, I took off like a shot toward Renee’s apartment, hiking my purse higher on my shoulder and suddenly realizing I’d left the insulated bag at Carlucci’s. I’d get it the next time I was in there.

  Renee opened the door and Bailey rushed over to me. I dropped my purse on the floor and let her run right into my arms. I was beginning to dig this mama role. After the smooches subsided, Bailey was off and running back to play with her cousins. Renee wasn’t known for her cooking skills, but I was hungry and it made my stomach growl so I figured anything would taste good at this point.

  “So glad you finally made it. How did you make out today?”

  “I’ve had a fairly good day. I even found a kitchen I can rent to cook for my customers.”