by Wendy Owens
I sigh. I squeeze out a smile and take a bite of my sandwich, careful to make sure the plate catches the crumbs. She’s looking at me. Something’s eating at her, that much is clear. I’ve been living with her a few days now, and I can already tell something is different. She still has many of the annoying habits I’ve always hated, like her incessant need to clean, but there has been a distinct shift in her attitude. She’s confident in a different way. When I see her talk to my sisters, she’s a leader. I can see that she has picked up strength in a tragedy that caused me to fall apart. Of course she had living children to go on for; when I lost my life, I lost all of it.
“Have you heard back from school?” Percy asks, resting on her forearms in front of me.
I shake my head. “No, but I doubt I will for a few weeks.”
She nods, then asks, “So, how did Monica take it?”
“Take what?”
“When you told her you were moving back in here.”
I think about my friend’s expression when I broke the news. There was no arguing, no trying to persuade me to stay; I even think I saw the hint of a smile. “Surprisingly well. My guess is she’s tired of all the grief her roommates are giving her.”
“The more you tell me about those girls, the more I can’t stand them. I do not understand why someone as sweet as Monica continues to live with them.”
“Because she insists on living in a downtown condo, and those bitches are the only ones who can afford to live with her,” I explain confidently.
Percy laughs. “Doesn't seem worth it to me.”
“Me neither,” I agree.
“The girls and I are really happy you’re here, you know that, right?”
I nod, remaining silent. I give another half-smile, popping a fallen slice of avocado into my mouth. I wouldn’t admit it to her, but it’s actually not been that bad. Last night we even sat around playing Cards Against Humanity. I never realized just how much my sisters were like me.
“You know, Monica told me about your restaurant idea,” Percy says with a huge grin, eyebrows raised. And suddenly the pacing becomes clear. This is what she has been wanting to talk about and has been waiting for the perfect moment to bring up.
I swallow the dry bite of food, take a gulp of water, and ask, “She what?”
“Don’t be mad at her, she’s excited for you. I am too.”
“For what? There’s nothing to be excited about,” I insist. “It’s a pipe dream. It’ll probably never even happen.”
“Why would you say that?” Percy asks, maneuvering around the counter and taking a seat on the bar stool next to me.
“Money, for starters; I need to finish culinary school if I want a decent local restaurant to hire me. And then, after years of sweat and tears maybe I will save up enough to put a down payment on a place and go beg an investor to chip in the rest, but it rarely happens.”
“That seems silly to me.”
“My dream?” I gasp in disbelief.
“No!” she exclaims. “That you would have to go through all that to bring your food to the world. I mean, you know how to cook. You’re better than anyone else I’ve ever known. You already have a lot of schooling, and you have real life experience.”
I shake my head at her naivety. “It’s not that it easy, and it takes a lot of money.”
“Well, I think we can help you get there much faster,” Percy says, trembling with excitement. I think she may burst into a million pieces at any moment.
I laugh, and ask, “What are you talking about?” Then I shove the last bite of my lunch into my mouth as I wait for her to explain.
Percy raises her hands up, waving them wildly as she talks, “When Monica told me about your idea we started talking. She thinks she can come up with another $5,000, so she would be in for $40,000.”
My brow wrinkles. “Yeah, I really appreciate her saying that, but that’s not nearly enough. Even if I found a space ready to roll, I would need some runway cash to keep things running. There’s all kinds of stuff to consider.”
“Like what?” Her eyes widen in anticipation. I decide to humor her.
Taking another swig of my water, I suck out the food particles stuck between my teeth, then turn to face her. “All right, I would need industrial cooking and ventilation equipment, refrigerators, freezers, not to mention, tables, bar stools, shelving, counters, prep stations, stock the kitchen, and who knows what else depending on the space; that’s also not including licensing and inspections.”
“Would $105,000 be enough?” She looks away as she asks me.
Rolling my eyes, I scoff, “It might as well be a million.”
“Would it be enough, MacKenzie?” she presses.
I huff, “Fine, sure, yeah, if we really tightened the budget and maybe found a place with a little higher rent that already had some of the equipment we need, we could probably pull it off.”
“I have a buyer for your dad’s car…” She’s watching me, her mouth hanging open, waiting for my reaction.
“What?” The word slips out as a near whisper. I think my heart may have quit beating.
“Apparently a 1960 Corvette Convertible that’s been fully restored to original condition goes for quite a bit on the classic car market,” she continues.
“No, you can’t be serious.” I push myself back from the counter and stand up. I need to stand before I fall off the stool.
“I am. When Monica told me about your idea, all I could think about is how much your dad would have loved to see you do that. Then I thought about the car and asked a friend to look into it for me. He said he found a buyer willing to pay us $65,000.”
“No, you can’t,” I argue.
“Why can’t I? You and I both know that it’s just going to sit in that garage gathering dust,” Percy pushes back.
“But … you need that for the girls.”
She reaches out and grabs hold of my arm. “Mac, I had a small life insurance policy on your dad; it’s not much, but we’re getting by for now, and besides, I’m going back to get my real estate license.”
“You are?” I tilt my head, shocked by this information.
She nods with a slight smile, her cheeks flushed. “I always wanted to, but your dad wanted me home with the girls.”
“Really?” I’m having trouble wrapping my head around the information.
“Yes, so please, trust me, we’ll be fine. Besides, as an investor in Katie Bird’s, I think the girls and I should see a nice return, don’t you?” she continues, giggling in excitement. “I was thinking about it, and I figure we split the value from the sale of the car four ways—myself and you three girls get equal shares. I feel like your dad was telling me to do this.”
“I can’t…” My mouth is hanging pen, I’m shaking my head, steadying myself on the countertop.
“And why not?” She looks hurt.
“Because I can’t,” I insist.
“That doesn’t sound like much of a reason to me.”
“Fine, how about I’m not ready. Dad loved that car, and what if I fail?” I’m shaking.
Percy stands and walks up to me wrapping a tender arm around my back. “Sweetie, you have family, friends, and now investors. I’d say you’re more than ready.”
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“I know, isn’t it great?”
I laugh; she’s right. It’s awful and exhilarating all at the same time. “I don’t know.”
“I do, and it’s going to be amazing. I’m honored to help you. Your sisters are already talking about working there with you,” Percy says.
“Seriously?”
“It will be just like when you were little—a family business.”
“I don’t know what to say,”
“Say you’ll do it.”
My heart is aching. I want to cry out ‘no,’ tell her I won’t do it—can’t fail everyone. But the adrenaline is pumping, drowning out the doubt just enough to get me to say, “Okay, let’s do it.”
“Oh God,” I moan.
“What?” Percy stops, staring at me with nervous eyes.
“Now we have an entire menu to plan.”
“Oh my God! We’re actually doing this.”
“I guess we are,” I confirm with wide eyes.
Pulling from my trunk the handmade basket I picked up at one of the farmer’s markets while on tour, I turn and walk in the direction of the market place. One of the things I used to love doing with Travis and Katie was visiting a local historic fixture in the city called Findlay Market.
As one of Ohio’s oldest public markets, it’s the place to go to find locally sourced goods. It’s only blocks from downtown and the space we found for the restaurant. For weeks I’ve been building relationships with the local farmers and butchers who sell out of the location.
When Travis and I first started coming to the market it was struggling—an area of the city that had been neglected and forgotten by time. I wish he could see it now. Since the gentrification efforts, it has become a gathering place for friends and families. Sometimes I like to come and just sit on a bench and people watch. I can forget how diverse and amazing this city is in the hustle and bustle of my day-to-day life. Who would have ever thought my life that used to be filled with tubs of ice cream and reality television would be this full again.
Today, however, I’m on a mission; there is no time to sit and take in my surroundings. We were lucky enough to find a space for Katie Bird’s that already had the majority of the equipment we needed for our kitchen. Besides a major facelift on the place, there would be very little large equipment to invest in. Things have been moving so rapidly. It’s hard to believe it’s already time to bring in tasters.
I’ve prepared menu choices that are about double what we will actually offer once the doors open. Monica handled the invitations. Over one hundred people will stream in and out of Katie Bird’s tomorrow, tasting our food and completing a survey on what they like and don’t like. This will help us fine-tune the menu to what the majority of our customers want.
My first panic attack was when I found out we wouldn’t even have our tables in before the event. It’s very much still a white box—and simply another instance of why I’m so thankful for Monica and my stepmom. Percy stepped up immediately and started making phone calls. She rented tables with linens for a buffet-style set up, along with some cocktail tables for people to set their plates and taste while standing.
I would have served everyone sitting down at tables. With Percy’s genius thinking, standing will encourage them to taste and move on quickly so we can fit the next wave of people in the door. The more feedback cards I receive the better informed I will be, helping me to make the best choices for opening night.
As the fall has descended on us, the outdoor booths at the market have retreated into the indoor space. Taking a deep breath, I pull open the heavy metal door and stand at the end of the long aisle, drinking in the various options in front of me. As a chef it’s like a utopia. The shop menu will change based on the season and local foods that are available.
In front of me are a number of various shops, from butchers to those serving confectionary delights. A smile makes its way across my face. It’s hard for me to believe sometimes, but I am actually doing this. I wake up every day with a purpose. Katie Bird’s has become a part of me. There are a million things to consider and some days I only manage to fit in a few hours of sleep, but I love it. I love everything about it.
In the next case I find bread pudding, pecan tarts, buckeyes, chocolate chip cookies, and ... macaroons. When my eyes catch the colorful version of the treat I freeze. I can’t move. Dean’s voice is replaying in my head, the way he whispers my nickname. The way he kisses me. The way my skin feels under his touch.
Every fiber of my being wants to call Dean—just like it has almost every day for the past six months. I want to hear his voice. I want to tell him about the restaurant. I want to share every detail with him from the menu choices to the decorating Percy has been working on. Sometimes it feels like none of this is real because I’m not sharing it with him. And, in a way, that infuriates me.
It’s not Dean’s fault, and I know that. It’s something broken inside me. I’ve had a lot of time to reflect. I’ve realized that the way I used to be wasn’t healthy. The person I was with defined me. If I didn’t have someone to call mine, then I was nothing. This is why, when I lost Travis, I became nothing. A complete waste to those around me. I never want to be that type of person again. I want to be strong. I want to be independent. You are strong. You are independent. You’re opening your own restaurant.
Dean is beautiful and sweet and perfect in so many ways. Even his life scars make him seem more appealing. And that is the exact reason I can’t pick up the phone. I can’t call him. I can’t share all of this with him. I’m not strong enough to lose the little bit of self I’ve found inside of him.
I force myself to continue moving, continue my job, continue this journey, all on my own. This is the only way. I look at the list in my hand. It’s time to get started.
I look around, ensuring that all of the linens are pulled into their proper place, the chairs are under the tables, the flatware is in the perfect position. Taking a deep breath, I take a step back and drink it all in.
My eyes lock on the freshly applied logo on the door of the small restaurant; it’s very similar to the bird tattoo on my arm. The tattoo Dean took me to get.
Damn it, I’m doing it again. Come on! It’s been seven months; you need to get him out of your head.
I thought the night of the soft opening would be the most stressed out I had ever been. After all, all of the food critics and press from the city were there to critique my work. They were all eagerly waiting to tell the world how I’d failed and to stay away from this restaurant at all costs. I haven’t actually seen any of the stories yet, but I’ve convinced myself this is what they must all think. But somehow, tonight, the grand opening of Katie Bird’s, is stressing me out even more. This will be the truth. Tonight will be the regular people—the customers who will either love me and help us succeed, or hate the experience and sink us in an instant.
Keys jingle in the front door; I look up to see Monica entering. She slips inside, her purse and a paper tucked under one arm. She locks the door behind her and crosses the long and narrow dining room. I smile.
“You’re freaking out, aren’t you?” She grins.
“What? Why on earth would I be freaking out?” I ask, my heart racing.
“Oh, please, I know you too well,” she answers, dropping her purse and paper on the bar.
“Okay, maybe I’m freaking out a little,” I confirm.
“Is someone here?” Percy calls, emerging from the kitchen. “Monica!” They greet each other with a hug. In the past seven months, the support of Katie Bird’s has somehow created this super weird friendship between my stepmother and best friend. I’ve found it easier to try and ignore it.
“Percy, this place looks amazing,” Monica nearly squeals. “I still can’t get over the fact you found all these farm chairs at a flea market—they’re amazing.”
“Aw, shucks, thanks.” My stepmother waves a hand playfully in the air as she speaks in her best Southern accent.
“Do you know how lucky you are, Mac? I mean really, this woman, she’s pure heaven, am I right?” Monica asks, slugging me gently in the arm.
I lift my eyebrows and quietly agree with my friend.
“You girls are too sweet,” Percy begins, stepping forward and giving us both a quick embrace. Then she teases, “Okay, we all know how much Mac loves mushy moments, but I actually came out here for a reason. The prep work’s all done, so I told the staff to grab a bite to eat before the official opening.”
“Thanks.” I smile, scanning the room again for anything out of place.
“Has she been obsessing l
ike this all day?” Monica inquires.
“Yes,” Percy confirms.
“I’m not obsessing!”
“Whatever you say.” Monica laughs. “Oh! I almost forgot. Guess what I got?”
“What?” Percy asks, nearly scaling my side in excitement.
“Will you get off me?” I huff.
“Sorry,” she giggles.
Monica moves over to the bar and retrieves the paper. She turns to face us, waving it back and forth as if it were a trophy. “Hank Crumplemeyer’s review of Katie Bird’s.”
“What?” I gasp, grabbing onto the bar stool closest to me. Hank is the harshest and most admired food critic in all of Cincinnati. A bad review from him is considered a death sentence in this city.
“Read it!” Percy exclaims, taking two steps closer to Monica.
“No, don’t,” I interject. They both look at me.
“What?” Percy gasps, “Why not?”
“Have you read it, Mon?” I inquire.
“Not yet … I wanted to do it with you two.”
“Well, what if he hates it? We have an opening tonight, and I don’t want to throw us off our game,” I answer. But honestly, I’m more worried if she reads it, I might vomit.
“Oh, that’s just silly.” Percy sighs, then instructs Monica, “Read it, now.”
I pull out the stool and shift up onto the edge, holding the countertop with a white-knuckle death grip. Monica is staring at me for permission. I expel a huge breath of air and nod.
Katie Bird’s name left me a bit stumped when I first heard it. What kind of food could I expect at such a place with a name like this? Upon further investigation, I was intrigued to find out this was a new farm-to-table establishment. You get the distinct feeling as soon as you enter the Gateway District restaurant that they truly adhere to this in every form.
The tables are adorned with vintage mason jars that are overflowing with hydrangea pom-poms, and the decor is a mix of wood, metal, and reclaimed materials of yesteryears. While the restaurant deserves points for decor, what really matters to everyone is the food. The menu boasts the names of local farms that their foods’ ingredients originate from. I was eager to see if the trouble to locally source the menu was a complete waste.