Reservations for Two

by Hillary Manton Lodge

  A part of me wanted to wring my hands, to wonder, to worry. The more rational part (which I was simply surprised to find still awake) reminded myself that I would see Neil soon, in Memphis, and afterward, who knew?

  Perhaps I would be e-mailing Caterina.

  ~ ROSEMARY FIG FOCACCIA ~

  1 packet (about 2¼ teaspoons, or 7 grams) of yeast

  ½ cup warm water

  2 cups flour

  2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for bowl and baking sheet

  2 tablespoons sugar

  ½ teaspoon sea salt

  About 9 fresh figs, washed and sliced into halves with stems removed

  6 tablespoons honey

  4 tablespoons butter, melted

  1½ tablespoons fresh rosemary leaves

  2 heaping tablespoons pine nuts

  Scatter the yeast over the top of the water and set aside while the yeast bubbles, about two minutes. Lay out a pastry cloth and dump the flour into the center. Make a well with your fingers, pulling flour from the center to the outside, forming a ridge. Fill the well with the olive oil, sugar, sea salt, and yeast water. With your fingers, slowly work the flour into the liquid mixture until a dough forms. If it’s running dry, add a few drops of water.

  Knead the dough until smooth and elastic. Lightly oil a mixing bowl and place the dough inside, giving the dough a turn in the oil. Place a tea towel or dishtowel over the top of the bowl; allow the dough to rise in a warm place until it doubles in size, about an hour.

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper, and gently oil the parchment paper.

  Place the dough on the baking sheet, pressing and stretching gently until it measures about ten inches in diameter. Poke the dough with your fingers first, then pierce the top all over with a fork. You want lots of dips and valleys for the good stuff to sink into.

  Press the halved figs into the dough, cut side up. If you want to get fancy, feel free to create a pattern with the figs.

  Stir the honey and melted butter together with the rosemary. Glaze the top of the bread with half of the mixture. Sprinkle with pine nuts and sea salt.

  Bake the focaccia for about 25 minutes, or until the edges have browned, the top is crisp, and the focaccia is cooked through. Remove from the oven and add another layer of glaze with the remainder of the honey, butter, and rosemary mixture. Serve warm. If you’re feeling adventurous, crumble a bit of blue cheese on top.

  Serves 6–8.

  Popcorn for breakfast! Why not? It’s a grain. It’s like, like, grits, but with high self-esteem.

  —JAMES PATTERSON

  The next morning I awoke to find a sweet e-mail from Neil in my inbox, wishing me luck for the day ahead.

  I smiled through breakfast.

  Clementine began her work well before dawn, prepping the puff pastry for the fruit galettes and stirring the custard for the ice cream.

  I spent the morning making final touches, polishing the wood tables until they shown, and trimming back any of the flowers and greenery that reached too far into the outdoor deck seating.

  Nico, Adrian, and Kenny filtered in later in the day and began the prep work, cutting piles of slim asparagus, translucent shallots, and sweet, glossy peppers.

  An hour before the doors opened, I ran upstairs to dress for the dinner seating. I slipped into my little black dress, the one I’d purchased in Rome. A swipe of eyeliner, a little more mascara, and a layer of Nars Montego Bay, and I looked like…well, as close as I could get to Sofia Loren playing a restaurant manager.

  In Oregon.

  Without a tan.

  I strapped on my watch, slipped into my heels, and promised my feet a long soak once the evening ended—they’d need it.

  My heart swelled once I made it back downstairs and opened the two blue doors, the ones we’d named the restaurant for. Recently washed, the blue paint gleamed in the summer sunlight. I found small knots in my stomach beginning to loosen, right around the time new ones formed.

  My mind flew in thirty different directions as I tried to process all of the things that I needed to do, the people who would be coming, and the food that would be served. Instead of completely freaking out, the way I wanted to, I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, completing tasks before the guests arrived.

  I stepped into the kitchen to check in. “How are things?”

  “Good,” Nico said, not looking up as he worked. “Real good.”

  Adrian, however, looked up. “Nice dress,” he said, giving me a quick but thorough once-over.

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling a blush creep over my face.

  “You have to taste one of the cherry zeppole.” Clementine called out. “The choux pastry came out particularly well this morning. And the cherries—you just have to taste one.”

  “Yeah?” I strode through the kitchen toward the pastry station. As I walked past Nico and Adrian, I spied Adrian’s gaze through the corner of my eye. My dress wasn’t anywhere near indecent, I reminded myself.

  Just, you know…short. And snuggish. And…who was I kidding? If I was going to wear it, I needed to wear it. As I listened to Clementine verbally swoon over her pastry—and rightfully so—I squared my shoulders and stood taller.

  Clementine plated a zeppola for me; I used my fingers to lift the confection to my lips.

  “Oh my goodness.” I licked the stray powdered sugar from my lips. “If you told me angels came down from heaven and made the choux pastry, I would believe you.”

  “And the cherry filling?”

  “It’s perfect. This is going to be an instant classic, Clementine. Be excited.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I am.”

  The waiters tromped in a split-second later, one after another. I left the kitchen to give the waiters their final marching orders. Before I knew it, guests began to pour through the doors.

  I knew most of our guests, but not all, as our primary investor, Frank, had invited friends and colleagues of his own. As the hostess of the dining room, I sat everyone at their tables, handed out menus, and assured each guest that their servers would arrive to take their drink orders and answer questions about the menu.

  Maman and Papa entered, both very chic—Papa in an Italian suit, despite the heat, and Maman in a little black dress. She’d arranged to have her chemo port in her arm rather than her chest, so it stayed tucked away inside the sheer sleeve of her silk cardigan. They took their turns kissing me on both cheeks before allowing me to lead them away.

  Sophie and Nelson came in a few moments later, with Chloé and Alex in tow. “We’re on an uncle-niece date,” Chloé informed me. “Could we have our own table?”

  “Sure, sweetie,” I said, looking to her parents. “You guys get a real date night! I’ll be right back.”

  I led my brother and niece to a table in the sunshine and gave them menus. “Your server will be with you to take your drink order and answer any questions you might have about the menu.”

  Chloé giggled.

  Alex shook his head. “We can’t laugh, Chloé. Our Juliette has gone corporate.” He looked up at me and winked. “It looks great in here. Grand-mère would have loved it.”

  I couldn’t hold back my smile, not that I tried. “Thanks, Alex.”

  “You should get back to Sophie. She looks impatient.”

  Chloé snorted.

  Alex raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re getting in all sorts of trouble tonight.”

  I left the two of them to banter while I set Sophie and Nelson up at a lovely table with a view of the garden. I repeated my line about the menu and their server, and then left to help our next guests.

  While I likely wouldn’t have all three of my waiters working the dining room at the same time, tonight I scheduled all of them. I watched in pleasure as they worked their tables with smooth, charming efficiency.

  Within moments the orders began to flood in. Drinks, appetizers, salads—Nico called out the orders, Adrian and Kenny e
ach answering with a quick “yes, chef.” Knives sliced and chopped, drink orders left the kitchen.

  I watched over the front of the house, adjusting the temperature as the space warmed, quieting the music just a hair.

  While most everyone had spent their first moments in the dining room looking around, taking in the views from the windows and checking out the interior décor, a hum now filled the dining room as people forgot where they were and simply began to engage with their dining companions.

  Minutes later, appetizers began to leave the kitchen.

  Nico and I had argued over an amuse-bouche. He’d liked the idea of sending out the tiny complimentary appetizer, but I wasn’t convinced. In a day and age when so many people had specific dietary needs and desires—whether they were gluten-free, dairy-free, vegan, vegetarian, or Paleo—sending out the same complimentary bite sounded foolish. As a new business we couldn’t afford the extra expense, especially if half of them wound up uneaten.

  In the end he’d agreed, mainly because we agreed about the kind of restaurant we were opening.

  It wasn’t a shock-and-awe-type place—we weren’t serving salad with a side of dry ice. Instead, we’d worked to create a menu that was special and notable but not yelling for attention—the execution would speak for itself.

  Time would tell if our strategy would set us far enough apart to keep us in business, but until our Yelp reviewers wept for a measly amuse-bouche, we’d spend our time and energy on other things.

  Like mousetraps.

  Even though we hadn’t had a single rodent visitor since our last inspection, I’d remained jumpy and watchful.

  But so far, our diners were having a lovely time. Appetizers were passed around, and people smiled as they ate. By the time the entrees came out, I began to relax. Every table I visited—whether it was friends, family, or strangers—held happy faces and kind words.

  We were going to pull this off. Everything was going to be okay.

  My shoulders sagged in relief, and I cast a glance outside to admire the view.

  And wished I hadn’t. While our diners ate beautiful, carefully crafted dishes, seated on handcrafted leather chairs, sixteen unicyclists rode their wheels down the street, past the restaurant.

  Naked.

  My mother gasped.

  Marti, my former boss at the newspaper, laughed out loud.

  Alex, Sophie, and Nelson all flailed their hands toward Chloé, in an effort to shield her eyes.

  Frank sat at his table and counted each unicyclist. Out loud. And when each one had passed, having literally ridden off into the sunset, Frank set aside his fork to applaud. The rest of the dining room joined in, with the exception of the members of the family who were trying to block Chloé’s view.

  In that moment, I realized something deep and true.

  There would be mice. There would be naked unicyclists.

  There would be so many things, all wholly out of my control. Things would happen—good things, bad things, funny things. Things that managed to be all three at once.

  I had to listen to Idina Menzel and let it go. Not that I was planning to run around leaving mouse munchies on the floor, but there was only so much preplanning I could do. The rest would just have to happen.

  Trust…wasn’t historically my thing. As the youngest in a restaurant family, I knew I was loved, but I also knew that my needs weren’t top priority.

  Most of the time, this was a good thing—I learned to become highly self-reliant at a young age. But as I stared down the end of my twenties, I found myself increasingly aware of the fact that self-reliance wasn’t going to prepare me for every trial, mishap, or tragedy that came my way.

  So I joined in with the laughter in the dining room.

  I wasn’t laughing at the unicyclists, bless their breezy bums. I laughed because they’d been the ones to finally crystalize the realization that I really, really needed to let God take care of our kooky little restaurant.

  Hopefully the next time I needed a life lesson, it wouldn’t require mass nudity.

  Our patrons left the restaurant slowly, several of them lingering over dessert, coffee, and cheese plates.

  My former editor at the newspaper, Marti, patted my arm on her way out. “Look at you, landing on your feet. You belong here. Well done.”

  Praise from Marti? I’d take it.

  Linn pointed at my chest. “You. Me. Coffee. This?” She circled her finger toward the ceiling. “This is great. You look completely at home here.”

  I smiled in gratitude. “That means a lot coming from you.”

  “You’ve earned it. This place looks like you. It’s meticulous—you’ve put a lot of work in here, and it shows.”

  “I’ll be in Memphis next week—coffee when I get back?”

  “Memphis?” Linn’s eyes widened. “If you’re going to Memphis, we just upgraded to lunch.”

  “Lunch, then. Let’s do it.” We hugged, I shook her husband’s hand, waved good-bye as they stepped outside and into the dim twilight.

  My parents, siblings, and niece were the last to leave, seasoning their good-byes with praise, well-wishes, misty eyes, and a particularly rib-crushing hug from my father.

  By the time the doors closed after them, the busboys and waitstaff had cleaned the tables, and Mallory was hauling the vacuum out. With the front of the house ready for another day, I helped in the kitchen until it shined as well.

  Nico “found” a bottle of champagne and suggested we take it upstairs along with the leftovers that wouldn’t keep—soup, bread, and a smattering of desserts. Not wanting to risk a mess in the downstairs, I agreed, even though all I wanted to do was soak my feet for eight to twelve hours.

  “A success!” Nico crowed as he poured champagne into flutes.

  “Yes, it was,” I said, happy to relieve him of a glass. “We’ll have to prepare for more of the cherry zeppole and the goat cheese starters—I think those are going to be big sellers.”

  Nico carried his glass to the couch and sank into the middle. “Agreed.”

  “But we need to work on getting the duck out faster.”

  “Yeah, yeah. We’ll get there.”

  Adrian took his glass and sprawled on the floor. “That was a rush. I’m starving. I’m too tired to eat.” He covered his eyes with a large, callused hand. “Crisis.”

  Clementine surveyed the food offerings. “There’s plenty of soup,” she said, her suggestion drowned out by a chorus of male groans.

  Apparently soup could not assuage the hunger created by a dinner service. While I had difficulty mustering sympathy—it had been a relatively easy, fully-staffed evening—we had plenty to celebrate.

  I considered ordering pizza, but the thought made my soul shrivel. Instead, I opened our refrigerator and inspected the contents.

  Fresh chicken breasts, summer Meyer lemons, mascarpone cheese, and spinach—add some pasta and I had the makings of a simple but satisfying dinner.

  I tied on an apron and set to work. Adrian groaned when he walked into the kitchen and saw me standing over the stove. “You’ve been on your feet for hours,” he said. “Let’s just order in.”

  “Thought about it,” I said, turning the chicken before settling the lid on the wide sauté pan. “Just seemed wrong.”

  “Cooks eat a lot of pizza.”

  “Former food-writers don’t.”

  “Hey—you’re a manager now. Live a little.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Come on. Are you trying to tell me that a pizza that’s been sweating in a corrugated cardboard box for twenty minutes is going to taste better than fresh food?”

  “Never said it would taste better—part of putting up your feet after a night is to put up your feet.”

  I shrugged and began to zest a lemon. “I’ll relax when this is done. Won’t take long.”

  His gaze sharpened. “You don’t relax much, huh?”

  “Nope.” I threw him a smile. “You can chop the spinach if you want.”

 
“Slave driver.”

  Eye roll. “Whatever. Don’t sprain your wrist.”

  “This knife is dull.”

  I laughed out loud. “Now you’re making things up.”

  “Could be.” He set the spinach aside. “What else needs to be done?”

  “Not much. You can give the the pine nuts a light toast, if you like, but otherwise it’s all drain and dump from here.”

  “I can toast pine nuts.”

  I nodded to the bag on the counter. “They’re over by the flour bin.”

  With Adrian’s help, the last-minute pasta really did come together quickly. I drained the pasta over the spinach leaves, saved some of the pasta water, and threw everything together. As a finishing touch, I squeezed a bit of lemon juice over the sliced chicken before layering it over the top of the pasta.

  Adrian and I ladled it into bowls and handed them out. Once everyone had a bowl of pasta, I took my own bowlful, landed in a chair, and kicked up my feet with gratitude.

  To: Neil, neil.mclaren.f1@netmail.com

  From: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com

  Dear Neil,

  Well, the opening went well. Full house, but except for a few odd bobbles, everything went smoothly.

  Sophie sent her food back, and Nico threatened to send it right back, which would have resulted in a meltdown in the dining room that nobody needed. We ran out of the cherry-filled, Italian-style donuts (which were amazing, so I totally understood).

  Everyone was complimentary, which was a relief. We had comment cards on the tables, which I will tackle Monday morning.

  My one goal for tomorrow is to make it to church on time. Afterward I plan to do a bit of packing for Memphis.

  I can’t wait to see you! I miss you so very much.

  Juliette

  P.S. I’ve been checking the Memphis weather. Is there anything in particular I should pack?

  To: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com

  From: Neil, neil.mclaren.f1@netmail.com

  Dear Juliette,

  You could bring mosquito netting. Not for your bed, but to wear around town.