“Jeremy’s not here. Can I help you with something? I’m his sister.”
“Ah. There’s absolutely no family resemblance. Which I mean as a compliment. I’m Aaron.”
Smiling, I say, “I’m Mimi. You’re a friend of Jeremy’s?”
“Acquaintance. Since I’m here…” He gestures to the counter.
“Please,” I say. “Have a seat.”
Aaron sits at the counter and points to Hugh. “What’s up with him?”
“He’s protesting.” Hugh is eating and enjoying grilled chicken with summer vegetable ragout. However, he holds a sign in front of his plate. “Bring back the meatloaf.”
I hand a menu to Aaron. He nods as he reads the new menu. “I’m impressed. You made everything sound delicious.”
“I was a restaurant consultant for many years. Time to bring it all home.”
“The joy and pain of a family-run business,” Aaron says. “Just when you think you’re out, they pull you back in.”
I laugh. “I guess it depends on the family business.”
“As it turns out, Mimi, we have something in common. I also work for my family’s business.”
“What’s your family’s business?” I ask.
Aaron says, “You are very pretty.”
That catches me off-guard. “Thank you. Stress must look good on me.”
“Tell me your troubles and I’ll make them go away.”
“I doubt that.”
“Tell me one trouble,” Aaron says. “And I hope it doesn’t involve a boyfriend.”
“No boyfriend trouble. No boyfriend.”
“Good. Then what is your stress?”
I shrug. “Business.”
“Well,” Aaron says. “Your business can be my business.”
I smile. “My business is none of your business.”
“Actually,” Aaron says, “it is.”
“Oh?”
“One thing you’ll love about me,” Aaron says, “is that I don’t lie.”
“Is that right?”
“It is. I spoke the truth. Your business can be my business. If you sell it to me.”
Then, I understand. “You’re a Schein.”
“The son Schein. Aaron Schein. Pleased to meet you.”
Bette approaches, ordering pad at the ready.
“Enjoy your meal.” I walk into the kitchen.
Much to my discontent, Aaron seems unperturbed by my exit. In fact, he seems quite at home in the restaurant, greeting the servers, talking to other counter customers. He eats with gusto, telling his counter neighbors that the food is fabulous. Everyone seems to like Aaron. This irritates me.
When he has cleaned his plate and wiped his mouth, Aaron waits at the register to pay his bill. Which means that I have to accept his money. Dookie.
“Everything to your liking?” I ask breezily as I punch the register.
“There was one thing missing,” Aaron says.
“What?” I ask, alarmed.
“Your company,” he answers with what really is a very nice smile. I return the smile and hand Aaron his change. Looking him in the eye, I say, “You’re not going to get your hands on my company.”
Undeterred, Aaron says, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mimi Louis.”
Egg Creams & Drive-In Movies
The smell of Mom’s perfume draws me into her bedroom. Mom stands in front of her television. She points. “Look who it is.”
I look and see Nick. Dressed in immaculate chef whites, Nick is cooking with the host of a local TV show. “Putz,” Mom says and snaps off the television.
Smiling at Mom, I see that she’s dressed in a champagne-colored sheath dress. “Going out?” I ask as I belly-flop onto her bed.
“Yes,” Mom says. “I have a date.”
“What?” I sit up. “With who?”
“Sid.”
“Who’s Sid?”
“From the website,” Mom says. “We spoke on the phone a few nights ago and had a very pleasant conversation. We’re meeting tonight for dinner.”
“You’re jumping straight to dinner? Shouldn’t you meet for a drink first?”
Mom takes off one necklace and puts on another. “I’m not a big drinker.”
“The point is not to drink. The point is not to get stuck with someone for a long time. Listen, Mom. I’ve dated a lot more than you have. Let me explain how it works. First, you meet for a drink or coffee. For, like, half an hour. To see if you like each other.”
Mom says, “How am I supposed to decide if I like someone in half an hour?”
“Don’t you just know?”
“I don’t know,” Mom says.
“Did you arrange for a safety call?”
“A what?”
“Safety call. You have someone call you half an hour into the date. If you want to leave, you feign an emergency. If not, you stay.”
Mom puts on an open-toed slingback and looks in the mirror. “I think I can spare two hours out of my life.”
“I’m trying to prepare you for the modern dating world,” I say. “It can be rough. At any age. It’s not egg creams and drive-in movies anymore.”
Mom smiles. “Maybe it should be.”
Hunter Farm
Sally is not happy with me. She’s getting very dirty. Mud spatters her sides and cakes onto her wheels as we bump along a back road. “We’re almost there,” I tell Sally.
Where we almost are is Hunter Farm, from which I intend to buy juicy Jersey produce. Sitting at a red light on Church Road in Westfield, I think about the childhood I spent here. Farms. Woods. Now Westfield is developed. Overdeveloped, like a thirteen-year-old girl wearing a DD bra.
There’s no sign indicating the farm, but the dirt road leads me and Sally to a stone and brick house with a wide porch. It looks freshly painted and there are cute gingham curtains in the windows. Cats roam around the porch, and a dog barks when I get out of my car. Inhaling, I smell the air. It smells green.
“Hello?” I call through the screen door of the house.
A tiny woman comes out of the house’s shadows. Her white hair is pinned into a neat bun and her brown eyes glow with kindness. “Hello, dear,” she says.
“Are you Mrs. Hunter?” I ask politely.
“Yes,” she says, and smooths her flowered housedress. She clearly is not expecting company.
“I’m Mimi Louis. I called yesterday? Joe said I should come by and see the farm. I’m looking for produce for my restaurant.”
“Come in, dear,” she says, pushing open the screen door.
Following Mrs. Hunter through the front room of the house, I see that it is neat, but shabby. The wood floors look clean, but the area rugs are worn. The furniture is solid and antiquish. A chocolate leather chair is in the corner next to a burgundy wing chair. The room is dark, with drops of sunlight peeking through the white curtains.
“Joe’s out in the field,” Mrs. Hunter says as she leads me into the kitchen. It’s a big kitchen with an ash wood table and chairs, white cabinets fronted with frosted glass, a large white refrigerator, and a separate freezer. Knickknacks stand on shelves and flowered curtains hang from brass rods on the windows. The kitchen is filled with sunshine.
“Have a seat,” Mrs. Hunter says, and I sit at the kitchen table. Mrs. Hunter moves to the kitchen cabinets. She places a delicate china cup, saucer, and spoon in front of me. From the refrigerator, Mrs. Hunter retrieves a porcelain cow filled with milk. She gets a glass bowl of sugar from the cabinet, and sets these things before me. “Here you are, dear.”
“Thank you.” There is no coffee in my cup, or anywhere in sight. I decide not to mention this.
Mrs. Hunter sits across from me. “Are you a friend of Joe’s?”
Didn’t I already explain what I’m doing here? Maybe I didn’t. “I’m here to see the farm. I’m looking for produce for my restaurant.”
Mrs. Hunter nods. “Joe’s been working hard since he came back to the farm.”
“Came ba
ck from where?”
“France. Italy.” Mrs. Hunter smiles, seemingly proud of her son’s travels.
Nodding politely, I say, “Will Joe be back soon or should I go look for him?”
“Would you like a muffin?” Mrs. Hunter asks brightly, getting to her feet before I answer. “Joe says I have to stop baking so much now that it’s just the two of us here. My husband passed on.” Mrs. Hunter places a plate of muffins before me. I see that she is wearing her wedding ring.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Me, too.” Mrs. Hunter touches her hand to the silver cross around her neck. From beneath her housedress, Mrs. Hunter pulls another silver chain, around which is a man’s gold wedding band. She kisses the ring. “I miss him every day.”
Mrs. Hunter’s sentimentality touches my heart. Smiling, I bite into a blueberry muffin. “Delicious,” I tell Mrs. Hunter with my mouth full. She beams in delight.
“Tell me, dear,” Mrs. Hunter says, “Are you a friend of Joe’s?”
Farmer Joe
Fifteen long minutes later, the back door creaks open, then bangs shut. I hear the thud of boots on wood. A man’s voice calls, “Mom?”
I smell him before I see him. Into the clean, bright kitchen wafts the aroma of male sweat mingled with the pungent smell of sod.
“In the kitchen, dear,” Mrs. Hunter calls. To me, she says, “Here comes my Joe.” She rises slowly to her feet and smooths her dress, smiling in anticipation of seeing her son. Or does she think it’s her husband?
Into the kitchen comes Joe Hunter. He’s wearing work boots, faded jeans, and a navy short sleeved T-shirt. There’s a baseball hat on his head and he’s looking down at his mother, so I can’t see his face. “Hi, Mom,” he says, and kisses her cheek. Then he looks up and sees me. “Hello.”
Joe takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his wheat-colored hair, which hangs past his ears. Joe has the same warm, iced tea–colored eyes as his mother. His face is long, like his body, and there’s stubble on his jaw.
“Oh,” Mrs. Hunter says, as if seeing me for the first time. “We have company.” I watch her eyes move to my coffee cup and the muffins. She sees that I have been here with her for some time. Mrs. Hunter chews on her bottom lip. She’s trying to remember who I am and what I’m doing in her kitchen. To save time and embarrassment, I stand and tell Joe, “I’m Mimi Louis. I called yesterday?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hunter says. “Mimi. She’s a friend of yours,” she tells Joe.
Without confirming or correcting his mother, Joe leans down and kisses Mrs. Hunter’s forehead.
Joe leads me through the house and out the back door. The planting rows begin a quarter of a mile from the Hunters’ back door. The first few rows are strawberry plants. They hunch close to the ground, their growth stunted by the weight of hanging strawberries. Beyond the strawberries lies furrowed ground with greenery popping out of the brown dirt. Following Joe past the strawberry plants, I inhale. The air is sweet. It smells red.
A dog of indeterminate breed bounds out of a shed and heads straight toward me, barking madly. “Good job,” Joe says to the dog. “She’s only been here for half an hour.”
Laughing, I extend my hand for the dog to sniff. The dog smells my hand, licks it, then rolls onto his back and squirms around on the ground, his canine member quite noticeably erect. It flops from side to side as the dog squirms.
Joe shakes his head. “This is not the way to impress a woman. How many times have I told you? You gotta play it cool, son.”
“Does he do this with all the girls?”
“No,” Joe says. “Just the pretty ones.”
Well, now. A flirtatious farmer.
Walking toward the greenhouses, Joe slows his pace to walk beside me and explain the system for the farm. “The greenhouses used to be for baby lettuces,” he says. “The farm specialized in that stuff for a few years. Do you know about baby lettuce?”
Do I know about baby lettuce? “Yes.”
Joe nods. “My dad built these greenhouses to grow baby lettuces, but it turned out to be too labor-intensive to be profitable. You have to snip the beds of lettuce every other day, put the lettuce in airtight plastic, and get it to the customer within twelve hours before it starts to wilt.” Joe shakes his head. “Sissy food.”
Stopping at the door to the greenhouse, Joe turns and looks down at me, narrowing his eyes and smiling. “Please don’t tell me you came here for baby lettuce.”
“No,” I laugh. “No sissy food for me.”
“Whew.” Joe holds open the door of the greenhouse. Into the gaseous hothouse we go. Joe starts explaining the photosynthesis that is taking place in the greenhouse. From working with other farmers, I already know about accelerating the growth of plants. But I don’t interrupt Joe. His voice is lyrical and reedy, and he obviously enjoys explaining his work.
“I’m using the greenhouses to grow small batches of produce and experiment with them before I plant big crops of them. See? These are heirloom tomatoes.”
“Pretty,” I say, knowing full well what heirlooms are. “But if you grow them in greenhouse conditions, how can you be sure that the plants will thrive in the outdoors?”
Joe smiles. “If I treat the earth right, she might tell me her secrets.”
Joe shows me the other greenhouses, and the barn. The barn is dark, the warm sun seeping through slats in the wood. Peeking into bins and barrels, I say, “Nice ramps. Those are great-looking morels. Are those the last of the fiddleheads? I might have to steal them. Fiddleheads, ramps, morels, and a nice piece of halibut. Sounds like supper.”
Joe smiles. “You have an educated palate.”
“I eat a lot.”
Joe looks me up and down. “Wouldn’t know it.”
Walking to the side of the barn, I spot bins of freshly cut herbs. Holding a bunch of herbs to my nose, I say, “Chervil?”
“Good call,” Joe says.
“Let’s see. I could add garlic to the chervil, hit it with white wine, kiss it with fresh tomato sauce, and drizzle it over my halibut.”
“Are you flirting with me?” Joe says.
“What? No.”
Joe says, “What time should I come over for dinner?”
“Please. I live with my mother.”
Joe smiles. “So do I.”
That makes me laugh. Joe takes a step toward me. The smell of his sweat overpowers the smell of the chervil. I take a purposeful step backward, then say, “I am impressed with your produce, Farmer Joe. I like it. I like it a lot.”
Joe smiles. “I’m glad you’re excited about it.”
Sheepishly, I say, “It’s been a while since I’ve had good food to play with.”
“Play,” Joe says. “I like that. Play.”
“Cook, I mean.”
“I know what you mean.” Joe leans against the wall of the barn and I see the sinewy muscles of his arms.
The diva whispers something that I choose not to hear.
Walking half a mile back to the shed which serves as his office, Joe tells me about ordering and delivery procedures. We walk past a shed filled with barrels. The barrels are marked with the names of some of the best restaurants in Philadelphia. “What’s in there?” I ask.
“We have special arrangements with some restaurants,” Joe says. “Chefs want items grown specifically for them. A certain color potato, or fruit picked at a certain time. My dad started the service. I’d like to discontinue it, but we make a lot of profit from it.” Joe walks past the shed and continues to his office. He hasn’t bragged about having chichi restaurants as clients. I like that.
In his office, Joe hands me order forms and a credit application. “If you decide to work with us, fax all this crap back to me,” he says. “Or bring it back personally.”
Joe walks me around the house, toward Sally. “Is that your car?”
“Yep.”
He puts his hands in the pockets of jeans. “Mustang GT with a Shelby scoop, flared deck lid, and
front valance. A 1966?”
“Yes, sir. Four-speed Toploader transmission and a 289 HIPO engine.”
Joe looks me up and down. “You like Mustangs?”
“I like this one.” I get behind the wheel.
“Well,” Joe says. “If you drive a car like this, you must be some kinda woman.”
“You judge people by the cars they drive?”
“Always.” Joe smiles.
“So what do you drive?”
Joe grins. “A tractor.”
Driving away from Hunter Farm, I can’t get the smell of Joe’s sweat out of my nose. His sweat smelled like onions. No. Leeks. No. Scallions.
He’s quite manly, the diva says. Earthy. Yummy.
That may be, but do I want to date a farmer? Think of the mud.
Yes, the diva says. Think of the mud.
No, don’t think of the mud. Don’t think about him at all. Did I learn nothing from Nick? There needs to be more to a relationship than physical attraction.
The diva doesn’t answer.
Pie
On my way back to Café Louis, I call Madeline. It’s three o’clock and she’s leaving work. “What do you know about Joe Hunter from Hunter Farm?” I ask.
“He died,” Madeline says.
“Not the father,” I say. “The son.”
“There’s a son?”
Big help she is. “What’s new with you?”
Madeline says, “I broke up with the lawyer.”
“What happened?”
“The other night, he came into the bedroom with a can of Reddi-wip. He wanted to put it on me and lick it off. I said, ‘First of all, I’m a chef. I’m covered in food all day. It’s not a turn-on for me. Secondly, I’m a pastry chef. No one is putting some cheap-ass, canned whipped cream on me.’”
“And he took offense to that?”
Madeline ignores my sarcasm. “Tonight I’m going out with a guy I met during The Book & The Cook preview party. He’s a civilian, not a chef. I should tell him the whipped cream rule before he goes and gets any ideas.”
Love, Life and Linguine Page 6