Love, Life and Linguine

by Melissa Jacobs

  “A whipped cream conversation on a first date?”

  Madeline says, “I slept with him after the party, so this is our second date.”

  “Madeline.”

  “You know me,” she says. “I’m as easy as pie.”

  100 Simple Rules for

  Dating My Mother

  When I get home from the restaurant that night, Mom’s car is in the driveway. “Mom?” I call when I walk in the door. There’s no answer. “Mom?” I walk through the condo. Mom isn’t home. I take off my dirty restaurant clothes and get in the shower to wash away the smell of grease.

  Thirty minutes later, it’s 10 P.M. and Mom still isn’t home. It’s strange that her car is here but she isn’t. I call Mom’s cell phone. It rings, but she doesn’t answer, so I leave a voice mail for her to call me.

  At 11 P.M., I get mildly concerned and call Jeremy. My brother does a full-on freak. “What if she went out with some Internet pervert? Who has she been e-mailing?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t invade her privacy,” I say. “And I’m trying to ignore the fact that she is dating.”

  “You live with her, Mimi. I thought you were going to be responsible.” Jeremy turns his mouth from the phone and I hear him say, “Allison, I told you that it’s a bad idea for Mom to date.”

  “Ease up on the panic, Jeremy. I didn’t call to alarm you. I called to see if she was at your house. Don’t worry. Mom will turn up eventually.”

  “Eventually?” Jeremy says. “That’s not good enough. I’m coming over, and if we don’t hear from Mom by midnight, we’ll call the police.”

  At 11:45 P.M., the front door opens. Jeremy says, “Mom? Is that you? Are you okay?”

  “Jeremy?” Mom says. “What are you doing here?” As an answer, Jeremy wraps Mom in a bear hug. Mom looks confused, but returns his hug.

  “Mimi?” she says. “What’s going on?”

  Hands on my hips, I say, “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

  Mom sits at the kitchen table, hanging her head. Jeremy and I stand, arms folded across our chests. “You’re right,” Mom says. “I’m sorry.”

  Mom was at the Phillies game with Sid. The game went into extra innings. Because of the noise of the stadium, Mom didn’t hear her phone ring.

  “I was a little worried. Jeremy was doing a full-on hissy dance.”

  “If you’re going to date,” Jeremy says, “you need to be more responsible.”

  “You’re right,” Mom says for the tenth time.

  “We should make some ground rules,” I suggest. “So we’re all on the same page.”

  “Good idea,” Jeremy says, and proceeds to make the rules. “The first rule is that you tell Ally, me, or Mimi where you are going and with whom.”

  “Okay,” Mom says.

  “Also,” Jeremy says. “You should take your own car on dates until you’ve been out with someone a few times.”

  Mom laughs. “That’s a little silly.”

  “It’s not silly, Mom,” I say. “Do you know how many stories I’ve heard about psychos on the Internet?”

  Mom waves her hand in the air. “These are old Jewish men.”

  “How do you know?” Jeremy says. “Anyone can put up a photo and a profile. Who you think is a sixty-five-year-old retired teacher could be a twenty-three-year-old with a roll of duct tape and a fetish for older women.”

  Mom stops laughing.

  “We want you to be safe,” Jeremy says.

  “You’re our one and only mommy,” I add, hoping to water down Jeremy’s worry.

  “You’re right.” Mom nods. “I’ll follow your rules.”

  “Good,” Jeremy says.

  “Now go to your room,” I say.

  The next morning, banging wakes me. When I stagger into the kitchen, Mom says, “Oh, good. You’re up.” She gestures to bowls and measuring cups on the kitchen counter. “I made pancakes. From scratch.”

  “Are those guilt pancakes?”

  “With sorry syrup,” Mom answers. As I make coffee, Mom turns the heat on under a griddle on the stove. As she ladles batter onto the griddle, she says, “I really like Sid.”

  “Mom, you don’t have to tell me this.” I hope she won’t continue. She does.

  “He’s very special. Smart. Cultured. Romantic.” Mom waves her spatula in the air. “He’s not gorgeous but he’s not ugly.”

  I say, “He’s no Billy Crystal.”

  “Sadly, no.” Mom smiles. “But we’re going out again tonight. And tomorrow night.”

  “Don’t rush into anything.”

  “Mimi, I’m sixty years old. I don’t rush anywhere.”

  Mutiny

  The next night, Aaron Schein comes into Café Louis. From the kitchen, I watch Aaron take a seat at the counter. Bette takes his order. When she walks into the kitchen, I jump her. “What’d he order?”

  “The New York strip and a baked potato.”

  “Give him the grilled tuna,” I tell her. “And French fries.”

  She does, and when Aaron sees his dinner, he smiles. “Did Mimi think I’d like this?” he asks loudly. “How sweet of her. Isn’t she sweet?”

  Dagnabit.

  The next day, Aaron comes in for dinner. He orders lasagna. I have Bette serve him nachos. While Aaron eats, Bette leans over the counter and talks to him. She laughs, smooths her hair, and winks at him before moving to other customers.

  “What are you doing?” I ask when she comes into the kitchen.

  Bette smiles. “If you’re not going to flirt with him, I will.”

  By the third day, word of Aaron’s persistent pursuit has spread through the wait staff. When he arrives for dinner, Aaron is greeted at the front door by Christopher von Hecht. This makes me incredibly nervous, because I’m not sure whose side Christopher is on.

  Christopher leads Aaron to a booth, then turns his back to the kitchen door, blocking my view. They speak for quite some time. When Christopher comes into the kitchen, I grab his arm. “Chrissie, what are you doing?”

  “Calm down, peanut butter cup. I’m doing my job.”

  “Right.” I release his arm. “You took Aaron’s order. Because you’re his waiter.”

  “That’s one of my jobs.” Christopher hangs the order on the rack in front of the San Padre brothers. Then he turns to me. “My other job is to marry you off to a nice Jewish man.”

  “That is not your job,” I say, hands planted firmly on hips.

  “I’m a matchmaker.” Christopher shrugs. “It’s what I was born to do.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since now. Whose food is this?” Christopher looks at the plates piling up in the window. “¿Hombres, que mesa?”

  “Nueve,” someone answers.

  I say, “Aaron is not a good match for me. He’s trying to ruin this restaurant.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.” Christopher arranges the plates on a large serving tray. “Aaron’s family made your family what I assume was a perfectly good offer to buy the property. If it wasn’t a good offer, your brother—who is clearly the more levelheaded sibling—wouldn’t have considered it. This isn’t a family feud. It’s a business deal. You’re no Juliet and I’m not Richard Dawson.”

  “What?”

  “Think on that.” Christopher hoists the tray to his shoulder and leaves.

  On the fourth night, Aaron comes into the restaurant with a young, blond woman. They sit at a table in Fly Girl’s section. When Fly Girl comes into the kitchen with their order, I ask to see it. Shared mozzarella sticks to start, followed by New York strip steak and a chicken Caesar, which is presumably for the girl. Narrowing my eyes, I say, “This is date food.”

  “Yup,” Fly Girl agrees.

  “Fine.” I shrug. “I don’t care.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Fly Girl nods. “But if you do, you should act like you don’t.”

  Do I care? Being pursued was ann
oying. And nice. Has Aaron given up already?

  Smiling, I breeze out of the kitchen and through the dining room. “Good evening,” I greet the customers, and offer a polite nod and smile to Aaron. “Good evening, Mr. Schein. Lovely to see you again.”

  “Miss Louis.” Aaron returns my nod as I float past him.

  An hour later, Fly Girl pulls me aside. “They are sharing a dessert.”

  “Whatever.” So, Aaron Schein has a thinner-than-me, younger-than-me girlfriend. Good for him.

  I’m standing at the door when Aaron and his harlot leave. “I hope everything was to your liking,” I say in my best fake voice.

  Aaron fakes me right back. “Delicious as always.”

  The twig squeaks, “It was very good.”

  Aaron smiles. “Mimi, this is Amanda. My sister.”

  “Sister?” I blurt.

  “Sister,” Aaron repeats, a grin growing on his face.

  “Oh. Of course. Your sister.”

  “Jealous?” Aaron’s brown eyes twinkle.

  “No.”

  “My heart belongs to you, Mimi Louis. Whether you choose to possess it or not.”

  “Not.”

  “Not yet,” Aaron answers, and walks out the door.

  Tabula Rasa

  By the middle of June, I am firmly ensconced at Café Louis. I take comfort in my restaurant routine. Every day except Sunday, when the restaurant is closed, I arrive at Café Louis by ten o’clock in the morning. In my Dine International life, I was working by 8 A.M. But late nights lead to late mornings.

  Walking through the front door holding a pile of newspapers, I smile at the sun streaming through the windows. It reflects off Bette’s chrome counter and the chrome trim of the tables. The empty dining room smells of the cleaning products the San Padre brothers use to mop the floors every night. It smells lemony.

  Upturned chairs sit on the tables and their legs form a forest that I walk through to get to the counter. Grammy Jeff and Nelson are in the kitchen preparing for lunch, and I hear Grammy’s music coming from the kitchen. She’s a Motown kind of woman.

  To the sound of the Supremes, the Temptations, and the Miracles, I brew a pot of coffee. Café Louis doesn’t have and can’t afford an espresso machine, so I make the coffee triple strong.

  Coffeepot in hand, I take the newspapers into the kitchen, walking backward, butt first through the swinging door. At this time of day, food has yet to be grilled, fried, or sautéed. Whatever odors were in the kitchen last night have been expelled. The kitchen gets a clean slate every day.

  Herby is how the kitchen smells in the morning. Every day, Grammy and Nelson cut fresh parsley, dill, and chives, infusing the air with the smell of freshness. The scent is carried on the warm breeze coming from the kitchen’s screen door.

  “Good morning, sugar,” Grammy says.

  Nelson says, “Hey, Mimi.”

  “Morning,” I say, and make my way to the brown paper bags sitting by the door. Erlton Bakery delivers rolls every morning. Bending, I put my nose to the bags and inhale the smell of freshly baked bread. Grammy thinks this is unsanitary, and she’s probably right. Which doesn’t stop me from doing it. I just wait until Grammy’s not looking.

  Roll in hand, I situate myself on a stool in front of the metal worktable. The stool is metal and cool, which is a nice balance to the flaming hot, XXX coffee. “It’ll be hot today,” Grammy says. She’s hot every day, no matter the temperature.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. As I drink my coffee and eat my roll, I read out loud the important parts of the Philadelphia Inquirer, Philadelphia Daily News, and South Jersey’s Courier Post. The important parts are, of course, the gossip columns. Nelson and I laugh and Grammy sighs over the escapades of singers, actors, and people who are famous for doing nothing but getting into trouble. Of course, Café Louis has its own gossip, and I consider it my duty to keep Grammy and Nelson duly informed.

  “Fly Girl got accepted to Moore College of Art,” I told them yesterday. “She starts in September, which means she’ll be leaving Café Louis at the end of August.”

  “She can’t waitress and go to school?” Grammy asked.

  “Please,” I say. “She can barely waitress as it is.”

  By 11 A.M, I’m caffeinated enough to go through invoices, double-check that we received what we ordered from food and dry good suppliers, and do a fast inventory. While the lunch shift waiters set up the dining room, I take Sally on errands. We’re always out of something that I forgot to order. Toilet paper, coffee filters, radishes, butter.

  By the time I get back to Café Louis, lunch is half finished. I greet customers and listen to their lives, their complaints, their requests. Generally, everyone is happy with the changes I’ve made to the restaurant. There’s grumbling at the marginal price increases, but I solve that with a smile. Or a free piece of pie.

  By 3 P.M. the lunch waiters, Grammy, and Nelson have left and the San Padre brothers arrive to prepare for dinner. Me? I make another pot of XXX coffee and take it to the downstairs office. There I do very important work. Or I watch General Hospital.

  At 4 P.M. the dinner shift waiters arrive to set up the dining room. Someone is always late, or cranky, or hungover. I sit at Bette’s counter and sympathetically listen to my waiters’ problems. I don’t try to help them with their boyfriends, cars, or finances. I only listen. Which is enough.

  This is one of my favorite parts of the day. I love watching the restaurant get dressed for dinner. Polished flatware is carefully laid on fresh napkins. Pink and blue packets are stacked next to full canisters of white sugar. Damp rags clean tables and chairs, wiping away the debris of customers past. Finally, the stage is set. The waiters will do what they’ve done many nights, but we approach every night as if it is a new performance.

  At 4:45 P.M. the waiters, Bette, and I sit down for a staff meal. I instituted a rotating tasting of all the dishes on the menu so the waiters know what they are selling. The San Padre brothers bring out three dishes every afternoon, and the waiters descend on them like vultures. So do I. Not only is the food good, but the staff meal serves as my lunch. Sure, I could ask the San Padres to make me something at any time. But I like eating with the waiters en masse. It makes me feel like part of the family.

  At 5 P.M. the senior citizens arrive. We don’t have an early bird special, but we have Bette. She knows everyone’s name and what they want before they order. Seats at Bette’s counter are much desired, and some customers choose to wait for seats instead of being seated elsewhere.

  By 6 P.M. the restaurant starts to fill. First come the Boosters. That is, families with young children who need booster seats. Next come the Homeworks, who have two working parents, neither of whom has the time or inclination to cook dinner, and kids who have homework that needs doing.

  Me? I settle the paperwork from lunch. Or take a nap.

  By 7:30 P.M. I’m back upstairs to help the waiters in the front of the house, or the cooks in the back of the house. The waiters don’t want me to wait tables and the cooks don’t want me to cook. For the waiters, I run credit cards through the machine, fill water glasses, and deliver bread baskets. For the cooks, I decipher handwriting on orders, tell waiters what dishes have to be 86’ed because we’re out of ingredients, and expedite the flow of what food needs to be cooked when.

  Sometimes during the night, something goes horribly wrong. A customer hates his food. The toilet overflows. The credit card machine goes off-line. There are lesser catastrophes, like a reservation not showing, or food having to be refired because it’s not cooked to the customer’s liking. Christopher von Hecht is used to smoothing the small bumps, but he leaves the big bumps to me. I take them head-on, but they exhaust me. What’s really exhausting is having to smile. All night.

  This night, the restaurant is busy. “What’s the wait?” I ask Christopher, who is doing a bang-up job of manning both the door and his station.

  “Five minutes.”

  “What is it reall
y?”

  “Twenty minutes,” he says.

  “I guess having a quiet dinner is out of the question.” Aaron Schein has materialized at the door. He looks around at the organized chaos. “Can I help?”

  “Grab an apron,” Christopher says.

  “We’re fine,” I tell Aaron. “Actually? We’re great.”

  I wipe my hands on the white apron around my waist. “That’s sexy,” he says.

  “The apron? Gee, do you have mother issues?”

  Aaron laughs. “My mother never wore an apron. We had cooks. I lost my virginity to a cook.”

  “Me, too,” Christopher says.

  “Chrissie!” I swat a rag at him.

  “What?” He moves out of rag reach. “I thought we were sharing.”

  “You have work to do,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Christopher says. “Go tell it on the mountain.”

  Whatever chaos has ensued gets rehashed at the end of the night, which is 9 P.M. on weekdays and 10 P.M. on weekends. When the restaurant is cleared of its final customers, I turn on all the house lights and turn up the music to get the waiters through the drudgery of cleaning their tables and their workstations. In the kitchen, the San Padres turn on their Mexican disco to help get them through their closing work.

  The waiters finish before the San Padres. As each waiter finishes, we congregate in the middle of the restaurant and chitchat about customers, ourselves, and the world. Whatever is most interesting. I cash out the waiters, exchanging real money for the tips left on credit cards. If all has gone reasonably well, both Café Louis and the waiters have made money. For the past two weeks, everyone has been happy. Including me.

  Sally looks at me with sleepy headlights when I rouse her from her parking spot where she’s been lolling all afternoon and night. I drive to Mom’s townhouse, famished. The house is always dark, Mom already asleep. Quietly I invade the kitchen. What do I eat? A leftover-filled sandwich, of course. With mustard. Good mustard.