“I don’t know. I guess.” I look at the ground.
“Hey,” Joe says. I look up to see him standing in front of me. Without asking or saying anything, Joe puts his arms around my waist. He pulls me into a hug, squeezing gently. His hands go on my lower back, applying slight pressure.
Oh, does that feel good.
It feels supportive. And sexy. I close my eyes and feel his body, and I also feel safe.
And then it’s over. Joe releases me and steps back, away from me. He smiles. “Looked like you needed a hug.”
“I did. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Joe walks to the driver side of his truck. “I’ll talk to you next week.”
I nod and smile, and when Joe pulls his truck away from the restaurant, I wave.
Kings
“Hey there, Papa Bear,” I greet my brother when I find him in his backyard standing watch over the barbecue grill. “Happy Father’s Day.”
“Thanks,” Jeremy says. “I’m glad you came. It’s not an easy day, is it?”
“Why isn’t there an Aunt’s Day?” I ask, ignoring the point of his question. “Aunt Day. Uncle Day. In-law Day. Hallmark better get on that.”
“Aunt Mimi!” The twins come tearing across the lawn. They’re always so happy to see me. I love that.
“Well, if isn’t Bert and Ernie,” I say.
“We’re not Bert and Ernie!” Gideon wraps his arms around my leg. “You know who we are, Aunt Mimi.”
“Oil and vinegar?”
“No!” Ezra tackles my other leg.
“Salt and pepper?”
“Aunt Mimi!”
“Chocolate and vanilla?”
Gideon looks at Ezra. Their eyes get big as they share a thought, then scream, “Ice cream!” The boys run toward the house. “Mom? Mom! Mom!”
Oops.
“Hello, Aunt Mimi.” Looking down, I see Sarah standing with her arms wrapped across her chest.
I bend to kiss Sarah’s forehead. “How are you?”
From under her eyebrows, Sarah looks at me with sad, brown eyes. For a moment, she looks exactly like my father did when he was disappointed in me. “You’re forgetting me,” she says.
“Of course I’m not. Why do you say that?”
“You said that because you are living here, we could spend time together. But we haven’t. Not even once.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I’ve been very busy at the restaurant. But I do want to spend time with you. Lots of time. When do you get out of school? End of June?”
Sarah nods.
“That’s in two weeks, right? After you get out of school, we’ll hang out. You and me. Okay?”
Sarah shrugs like she doesn’t believe me, but wants to. She accepts my hug. Then she goes to sit with Mom.
“Where’d Sarah learn how to guilt?” I ask Jeremy.
“It’s one of her innate gifts,” he says. “How’s Mom?”
“She sitting over there.” I wave in Mom’s direction. “Ask her yourself.”
“Mom won’t tell me the truth.” Jeremy frowns. “She says I worry too much.”
“You do.” Peering into the grill, I say, “Might want to flip turn the meat, jefe.”
“I don’t have all of your fancy food knowledge,” Jeremy says, “but I know how to barbecue. I’m a man. Barbecuing is one of my innate gifts.”
“Indeed,” I say. “My apologies. I shall not criticize your very manly barbecuing. At least not on Father’s Day.”
“Remember what we did for Father’s Day when we were kids?” Jeremy asks.
Together, we say, “Chinese food.”
Jeremy laughs. “People used to say, ‘Your dad is a chef? You must have the best food at home.’”
“The last thing Dad wanted to do at home was cook,” I say.
“We got to eat out a lot,” Jeremy says. “That was fun.”
“I always felt like a spy at other restaurants. Remember how Dad would grill us about the food we ate? ‘Too sweet? Too salty? Too sour? Too bitter?’ We had to make sure Café Louis’s food was better than any other restaurants.”
“Remember Mitsitam Restaurant in Westfield?” Jeremy asks.
“Of course,” I say. “Dad thought the Mitsitam was our biggest competitor.”
“A few years ago, a shopping center went up across the street from the Mitsitam,” Jeremy says. “That center has a Friendly’s, Boston Market, and a Subway.”
“Oy.”
“Not surprisingly, the Mitsitam closed.” Jeremy nods in silent homage to the Mitsitam. “Anyway, when I was going through Dad’s invoices and paperwork, I found a copy of a letter he wrote the Mitsitams saying that they were welcome to eat at Café Louis any time. Free of charge.”
“Really?”
“Yep,” Jeremy says. “I asked Bette and she confirmed it. She also said that the Mitsitams never came to Café Louis, as far she knew. They moved to Oklahoma, I think.”
“Still,” I say.
“Absolutely,” Jeremy agrees. “Would you ask my darling wife to bring her buns out here? And the mustard and ketchup and relish.”
Sisters-in-Law, Part Three
Allison is standing at the kitchen’s island, mustard jar in hand, staring at a potted plant.
“Ally?”
She doesn’t move or break her gaze.
“Ally? Allison? Major Tom?”
She shakes her head and turns to me. “Sorry. What’s up?”
“Jeremy’s ready for the rolls and condiments. Are you okay?”
“Tired. I’m tired.” She rubs her eyes. “I think I fell asleep standing still with my eyes open. It was just so quiet in here. There’s always so much noise in the house. It’s so loud, so often. With everyone outside and Mom and Jeremy looking after the kids, I had an unexpected moment of peace.” Allison looks at me. “Do you know what I mean?”
“Sort of.” I pull the twist tie from a bag of buns and start to pile them on a plate. “The restaurant gets very frantic around lunch and dinner, but before and after that, the place is nice and quiet. But too much quiet in the house? Not a good thing.”
Allison nods. “Are you making a profit yet?”
“A little. But I have until the end of the summer. I have time.”
“Right.” Allison hands me another bag of rolls. “You have time.”
A noise I recognize as Mom’s cell phone rings through the kitchen. Mom’s cell is on the kitchen table next to her purse. I look at the caller ID. “It’s Sid.”
Allison says, “Aren’t you going to take the phone to Mom?”
“He’ll leave a message.”
“Mimi.”
“What? Mom’s hanging out with her grandkids, and kids, which she hasn’t done in some time. Today is a family day. Sid can wait.”
Allison shakes her head. “You and your brother are being really immature about this. Why am I the only one who’s thinking about what’s best for Mom?”
“Because you’re the only adult among us. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Quietly, Allison says, “I noticed.”
“Seriously, Ally. You’re supermom. Why are we having a barbecue for Jeremy? This day and every day should be about you.”
Allison hands me a platter with the rolls and condiments. She puts Mom’s cell on the platter. “Give that to your mother.”
“Aren’t you coming outside to eat?”
Allison rubs her eyes again. “I have to put laundry in the dryer.”
“You’re doing laundry? Now?”
“Mimi, I’m always doing laundry.”
Canapé
“Café Louis. This is Mimi. How can I help you?”
“You can have dinner with me tonight. An official first date.”
“Who is this?”
“Aaron Schein.” A beat later he says, “Who else would it be?”
“No one. I’m kidding. I knew it was you. Did you say dinner?”
I wait for Aaron near the hostess desk wearing the khaki capri pa
nts and a pink halter top I wore to work. My pink and silver bead bracelet is on my wrist and a matching necklace is around my neck.
Christopher von Hecht appears at the hostess desk. “Do you want some advice?”
“No,” I say.
“Canapé,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“On first dates, you should canapé. Be delicious, but not filling. A tasty hors d’oeuvre that whets the appetite for the meal. A gastronomic prelude, if you will.”
Canapé certainly sounds feminine and flirty. Maybe Christopher von Hecht is right. But I’m not going to tell him that. “Chrissie, please. Go yenta somewhere else.”
USA Steaks
Peach? Apricot? I’m trying to name the color of Aaron’s shirt. Whatever color it is, the shirt is well made. Custom made? Maybe. His orangey shirt goes nicely with the blueberry and celery print on his tie. Silk tie, looks like. The loafers are alligator. And Gucci. I know my reptiles, and Italians. Aaron’s ensemble is good. The boy knows how to dress.
Aaron looks at me looking at him. “Are you checking me out?”
“And if I am?”
“I came from a meeting,” Aaron says. “Otherwise, I’d have changed into more casual clothes.”
“You look very nice.”
“Thank you, Mimi. So do you.”
“Thank you. I’m glad we’re doing this. Having a date.”
Aaron smiles. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
See? I can canapé.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask. Aaron has pulled his yellow Hummer into a parking lot. I see a crowd of people waiting outside a building that looks like a ranch house. On top of the ranch restaurant is a glowing orange sign. USA Steaks.
“What? This place has great food.” Aaron gets out of the Hummer. He walks around the car to my side and opens my door.
Well, I am a filet mignon. Am I not?
As we approach the door, I say, “It looks like there’s a two-hour wait.”
Aaron smiles and walks to the hostess desk. The hostess coos, “Hi, Aaron. How are you this evening? Table for two?”
We’re seated immediately.
“Let me guess,” I guess. “Your family owns this joint?”
“Yep. Want to meet the chef? I think there are four chefs. I can introduce you.”
“No. Thanks.” Looking at the enormous menu, I search for the smallest steak and order it with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Aaron orders the largest steak, French fries, and string beans. “And a Coors Light,” he finishes.
When the food comes, Aaron reaches for the salt and pepper, which he liberally applies to his beans and fries. “You haven’t tasted it yet,” I say.
“What?”
“How do you know the food needs seasoning if you haven’t tasted it?” I ask.
“It’s not seasoning,” he says. “It’s salt and pepper.” When he’s done with the salt and pepper, Aaron reaches for the A1 Steak Sauce.
“You can’t use that,” I tell him.
Confused, Aaron looks at the label. “Why not?”
“If a steak is cooked to perfection, it has its own juices and doesn’t need to be suffocated with sauce.”
Aaron points at my plate. “You eat your steak the way you like, and I’ll eat mine the way I like. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say with a sigh. “But you’re doing it wrong.”
Aaron laughs.
Aaron eats with gusto. He cuts a piece of meat, puts it on his fork, spears a French fry or string bean, and puts the whole thing in his mouth. He chews rhythmically, his head bobbing slightly. When he has swallowed, Aaron takes a swig of beer, then starts the whole process over again. Piece of meat, French fry, string bean. Chew, swallow, swig. And again. And again.
I find this fascinating.
Long have I believed that men eat the same way they screw. A man who shovels food into his mouth is not interested in taste or texture. A man who eats the same things all the time is not interested in variety. A man who gets up from the table before the woman has finished eating? Please. I want a man who smells his vegetables, savors his meat, and plays with his potatoes.
Aaron is eating quickly, but he looks to be enjoying his food. His eating method does not fit into any of my categories. I don’t know what to do about that.
Soft, Gentle, Nice
Aaron drives me back to Café Louis. “I have to go inside and finish the night,” I tell him.
“Should I walk you to the door, or would you like to be kissed in the car?”
Turning in my seat, I look at Aaron. The date was perfectly fine, but I’m not overcome with desire for Aaron. I like that he enjoys life. And food. And clothes. Aaron appreciates the finer things in life. So what is he doing with me? Good question. I ask it. “Why are you pursuing me? You could have any woman you want.”
“Here’s the thing.” Aaron looks serious. “I’ve dated a lot of women and it always turns out the same way. They start out saying my family’s money doesn’t matter, but in time, they forget about me, the person, and only see the lifestyle. Then I lose respect for them and start treating them badly. But they put up with it, because they think it’ll pay off in the end. You, Mimi, don’t let me get away with anything. You are independent, smart, and successful in your own right. That’s incredibly attractive to me, as is the fact that you aren’t falling all over me. And you have a great ass.”
“You’ll hold that against me later.”
Aaron smiles. “Your ass?”
“No. Way no,” I say. “The things you said about me. Independent, smart, successful. You’ll learn to hate those things.”
Aaron is quiet for a few moments. Then, “I don’t get it.”
“It’s like this.” I turn to face him. “Right now you like my independence because it poses a challenge for you. But you’ll come to resent it.”
“Before we get to the resentment, may I kiss you?”
“Might as well do it now,” I say, “before we break up.”
His lips are smooth, and warm. Soft. Gentle. Nice.
Falling
“And that’s how the date ended,” I tell Madeline. “With a nice kiss.”
We are shopping for kitchen gadgets at Fante’s on Ninth Street, in Philadelphia’s Italian Market. I buy equipment from the much cheaper Trenton China and Pottery store, but Madeline wants only top-of-the-line stuff. Sieves, peelers, mandolins. She shops for kitchen gadgets the way other women shop for shoes.
“This is the good-on-paper predicament right?” Madeline squeezes down an aisle. “I’m bored already. You’ll never fall for this guy.”
“What good is falling? Falling is a bad thing. It hurts. It leaves bruises. And if you fall hard enough, it takes a while to get back on your feet.”
“What if someone catches you?” Madeline asks.
“For me to fall in love, I’d have to trust that someone is going to catch me. Right now I’m not big on trusting men. I’m definitely not ready to have sex. So maybe I don’t want to fall in love. Maybe I want to stand upright and walk into love. Or at least glide. That’s it, Maddie. I’ll glide into a relationship with Aaron. I should. He’s a nice person.”
“What’s nice got to do with it? There’s either chemistry or there isn’t.” Madeline tosses a chocolate mold into her basket. “Speaking of which, what’s up with Farmer Joe?”
“I haven’t heard from him. He has yet to ask me out for a date.”
“Call him.”
“No. No. Oh, and? No.”
“Excuse me,” Madeline says. “What millennium is this?”
“If Joe wants me, he knows where to find me. Look at Aaron. He’s pursuing me. It’s nice. It’s good for my battered ego.”
“Batter.” Madeline reaches for a wooden spoon. “Thanks for reminding me.”
Specials
“You hungry?” Nelson asks me when I walk into the kitchen in the late afternoon.
“A little.” Nelson is wearing a Sean John baseball hat and a
T-shirt with Malcom X’s picture. What would Brother Malcolm think of Brother Diddy? What does Nelson think of them? I don’t know.
“Let me make you something.” Nelson reaches for his chef coat.
“You don’t have to, Nellie. You worked all day.”
“I want to.” Nelson smiles at me. “You worked with famous chefs, right? How about I cook you one of my specialties and you tell me what you think.”
Twenty minutes later, Nelson brings me a plate holding peanut-crusted tuna, sautéed spinach, and white rice spiked with corn, diced tomato, and cilantro. “Wow,” I say.
Chewing, I look at Nelson with surprise. “You got game.”
Nelson smiles broadly. “It’s good?”
“Yes.” I put more food in my mouth. With real delight, Nelson watches me eat. Mouth full, I ask, “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Grammy Jeff taught me a lot, but she doesn’t know formal cooking. I read a lot of cookbooks. I watch cooking shows on TV. Then I try stuff here or at home.”
“You like cooking?” I ask. I thought this was only a job to him.
“Yeah,” Nelson says. “I guess it runs in the family.”
“Nelson, you have talent.”
“Thank you.” Nelson hangs his head to hide his grin. “I thought about going to culinary school, but I can’t afford it.”
When I finally put my fork down, I say, “You should do the daily specials.”
Nelson frowns. “We don’t do daily specials here.”
“We do now.”
Mom AWOL
At the end of the night, Christopher von Hecht sits across from me in the office while I count money. “You can go home,” I tell him.
“I’m waiting,” Christopher says.
“For what?”
“For you to tell me about your first of many dates with Aaron Schein.”
“Oh. Why do I have to tell you?”
“You have to tell me so I can tell everyone else.”
Christopher rolls his eyes. “Come on, kiwi. You know there are no secrets in restaurants.”
Love, Life and Linguine Page 9