He looked at the time on his monitor—2:55 p.m. Time to send it to Hannah. Al read through the review one more time, made two clicks, and done. He looked around the office. Most heads stared at computer screens or out the window. John shopped online.
“Anything good?” Al asked.
John started at the sudden break in silence. He turned his head and said, “Not unless you like strappy neon sandals and wear a size five in ladies’ shoes.”
“I can’t catch a break.” Al laughed.
John studied Al, who stood with his jacket in one hand.
“You done?”
“Yeah, I just submitted it.” Al smiled.
“You like that, don’t you? The power trip.”
Al tilted his head to the side and squinted, trying to see the truth in John’s question, then shook his head no. “That’s not it at all. Someone needs to tell these chefs their food is no good. They need to know so they can cut their losses and move on.”
“So, you’re doing them a favor?”
“Isn’t that how you view telling someone when their outfit isn’t flattering? It may not be easy to hear, but they’ll dress better as a result of your advice. With so much good food available, subpar dining should be called out. Plus, I owe it to the readers to give honest feedback. If I didn’t tell them about my bad experiences, then they might waste money on an awful meal. I’d lose credibility.” Al paused, then continued, “I do feel bad, but I believe honesty is more important.”
John watched Al as he spoke, judging his words against the resolute Brit standing before him.
“You need to get laid.”
“Pardon me?”
John used his palm to make a circular gesture at Al’s head.
“Clear up all your negative juju. Then maybe you’ll start to enjoy your life a little more.”
“I like my life quite a bit. I just don’t like where I’m living it.”
Al pushed in his chair and left the office, walking out the main doors and heading south toward the Public Market. He didn’t notice other people on the street or whether the sun had emerged to warm those around him. Instead, he let John’s observations sink in—all of them. As he walked past the newsstand, he couldn’t help sniffing the air, searching for hints of bacon, coconut, and vanilla. Combined with John’s declaration that he needed to get laid, he couldn’t get that smell off his mind, or her adorable freckles, or the broken expression on her face as she blew past him on the sidewalk. Such a marvelous creature deserved someone who understood her talents—someone like him, perhaps.
• • • • •
Four thirty arrived and the restaurant never looked better. With all the help, Lou had time to prepare a special meal for the daily meeting—her way of thanking her staff. The daily meeting always covered the specials, any new wines on the menu, reservations, and any other issues. While Sue ran the meeting, Lou always tried to add a few words of advice or encouragement. After her meltdown yesterday, she wanted everyone to focus on what was important—the customer and her dining experience.
As she looked at the faces of her staff, she warmed with affection. Tyler, who she was so hard on last night, smiled at her as their eyes met, not a hint of lingering anger at her mistreatment of him. Billy sat on the edge of his chair, trying to pick the lint off the back of another waiter, a little agitated by the lack of tidiness. The bussers and dishwashers sat toward the back, whispering in Spanish about a soccer game. The remaining waitstaff enjoyed the last few minutes of rest before the long night ahead.
In such a small restaurant, nothing was private, so Lou knew everyone had heard the abbreviated version of what happened. She teared up a little at her employees’ loyalty. Lou stood to get their attention and started to speak.
“Business has been good lately. It was brought to my attention that during my unfortunate meltdown yesterday, everyone was distracted and concerned. While I appreciate the sentiment, our customers may not have gotten the experience they pay so generously for. We have started to build a base of regular diners, so let’s not alienate them. If you recognize someone from a previous visit, pay special attention to them. Try to learn their names, their preferences. We need to do everything in our power to make that guest want to come back. Alison, what are reservations for tonight?”
“We have a two-top and two four-tops at six, an eight-top at six thirty, and two more four-tops at seven. The Meyers will also be in at seven. Thursdays usually see a lot of walk-ins, so I expect a steady night,” said Alison, the hostess.
“Let me know when Gertrude and Otto arrive; I’d like to visit with them.”
If Luella’s had a small but loyal following, the Meyers were the flamboyant drum majors. Otto and Gertrude ate there several times a week. They preferred a table in the center of the dining room, where the restaurant bustled around them. Lou tried to make a point of visiting their table often. One, it was a good example to other diners of how regular guests were treated; and two, the Meyers were the most interesting people she had ever met. Lou loved talking to them. Both emigrated from Germany as children, right before World War II. Their parents fled to the United States before things got ugly and came to Milwaukee because of the large German population. The couple traveled often, especially to Germany to visit friends and distant relatives. Lou admired their easy approach to life, how they went where the wind took them. And she was grateful it took them to Luella’s at least twice a week.
• • • • •
That night, Luella’s hummed with business. Sue’s head bobbed to the eighties hair band playing on the radio, dipping and turning while she worked the grill station. Her cooking could double as interpretive dance.
“So, you think we’ll get a review soon?” Lou asked.
Sue stopped grooving to give the question her full attention.
“If so, I hope it isn’t that Polish asshat from the paper,” she said.
“You mean A. W. Wodyski? I don’t know. I’d kind of like to hear what he’d come up with. I think we do great food,” Lou countered. “And even a mediocre review from him could be good for business.”
“Lou, we don’t want him anywhere near us. Trust me. We’re better off trying to get positive online reviews.”
“Did you know the Meyers left one at BrewCityReviews? It’s the cutest thing. I can picture them sharing a chair in front of the computer screen, typing together. As of now, it’s the only review we have. At least it’s a good one.”
Sue opened her mouth to respond when Alison sauntered into the kitchen to say a brisk “They’re here” before returning to her base, scanning the dining room for any sign that a guest required assistance. That girl is good, Lou thought. She must be due for a raise.
As Lou pushed open the stainless steel doors separating the kitchen from the restaurant, she caught sight of Otto’s shining head reflecting the dining room’s dim light next to Gertrude’s white hair and beaming face. Gertrude glowed all the time, as if she had a hidden secret waiting to spill into the world. In her eighties, Gertrude probably did have some secrets to life.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Meyer. It’s always so nice to see you.” Lou sat down with them so they didn’t have to look up at her when she stopped by their table.
“Guten Abend, Lou,” said Otto and Gertrude—they even spoke as one.
“Alison mentioned yesterday was difficult,” Gertrude said, patting Lou’s arm softly with her tiny, pale hands, wrinkled but lively.
“Yes. It’s over with Devlin. I feel like I should’ve known something was up.”
“Liebchen, how would you have known? You were here almost every day and night. He doesn’t deserve you.”
“True. But who does?”
Lou’s lips curved ever so slightly as she tried to believe her joke was true.
“You will meet someone who appreciates you for you, scars and all.” Gertrude rubbed one of the many burn marks on Lou’s hands. Lou put her hands in her lap and smiled at Gertrude’
s kindness, but she felt as if the odds were against her. Under the table, she rubbed one of the larger scars on her left wrist, feeling the smooth, tight bump. Gertrude pulled Lou’s arm back above the table and held both her hands.
With her watery blue eyes, she stilled Lou’s protests. “Do not hide who you are. These are a nurturer’s hands. Cooking is hard and sometimes painful work, but you do it to share your gift with us. Your cooking improves our lives. Don’t ever be ashamed of who you are.”
Lou’s lips rolled inward, as if she were biting them between her teeth; her brows pushed in and her eyes welled with tears. One dripped down her cheek and plopped onto the white tablecloth.
“Schätzchen, you will be all right,” said Otto, even though he didn’t normally speak up other than a “How do you do?” “You have someone special coming for you, someone who deserves you, someone you can laugh with, cook with, and sleep with.” Otto’s eyebrows waggled and his blue eyes sparkled with his naughty comment.
“You’re right. It’s got to get better.” Lou straightened in her chair and smiled at the Meyers. She still had a great life, full of dear friends and work she was passionate about. One man couldn’t take that away from her.
• CHAPTER SIX •
Lou had another crappy day. Two in one week! She pulled the crumpled paper from her back pocket and smeared it smooth on the bar’s well-worn surface. Even though she’d nearly committed it to memory, she readied herself for another reading by gulping air and tensing her shoulders.
EAT AT YOUR OWN RISK
By A. W. Wodyski
Has chef Elizabeth Johnson ever met a cliché she hasn’t liked? Her basic French restaurant, Luella’s, stands as a museum to all French stereotypes—even the service was rude, though I sensed that was from incompetence rather than Francophile superiority. Black-and-white photos of the Eiffel Tower evoked generic Ikea art rather than trendy bistro decor, and bottles sprouting candles seemed to think they were Chianti, not Bordeaux. Too-long white linens draped too-small tables, adding the danger of toppling the table’s contents to the dining experience. I caught flashes of a bright kitchen behind silver doors, often eerily still from lack of to and fro.
I arrived on a moderately busy Wednesday, midway through service. The buzzy dining room seemed comforting at first, until I realized the hissing undercurrent was coming from the staff gathered near the coffee machine while their guests shuffled dirty plates and empty glasses around their tables.
Eventually a server found me, took my order, and scuttled away. As per my custom on first visits, I ordered the first item under each category. I believe these should represent the best a restaurant has to offer, showcasing the chef’s creativity and execution. My expectations weren’t high when their showcase pieces consisted of a seared foie gras topped with a Bordeaux reduction, a toasted-goat-cheese salad, traditional sole meunière, and a lemon soufflé. Little did I know my low expectations gave Luella’s too much credit.
It’s important to note good French food elevates the ingredients to a higher level. Exceptional French food transcends time and space, taking you on a gastronomical journey to a higher plane. It explores nuances and underdeveloped flavor notes in the ingredients; the final product becomes infinitely more than the sum of its parts. Alas, the only journey you’ll take after sampling the French food at Luella’s is to the restroom.
My early courses were passable but had a distracted air, as if the chef preparing them was watching the Food Network in the kitchen, hoping for helpful tips. The foie gras, an adequate slab, seared for flavor and topped with a decent wine reduction, would have been much improved with some crusty bread to smear it on, but my basket seemed to have gotten lost in the twenty feet between my table and the swinging silver doors.
The salad was a reasonable re-creation of something I can make in my own kitchen, and often do. The toasted goat cheese, crisply breaded in crumbs and warm through the center, sat atop lightly dressed spring greens, the kind found in clear plastic containers in the organic produce section. The vinaigrette was savory yet pedestrian. I’d expect the same thing from a bottle of Newman’s Own.
At this point in my meal, kept company by my dirty appetizer and salad plates, I waited and waited and waited for my entrée to arrive. At last, the sole meunière, a traditionally simple and elegant dish of Dover sole sautéed and topped with a butter sauce made of capers and lemon, arrived after an eternity in restaurant time (about 30 minutes after the salad). The chef somehow managed to serve it both charred and raw, a feat a more talented chef couldn’t do on purpose. The capers flecked the sauce like moldy Tic Tacs dropped on the floor, random and grim, lolling about in an underreduced liquid, sharp with uncooked alcohol. When I found a seemingly properly cooked bite, the fish tasted of cindery hate and cheap wine.
After I choked down as much dinner as possible, there was only one way to end the meal with my dignity (and intestines) intact. I requested the check and left the cash on the table rather than wait another interminable second for a waiter working toward the world record in slow service.
Named after a beloved grandmother (cloyingly noted on the menu), Luella’s failed to conjure images of a sweet grandma, passing down hallowed recipes with kindness and love. Instead, I was left with the picture of a wizened wicked stepmother bringing these dishes to a family reunion, still trying to off her beautiful stepdaughter.
You’ve been warned.
“Brutal” did not sufficiently describe the review’s vitriol. Lou took a long swig from her nearly empty pint, the faintly fruity liquid cooling the burning tears. A naked hand clung firmly to the worn glass. Wavy, rumpled brown hair half covered her face; her simple white T-shirt, wrinkled and stained, matched her disheveled hair. Her cheeks glowed red from staring down the shit storm known as her life (and maybe from the drinks). Her shoulders and back slumped, bearing the weight of an invisible globe. She’d hoped for a review, knowing Luella’s food and service were impeccable. It was just her luck Wodyski had picked her one off day to visit the restaurant.
When she’d arrived at work today, Sue had handed her the review and fifty dollars followed by a terse “I’ve got tonight.”
Lou had read the review as Sue watched her closely.
More than anything, she was embarrassed she hadn’t kept it together enough to work that night. Lou had shaken her head and said, “No. I can work, Sue. I’m not that pathetic. It’s one bad review.”
“I’m not saying this as an employee; I’m saying this as your best friend. You’ve earned a night off. I’ll join you after we close if you’re still standing.”
Having learned to listen to Sue’s good advice, she caved and left for her favorite pub, sucking down pints of cider—the good stuff. Nice and dry, the kind you’d find in a good English pub with a long, wooden bar worn smooth from centuries of old men in tweed drinking their daily pints—not the sweet crap with the varmint on the label. Her fourth pint would soon need refilling, but her rage and humiliation had started to mellow. Jerry already had her keys with instructions to call her a cab. No use adding a DUI to the smoldering heap her life had become the last few days. Yep, she planned to numb the pain with a cider-based anesthesia.
• • • • •
Al shoved open the pub’s heavy wooden doors and strode through with the confident swagger of a World Cup champion returning to his hometown. He was ready for a celebratory drink. The food section’s Friday edition peeked out from under his arm; a review by A. W. Wodyski headlined “Eat at Your Own Risk” dominated the page.
He removed the black fleece jacket he’d purchased at the bleak downtown mall. It was really too warm outside, quite different from how the day started. His shoes still squished a bit from the torrential downpours earlier. Faint red marks on his arm were the only evidence of the hail and icy rain he walked to work in. By noon, the sun shone. Milwaukee weather needed some form of meteorological Prozac. He didn’t mind the damp, chilly weather of London because at least it was consis
tent. The unexpected shifts in temperature and precipitation caused by the lake drove him mental, but it was Friday and his most scathing review to date had just come out. Al looked down the bar for an open stool and couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. He walked forward to join the one person in Milwaukee he’d hoped he would see again.
“Oi! Miss Coconut Cake,” he said as he tucked his paper into his coat pocket.
She turned to look at Al, a tattered paper on the counter in front of her. He pasted what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face. She wavered a little on her bar stool and squinted her eyes at him. Recognition lit on her face.
“Oh, you. Don’t call me that.” Lou turned back to her pint and shoved the paper into her purse as Al slid onto the stool next to her.
The barman walked over as soon as Al sat down.
“What can I get you?”
“I’ll have what the lady’s having,” Al said. The barman went off to pour him a pint of whatever filled her glass.
“Bad day?”
“Youse could say that.”
Miss Coconut Cake watched the bubbles rise in her drink, an adorable hiccup escaping her lips.
Al grabbed the pint the barman set in front of him and took a sip, then looked at her with surprise.
“Cider? Quite good cider. In Milwaukee? I thought this was the land of malty goodness.”
Annoyed, she scowled. “Yes, you’re drinking really good cider . . . in Milwaukee. Don’t be too shocked. We’re more than just beer and cheese.”
“Right, I hear the sausages are quite good, too.” Al gave a little smirk. “You from here?”
“Born ’n’ raised. You?”
“Just passing through.”
She raised her eyebrow, prompting for more details. Al leaned toward her.
“Work. I have to prove myself here first.”
“What do you do?”
Al paused, looked at the two college guys walking through the door, each wearing the local uniform of plaid shirt, jeans, and worn baseball cap.
He took a deep breath and said, “Write.”
The Coincidence of Coconut Cake Page 5