Dan took such pleasure in eating her food—and she took pleasure in feeding him. He had reminded her of why she had wanted to run a restaurant in the first place. She wasn’t simply striving for perfection, though no one wanted to be a chef without reaching for that far-off star. She was providing people with the simple indulgence of a delicious meal that they didn’t have to cook themselves, brought to them by courteous servers. Dan reminded her that cooking for the ones you love was giving them a gift, not just keeping them alive. She could be a chef seeking perfection and also the family cook providing warmth.
When she’d been around him, she’d felt a sense of permanence. She hadn’t known love would comfort and excite her at the same time, or that her heart would beat faster and her blood race, but her nerves would settle. More than permanence, comfort and excitement, when she was around Dan, she had believed a family and a dream job was within her grasp. It would be possible because they would be working toward it together.
Perhaps that was the most frustrating thing about Dan and his critiquing job. The two of them had faced disaster together and they’d worked well as a team. If she could believe in love, she could believe that they’d shared a subconscious communication. Even when Tilly was feeling humiliated as she learned about the gossip column, as soon as Steve had revealed himself, Dan had gone after him. He’d known his role that night, just as she’d known hers.
The past month had been a roller coaster. A bad review—new low, no faith in her dream. Meeting Dan—new high, nothing but faith in her dreams. He’d been at Babka, for her and with her, as she worked through the fallout from his bad review to keep old customers and gain new ones.
When he’d promised nothing about the rat would make his website, she’d trusted him and he hadn’t let her down.
Then had come the boot off the cliff. She was no longer on a roller coaster, but one of those endless free-fall rides. She kept falling and falling and falling without any ground to break her bones when she hit, because her hole had no bottom.
She hadn’t lost faith only in her dreams. It was worse. She no longer had faith in herself.
Tilly had trusted two men and both had betrayed her trust. What else was she wrong about?
Her mind was like the blades of a food processor. Around and around and around she went. Cutting and chopping and mixing, bits of memories flinging out against the acrylic bowl. Dan fixing her sink. Steve, her reliable kitchen messenger, bringing her news of Dan waiting for her. Dan bringing her a pot of chocolate mint. Steve swearing he was clean. Dan trapping a rat and saving Babka from closing.
A gigantic finger would hit the pulse button and all those emotions would stop and start and stop and start. Of course she could trust Dan. Of course she could trust her own judgment. Her dreams were cracked, but still fixable. But before she could latch on to these happy thoughts, the finger would hit Pulse and the memories would be sent flinging around the bowl again.
Round and round and round she goes. Where she stops, nobody knows.
Tilly was exhausted. Every last cell in her body was sick and tired of these mind games. She’d managed to finish the dinner service at Healthy Food without incident, but only because most of the people who came in knew why she was back home and not working at Babka. Even the Saturday-night college kids knew. The Twitter hashtag of her review had been revived and the conversation was active again.
Everyone was nice about it. The college kids looked ready to make some jokes, but there were enough uniformed police filling their plates at the buffet for them to keep any rude comments quiet. Renia was right about Jan’s image of himself as a white knight. He was falling over himself to be kind, attentive and understanding.
“No Polonia would ever have done this to you, Tilly,” he told her with wide, innocent eyes. “Meier, he’s German, right? You can’t trust him. You should stick with your own.”
She smiled blankly and ignored him. Jan couldn’t help it if his hope was misplaced.
Tilly collapsed into bed after service was over, but sleep was elusive. All she did was toss and turn. What if agreeing to the Sun-Times article was a mistake? The Cuisinart was up and running around in her brain again. Physically drained but too emotionally keyed up to sleep, Tilly wandered into her mother’s kitchen and turned on the computer to look up Frank O’Malley. Again.
Imbir snubbed her when she returned home on Monday. Candace had checked on him on Saturday and Sunday, but Imbir’s huffy walk and refusal to sit anywhere but on the tile in the bathroom was a sign. Candace’s periodic feeding hadn’t been enough.
His indignation didn’t last long. Imbir soon decided sitting on the cold, hard tile being angry was not nearly as pleasant as sitting on Tilly’s warm lap being petted. His purr rumbled through her thighs and his nails pricked at her shorts. As he kneaded his happiness, Tilly wondered what it would be like to go from scowling to forgiving so quickly.
I’m sick of those stupid doubts. I’m sick of myself. I can decide to get on with my life and keep fighting for Babka, or I can sit and sulk.
Poof. The thoughts that had been tormenting her all weekend were gone. Not completely, but at least the food processor in her head was turned off. If she pushed, she could unplug the damn thing. Maybe not stick it back in the cabinet where it belonged, but at least silence it for the moment.
She would trust herself.
Frank O’Malley was an older Irishman with a wrinkled, grandfatherly face and bright blue eyes. They met at Babka on Tuesday, while the repairman fixed the restaurant’s large window. Frank had an easy way about him. Rather than jumping directly into the questions on his notepad, the kindly looking man with his only-in-Chicago nasally Irish accent talked with her about city neighborhoods, growing up with a strong cultural identity and shared funny stories of his immigration over forty years earlier.
By the time Frank started asking her questions, Tilly was treating him like a favorite uncle. She never completely forgot he was a reporter, but she allowed herself to be led into expressing her personal doubts and fears. She knew from her research that Frank liked David and Goliath stories. His favorite type of piece was one on a local businessman or nonprofit struggling against the odds to make good. By the time Tilly had read to the end of each piece, she was ready to drive out to Lamont, Oak Park, Clearing, Edison Park, Evanston and Forest Glen to support the little guy trying to hold steady in a shifting world. Frank’s subjects never looked deluded for trying to hold on. The way he wrote about them, they were hardworking people striving for the American Dream.
Frank believed the people he wrote about were what made the city work. His articles wouldn’t win any Pulitzer Prizes, but they captured Tilly’s heart and reminded her why Chicago was such a great city.
His article wouldn’t save Babka—only Tilly could do that—but it sure would help. Frank could help if she trusted him. Tilly could trust him if she trusted herself and, as of last night, Tilly trusted herself again.
After Frank turned off his tape recorder and put down his pencil, Tilly went to the bar and got them both a drink.
“It’s not Guinness.” She pushed the coffee-colored liquid with a creamy head across the table to him. “But I think this Polish stout will serve.”
Frank took a long drink, finishing almost half the glass before setting the beer down and wiping off his foam mustache.
“I didn’t know the Poles had it in them to make this kind of beer.” He took another drink. “Not quite as roasted as I’d like and maybe a bit weak, but good enough.”
She smiled. Frank had been eyeing the bar with its many bottles and taps since he’d walked in and sat down. “Come back for dinner sometime. Your meal will be on the house.”
“You haven’t read my article yet.”
“I’ve read almost everything else by you I could find. I trust you.”
“Hard words for a woman to say after being sucker punched like you were.”
Tilly’s answer was a sip of her beer.
“Do you know why your runner turned against you?” Frank asked.
“Karl sent me a text saying to call him and he’d tell me, but he’s been in meetings all day. I haven’t heard back from him.”
Frank pushed his empty glass at her. “I’ll trade you another beer for some information.”
Tilly raised her eyebrow. “I thought it was a little weak.”
He shrugged. “It’s a Polish restaurant, not an Irish pub. My expectations are different.”
She rose from the table with a chuckle and poured Frank another glass. “This one’s from Finland.”
“I thought you only served Polish here.”
“I like having beers on the menu most people are unfamiliar with. They think they know what they’re getting, coming into a Polish restaurant in Chicago. I like to surprise them.”
He took a drink. “I hate to insult my host’s heritage, but this one’s better.”
“From your comments, I thought you’d enjoy it.” She took another sip of her beer and waited for Frank to tell her another story.
“Your runner is the nephew of the man who owns this building. He’s worked in restaurants before, and been reliable when he wasn’t using or hustling.”
Tilly knew all of this. The other chefs she’d talked to had said Steve was great, if he could keep off drugs.
“Of course, users are hard to control and the boy sold out his uncle the moment he was confronted with an interrogation room.” Frank chuckled. His grandfatherly air hadn’t gone away completely, but now Frank seemed like a favorite uncle because instead of giving you candy, he told you things your parents didn’t want you to know. “Maybe the Chicago P.D. doesn’t deserve its reputation as thugs, but it sure must come in handy sometimes. A friend of mine down at the station said all it took was Detective Parker pounding his fist on the table for that boy to start talking.”
“Why?”
“Why did he talk?” Frank looked puzzled for a moment as he took another drink. “Oh, you mean why did your landlord screw you over?”
Frank took a deep breath and settled in for his story. “Like all good screwings, this one was about sex. Your landlord has an expensive wife and an even more expensive girlfriend. He needed money and has been looking for new tenants for some of his buildings. He found one for yours and they wanted the building in December. Steve was supposed to find a way to get you out fast, without costing him extra money.” Frank looked at her approvingly. “You had a pretty smart lease, cheap rent and a high penalty if he broke it. Good job.”
Tilly gave a half smile. “It was a bad real estate market and one of Karl’s friends helped me negotiate.” Since Frank seemed to know everything, she asked him the one question that had been burning in her brain—was Dan’s review coincidence or planned? “The cat and dog?”
“A prank pulled by the runner, who swore he didn’t know Dan was going to be here. The animals were released on purpose, but the review was accidental. Steve knew Dan was a food writer, which is why he salted the food, but he didn’t realize Dan was The Eater.”
“What’s going to happen to my building?” She could recover her sanity and her livelihood only to lose her building.
“Since the wife now knows about the girlfriend and wants a divorce, your landlord has even bigger money troubles, but the tenant isn’t interested in the building anymore. Your landlord found a buyer instead and I think you’ll like him fine.”
“Who is it?”
“I’m not sayin’.” Frank crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the chair.
“Come on, Frank, it’s my livelihood. We spent over an hour talking about supporting the little guy. I’m the little guy here.”
Frank shook his head. “Tilly, I’ve been a reporter in Chicago for longer than you’ve been alive. I know when to keep my mouth shut and when to spill my guts.”
Tilly humphed. “This is my restaurant and my life. I think I have a right to know.”
“Karl may tell you. For all his glad-handing and public persona, he remains a trusted neutral in Chicago politics by being impossible to read. His only reaction when someone asked about you was to say, ‘My sister can take care of herself,’ with that wax-museum face of his.” Frank leaned forward, his elbows thunking loudly on the table. “But I like you and I’ll give you some unsolicited advice.”
She gave him a long hard look before saying, “Okay.”
“You’ve had a tough weekend and some people close to you have treated you pretty badly. Dan should probably have to sweat a little—the squirming will teach the boy a lesson—but he’s a good man. You seem like you’ve got your head screwed on right. Whatever you decide to do about him, trust yourself and I think you’ll come out fine.”
“Is this the reporter talking?”
“I can’t separate myself from my job. Not possible. But all of us in the dying print business know one another. And we know who to trust.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ON WEDNESDAY, Tilly couldn’t escape the feeling of déjà vu dogging her steps. It had started in the morning as Imbir climbed on her bed, whining for food and nudging her head with his chin. The eerie sensation followed her as she drove through the streets of Chicago from her apartment to Babka in her old hatchback.
Sitting around the table with Candace, who had agreed to come early, the sense of déjà vu stopped following her and hit her on the head. They were waiting for Karen. On an earlier Wednesday, after an earlier disaster, she had been sitting around the table waiting for Karen when they got Dan’s terrible review. Again, they were waiting for Karen to come in with a newspaper. Tilly hadn’t trusted herself not to peek at the article. She wished she could have all her staff here for the reading of Frank’s article, but she couldn’t wait until family meal to see what he’d written. If the article was good, they needed to make sure the restaurant was prepared.
Babka was everything Tilly had ever wanted in a restaurant. Her staff made it possible, but it had been her dream and their livelihood. Over time, her staff had made Babka more than a paycheck; they had made her dream their dream. Their bar was interesting because Candace researched unusual Northern and Eastern European beers and wine, as well as creating unique cocktails with a Polish feel to them. Karen made the dining room function without a hitch. Karen, and the front-of-house staff, made sure all customers were welcomed and appreciated. They answered any questions about the food and always took the time to learn how to pronounce the Polish name for each dish. They wanted Babka to succeed as much as Tilly did, and not just because Babka was their job. They wanted it to succeed because they loved the restaurant, too.
They turned as Karen clattered into the kitchen and rushed through the doors into the dining room, the Sun-Times over her head. She slid into her seat, shoving the paper across the table at Tilly.
“Do we open the champagne yet?” She turned to Candace, her eyes wide with innocence.
First were the giggles, then a couple of snorts until finally the tension around the table disappeared in a fit of laughter. Déjà vu hadn’t been dogging only Tilly. Her staff’s mood had quivered like jelly. Karen’s easy reference to the last time they had sat around the table waiting to read an article about Babka relaxed everyone.
“Well,” Tilly said as she reached for the paper and flipped through it until she found the article. “Shall we see what it says?
“Oh, my!” Tilly laid the paper on the table. Accompanying the story was a picture. Tilly stood in Babka’s kitchen in her chef’s uniform, kneading dough, her hair under her white kerchief. Renia—according to the photo credit, Frank had gotten the shot from her sister—had caught her with a slight smile on her face and flour on her cheek. “Do you want to eat food prepared by that chef?”
Candace laughed. “You look hot in that picture.”
“What?” She remembered the day the photo had been taken. Renia had been in the restaurant playing with a new camera lens. The kitchen was always hot, but it had been particularly
hot that day and her face shimmered with perspiration.
“It’s true. There are other ways to a man’s heart besides his stomach and the I-dare-you look on your face appeals to all of them. I don’t even care what the article says. The photo alone will get us some business.”
“Thanks,” Tilly said, pleased with Candace’s compliment. The photo looked like another Tilly, the Tilly she had resolved to be. Candace saw something sexual in the picture, but Tilly saw a woman whose knowing smile meant she was confident in her success. Renia had taken the picture after Dan’s review and the Taste, before Dan and his friend had come into the restaurant, when Tilly had been feeling pretty down about her chances of success.
But no one would know it from the picture. Renia’s photographs always managed to capture some hidden truth. Tilly’s hidden truth, so deeply buried she didn’t even know it was there, was that Babka was going to succeed. The article in the Sun-Times didn’t matter. Dan’s review didn’t matter. Steve didn’t matter. Babka would succeed because the woman Renia had photographed would prevail. She would stick it out, day in and day out, until it happened.
“Are you going to read the article?” Karen interrupted Tilly’s thoughts, pulling her back to the present.
“Yes, of course. ‘Local chef battles for culinary success.’” Tilly read the entire article to her staff. Frank had started with the death of her father, brother and grandfather. “‘After the tragedy, young Tila’s grandmother took her under her wing in the kitchen. Tila Milek learned Polish cooking from one of the rocks of Chicago’s Polish community.’” He breezed through her education and concentrated most of the article on the trials of the past couple of months, minus Paulie the Rat. “‘Through it all, Tila has maintained a high sense of morale in her staff through her passion for cooking and her delicious food. While she is nervous about the new owner of her building, she is cautiously hopeful Babka will be another brick in the foundation of Chicago’s Polonia.’”
Silence followed Tilly’s reading of the article.
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