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 annoying. 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