Love, Life and Linguine - By Melissa Jacobs Page 0,65
Broad Street, Nelson follows me down the street. I watch him look at the different theaters that line the Avenue of the Arts.
“Here we are.” I lead Nelson inside a building.
“We’re going into a restaurant?” Nelson asks.
I don’t answer, but lead him through the dining room to the kitchen. Nelson’s head swivels as he looks at the different cooking stations, the modern equipment, and all the food lying around in different states of readiness. “Nelson,” I say. “This is Nicco.”
Nelson turns and looks at Nick. Nick smiles. “Nice to meet you, Nelson.”
“I’ve seen you on TV,” Nelson says.
Nick nods. “I hear that you’re a good cook. Do you want to come work for me?”
Nelson’s jaw drops.
“I know you haven’t been to culinary school,” Nick says. “But you can learn on the job. I’d start you out doing prep work and learning the different terms for cuts. Tour-nade, chiffonade, all that. If you do well there, I’ll move you up through the different cooking stations. Salad, fry, grill. Think of it as an apprenticeship.”
“For real?”
“For real, man,” Nick says.
Nelson clears his throat. “I’ll work real hard for you, Chef.”
Nick nods, acknowledging the respectful title. “Can you work nights?” Nick asks. “What time is the last train?”
“I’ll start right now, Chef.” Nelson starts to take off his coat.
Nick laughs. “Tomorrow is fine. Be here at three o’clock.”
“Yes, sir.” Nelson offers his hand. “Thank you, Chef.”
Nick shakes his hand. “You’re welcome.”
I turn to Nick. “Thank you, Chef Nicco.”
“Thank you, Mimi. For everything.”
Accounts Payable
“Knock, knock,” I say as I enter the office at Hunter Farm. It’s a wildly hot Saturday afternoon. I step into the office’s air-conditioning and shut the door behind me.
“You’re not big on calling ahead, are you?” Joe says from his desk.
“I didn’t want you to tell me not to come. Or give you a chance to hide.”
Joe sorts papers on his desk. “What can I do for you?”
From my purse, I take a Café Louis business check. “I need to settle the restaurant’s account.”
Joe frowns. “You’re not going to order from the farm anymore?”
“No. I’m closing Café Louis.”
Joe looks at me from under his baseball cap. He looks surprised, which I anticipated. He also looks sympathetic, which I didn’t anticipate. I offer him a small smile.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “Tough decision?”
“Yes. But it’s what is best for my family.”
Joe nods, then turns to a filing cabinet. He removes a stack of invoices, then punches numbers into a calculator. “Three hundred dollars and twenty-three cents.”
“Okay. Do you have a pen?”
Joe gestures to a pile on his desk. I walk to the desk and take hold of a pen, then gesture to the chair opposite the desk. “Is it okay if I…”
“Sure.” Joe watches me sit. I lean on the desk and fill out the check. I’m close enough to smell Joe’s sweat. Which means he can smell the perfume I just happen to be wearing.
“You could have done this over the phone,” he says.
“Yes.” I hand him the check. “But I came to apologize. My charming works better in person.”
Joe smiles. “Thanks. For the check and the apology.”
“I enjoyed spending time with you this summer,” I say. “I liked talking to you. And singing with you. Dancing on the beach with you. And kissing you.”
“You’re right.” Joe takes off his hat, and his hair falls into his face. “Your charming works well in person.”
“Well, could I interest you in the other parts of my personality? Or did my cranky scare you off?”
“I thought I wasn’t a man for all seasons.”
“Farmer Joe, I’d like to see how you hold up in autumn.”
“I think you’ll find that I’m not perishable,” Joe says.
“That’s good.” Should I…
Yes, says the diva.
I agree.
I stand and walk around Joe’s desk. He looks up at me, and I lean forward. I kiss his mouth. The stubble of his beard grazes my cheek. It feels good. I stand straight.
“Was that okay?” I ask.
Joe frowns. Then he puts his hands on my hips and pulls me onto his lap. “This would work better.” He kisses me. He tastes orange.
“Joe?”
“Yeah?”
“When was the last time you were in Europe?”
The Harder Choice
Bette meets me at Café Louis on the morning of the restaurant auction. I haven’t seen her since I blew out of the restaurant after the Asbury Park incident.
“Thanks for coming,” I say as I look at her. Bette looks the same as she always does, although her eyes are sad.
“I didn’t think you’d want to watch the auction,” she