2. Sylvia
SYLVIA
T he incredible thing isn’t that Merrie’s new bistro, The Carpe Diem Café, opened to acclaim.
Of course, it did. Her cooking is amazing.
It’s not surprising that our brand new socials are blowing up either, not with the rave reviews from food critics at both major Toronto newspapers, as well as some smaller ones.
Rafe Rossetti, who may be Merrie’s biggest fan and a popular influencer, has been waxing rhapsodic all over the internet ever since we pushed him out the door on Thursday night.
It was a perfect launch. The bistro was busy but not overwhelmed.
Local vintner Mackenzie Rhodes stepped up to do tasting flights of her company’s wines, and we even had some star power with rock star Luke Jones in attendance.
Luke has been all over the media talking us up.
So, it’s not amazing that we had a great night. Even the weather cooperated.
Whether that sticks or not is a whole ’nuther thing. We’re located in the tiny town of Empire with its infinitesimal population – far, far away from the bright lights of the city. Foot traffic will be a challenge, as will discoverability, which is why the astonishing thing is happening.
Merrie and I are arguing .
I’ve known Merrie for ten years, give or take.
She plucked me out of the ranks of waitresses four restaurants ago, when she was chef but not owner, and we just clicked.
Merrie is passionate, creative, mercurial and larger than life.
She cooks like a goddess and is inventive beyond belief.
She’s also opinionated, stubborn, fiercely loyal and often, just Too Much.
I adore her. She’s my complete opposite. We have never fought, mostly because I just roll with whatever she says.
But not today.
It’s different this time. We’re officially partners, and that means I get a say.
“You’re doing it again,” I tell her. I’m setting tables for Saturday lunch while she’s doing prep. It’s just the two of us and with the open kitchen, we can have a conversation – or an argument – without a lot of effort. “You’re going to mess up everything. Again.”
“I am not going to mess up again.” She’s grim and chopping hard, possibly because she knows I’m right.
“Yes, you are. You can’t change every item on the menu every day.”
“I’ve done it before!”
“And you’ve alienated customers before.” I watch her expression turn mutinous.
“I’m a creative genius. I won’t apologize for brilliance.”
Merrie is not modest, but you might have noticed that already.
“You don’t have to, but you have to offer some consistency. People have to know that when they come to The Carpe Diem Café, they’ll find something they want to eat on the menu. ”
“Everything is good!”
“But it can’t all be unusual. It can’t change all the time!”
“I think the roast boar will be amazing with kim chee and I’m going to prove it to you.”
“Maybe so, but not everyone is that adventurous. You need to keep some standards on the menu all the time. Steak frites. A quiche with soup or salad. A roast chop with gratin and seasonal vegetables. A stew with orzo or lentils. You don’t even have a duck confit on the menu yet and that’s a cornerstone of bistro cooking.
Bistro. Remember? Our plan is bistro . I should never have agreed to the mock porchetta on the opening night menu.
Once you head to Tuscany, all bets are off. ”
“The mock porchetta is Rafe’s favourite. When my biggest fan drives all the way from Toronto for dinner, I’m going to make sure he’s happy.”
“Rafe loves everything you make.”
“No harm in being sure. Have you seen our socials?”
“I have. And the message is mixy. I want it crisp and clear. B-I-S-T-R-O.”
Merrie flings out her hands. “The whole point of having a daily menu is to change it every day, to respond to seasonal opportunities.” She points to the sign outside the front door. “Farm to table. Seasonal eating. That’s what we do here!”
“So do it, but limit the changes. Play with the appetizers but don’t mess with the mains. Bistro cooking is about comfort food.”
“I’m smothering beneath these restrictions,” she mutters, giving the soup a vicious stir.
“Mix up the seasonal vegetables,” I suggest. “Change the carb with the grilled chop from gratin to buttered orzo. You change the quiche ingredients and the soup every day.”
“It’s not enough.”
“Do one special entrée per day.”
“Not enough. ”
“It should be. It has to be. People need to be confident that they’ll find something on the menu that they like, or they won’t come back. I need you to keep the keel level until our reputation is established.” And beyond, but we’ll argue about that if we ever get there.
Her eyes narrow, making her look unpredictable. “People should be willing to step out of their comfort zone in terms of food. It’s one meal! Make it an adventure!”
“Not everyone goes out for a gastronomical experiment.”
“Barbarians,” she mutters. “They should seize the day.” She casts me a stern look. “Get it?”
Of course, I do. It’s the name of the damn place. “I didn’t realize it was a manifesto.”
“It’s a lifestyle choice,” she says fiercely and I sigh.
“You expect too much from people, Merrie.”
“While you expect too little of them.”
I pivot to look at her. “How did this come to be about me? You’re changing the menu too soon and that may jeopardize the survival of this restaurant. We’ve been there and done that. Let’s try a different approach.”
“Boring.”
“Consistent. That’s all I’m saying, Merrie.”
There is a long moment of silence, which means either I’ve convinced her or she’s mustering her arguments. I’ll take door number two.
“The question is why,” she says softly.
“Because people like predictability…”
“No, why are you arguing with me about it? Since when do you care?”
“I just do!”
“Ha!” She shakes a wooden spoon at me. I know it’s her favorite one so this is important.
I fold my arms across my chest and stare back at her, ready to battle this one until I win.
“You never care. You just want to keep on keeping on. What’s different this time? Why does it matter enough to argue?”
I stop to consider that. She has a point. “I don’t want to move again. I don’t think it’s good for Sierra.”
“No,” Merrie says with a shake of her head that makes her red curls jump. “This is not about your daughter. I won’t let it be about your daughter. Not this time.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you never ask for anything for yourself, Sylvia. It’s always about everyone else.
You ask for Sierra. You ask for me. You ask for the goodness of the planet and the world at large.
” She shakes the spoon vigorously at me.
“But you never ever ask for a single thing for yourself. So, if you don’t want the menu to change here and you’re willing to fight about it, something has to be different.
And I’m hoping that it’s because you want something for yourself.
” She abandons the spoon in the stock pot, props her hands on her hips and glares at me.
“Tell me what it is or I’ll change the entire menu every hour on the hour, no matter what you say. ”
I know she means it. Merrie doesn’t bluff.
I look around the bistro, at the work we’ve done renovating it, at the cozy funky vibe and the wonderful smell of Merrie’s cooking.
I look out the window and there are two couples reading the menu posted on the door, considering their options more than an hour before we open.
This is a good thing and I want it to last.
“I like it here,” I admit.
“Good start,” Merrie cedes. “Why?”
“Can’t I like my hometown?”
“The fact that you left it sixteen years ago and never came back does suggest otherwise.”
“I’m glad to be here for Una.” My grandmother, it turns out, has cancer, though she never told me.
She told Luke and that’s part of the reason he facilitated the opening of the restaurant.
Evidently, he understood that Una would never ask for help (that’s pretty obvious) and he guessed that I would come with Merrie (also obvious, since we’ve been hand-in-glove for close to a decade) so he meddled in both Merrie’s professional future and my personal situation.
The strange thing is that I don’t mind. I’m grateful to him because he didn’t have to bother.
And I know that the nudge he gave me is the one I needed. It feels good to be back.
Really good.
“Something else,” Merrie sings softly.
“I think it will be good for Sierra to be in a smaller town. She’ll have more freedom, and build a closer relationship with Una.”
“Something else,” Merrie sings a little louder.
“And I like it here.”
“I want more!” She flails the spoon again. “Say it all! Sing me the lullaby of what Sylvia wants.”
I’m just annoyed enough to do as she asks.
“I would like to stay in Empire. I didn’t come back on my own initiative, but now that we’re here, I like it.
A lot. I remember what I loved about it.
I want to stay and that means I want you to take it easy on changing out the menu, so that we can build a reliable clientele and establish the business here for more than a single week. ”
“Hallelujah!” Merrie cries, raising her hands (and the dripping spoon) toward the ceiling. “Sylvia Kincaid has finally asked for something!” She lowers her voice. “And so I cede, because you make sense.” Then she smiles and I brace for the negotiation. “Three new dishes per day?”
“One,” I counter.
“Two!” she suggests .
“One this first week and we’ll see how it goes. And you will never ever discontinue the steak frites.”
“It’s so boring.”