Chapter Thirty-Seven. Riley #2
When I step outside, I gasp. The street surrounding our shack is overflowing with people, and some are people I know from around town, but most of them aren’t.
Total strangers are here to eat the dinner I dreamed up for them.
The waiters encourage people to kick their shoes off at the top of the sand so they can sit barefoot at the tables, and I greet and thank people as they’re seated.
There are far more people than we can possibly seat, so Anthony gives one of the teens a pad of paper and she starts booking out reservations for the rest of the night, while another girl serves cocktails to people who’ve decided to hang around until a table is ready.
I duck into the tiny kitchen with my dads and we start preparing orders as fast as we can, and I don’t stop for hours, until Anthony gently pushes me out of the kitchen and tells me to look at what I’ve made.
The sun has just set and the tide is low, and we have tables going all the way out until the water starts, just like I imagined.
There are candles on each table, and families, friends, and couples are all enjoying long meals over bottles of wine and my food.
My food. I’m gratified to see that plates are being picked clean, and as I stand there, several people on their way out congratulate me.
This is it. This is what I’ve been searching for.
I don’t want to go for a Michelin star in New York or shuck lobsters for eternity.
Making my own creative menus, and magical nights on the beach that bring out the parts of my hometown that I love the most, this is it.
I’ll get to be as creative as I want, because I can change the menu every week, and I can imagine it being a spot that locals come back to and tourists make a point of coming to.
I can already see a million ways I can improve and expand on tonight, but it’s okay, because I feel the most calming sense of clarity that I’m going to keep doing this, so I have the time to get it right.
I go back inside, grinning with my whole face, unable to stop. “People like it,” I say needlessly.
“Honey, people fucking love it,” Anthony says, looking up from the pasta he’s plating. “I fucking love it. You’re going to need to hire chefs so Dad and I can have a date night here next week instead of cooking.”
I lean against the counter, where my dads can’t see my face, and press my lips together tightly to try to avoid crying.
I’ve never felt this. I’ve never been so happy that I’m crying, and I’m so grateful right now and I wish Luna were here, because if she had never told me she believed in me and called me out on not going after anything I want, I would never be here right now.
I’d just be making my two hundredth lobster roll of the day, and I love her for being so honest with me even though she was being ruthless—in fact, because she’s ruthless—and I miss her and I don’t know how to tell her that when I’m still so mad at her.
I had worried that the second weekend of dinner service wouldn’t get as strong a turnout, but if anything, it’s even more popular than the first. We had people asking for reservations all week, but I didn’t want to make it into the kind of place that you could only go to if you got a reservation a month in advance.
Instead we took four reservations for each time slot and kept the rest as walk-in spots.
I did an entirely different menu this week, still focusing on freshly caught local seafood, but with Greek influences rather than Italian.
The cocktails and wines are different as well, but everything else about the actual setup is the same.
I take care to pop out here and there more this week to take videos and thank people for coming, and I made a batch of chocolate baklava and cut up tiny pieces to give people with the check so that everyone ends with a sweet treat even if they didn’t order dessert.
Each night that we do this makes me feel so alive. I love actually cooking the food, of course, but more than anything I love testing and putting together the perfect menu and seeing what a special night it creates for the people eating here.
My dads and I are preparing the dishes of a Santorini-style lobster pasta; lakerda, a pickled bonito dish; and mydia, a dish of mussels steamed in a tomato-based broth, when one of the waitresses comes running into the kitchen, breathless, her eyes wide.
“Riley. We need you outside.”
“What’s wrong?” I can tell that something’s up; I can see it on her face.
“Did we set a table too close to the water?” I’ve been worried that if we get too close, the water could creep up too far and leave the sand so wet that the table becomes unsteady or guests get splashed more than they want to.
“We just … Come outside please,” she says, already turning around and rushing out. “We may need everyone, actually!” she calls over her shoulder.