2. Sylvia #2
“It’s delicious.” It’s time for flattery, because yes, that works with Merrie.
“You always choose the tenderest steaks, you have such a good eye, and you always grill them to perfection. Your frites are crisp and golden, with just enough salt, and paired with the mixed green salad, it might just be the ideal meal. Your aioli takes it to the next level. I want people to know that the perfection of that meal is right here, all the time, just waiting for them to stop in and order it. No matter what else is on the menu, they can always have awesome steak frites. It will keep them coming back.”
Merrie sighs, but she’s smiling a little. “It’s not that good,” she protests, but this is false modesty. She wants more.
“It’s brilliant. Didn’t you always tell me that a hanger steak is the ultimate test of a chef’s skill in the kitchen? Didn’t you tell me that chefs order steak frites on their days off?”
“I did. It’s true.”
“How can you even consider the possibility of disappointing anyone?”
She laughs. “All right. One dish. Can it be the boar and kim chee?”
“Yes, but not the first week. You need to add your duck confit, I don’t care what’s with it.”
“I can’t get more lamb chops,” she complains. “They sold really well and I’ll run out tonight. That gives me room for another addition.”
“Make that roast leg of lamb with garlic, the one that drips juices all over the gratin cooking underneath. Seven-hour lamb. The smell of that always brings people off the street.”
“I cede,” she says with a nod. “When a person only wants one thing, she should get it, after all. ”
“And think about those roast chickens again, the golden crispy ones with the rosemary and garlic packed underneath the skin,” I add, solidifying my triumph.
“Boring!” Merrie calls cheerfully.
“Set a limit. Make six every night and no more. I guarantee we’ll sell them out once people taste them.
There’s no take-out chicken place in this town,” I remind her when she opens her mouth to argue.
“And the drive to Havelock to get a rotisserie chicken from the grocery is too long for it to stay warm. Cornerstones, Merrie. We need some cornerstones.”
“Boat anchors.”
“Cornerstones.”
“What if they don’t sell out?”
“You tell me. Chicken noodle soup. Chicken vol au vent . Grilled chicken on the next day’s pizza.”
“Chicken banh mi,” she counters. “Chicken pho.”
Merrie is on an Asian kick since we got to Empire, no doubt because of her connecting with Phil Chang who (sometimes) opens the Golden Lotus down the street.
Not bistro, but maybe she can make it work at lunch.
“Chicken enchiladas,” I say, feeding her imagination in another direction. “With salsa verde and lime crema.”
We’re joking back and forth, making up chicken dishes when someone taps on the glass door. It’s not quite eleven, but I see that it’s Sierra. No doubt she’s excited for her first shift. She jumps up and down, waving at me, even though I’m already headed to the door.
She wants to make some money, and I can only support that.
Since Merrie and I are maxed out, Merrie suggested that Sierra could hostess, taking reservations and seating people, starting with Saturday lunch.
I wasn’t any older than Sierra is now when I got a job in a restaurant, so I have no space to argue .
Funny that I started in this same space, when it was Leon and Dotty’s diner.
Sierra has been heading back into the city each week to finish up the school year there – staying with her friend Lila during the week, then coming to Empire on the weekend.
She’s been taking the bus Saturday morning so I could pick her up at the depot in Havelock, but this week, she caught it Friday afternoon.
Una started her chemo treatment in Havelock this week so her ride, Muriel Jackson, picked up Sierra today, too.
I feel like the ringleader at a circus with so many things to coordinate.
Merrie regularly tells me to relax, and that everything will be fine. So far, she’s been right.
Sierra, of course, says I should teach her to drive and get her a car.
Not quite yet, grasshopper.
“You’re early,” I say, surveying her choices. “That’s good.” The make-up is less good, but one step at a time.
My daughter is tall and slender, all of fifteen years old, with attitude to spare.
She has the raven-dark hair and clear blue eyes of all the Cavendish clan, and her eyes are thick with dark lashes.
As well as having most of the money in town, they score genetically, too.
She also has the Cavendish confidence and a social surety that I’ll never possess.
I love watching her charge head-first into everything.
My beautiful girl just might change the world.
“Luke said I’m a fast learner.” Sierra is taking guitar lessons from Luke each Saturday.
“Well, you are. Do you like it?”
“Yes! Maybe I’ll be a rock star, too.” She spins around at the front of the restaurant, opening her favourite denim jacket to show off.
“What do you think?” In lieu of black pants, she’s wearing her black jeans.
My daughter is a good foot taller than me, so I couldn’t lend her a pair that would fit.
I add shopping for those pants to my mental To Do list.
I can live with the black boots and white shirt. “Very tidy, once you tie your hair back and take off your make-up.”
She pouts. “You told me to look French.”
When we talked about her look for today, Sierra said she needed an aesthetic. I said French. “I did. How does that get you black lipstick?”
She smirks, pulls out her phone and shows me a picture of punks in Paris. It could be 1982 from the look of them with their torn Ramones T-shirts and furry boots, the safety pins and the black lipstick, but they’re all preening for their smartphones.
“You know what I meant,” I begin, then notice the twinkle in her eyes. She’s pulling my chain. “The lipstick has to go.”
“I know. I have this pale pink one.” She shows it to me and I nod approval.
“Wait a minute. That’s mine.”
She grins, then swings her bag around and pulls out a pair of flat black lace-ups. “And I’ll change to these.”
“Good choice. The boots will kill you after an hour or two.”
“And the lipstick matches my bra.” She pulls back the blouse to reveal my pale pink bra.
“That’s mine, too!”
She grins, unrepentant. “And it’s nice .” Her tone is ‘go figure’.
“It’s a date bra. It’s supposed to be nice.”
“A date bra,” Merrie murmurs. “There’s a garment that can’t be getting much action. Does it have moth holes yet?”
“I know, right?” Sierra says to her. “It’s like I’m being raised in a convent.”
“Better than being raised by wolves,” Merrie counters .
“It would be worn out if it was in your size,” I tell Merrie and she laughs, unrepentant.
“Dating is so time consuming. I prefer to just get to the good bit.”
“Tell me about the good bits, Aunt Merrie.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I say and we all laugh.
“Better break that one in before it goes out of style,” Merrie counters. “Tick tock, Sylvia.”
“I like this shirt, Mom,” Sierra informs me and I’m not surprised.
It’s a branded one that I scored on sale, and she likes her designer labels.
(The surprise is that she hasn’t claimed it already, but she seems to be late to the cult of the tailored white shirt.) “Even though the sleeves are too short. They look okay rolled up, but I might need one that fits.”
“Big surprise.” I exchange an amused glance with Merrie then point to the washroom. “Lipstick. Hair. Apron, then back here pronto, please.”
She rolls her eyes and I turn to lock the door again.
But the entranceway isn’t empty anymore.
There’s a big guy – tall, broad-shouldered and gorgeous – with a flat of produce on his hip, a guy who looks like he isn’t going away.
He’s wearing a navy T-shirt tight enough to show that there isn’t an ounce of fat on him, with jeans and work boots.
He has a short beard that does exactly nothing to hide that he’s square-jawed and extremely blue-eyed.
He entered silently and must have been standing there, watching and listening to us.
I should tell him that we’re not open yet, but I just stare at him, so shocked that my heart has dropped through the floor.
Because it’s not just any guy. It’s Mike Cavendish.
The meeting I’ve been dreading is happening right now.
I’ve dreamed up a thousand scenarios for this encounter, seeing as I figured it was inevitable.
In each and every one of them, I’m brilliantly articulate, cool and composed.
In one of them, I’m wearing something like the fabulous retro cocktail dress that Daphne Bradshaw wore to our opening night.
In another, I am Daphne Bradshaw, beautiful, aloof, and able to slice men to smithereens with a glance.
In none of them do I stand gaping at Mike like a fish left gasping on the beach.
“Sylvia?” he asks, sounding just about exactly the way I feel, and the familiar rumble of his voice is enough to melt my knees.
Mike .