• • • • •
That night, Luella’s hummed with business. Sue’s head bobbed to the eighties hair band playing on the radio, dipping and turning while she worked the grill station. Her cooking could double as interpretive dance.
“So, you think we’ll get a review soon?” Lou asked.
Sue stopped grooving to give the question her full attention.
“If so, I hope it isn’t that Polish asshat from the paper,” she said.
“You mean A. W. Wodyski? I don’t know. I’d kind of like to hear what he’d come up with. I think we do great food,” Lou countered. “And even a mediocre review from him could be good for business.”
“Lou, we don’t want him anywhere near us. Trust me. We’re better off trying to get positive online reviews.”
“Did you know the Meyers left one at BrewCityReviews? It’s the cutest thing. I can picture them sharing a chair in front of the computer screen, typing together. As of now, it’s the only review we have. At least it’s a good one.”
Sue opened her mouth to respond when Alison sauntered into the kitchen to say a brisk “They’re here” before returning to her base, scanning the dining room for any sign that a guest required assistance. That girl is good, Lou thought. She must be due for a raise.
As Lou pushed open the stainless steel doors separating the kitchen from the restaurant, she caught sight of Otto’s shining head reflecting the dining room’s dim light next to Gertrude’s white hair and beaming face. Gertrude glowed all the time, as if she had a hidden secret waiting to spill into the world. In her eighties, Gertrude probably did have some secrets to life.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Meyer. It’s always so nice to see you.” Lou sat down with them so they didn’t have to look up at her when she stopped by their table.
“Guten Abend, Lou,” said Otto and Gertrude—they even spoke as one.
“Alison mentioned yesterday was difficult,” Gertrude said, patting Lou’s arm softly with her tiny, pale hands, wrinkled but lively.
“Yes. It’s over with Devlin. I feel like I should’ve known something was up.”
“Liebchen, how would you have known? You were here almost every day and night. He doesn’t deserve you.”
“True. But who does?”
Lou’s lips curved ever so slightly as she tried to believe her joke was true.
“You will meet someone who appreciates you for you, scars and all.” Gertrude rubbed one of the many burn marks on Lou’s hands. Lou put her hands in her lap and smiled at Gertrude’s kindness, but she felt as if the odds were against her. Under the table, she rubbed one of the larger scars on her left wrist, feeling the smooth, tight bump. Gertrude pulled Lou’s arm back above the table and held both her hands.
With her watery blue eyes, she stilled Lou’s protests. “Do not hide who you are. These are a nurturer’s hands. Cooking is hard and sometimes painful work, but you do it to share your gift with us. Your cooking improves our lives. Don’t ever be ashamed of who you are.”
Lou’s lips rolled inward, as if she were biting them between her teeth; her brows pushed in and her eyes welled with tears. One dripped down her cheek and plopped onto the white tablecloth.
“Schätzchen, you will be all right,” said Otto, even though he didn’t normally speak up other than a “How do you do?” “You have someone special coming for you, someone who deserves you, someone you can laugh with, cook with, and sleep with.” Otto’s eyebrows waggled and his blue eyes sparkled with his naughty comment.
“You’re right. It’s got to get better.” Lou straightened in her chair and smiled at the Meyers. She still had a great life, full of dear friends and work she was passionate about. One man couldn’t take that away from her.
• CHAPTER SIX •
Lou had another crappy day. Two in one week! She pulled the crumpled paper from her back pocket and smeared it smooth on the bar’s well-worn surface. Even though she’d nearly committed it to memory, she readied herself for another reading by gulping air and tensing her shoulders.
EAT AT YOUR OWN RISK
By A. W. Wodyski
Has chef Elizabeth Johnson ever met a cliché she hasn’t liked? Her basic French restaurant, Luella’s, stands as a museum to all French stereotypes—even the service was rude, though I sensed that was from incompetence rather than Francophile superiority. Black-and-white photos of the Eiffel Tower evoked generic Ikea art rather than trendy bistro decor, and bottles sprouting candles seemed to think they were Chianti, not Bordeaux. Too-long white linens draped too-small tables, adding the danger of toppling the table’s contents to the dining experience. I caught flashes of a bright kitchen behind silver doors, often eerily still from lack of to and fro.
I arrived on a moderately busy Wednesday, midway through service. The buzzy dining room seemed comforting at first, until I realized the hissing undercurrent was coming from the staff gathered near the coffee machine while their guests shuffled dirty plates and empty glasses around their tables.
Eventually a server found me, took my order, and scuttled away. As per my custom on first visits, I ordered the first item under each category. I believe these should represent the best a restaurant has to offer, showcasing the chef’s creativity and execution. My expectations weren’t high when their showcase pieces consisted of a seared foie gras topped with a Bordeaux reduction, a toasted-goat-cheese salad, traditional sole meunière, and a lemon soufflé. Little did I know my low expectations gave Luella’s too much credit.
It’s important to note good French food elevates the ingredients to a higher level. Exceptional French food transcends time and space, taking you on a gastronomical journey to a higher plane. It explores nuances and underdeveloped flavor notes in the ingredients; the final product becomes infinitely more than the sum of its parts. Alas, the only journey you’ll take after sampling the French food at Luella’s is to the restroom.
My early courses were passable but had a distracted air, as if the chef preparing them was watching the Food Network in the kitchen, hoping for helpful tips. The foie gras, an adequate slab, seared for flavor and topped with a decent wine reduction, would have been much improved with some crusty bread to smear it on, but my basket seemed to have gotten lost in the twenty feet between my table and the swinging silver doors.
The salad was a reasonable re-creation of something I can make in my own kitchen, and often do. The toasted goat cheese, crisply breaded in crumbs and warm through the center, sat atop lightly dressed spring greens, the kind found in clear plastic containers in the organic produce section. The vinaigrette was savory yet pedestrian. I’d expect the same thing from a bottle of Newman’s Own.
At this point in my meal, kept company by my dirty appetizer and salad plates, I waited and waited and waited for my entrée to arrive. At last, the sole meunière, a traditionally simple and elegant dish of Dover sole sautéed and topped with a butter sauce made of capers and lemon, arrived after an eternity in restaurant time (about 30 minutes after the salad). The chef somehow managed to serve it both charred and raw, a feat a more talented chef couldn’t do on purpose. The capers flecked the sauce like moldy Tic Tacs dropped on the floor, random and grim, lolling about in an underreduced liquid, sharp with uncooked alcohol. When I found a seemingly properly cooked bite, the fish tasted of cindery hate and cheap wine.