The dream of Luella’s had started at the local culinary school, where she had met Sue. Sue would whisper inappropriate comments under her breath during classes, forcing Lou to cover up her snorts of laughter with coughs and dropped pans. One teacher almost kicked her out of class for knocking over an empty cast-iron pot.
Sue had recognized immediately that Lou had vision and the talent to back it up but lacked courage. In those early years, they had spent hours in prep fantasizing about all the possibilities. Without Sue’s, and eventually Harley’s, constant encouragement, Lou never would have saved the money or taken the risk. It was as much their restaurant as it was hers. While Luella’s wasn’t exactly what they had planned, it was theirs, too, and she wasn’t ready to lose it.
She just needed one bank to believe in her and her restaurant. Just one to see the potential. Just one to trust she could make Luella’s successful. Three already passed—they didn’t believe in her. They all said she would need a third party to guarantee the loan.
The music stopped and Lou’s stomach churned.
“Hello, this is Joanne Smith.”
“Hi, Joanne, this is Elizabeth Johnson. I’m returning your message. You said you’d finished reviewing my documents.” Lou chewed the inside of her cheek.
“Ms. Johnson. Sorry about the wait.”
“That’s okay.”
“Well, I’ve gone over everything—your business plan, your financials. And while I think you’re on the right path, I’m afraid we won’t be able to lend you the money without a guarantor—someone who can pay the loan if you can’t.”
Commercial Lender Joanne Smith might as well have sucker-punched her in the stomach.
“Oh. Okay.”
“As soon as you have someone, please call me back so we can finish the paperwork.”
“All right. Thanks.”
Lou set the phone down as if it were a cracked egg, just one bump away from catastrophe. It was how she felt. Then the bump hit. Lou curled over in her chair, rocking forward and back as the tears fell onto the dated linoleum. She held in her cries, knowing Sue and Harley would hear in the kitchen. The last door had slammed shut, the last glimmer dimmed, the last star wished upon. Her mouth filled with a horrible flavor. Failure tasted like burnt fish and coffee-soaked coconut cake.
Lou pulled herself together, took a deep breath, and entered the kitchen to prep for the evening service. It didn’t take long for their normal routine to commence.
“How can you say anything other than Ratatouille is Pixar’s best movie? You’re a chef, for Christ’s sake,” Sue said.
Lou smiled at Sue’s accusatory tone. She needed this distraction.
Harley rolled his eyes and said, “You’re letting your biases show, Sue. Up uses music better—like a character. The opening fifteen minutes is some of the best filmmaking—ever. And who doesn’t love a good squirrel joke?”
“But Ratatouille brings it all back to food.” Sue waved a carrot in the air to emphasize her point. “They made you want to eat food cooked by a rat! I’d eat the food; it looked magnificent. That rat cooked what he loved, what tasted good. Like I’ve been telling Lou, we should cook food from the heart, not just the rulebook.”
“Hey, don’t drag me into this,” Lou said, looking up from the lamb she was carving into chops, scraping all the meat off the rib to adhere to the strict standards for a Frenched chop.
“It’s true. We aren’t gaining any new customers. We may as well do what we want,” Harley said.
“We could try some venison. Hit the farmers’ markets. Otto and Gertrude said we could raid their garden.” Sue’s face lit with hope.
“I hear you and I’ll think about it,” Lou said, her stomach clenching again.
“The fish guy had some fabulous Lake Superior whitefish. I know you have a soft spot for it. A friend has a smokehouse. He cou—”
“I’ll think about it. Weren’t you two discussing movies?”
“I think we settled on me being right.” Sue winked at her. Harley snorted over the whirr and snick of his mixers kneading dough. Sue’s smile just got bigger, and her red braids shook with silent laughter. “So, you never gave us the details on the Brewers game. How’d it go? Did the Brit figure out baseball?”
“It was fine. A perfect day for baseball—sunny, not too hot. A nice breeze.” Lou smiled, pleased with the topic change.
“Bullshit! You know that isn’t what we want to know. I see you get all fluttery when he calls. When are you going to invite him in so we can meet him?”
“You act like there’s more going on than there is.”
“He gave you original artwork.”
“From a street fair. I’m merely showing him the city, which does not involve introducing him to you guys. We’ve been over this. Yes, he’s adorable. Yes, I love the accent. Yes, we have a blast together. And yes, he looks great without a shirt.”
“What! Why did he have his shirt off?”
Lou bit her lip and smiled.
“I brought a Brewers T-shirt for him to wear, and he changed into it in front of me—that’s all.”
“Clever. And . . . ?”
“I almost forgot my own name. He has the little side things.” Lou gestured at her obliques.
“I love those!”
“You know, he isn’t a piece of meat,” Harley said, peering through the stainless steel shelves of the pastry area.
“You’re just jealous because we don’t talk about you like that,” Sue ribbed him. “But seriously, why don’t you do something about that?”
“A million reasons. Too busy, too soon. He doesn’t seem the type to stay here forever. It feels like more of a stepping stone for him. Besides, our agreement is for me to show him the city.”
“So, what’re you doing next? Since you clearly don’t plan to ravage him yet.”
“Summerfest seems about right. West of East is playing Sunday night. I thought we’d catch an early dinner at The Good Land, walk the grounds, then watch the show.”
“A perfect nondate date.”
“Bite me, Sue.”
• • • • •
Al checked his back pocket one more time. The notepad didn’t stick out too much, but maybe some folded paper would lie better. He stood up next to his desk, slipped a few folded pieces of paper into his other back pocket, and slid a hand over each, trying to determine the less obvious choice.
“Why are you rubbing your own ass? You know, you can pay people to do that for you,” said John, who had just walked into the cubicle with a huge grin dividing his facial hair.
“I’m not rubbing my own ass. I’m trying to hide my notes.” Al twisted to see his own bum.
“Don’t you just type them into your iPad?”
“Normally, but I can’t this time. Lou and I are going to The Good Land this Sunday.”
“Why not just tell her who you are?”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m a love-him-or-hate-him kind of guy. I’m unsure which side she’s on.”
“Au contraire. Hannah said your last column received the most feedback yet—and you even liked the restaurant. Proof you don’t need to destroy every restaurant in Milwaukee to make a name for yourself. People like you when you’re nice, too.”
“Ha. Funny you are not. So, which is less obvious?” Al turned around so John could analyze his backside.
“Really, you want me to look at your butt now?” John rolled his eyes, then took the job seriously. “I can’t tell there is anything on the left side. Is that helpful?”
“Folded paper it is.” Al nodded.
“How is writing on paper less obvious than typing? Unless she’s blind and stupid, she’ll notice.”
“I thought I’d go to the loo before and after dinner to jot down some notes. I’ll dine there again, so I really just want my initial impressions.”