Love, Life and Linguine - By Melissa Jacobs Page 0,2

Then, it was my job. Now, it is my future.

As I walk through the dining room, my eyes evaluate every detail. The purple, gold, and green patterned banquettes. The burgundy and gold striped upholstery on the dark wood chairs. The marble bar enhanced by the enormous gilded mirror hanging behind it. Green plants sprouting from every corner. The decor is posh perfection.

Creating the menu was more difficult than designing the restaurant. At his South Philadelphia restaurant, Nick cooked amazing Italian-American food. His meatballs were legendary. The move uptown inspired Nick to fool around with cilantro and lemon grass. Dine International, which owns half of the restaurant, wanted Nick to stick to his roots and not reach beyond his means. Like a culinary Savonarola, I purged the menu of its artistic fusions and reinstated traditional Italian dishes. It worked. The restaurant is a hit.

“Nick?” I ask everyone as I make my way through the kitchen. They shake their heads and don’t volunteer to help me find him. “Nick?” I keep going. This Marco Polo game is nothing new. Chefs don’t stand still for long in their own restaurants.

Finally I hear Nick’s voice and turn toward the dish room. There he is, explaining to the three dishwashers that he wants the silver flatware hand cleaned, not just tossed into the car wash, which is what we call the enormous industrial dishwasher.

“Buon giorno,” I say from behind Nick.

Turning, Nick smiles. “Mimi.”

“I’m home,” I tell him.

Flatware crisis solved, Nick leads me into his office and shuts the door. Nick’s office is just as horrid as every other chef’s office. Windowless and airless, it’s the size of a coat closet. Wedged into the office is a wood veneer desk that looks like it was trash picked. Half of the desk is consumed by a fax machine that overflows with notices from vendors announcing the daily or weekly specials. The other half of the desk is dedicated to a computer, the main server for the restaurant’s ordering and inventory network. Since the computer is the brain of the entire restaurant, you would think it would be cared for and protected. Nope. I have cleaned grill grease, olive oil, and tomato sauce from the monitor. From the keyboard I have emptied snipped parsley leaves, dried citrus pith, and salt.

Nick’s street clothes hang on the back of the door while his dirty chef pants and chef coats lie in a heap on the floor, emitting the odor of sweat, herbs, and fried food. An extra pair of kitchen clogs wait on a shelf. Unopened mail forms a carpet, cookbooks are stacked in the corners, a half-empty Rolodex yawns on the desk, and an open drawer reveals socks, deodorant, Altoids, and hair goop, which Nick uses to tame his brown, wavy locks. I have often thought that chefs’ offices are like the inside of boys’ lockers.

Nick sits on his office chair and I straddle him. “I missed you,” I whisper and kiss him, gently opening his lips with my tongue. Pesto is what he tastes like, which means his staff has made a fresh batch and Nick’s been sampling it all morning to make sure it is up to his standards. I never know how Nick’s mouth will taste. It’s like an Everlasting Gobstopper.

The diva smiles.

There’s a knock at the door. “What?” Nick says.

“We have the specials ready,” sous chef Jimmy reports. Nick serves and explains the specials to the waiters so they can accurately describe them, i.e., sell them, to customers. I ask my chefs to do this so waiters don’t have to invent descriptions of dishes.

“I have to go,” Nick says. He stands, but I bend my legs around his waist. Nick is more than six feet tall, and quite strong. “I really have to go,” Nick says. He gives me a last kiss as I plant my feet on the ground.

“I’m going to leave Olga here,” I tell Nick. “Will you take her home?”

“Chef!” someone hollers.

Nick nods and strides out the door like a general about to face his army.

I have my own army to face, although I’m doing a retreat, not an advance. I am reporting on my Parisian trip, and handing the client off to Claire McKenzie, my replacement.

“In summary, the opening was a success,” I tell the group of people assembled around Dine International’s conference table at this late meeting. “Brasserie Jardin’s growing pains are the same as any other restaurant. Chef Galieu’s food cost average was ridiculous, until I reminded him that