Georgia's Kitchen (38 page)

“Me too. And if you play your cards right, you may get an invite to our opening party.”

An elegantly dressed white-haired couple approached the building, and Andrew stepped aside to let them pass. The man motioned with his hand to his head, as if to tip the hat that wasn’t there.

“So,” Andrew said. “I really had a great time tonight, Georgia.”

“I did too.”

He reached out and touched her cheek. “I’ll call you.”

“Good. I’ll count on it.”

He kissed her once more, then headed uptown for the seven-block walk to his apartment.

This year, instead of a preholiday jaunt down Fifth, Georgia had taken a postholiday stroll up Park. It was too soon to say whether it was a new tradition in the making, or just new. But she’d find out.

“We got it!” Bernard blew into Georgia’s apartment, pumping both fists in the air.

“Got what?” Poised with a pink marker in her hand, Georgia crouched by one of the many whiteboards with which she and Sally now shared their apartment. She turned to look at her partner. “And why are you acting like you’re at a Black Sabbath concert?”

“Robert from JAM just called.” Bernard paused to catch his breath. “We got the C of O!”

They’d been waiting for the certificate of occupancy, the series of licenses that would allow them to open Nana’s Kitchen, for weeks. The puzzle was complete.

“We got it? Oh, Bernard, that’s fantastic!” Georgia leaped up and threw her arms around his neck. Bernard’s hands encircled her waist and they jumped up and down until they were both breathless, Sally barking at their heels.

When they stopped hopping, Bernard gazed down at Georgia, whose hands had slid to his chest. She dropped her arms to her sides and took a step backward.

“So now what, B?”

He pointed to the five whiteboards leaning against the wall,
lined up like cars in a train. Though he’d never cop to being superstitious, he refused to erase anything once it had been checked off, afraid it would somehow undo the action. He bought a fresh whiteboard every time they ran out of space. Though she indulged him this pricey quirk, she stopped short of allowing him to hammer into her walls and hang them like paintings.

“Would you like to do the honors?” Bernard asked.

“I’ll let you. These boards are much more your thing.”

Bernard knelt by the last one, where only one square of a dozen remained blank. He rummaged through the mug of markers until he found the one he wanted. “Here it is,” he said, popping the top of the cherry red marker. He drew the final check with a flourish. “Checkmate.”

“I can’t believe it. We’re really opening.”

“Yes, we really are.”

“What do we do now?” Georgia bent down and scratched Sally’s ears. “I suddenly feel like I need to go for a run, or do a cartwheel or dunk my head in the East River or—”

“Drink vodka and eat caviar at Petrossian?”

“Exactly. That’s exactly what I need to do.”

B
ernard lit the final votive and blew out the match in his hand. “There.”

Standing with her back against the bar, Georgia directed an appraising eye around the room. After three go-rounds, the walls were finally the perfect color: a burnt sienna that cast a warm glow during daylight hours and grew cozier as the sun went down. The walnut floor, reclaimed from an old farmhouse in upstate New York, had needed nothing more than tung oil to bring out its natural patina. Diaphanous drapes covered floor-to-ceiling windows; on warmer days they would be pulled back, the windows thrown open, and a handful of tables set upon the small bluestone patio next to the entrance. A huge antique mirror backed the bird’s-eye maple bar, and custom built-ins along the wall housed simple stem- and glassware.

In the center of the room a vintage Murano chandelier was ablaze with tiny white lights. Bouquets of calla lilies, kumquats, and eucalyptus leaves in burlap-covered vases were placed around the room alongside glass votives wrapped with twine. On the buffet table, servers set platters of grilled vegetables,
cheeses of all shapes and sizes, various pestos and spreads, trays of cured meats, and plates of multihued, bite-size canapés. The only thing missing were the tables, chairs, and barstools, which still hadn’t arrived from the mill in North Carolina. Ever industrious, Bernard arranged for an acquaintance who ran a banquet-supply company to drop off a slew of ballroom chairs and tables in exchange for an invite to the opening party. If the furniture didn’t show in two days, there’d be trouble, but for now all was okay.

“It does look great, doesn’t it?” Georgia said happily. She turned to her partner. “And so, I must say, do you. Very natty, Bernard. Must be the French in you.”

Bernard wore a navy velvet jacket and a red-and-blue silk tie with slim trousers. Though quintessentially American, he’d inherited the Frenchman’s flair for dressing (in addition to his love of red wine and punk rock—Georgia had yet to meet a French guy who wasn’t fanatical about both).

“And you,” he said, “look even lovelier than our restaurant.”

Her hair was pulled back and tied at the neck with a simple black ribbon, frizz factor a barely there two. Wavy curls framed her face, which, save for a few coats of black mascara and a swipe of red lipstick (
the
red lipstick, courtesy of Charlotte Troy), was bare. She wore a sleeveless
melanzana
dress that nipped in slightly at the waist and strappy black sandals. Cabochon amethyst earrings (borrowed from Lo, of course) dangled from her ears, and a ring with a jade stone carved into an elephant’s head, her old pal Ganesh, sat on her left ring finger. A gift from Lo and Clem to celebrate the opening, it was only the second ring she’d worn since graduating culinary school, and it fit a whole lot better than its predecessor.

“We did it, B. We really did it.”

“We sure did. To us, a good team.”

The four months between Georgia and Bernard’s random run-in at Barnes & Noble and the opening party had been packed with as much drama, cuticle biting, and curl pulling as a
Falcon Crest
rerun. Would they get the money? Would they get the additional money? The space? The staff? The certificate of occupancy? The liquor license? Their quest seemed endless, but it had ended in the right place, in the right way, and even, Georgia thought, at the right time.

“Good? Look at this place.” Georgia gestured to the restaurant with an open palm. “Don’t you mean
great
?”

“You’re right. To us, a
great
team.”

Absent any drinks, they bumped fists, laughing as they recalled the first time they’d exchanged those words. The night Mercedes Sante reviewed Marco seemed like a lifetime ago; it was hard to imagine that not even a year had passed. There was no telling what might have happened had the restaurant got the three forks it was due, but one thing seemed certain: it couldn’t beat opening Nana’s Kitchen.

In a few minutes, the party would start. Guests would arrive, hors d’oeuvres would be nibbled, drinks consumed in rapid succession. A cleanup crew would roll in shortly before midnight, sweeping up all traces of the party so that at the next day’s mandatory staff meeting, the restaurant, if not the staff, would be well scrubbed and well rested. A week later, Nana’s would officially open its doors and anyone who’d wondered if redemption was possible after a crushing, half-fork review could find out for themselves.

“Yoo-hoo!” Clem shouted as she walked in the door. “George, you were right. I never thought I’d notice a door handle, but it’s really beautiful.”

“See?” Georgia said to Bernard, who had balked at the price the Vermont metalworker charged for a simple door handle. “I told you. It’s all in the details.”

“Right.” Bernard nodded his head while staring at her. “It’s all in the details.”

Lo arrived next. “This place looks amazing. I can’t believe that just four months ago it was the home of the Suds ’N Buds Laundromat.”

The head server peered out from the kitchen. “Do you want us to start passing?”

Georgia and Bernard looked at each other and then back at him. “Ten minutes,” they said in unison.

Clem frowned. “It’s sorta creepy how in sync you two are.”

Dorothy and Hal walked in before Georgia could respond, and she ran over to her parents.

“I’m so glad you got here before everyone arrived,” she said. “How’s the hotel? I hope it’s okay. They said they’d upgrade your room. Did you get the flowers and fruit basket—”

“The hotel is wonderful. And they’re really giving us the VIP treatment. It’s good to have a daughter who’s a famous chef!” Dorothy wore a royal blue raw-silk tunic over flowing black pants, and a double strand of chunky lapis beads hung down to her belly.

Hal hugged his daughter tight. “It’s good to have a daughter who’s
you,
Georgia.” He kissed the top of her head. “We’re so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad, and Mom. For the money, for believing in me, for your support over the last few months. You’ve really been great.” Georgia felt her eyes welling, then remembered the two coats of black mascara she’d applied.

“I wish Grammy were here to see you,” her mother said.

“Georgia! Ciao, bellissima!”

Georgia turned in time to see Vanessa charging over with outstretched arms. Her brown hair was braided and wrapped around her head Heidi-style.

“Vanessa! I’m so glad to see you. I can’t believe you came all the way from San Casciano for this.” Georgia grabbed Vanessa’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Everyone at Dia says to tell you
in bocca al lupo
—that means ‘good luck.’ Effie’s still mad that Claudia wouldn’t let him leave, but since she had the baby, she needs all the help she can get. She’s so in love with little Bianca we barely ever see her. Here, the latest picture.” Vanessa whipped out a black-and-white photo of a wispy-haired baby in a onesie.

“She’s beautiful. A perfect mixture of both her parents.” Georgia had Skyped with Claudia a few days earlier, but Bianca had been sleeping. She fingered the photo in her hand before returning it.

Vanessa walked off to get a bite and a drink and was immediately intercepted by Dorothy and Hal, delighted to see someone they’d met “on the Continent.”

“Who’s your friend, Chef? She is
smoking
.” Wearing a white chef’s coat, khaki cargo pants, and Crocs, Ricky walked up next to his boss. Persuading him to leave his job at the three-hundred-seat pan-Asian palace where he’d worked since Marco’s demise hadn’t been too tough, especially when she and Bernard revealed how he fit into their plans. Executive sous-chef today, chef de cuisine and part owner of restaurant number two tomorrow, was how they’d put it. Having already said he’d take a job at Mickey D’s if it meant working with Georgia again, he hadn’t needed any more convincing.

Once Ricky was on board, the rest of the kitchen staff had fallen into place. Several Marco alums were joined by some
fresh faces, including a plucky Culinary Institute grad named Alice who reminded Georgia a bit of herself. The front-of-the-house staff had been assembled almost as quickly, but didn’t include any Marco vets.

“My smoking friend, who doesn’t smoke, by the way, is Vanessa,” Georgia said to Ricky. “She just arrived from Italy. You should go meet her. I bet you guys would get along great.”

“Everything’s under control in the kitchen, so if you’re cool with it, don’t mind if I do.” Ricky was running the kitchen, allowing Georgia her one chance to relax in the restaurant before the official open. He picked up two drinks from a passing tray, tossed his hair, and made his way through the crowd to Vanessa.

In under twenty minutes, the restaurant had filled with all the people Georgia would ever want to see, and a whole bunch she had never before seen, who she assumed were Bernard’s half of the invite list. They’d agreed not to include industry types unless they were real friends, but it looked as if a few had snuck in anyway. A high-profile restaurant opening, especially one with a juicy backstory, was not an event to miss. Free food and booze didn’t hurt either. The place was jammed.

At one end of the room, Dorothy and Hal chatted with Bernard’s parents, each parental package brimming with pride. At the other, Lo and a cute mystery man listened intently to Clem, no doubt telling one of her trademark “all true; swear” tales. At the bar, Vanessa and Ricky sipped their drinks and giggled. By the door, Luca Santini chatted up Charlotte Troy, an unlikely pairing if ever there were one. Everyone who’d helped bring Nana’s Kitchen to life—architects, designers, various contractors, attorneys, and purveyors—was there, along with friends of Georgia’s and Bernard’s from every stage of their careers. Only a handful of people who’d RSVP’d hadn’t yet shown, and only one Georgia really cared about.

Date number two with Andrew had been an impromptu affair on a rainy Sunday afternoon. They started with a revival of
The African Queen,
followed by raw bar and beers at Aquagrill. He took her to her apartment in a cab and they shared kisses number five through eight in the steamy backseat. He’d wanted to continue on to an exhibit at the Whitney, or at least up to her apartment, but she had a meeting with Bernard. When he jokingly asked if he’d always be number two to Nana’s, or number three behind Nana’s and Bernard, she could tell he was a little annoyed. Since then she’d been too swamped to carve out even the two hours required for a decent date. She’d vowed to never again sacrifice herself for the sake of being a pair, but she really hoped Andrew would be there when she surfaced. And she really, really hoped he’d show for the party.