A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (8 page)

“I should have guessed Montage. Good work.”

“Portland already has a selection of industrial, minimalist restaurants that have experienced certain amounts of success,” Nico said, leaning forward and tenting his fingers. “To do another would be redundant. We grew up at D’Alisa & Elle, but we don’t want to be in competition with it either. And let’s face it, the economy is still in recovery. So I’m thinking something small, boutique … a bistro, a café, that sort of thing. Now, I have a hard time with small.” Nico paused to laugh at himself. “It’s not in my nature, you know? But as a business model, it’s very wise. So, a small restaurant. French and Italian flavors—”

“It has to be special, though,” I interjected without thinking. “Not gimmicky, but special. L’uccello Blu was more of a trattoria, so maybe we want to go in a different direction. Crepes are very French, but they’re not huge sellers in the States at this point, so I think a crêperie is out of the question. Coffee should be served, obviously, but I don’t think anyone’s worrying about Portland suffering a café shortage anytime soon.”

Nico examined his empty demitasse cup. “Speaking of, do you have any more of this espresso in the kitchen?”

“There’s more. What about a date restaurant?”

“Interesting,” Frank said approvingly.

Nico left for the kitchen, coffee cup in hand. “I’m listening.”

“Something romantic, but not in the traditional restaurant sense. No tablecloths. Certainly no violins. I’m thinking warm, dark wood, leather upholstered chairs, corner booths, low light. A central hearth. Sophisticated. Sexy. Unfussy.”

“Leather chairs—they are expensive for restaurant furniture,” Nico argued upon his return.

“True,” I conceded, “but comfortable seating encourages diners to linger and order more.”

“I like it,” Frank said. “If you want leather chairs, I can make it happen. And I think you’re right—the leather would look expensive, set the tone for the dining room.”

I did not gloat.

Not visibly, at least.

Nico held his grudge for all of thirty seconds before moving on and throwing out ideas for cuisine. “Sophisticated takes on familiar items. A perfectly roasted quarter chicken.”

“Always a favorite,” I agreed.

Nico nodded and continued. “A meat loaf with grass-fed beef and veal. A house ravioli. A selection of steaks served with pommes frites.”

“How about an elegant ratatouille to satisfy the vegan crowd?” I suggested.

“Smart. I was thinking about another vegetarian pasta entrée, but a Thomas Keller–inspired ratatouille would make a lot of Portland people very happy.”

“It’s also gluten free, for people with dietary concerns.”

“Elegant and approachable. I like it.” Frank made a few notes in his legal pad. “What about location?” he asked, wiping a crumb from his mouth. “Is there an area you guys have thought about?”

“I was thinking …,” Nico began.

I shifted in my seat, hoping he wasn’t about to say what I thought he was about to say.

“Pearl District?” Nico asked me, an eyebrow lifted.

“That,” I said, my voice firm, “is a discussion for another time.”

After Frank left, I methodically began the process of returning my apartment to its original state. I didn’t say a word. Nico stayed two steps behind me, following the motions of helping but really, I knew, waiting for me to say something.

I remained silent.

Nico shadowed me.

His Gallic impatience finally kicked in. “So?”

I turned, my eyes innocent. “So?”

“Seriously.”

I crossed my arms. “What?”

“The patisserie space—it’s perfect!”

“Of course it’s perfect, Nico, but Grand-mère has hardly been gone a couple of months, and Mom’s been to the building just long enough to leave the sign that the place has closed due to Grand-mère’s passing. She lost her mom. Using the space isn’t a conversation I’m ready to have with her.”

“We would lease it. That way the space would stay in the family. You could live in the apartment—”

“That would depend on if I committed to the restaurant.”

“So? Are you in or out?”

“I’m … I’m still thinking. It’s a big deal.”

“I know, Etta. I know.”

I shrugged. “You hogged the impulsive genes—what can I say?”

“Is this about your commitment issues?”

My mouth dropped open. “What?”

“You’ve got commitment issues. It’s why you’re still single.”

As soon as he said the words, Nico seemed to realize that, as far as things
to say to make me want to agree to starting a restaurant, accusing me of commitment issues was probably far, far down the list.

Actually, it didn’t make the list.

“I’ve, um, got to go.” Nico looked away. “My shift starts soon.”

He was out the door in a matter of seconds.

Angry at Nico, at my singleness, at my life, I continued to scrub my kitchen until my hands hurt. When I finished, my kitchen sparkled and I could barely take a full breath without inhaling a lungful of cleaning product.

Wearily, I sat down at my computer. I toyed with Pinterest and read articles on Salon.com while ignoring the thoughts in the back of my head.

Since I’d hardly eaten any of the food I’d made for the meeting, I made myself two crepes—one savory, one sweet—to nibble on as I navigated the various online matchmaking websites.

Did they work? I had no idea. But I was tired of being the single-girl punch line of the family.

I knew there were dozens of sites to choose from; I picked the one that I’d heard of that wouldn’t cut too deeply into my cheese-buying fund. By dessert, I’d written a satisfactory profile that sounded a little flirtier, I hoped, than a job résumé.

I closed my laptop and stood, feeling empowered by the fact that I’d done something constructive for my love life. A moment passed and I hadn’t stepped away. I lifted the laptop screen and checked my e-mail.

Nothing.

Too soon for a response.

Wasn’t it?

I checked again.

When I didn’t see a response—again—I closed the screen and walked away. There would be time to embarrass myself tomorrow.

I poked my head into Marti’s cubicle first thing the next morning. “I’ve got something that I think you might be interested in.” I placed Grand-mère’s cookbook and recipes on her desk, flipping the book open to the page with the recipe for
gâteau au chocolat
, which I thought would hold the most appeal. “It was my grandmother’s. I thought we might do a story on heirloom recipes, dishes handed down through the generations. She was the proprietress of La Petite Chouquette,” I reminded Marti. “Her recipes are gold.”