“I have a surprise for you!”
Cindy opens my door and nudges it with her hip—she’s carrying two coffees. She plunks one down on my desk in front of me and drops into a chair.
I lift the coffee. “Latte?”
“Of course,” Cindy says, “but that’s not my surprise.” She’s excited and can’t sit still, her feet tapping.
“You found out how I can be independently wealthy?” It’s an ongoing joke.
“Pfft. No. Better than that.”
“What can be better?”
“I’ve set you up on Facebook and Instagram and set up a basic website with the domain name you bought. You needed an online presence, stat.”
“What?”
“For Ming Kitty, of course,” Cindy says. “Kitty, you can’t have a pop-up restaurant with no social media. That’s how we’re gonna get the word out.” She sets down her coffee and takes out her phone, bringing up her browser. She types something in the search bar, then passes her phone over. Loading is a curled-up cat with brilliant orange text over top: Ming Kitty.
“Cindy, you are…” I hardly have the words. “Amazing. Incredible. Unbelievable. And so, so smart.”
Cindy grins. “I know. And you can pay me back by letting me attend the first night, and every night thereafter. Or most of them.”
“Done and done, and you’ll get free meals besides.” I’m in awe.
“You just need to give me the menu and the address and I’ll put it in,” she says. “And if you give me all your domain details, I’ll get it transferred over. It’s super easy. And give me whatever else you want on there. Pics, bios for you and Lucy, the works.”
“I should be the one bringing you coffee.”
“Caramel macchiato, extra caramel,” Cindy says immediately.
“Noted.”
“Have you and Lucy thought about a date for the first dinner?” Cindy asks, leaning forward and grabbing her coffee again.
“It’ll be just after the September long weekend,” I say. “We think we can get everything sorted by then.”
“Do you have an invite list?” Cindy asks.
“Not yet, but we have some idea.”
“And what about critics? You can’t have an opening without a restaurant critic or two. It’s publicity.”
My stomach churns with nervousness. The idea of being judged wanting for my cooking is terrifying. I don’t want to admit it, but there’s so much riding on this, so much I want to accomplish. And I want it to be a success for Lucy and for her farm. If the critics end up hating us…that could be the end of everything.
“Your friend Jo Raj is a freelancer, isn’t she?” Cindy asks.
Jo. She’s taller than me—not that that’s saying much—a bit crazy, super energetic, dresses with incredible individual style that I’ve always envied, and is one of my favorite people that I haven’t seen in too long. Freelancer extraordinaire. “She works for one of the local free papers,” I say. “I’ll email her.”
“There. Perfect. And the sooner you get the guest list, the sooner we can send out real invites. I’ve been looking online and this printer has fabulous templates that we can customize with the logo and everything.”
“You are way too good at this. Why are you working in a law firm? You need to be in promotions.”
“One day,” Cindy says. “One day. I just need to get a bit more seed money so I can manage it. Event planning is so much fun. So much better than arranging meetings and lunches for the partners.”
I hand Cindy back her phone. “What do I owe you for the website and Facebook page?”
“Nothing for the page,” she says, “and I’ll make you an admin there, and the web space right now is free, until you move it to your own. I’ll update the DNS and stuff when you want to do that.”
“You are incredible.”
“I know.” Cindy rises from her seat. “Your nine o’clock will be here soon. And I hope you brought me some delicious leftovers for lunch.”
I didn’t forget her when I packed up rice and chop suey yesterday before heading home from Lucy’s. “Check the fridge. I have a few containers in there. A bit of everything we made yesterday. Let me know what you think.”
“Yes!” Cindy pumps her fist. “Brilliant.”
She heads to the door, giving me a wave as she exits.
I text Lucy, bringing her up to date. Then I open my email, searching through for Jo’s address. I swallow another gulp of coffee, trying to ignore my anxious, fluttering stomach.
Jo, I have a new project, and I think it’ll be right up your alley. Do you like Chinese food? I can only hope she does.
When I’m done with the email, I pull out my legal pad from my bag, the one with all the sketches and notes from the weekend. I flip to a clean page and start a list.
Cindy
Jo
Alice
Mom & Dad?
My boss?
No, probably not Jack.
And there, my brain stalls. Who else can we invite? We can’t have tons of people, especially not for a first time, but we need a few more. I think again about inviting my boss, but my stomach does a flip-flop at that, a big one. No, that’s one pressure too many.
I text Lucy. Who should we invite? People in town? We did discuss this a bit, but I feel like there should be more invitees. Should we ask the town mayor? Or is that too much?
I set the pad aside as I hear Cindy’s voice just outside the door. The door opens, and it’s my nine o’clock. I rise to my feet.
* * *
At lunchtime, I meet Cindy in the firm’s break room. She’s already taken out the containers and is starting to put the contents onto a couple of plates.
“I can’t wait to try these,” she says, spooning out some rice next to a small heap of the honey and soy chicken. “My stomach is growling just at the scent.”
“I hope they microwave well.”
Cindy takes a fork and pops a piece of chicken into her mouth. “Fabulous cold. Is that a bit of truffle I taste?”
“It is. But we had it on the frisée, not in the chicken. Some of it must have transferred.”
“It’s good in the chicken too,” Cindy says. She takes a large spoonful of the chop suey and puts her plate into the microwave. Another full plate is there, and my mouth waters even though I was eating all this food over the weekend. I have plans to make it again this week, each and every dish. I need to be able to do it quickly, and get my timing down. I want it to be like second nature by opening night.
The microwave dings, and Cindy takes out her plate and puts the second one in. She takes her plate to one of the three small round tables, then comes back for a glass of water. “I’m not going to wait for you,” she says. “It smells too good.”
“I won’t hold it against you,” I quip.
“Mm-hmm,” is her reply as she takes a full forkful of rice and chicken. She gives me a thumbs-up as she chews, nodding.
The nervousness I’ve felt subsides, and there’s a feeling of accomplishment instead. This will work. We can do it. I know we can.
When my plate is ready, I take it over to the table across from Cindy. She’s devouring her meal, and I’m glad I brought a lot of extras. I take a forkful of my chicken, and she’s right, it is delicious. Even better the next day, although I don’t know that our customers would think so. I can imagine coming out to say “Thanks for coming everyone, enjoy your leftovers!” I try not to cringe. But if we could do that, it would keep the work of the evening down a bit. I’m going to have to practice the dishes, get them down pat. Figure out the quick methods. It’s been a long time since I’ve cooked in a commercial kitchen.
God, I’m nervous again. I need to stop worrying, but I can’t help it. I want everything to be perfect.
Cindy scrapes her plate clean with her fork, gathering the remaining rice. “You two are going to rock this pop-up,” she says. “Have you figured out who to invite? A friend of a friend works for Avenue magazine, and his take might help. And maybe Jack knows a few people.”
“I don’t know that I want work people involved in this. At least, not until we’ve figured this out and are making a bit of money.”
“Your dad will probably tell Jack, though, don’t you think?” Cindy says. “They chat often.”
“I hope he doesn’t,” I say. “I don’t want more pressure. But I haven’t told them yet, either.”
“Are you inviting them?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should,” Cindy says. “I know you’ve got them on the info diet, but this is something you want to trumpet. Brag a little.”
“I guess so. They just get so judgy. They hated that I worked at a restaurant during my degree.”
“Their loss. Want more food?” Cindy asks, rising. I shake my head. I have plenty for lunch, and I know I’ll be eating more tonight, working on the steamed fish. “Oh, good, more for me.” She grins and empties the container of chop suey onto her plate.
I pick at my own food. I should be inhaling it, but talk of my parents has put me off.
“Don’t invite them if you don’t want to,” Cindy says. I look up from my plate.
“How is it that you know me so well?”
“I just do. But seriously, if it’s going to upset you to have them there, then don’t have them there.”
“I want them to see what I’m doing,” I reply, “but it’s just…what if they don’t like Lucy? Or don’t like that I’m with her? Not to mention that if they meet her, they’ll assume it’s serious.”
“Isn’t it? Serious, that is?”
I shrug. “We’re having fun. Lots of fun.”
“Then keep having fun. Don’t worry so much. Things will work out.”
Easier said than done, but I’ll try.
* * *
I text Kitty late in the afternoon. Over the past couple of weeks, things have started to come together, but I’m starting to worry, starting to wonder if this really was a good idea. It was, wasn’t it? A restaurant, a pop-up restaurant? But what if we mess up? What if we burn the food? Or what if no one comes?
It’s silly to worry, I know. My dad would have told me as much, told me to worry about things when they happen, not before.
We should do a test evening in the kitchen, Kitty texts back. I’ve been worried too.
Can you come out? I reply, texting quickly.
Maybe. This weekend for sure, but maybe earlier. Let me check my schedule.
I take my phone with me to the greenhouse, going through my regular walk, checking the hoses and trays, that the lettuce is growing and not wilting. Another batch will be ready soon.
Kitty texts me back about ten minutes later. I’m done as of half an hour from now. I can drive out. Can we get into the storefront?
Absolutely.
Let’s make the steamed fish, and the chicken again, Kitty replies. Do you know anyone who wants a free meal?
I chuckle to myself. No one turns down a free meal.
I’ll find someone.
My anxiety is slightly dampened, and I continue along my usual route. Tomorrow is farmers’ market day in Airdrie, and I have to be ready bright and early.
* * *
“I’m liking this,” Alice says as she walks around the tables we’ve set up in the store. I’m so glad Beatrice isn’t fussy about what we do, and that she hasn’t found a new tenant. There aren’t any tablecloths yet, but I ordered some on one of my quick breaks from work, and they should be here in time for the first night. Lucy’s in the back puttering about, making sure we have enough stock for this evening’s almost soft launch. I’m holding a bag, and Alice has been eyeing it since she came in. I know she’s curious, but it’s a surprise for Lucy.
“It’ll be even better with the tablecloths,” I reply. “It’s just three of you tonight, right?”
“Beatrice will be here shortly,” Alice says. “I think inviting her helps to soften her up, you know? You can get her more interested in the restaurant. And maybe she’ll give you a good deal.”
Beatrice has already given us a good deal, but she also confided in us that she was having a hard time getting anyone to lease the store.
“I’m sure she will.” I glance back, toward the kitchen. “I’d better go find Lucy.”
Alice waves me away. “I’ll get the chairs set up and set the table.”
I head back into the kitchen. Lucy has turned on the oven and the hood vents, and there’s a rushing sound of air that wasn’t there when we were first looking at the place. It brings me back to my days working in restaurants, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. Those jobs were hard work, real hard work, not just paperwork. I sniff, and I can pick out the scents of the oven heating up, and of the food Lucy has set on the stainless-steel counter, the green onions and ginger and greens.
Michelle walks in with a grocery bag, and Lucy follows her. They take out chicken and fish and a package of tofu. Michelle smiles at me. “You two will be the best cooks,” she says.
“We will,” I agree, and Lucy nods.
“Now we need some time to work,” Lucy says. She pulls out her phone and reads off our working menu. “You can choose from the soy sauce honey chicken with frisée, or the steamed fish fillet with rice and vegetables, or the tofu with the broccolini.”
“I’ll tell Beatrice and Alice,” Michelle says. “We are more than ready.” She leaves the kitchen, and Lucy turns to me.
“This is so real now,” she confides. “Even though it’s just the three of them. What if we mess this up?”
“We won’t,” I promise, sliding my arm around her back. She leans on me. “Besides, I have something that should make you feel a bit more professional.”
I give her side a gentle squeeze before I withdraw and open the bag. I pull out a substantial folded square of white cloth and hand it to her.
“What’s this?” she asks.
I had something similar when I worked as a cook, and I stopped at one of the kitchen supply stores in the city a few days back, knowing that we’d need real uniforms. Lucy unfolds the chef’s whites, holding them up against herself.
“Do I look like a chef?” she teases, turning from side to side, looking down at the uniform.
“Of course you do.” I pull out a second set of whites for myself, and then I pull out a chef’s hat, a toque blanche, for her. “And with the hat, you can’t be mistaken for anything else.” I set a second toque on my whites on the counter. “We’re professionals.”
Lucy sets the toque on her head. “What do you think?” It presses down her dark hair, and it’s not the most flattering of hats, but she’s grinning and happy, and she looks amazing. I scoop up my whites.
“You look fabulous. Let’s go change—then it’s time to get cracking.”
We head back to the storage room upstairs for a bit of privacy, and I’m holding back my desire as I watch Lucy slip into the whites. We have a job to do. But the euphoria is there, and I’m hopeful that later we’ll be able to celebrate properly, the two of us.
Once dressed, our street clothes folded up and in my bag, we head back to the kitchen. I take a small pad of paper and a pen from the pocket of my whites. “Shall I go take their orders?” I ask.
“Absolutely.” Lucy’s grinning ear to ear as she sorts out the food and pulls out a cutting board. Then she opens the bag of rice, and I notice that she brought her rice cooker from home.
“That will save us so much work.” Thank goodness.
“Of course,” Lucy says. She heads to the prep sink and runs the water as I go out to the front of house.
Alice, Michelle, and Beatrice are sitting around one of the tables in the middle of the restaurant, their place settings all ready and set for dinner.
“I brought a bottle of wine,” Beatrice says, lifting a bottle and a corkscrew from a bag by her chair. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I assure her. “What a nice treat to have with your meals. Now, what can I get everyone?”
Alice starts. “I have a hankering for that tofu dish you have,” she says. “I’m trying to eat healthier, so I think I need the veggies.”
I write down her order.
“And you?” I ask Michelle.
“The steamed fish,” she says immediately. “It’s my favorite.”
I turn to Beatrice, who smiles. “I’ve heard such great things about the honey and soy sauce chicken that I can’t turn that one down. You’ll have one of each to make.”
I write down her order. “That’ll be perfect,” I say. “Please, enjoy yourselves and we will bring your meals out soon.”
I check my watch. We should have everything out within fifteen minutes or less if we want to make it in this business. It’s not fast food, or fast casual, so we do have a bit of leeway, but not that much time. Hungry customers are never that patient.
I hurry back into the kitchen.
“One of each,” I tell Lucy, and we whip into action. I grab the chicken and everything I need for the soy sauce and honey marinade, then collect a metal bowl and a cutting board. Lucy checks on her wok, turns on the burner. She takes out all the ingredients for the vegetarian dish, the crisp tofu with broccolini. She marinated the tofu the night before, and it’s in a large plastic container, ready to go. The red light signals the rice cooker is on, and we are on our way.
“Chop some green onions and ginger for the steamed fish,” Lucy says when I finish mixing the marinade and chopping up the chicken, tossing it in the bowl before putting it into a baking dish. I pull out the second cutting board and chef’s knife, prepping enough for the single dish. When I’ve done that, I get the frying pan and its lid ready.
“Eight minutes for the fish?” I confirm with Lucy.
She nods as she brings the vegetables over to the now heated wok. I pass her the vegetable oil, and she readies her chopsticks. I’d love to watch her cook with the wok—it always amazes me the way the vegetables cook in the wok, the way things are sautéed, crisp yet soft, flavorful with the sesame oil. I turn on the burner under the frying pan, my heart beating a little faster, feeling that anticipation, that excitement about cooking for others. And this time, it’s cooking professionally, not just in my own kitchen. In a real commercial kitchen. I look over at Lucy, and she looks back at me, and she’s grinning as much as I am.
A pair of grinning fools, my father would say. But it’s brilliant, and I don’t want to be anywhere else. I put the ginger and onions into the heated pan, listen to the sizzle, smell the delicious, sharp scent of the ginger, the freshness of the onions. I stir briefly, watching the pan closely to make sure I don’t scorch the onions. This is the dish’s flavor, right here. When it’s done, I empty the pan into a small bowl, leaving the hot ginger and onions to steam on the counter. Then I put the pan on the burner once more, putting in a touch more oil. I toss the fish fillets onto the pan and hear them pop in the oil. I set up a mental count, knowing that I only need about a minute and a half before I can flip the fillets.
I flip them. Another minute or so, and they’re ready for the ginger and onions. I take up the soy sauce and the sake, and I eyeball the amount. There’s a whoosh of steam, and I grab up the lid and put it over the pan. I turn off the burner and set my watch for eight minutes.
Lucy’s got the vegetables under control. I lean in and kiss her cheek. “Looks delicious.”
“Go check the chicken,” Lucy says. “That oven is so hot—we have to be careful.”
I take a cloth and pull open the oven door’s handle. The chicken is merrily bubbling away and looks like it’s cooking quickly. We will make our time goal after all. I think.
I find the frisée and pull down another bowl. There’s going to be a lot of dishes to wash, even though we’re only making three meals.
“Truffle oil?” I ask Lucy, not spotting the tiny glass bottle.
Lucy points with her chopsticks. “In the bag there.” There’s a small plastic bag by the entrance to the kitchen. I hurry over and find the truffle oil. Perfect. Along with a bit of olive oil, also in the bag, I mix together a basic dressing for the frisée. Then I set it aside. The frisée is already cleaned, but I make sure it’s free of its roots and trimmed.
I toss the frisée into a large bowl and go check on the chicken one more time. From behind me, I hear the rice cooker click.
“Rice is done,” Lucy says. “Chicken should be shortly too. The tofu dish is nearly there.”
I take three plates and head to the rice cooker, scooping out rice for each of the dishes. The ice-cream scoop works well; the rice is just sticky enough to hold together. Then I’m back to the counter, and I toss the dressing with the frisée and plate it for the chicken dish. The pale, gleaming leaves look appealing on the plate, and my mouth waters.
Lucy takes one plate and brings it to the wok. She pulls out pieces of tofu and vegetables and arranges them just so. And then my timer goes for the steamed fish. I lift the pan from the stove and bring it to the plate, carefully arranging the fish on the scoop of rice, now slightly flattened.
“Use a bit of the sauce over it,” Lucy suggests. “And we can put some frisée with it tonight as well as the leftover veggies from the tofu. I’m not sure yet if I want to cook more veggies for this dish for our opening or not. We’ll have to figure out what works.”
“We could, but it might be more work,” I say. Not that I mind.
“We’ll see what I have ready at the farm,” Lucy replies. She takes the oven mitts, opens the oven door, and pulls out the pan of chicken. It’s bubbling away and smells amazing. Something about the savory of the soy sauce and the sweetness of the honey makes for an appetizing combination. Now my stomach growls. Lucy chuckles.
“We will have leftovers,” she says. “We can eat while we do all the dishes.”
“And we’ll have a lot,” I remark, looking at the range of bowls, utensils, and other dishes spread over the kitchen.
I take a pair of tongs and arrange the chicken on the plate next to the rice. “Should we put some sauce on the side?”
“That’ll work. Let me see what I have.” Lucy finds a small white ramekin on a shelf and rinses it out and dries it hastily. I take the pan and pour some of the sauce into it. It steams and bubbles a bit as I place it on the plate.
Lucy straightens her chef’s whites and apron. “Ready?”
“Totally.” Lucy grins at me, and I know I’m grinning back at her. We pick up the plates and, with great ceremony, take them out into the restaurant.
Alice, Michelle, and Beatrice are chatting animatedly when we appear, but they go silent, watching us approach, gazes eager as they take in the plates heaped with food.
“This looks amazing,” Beatrice gushes as I put down her soy sauce and honey chicken. Alice doesn’t even wait on ceremony; she lifts her fork and takes a bite only a second after Lucy sets down her plate.
“Soooo delicious,” she says through her mouthful. “O-M-G, as the kids would say.”
Michelle tastes the dish, taking a bite of tofu with vegetables. She nods as she savors it. “This is just right, crisp and the right flavor,” she says. Then she looks at her daughter. “Your father would be very proud.”
I can see Lucy starting to tear up, and I hook my arm around her waist. “We’ll let you eat,” I say, and Lucy nods. We leave them to their meals, and once we’re back in the kitchen, Lucy wipes at her eyes.
“I wish he was here,” she says. “It’d make everything that much more perfect.”
“We could put out some photos on the walls, including him,” I suggest. “And if we do this more often, we could have a special family wall.”
“And maybe a little shrine,” Lucy says. “Every Chinese restaurant has one, and we could have a bit of incense and photos of family.”
She wraps her arms around me and I hug her back, feeling snug and safe and content, more than I ever felt possible.
But it only lasts a moment or two. We break apart.
“Dishes,” we say in unison.
The work isn’t yet done.