her, at least make some tips until then.”
I shrug, recalling the half-dozen pubs, cafes, bistros and nightclubs I waited tables at throughout high school and college. “That could work,” I say. “But, first… you gotta consider rebranding yourself.”
“What? Why?” He sounds offended.
I wait until the delight that is his sage and sausage stuffing melts in my mouth before answering. “Dude, this is not a diner, or a café. You can’t keep a diner crowd with dishes like this.”
“So what then?”
I look around at the funky wall art, listen to the jazzy soundtrack, the flickering candles and tiny white lights. “Bistro,” I blurt. “This place is more bistro than anything, right?”
He’s got the wineglass halfway to his lips and nods. “I suppose. But I want it to be casual, like a diner. That’s… I guess I wasn’t thinking too far ahead, huh?”
I swallow a bite of his turkey medallions and pause to savor the curry-tinged aftertaste before asking, “Why did you open this diner?”
He shrugs, looks away. “My Dad always had a restaurant growing up. None very successful, but always with a new idea. My sister and I basically learned to walk in kitchens, and waited tables as soon as we could take orders!”
I smile, picturing a shorter, chubbier Cliff hustling tables in some real diner, shilling plates of roast beef and gravy to happy customers. “I went to school to be a chef,” he explains as I pour us more wine, like I already own half of the joint, “but my folks couldn’t afford to send me to school so I took out a ton of student loans. My first job out of culinary school was at some big hotel in Orlando, and I made peanuts. Peanuts. And worked my butt off. A friend told me about this place being for sale and, since my credit was still good then, I was able to get the loan. I just… I figured why put in all my time making someone else money?”
I nod, taking it all in. “Of course,” he adds, “now I’m not making any money for myself, either.”
“How much did you expect to make here?” I ask him, a little bluntly, but seeing the potential of this place, I’m in full business mode.
He shrugs indifferently. “Enough to live on, I suppose. Add more dishes, try new things. I just want to work, and I’ll worry about the rest later.”
I smile. I don’t think I’ve ever had a client say anything like that before. Then again, I’ve never had a sweet potato waffle wedge slathered with nutmeg butter melt in my mouth, either.
I look at the spread before us, the dishes mostly empty now, crumbs on the table, napkins folded and dirty, wine in our glasses. I feel so much better than I did an hour ago, and I tell him so.
“Good,” he says, beaming. “That’s the whole point.”
I look at the autumn colors on the walls, the Christmas lights, and I snap my fingers, suddenly inspired. “Seasons,” I say.
He cocks his head, following my eyes around the restaurant and out the three huge plate glass windows that look out onto the empty strip mall parking lot and, beyond that, to Mango Street.
“Say what now?” he murmurs, standing to open another bottle of wine.
“This menu,” I say, looking at the empty plates. “It’s seasonal, right? The apples, the cheese, the spices, the sweet potatoes. Seasons change, so your menu changes, right?”
“That’s the general idea,” he says, standing over me and pouring.
“Seasons Bistro,” I announce, standing to join him and striding toward the “Dale’s Diner” lettering stenciled midway up each towering window. “You run a seasonal restaurant: seasonal menus, seasonal décor, dishes, desserts, drinks.”
He’s nodding, following me with his eyes as I pace, like a caged tiger, along the row of windows facing the street.
“Like… like small batch, microbrew pumpkin beer on tap for fall,” he offers, feeling the vibe and wanting to join in.
I snap my fingers, excited. “Exactly,” I say. “And warm gingerbread scones in December.”
“With dark chocolate and peppermint drizzles,” he adds, ever the chef.
“God, my mouth is watering just thinking about it,” I wheeze. “And champagne splits for New Year’s—”
“And cinnamon sprinkles on red velvet cupcakes for Valentine’s Day,” he interrupts, and now we’re brainstorming every season, every holiday, known to man.
“Edible flowers instead of parsley during the spring,” I interject.
“Corned beef and cabbage sliders for St. Patrick’s Day,” he huffs.
“Bring deviled eggs back for Easter,” I chuckle. “No one does those anymore.”
“I agree!” he chuckles and, somehow, in our spit-balling session we’ve inched closer together, so that I can see the color in his face, see how breathless he is with anticipation about his own future. “Let’s bring deviled eggs back together, Tyler!”
I can’t remember when I kiss him. Either just before suggesting chocolate coins for dessert on President’s Day or when he went off on his coconut, blueberry and strawberry parfait rant for the 4th of July.
But kiss him I did, and do, as we stand, clinging to each other by the kitchen. The scent of sage and sweet potatoes and nutmeg and fresh cut apples swirl around us and a saxophone solo swings as we dance, quietly, softly, hearts still pounding with excitement.
“Thanks,” he says, quietly, warmly, softly in my ear.
“For what?” I chuckle, sinking deeper against his chest as he holds me, chin resting gently atop my head. “The suggestions, the menu ideas… or the kiss?”
“None of those,” he says, gently pushing me away from him so that he can look at me more closely. When I make a crinkle face of confusion, he smiles and says, “Thanks for asking to borrow a cigarette earlier!”
“Speaking of,” I say, suddenly craving one. He takes my hand and we drift down a small corridor lined with cases of beer and wine. Cliff opens a back service door and we sit on overturned milk crates, smoking.
“You were saying?” I ask, smoke swirling around my head.
“I was going to go home earlier,” he explains, calmly, quietly. “I was gonna close early and just chuck it in, you know. Start over tomorrow. Then you showed up, tugging on your office door and… I figured you didn’t want any witnesses for that. I was finishing my cigarette, about to leave without bothering you when… when you asked me for one.”
I smile, softly, reaching for his hand. “So, if I hadn’t bummed a smoke?” I say.
“None of this would have happened,” he explains, nodding, squeezing my fingers reassuringly. “You would have been out of your job and, probably, never come back here. And I would have never had the chance to meet you, to talk to you, to watch you get crazy brilliant menu ideas…” His voice trails off and our eyes meet and he adds, bashfully, “Or kiss you.”
“Then I guess I know what I’m thankful for this year,” I sigh.
“What’s that?”
“My nasty habit,” I chuckle.
“Seriously,” he says.
“For you, silly,” I say, shyly. “For this, for this day and what it means for me.”
“For us,” he corrects, and I smile, because I like the way that word sounds: us. It’s been a long time since I was part of an “us,” or knew what the heck to say I was thankful for when we went around the table every year, saying grace on Thanksgiving.
To have found both on the same day makes me very grateful indeed…
* * * * *
About the Author
Rusty Fischer is the author of A Town Called Snowflake and Greetings from Snowflake, both from Musa Publishing. Visit him at Rushing the Season, www.rushingtheseason.com, where you can read his FREE stories and collections, many about the fictional town of Snowflake, South Carolina.
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