Wait

Off the beaten trail from The French Quarter. A tiny gutted Craftsman bungalow, one story, an open porch. Enough space for eight tables, like we always dreamed. Two on the porch, two in the windows. The others in the middle of that slanted Creole living room we called our restaurant. 

You insisted we had more six-tops, so I ordered square tables to push together depending on the reservations. I installed a cushy bench on the back wall though. For our only large party table. And it was a four month wait.  

These were the best nights, with the Blues beats in the hot air as we cooked together, preparing for the first seating. I only asked for two induction stoves and two air fryers. You ordered four of each, and that was probably for the best.  I loved it when we bumped into each other, racing between our prep stations. Butts brushing counters, hands on your hips to get by. You would linger with a giggle before pushing past. 

“Full house tonight, can you go unlock the front door and check for cancellations?” You were always so cute when you pretended to be bossy.

You were whisking up a roux, I was the better saucier but you needed me front-of-house. Guests were arriving early, some on the waitlist, hoping to jump the line in our speakeasy gem.  

I hovered a moment longer. I always loved watching as you danced between stations with grace. I marveled at your flow state, oozing with ingenuity. Sprinkling elegance over the most classic peasant dishes. 

A Cajun spiced coq au vin. Coconut Gulf fish over mango pickle and curd rice.  A Creole andouille stuffed turtle. You were expressing high art. And it made me giddy to watch you finesse each small pearl plate.

Our first guests would have to wait. I took the spoon from your hand so you could tend to the coq au vin, and you saw that I saw you weren’t wearing the ring.  

“You didn’t answer my question.” You said to me. 

“You’ve never answered mine.” Glancing again at your hand.

You always said you don’t like cooking with jewelry. Different excuses, said I was rushing you. But I was the better saucier so I had more patience than you. I could have stayed in that moment forever. The question hanging unanswered between us, the restaurant, still just ours. I could wait for as long as you needed.

I kissed you on the cheek and left you to it. Pushing through our small kitchen door’s curtain, I unlocked the porch door with a greeting smile. Taking coats, opening bottles from my private cellar. Mostly regulars, guests who would allow the wine to breathe. 

No rush to eat, no rush to leave. No hurry to be anywhere other than the little Creole paradise we shared, four nights a week. My kind of guests.  

***

You and I were doing our separate briefings for the night ahead. I was waiting for my turn after the Maitre D’ and Sommelier. I was distracted gazing at you inside the kitchen, and almost lost my place reading off the list of special guests and VIPs. 

You were huddled with your army of chefs in the kitchen. You had your own saucier now, along with sous chefs, chef de parties, demi-chefs… all the chefs. Too many for anyone else, no matter how big this new kitchen.  

This was the big night. Our investors were here, but I knew the funding was safe. They didn’t care about my schmoozing, they were here for you. Everyone was, you were the main show, the hottest new chef in NOLA. Your celebrity was catching eyes from every table through the small kitchen window.  

There was a rumored critic coming incognito tonight. I knew immediately it was the bow tied man in the corner two-top. Pretending to be discreet, he couldn’t take his eyes off you either. 

Everything was perfect. Too perfect. Where was the mess? Where was the dreaming? We only wanted eight tables, now we might be in the Times. There was no more wanting – we, or you, had arrived.  

Lemonfish crudo with Louisiana elderflower. Blue crab tartlet on a grilled shellfish custard. Oxtail agnolini, black trumpet mushrooms, black garlic shoyu. Honestly, I was just flattered you kept my cornbread recipe, even when you added caviar to it. 

I worked the dining room, the guests, the investors. Don’t get me wrong, I still loved it. And you needed me here, working in tandem, dividing the roles. Staying out of your way. But do you even remember why we did this in the first place? 

Two young fools who loved fussing in the kitchen together. One of us clumsy, one of us nimble, making it work. I was the one that mortgaged that foreclosed bungalow. I built the dining room, you built the kitchen.

Four stoves and four air fryers. I only think we needed two. Now you have it all. Rows of gas burners and stainless steel convection ovens. Copper cookware and Sous-vide baths. Poissonneries and pastisseries. 

And when I felt like I missed you, I jumped to help the demi-chefs. Offering hands, when you called for hands. Catch you smile when I brushed your finger as you plated. I saw you were wearing my ring again. 

You denied ever saying it slowed you down. You promised me it was your lucky charm. 

I never expected you to have an answer for me. But you asked if we could chat after closing tonight. Grab a winddown drink here in the alleyway. Where I’m writing this letter, tucked away in our old cookbook for you to find. I said I would meet you here. But in my heart of hearts, I have been ok with not knowing for so long – I think, maybe, I’m not ready for what you seemed to be rehearsing under your breath all night. Even though I suspect it’s the answer I’ve most wanted. 

What I’m trying to say is – I think, for just a few weeks longer, maybe it could wait.