Waiting

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, two cast iron skillets, and an air fryer. 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 wore your authority with a certain sweetness, stiff-shouldered and breathless, often surprised when I followed your lead. 

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 seated already. A photographer from the Times was checking her lighting. I was invisible to them, 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 top critic coming incognito. I knew immediately it was the bow tied man in the window two-top. Pretending to be discreet, he couldn’t take his eyes off you either. 

Everything was pristine and perfect. Too perfect. Where was the mess? Where was the chaos? The space to chase the impossible dream? We only wanted eight tables, now we were getting press coverage. There was no more wanting – we, no, 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 wide-eyed 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 some air fryers. I had only wanted 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. That brief moment, I wasn’t just another pair of hands. Then you smiled that smile that chilled me and I left you be. 

You didn’t hear me there behind you, did you? I was coming to get you for the cameras, you were standing in the back washroom. In front of the mirror, your ritual, muttering away your nerves, as you did every night before the first ticket fired. 

This was different. You weren’t rummaging through your prep list. You weren’t stammering with adorable panic. You were practicing smiles with a chilling detachment. Gesturing to see the way the light hit your ring. I watched through the plastic slats of the curtain as you mouthed the words to the mirror. 

Not I do, or I missed us, but a press release. “…a partnership in and out of the kitchen,” you practiced, your smile fixed and professional. “The secret ingredient here has been our commitment to each other.” You weren’t rehearsing a life with me- just a soundbite for the Times.

You asked if we could chat after closing tonight. Grab a wind-down drink here in the alleyway. I said I would meet you, but I’m leaving this note in our old cookbook instead. I’m watching you through the back window now. You look like a star. You look like a stranger.

I never expected you to have an answer for me. I suspect the one you’re rehearsing is the one I’ve been wanting. Now I know it’s not written for me, and the anticipation is gone. The big night has passed. But save the champagne. I’m moving back to the bungalow, where it all began. My new question to you is, will you leave this all behind? Take a few weeks, a month, hell, a year. I’m a patient saucier, at my best waiting.