Soft opening menu. Thought you'd want to see it early.
I unfold it carefully, keeping it low so the others won't notice.
The first thing that strikes me is the handwriting. Not typed, not printed. Handwritten in neat block letters, like he took the time to make it personal.
Soft Opening Menu – March 21
Starter: Roasted beet salad, whipped chèvre, candied walnuts, honey-thyme vinaigrette
Main: Braised lamb shoulder, sunchoke purée, charred radicchio, salsa verde
Side: Herbed focaccia, cultured butter
Dessert: Brown butter pear tart, vanilla crème fraîche
I read it twice, then a third time, my pulse ticking up with each line.
Beets. Sunchokes. Pears. All in season, all grown locally if he's sourcing right.
But the devil's in the details. Hothouse beets look the same as field-grown until you taste them. Sunchokes can be shipped from California. Pears could be cold-storage imports from Washington.
I fold the menu and tuck it into my notebook.
Maya leans close, her voice barely a whisper. "What do you think?"
"I think I need to see the actual plates."
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
She grins and sits back, satisfied.
After the meeting,I corner Elsie near the coffee station.
"You said Rogan brought you the books. How honest was he?"
Elsie pours herself a cup, adds two sugars, stirs slowly. "Brutally. Didn't try to minimize or make excuses. Just laid it all out and asked what municipal resources might be available." She takes a sip, grimaces at the taste, adds a third sugar. "I respect that. A lot of people would have tried to charm their way through or pretend everything was fine."
"So you trust him?"
She considers the question, her gaze distant. "I trust that he loved Cora. And I trust that he wants to make this work. Whether he can is a different question."
I nod slowly. "If I help him and it falls apart anyway, the farmers lose twice. Once when Cora died, and again when the bistro closes."
"And if you don't help him and he fails because he couldn't find reliable sourcing, you'll spend the rest of your life wondering if it would have been different." Elsie sets her cup down, her expression gentle but firm. "You don't get to protectpeople from disappointment, Ivy. You just get to show up and do the work."
The words settle like stones in my chest.
I leave without finishing my coffee.
Thursday arrives cold and clear,the kind of early spring day that promises warmth and delivers wind instead. I spend the morning transplanting lettuce starts into the community plots, my hands numb despite gloves, my mind circling the same questions.
What if his sourcing is garbage? What if it's not? What if I help him and he leaves anyway, pulled back to the city by a better offer or the sheer exhaustion of fighting a losing battle? What if I don't help him and watch the bistro die because I was too stubborn to take a risk?
By noon, my back aches and my thoughts are no clearer. I go home, shower, stand in front of my closet for ten minutes before realizing I'm stalling.
It's a soft opening. Not a wedding. Not a contract signing. Just food.
