He snickers and gives my ass a playful smack. “Reasonable. Towels are on the shelf above the toilet. You wash up. I’ll make coffee.”
“You never toldme your biggest fear,” he says, leaning over my shoulder to get a better view of the pizza rolls.
“Heights.”
“Heights, huh? Is there an origin story?”
I think about it for a moment and come up empty. “I don’t think so. As far back as I can remember, if there was a gorgeous view looking out over whatever, I got the hell out of there. No thanks.”
I set my final wrapped pizza roll on the baking sheet and place it in the oven. There are vegetarian pizza rolls, pepperoni and gluten-free, so every guest should be covered. The cupcakes come next, and Nic helps me mix the batter while I whip up a large batch of buttercream frosting. I use chocolate and vanilla cake mixes, which hopefully, the kids like. For some reason, this man––who stress-eats banana and mayo sandwiches and doesn’t like much else––is fascinated by each step of my cooking process. He wants to taste everything, then proceeds to make yummy noises with each bite.
After we had our morning coffee, Nic showed me around the kitchen and went out to shovel the parking lot. I made pancakes, and he was insistent on playing a `90s rom-com on the big TV in the bar when it was time to eat. Another thing I learned about Nic today is that he loves `90s rom-coms. We watched his favorite,While You Were Sleeping, and I watched his lips move along with the dialogue for the whole thing.
“It’s the big family, I think,” he told me when I asked why this was his favorite. “The banter between them, the loyalty, and the way they love each other. I’ve never had that.”
To which my heart broke into a thousand pieces.
He went on to share his favorite lines from about ten other rom-coms from that era, and I made him promise to be on my team if the bar ever hosted a trivia night.
Once the cupcakes are in the oven, we have a bit of downtime before we need to make the fruit skewers. My hope is that they remain as fresh as possible for the length of the entire party, so I won’t be making them until about a half-hour before we’re supposed to drop the food off at Camilla’s.
I find a menu on a shelf above the stove and look it over. It’s the menu for the bar, and as Nic said, it’s limited. There are fries with three kinds of dipping sauces, a signature Mapletown hot dog, jalapeño poppers, fried mac and cheese bites, fried calamari, and chips and guac.
He spots me staring at it and drops his chin onto my shoulder. “What’s going on in that head of yours? Thinking about how terrible my food sounds?”
“It’s not that,” I say, not knowing how to end that sentence, because I have no doubt his customers love the food. “It’s fried finger food. Of course it’s delicious. But with such a humongous kitchen and a steady roster of regulars, have you ever thought about adding to it?”
There are only three or four restaurants in the entire town, so you run into repeats pretty quickly, and from what I’ve tasted, those options are mediocre at best. There’s a pizza place, which Natalie said has recently introduced some pasta dishes, a Chinese food place by the gas station, and a diner in the strip mall by the highway. The coffee place serves a handful of sandwiches, but they close around five at night, so it’s not exactly a dinner option.
“Not really,” he says. “I’m not much of an expert on food, considering the state of my taste buds, so I figured I’d offer people the bar fare they’re used to and leave it at that.”
“Hm. Yeah, that makes sense.” I put the menu down and look through the propped open door toward the bar. “This place is so much more than the local dive, though. It feels bigger. Like it has more to offer.”
I expect him to be mildly interested, if not a tad defensive. In my experience, business owners don’t appreciate an outsider’s opinion on how to improve the day-to-day operations, even if they hire you to do just that. They’re protective of their livelihood, and they often accept the status quo as the primary sign of success. This is a volatile industry, wherein restaurants often close within the first five years of opening their doors, so I get it. If you can afford to keep your doors open, why change anything?
What the restaurant owners I encounter often overlook––likely because they’re spread too thin in order to cover the rising costs of rent, ingredients, and labor––are the little changes that can lead to major growth.
Dominic has a massive bar with unique architecture––the building is shaped like three massive wooden kegs, with the one in the center taller than the other two––a dozen beers on tap, an extensive wine and cocktail list, an outdoor seating area with room for lawn games, a dance floor, and a sprawling,immaculate kitchen. The only thing I haven’t seen get much use is the kitchen, and since he owns the building and has a small staff, I bet he could afford to update his menu without breaking the bank.
He leans on the counter and gives me his full attention. “Such as?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” The question is unsurprising, but the pressure of it throws me off. I’m no chef––just a woman who spends her days staring at menus and looking for gimmicks to bring more people through the door. “Off the top, you could have an Italian grinder with a signature oil-based drizzle, glazed Brussels sprouts––everyone loves those––an antipasto salad with a unique twist to stand out, like, um, fried onions or diced roasted red potatoes. You could even offer a flatbread pizza with different types of cheese, caramelized onions and garlic, taleggio, and drizzled with local maple syrup. I know those ingredients sound odd together, but I promise they are”––I press my lips to my fingertips––“chef’s kiss. Or you could focus on one food and perfect the condiments, like wings. Ooh, and you’ve heard of hot honey, right? Maybe Fast Glass Tavern could sell their own brand of spicy maple syrup.”
“Plus, there’s always merch. People love mugs. More themed nights. Private events.” My brain gets flooded with Pinterest boards. “Weddings! That field behind the bar would be perfect.”
His expression shifts from fascinated to wary because clearly he hates my ideas and the fact that I’ve been rambling for a good three minutes straight.
“I don’t know. That’s just off the top of my head,” I mutter, backtracking. “I can think of others, though.”
Suddenly, my feet leave the floor, and I’m being whirled around in a very tight space filled with knives. Nic places me on my feet and cups my cheeks. His features are blurry, but I can tell he’s smiling.
“You’re fucking brilliant, you know that?” He rubs the tip of his nose against mine. “I could listen to you talk about food menus for the rest of time. I’m going to talk to Anton about all of these, and if you think of anything else, please tell me. Any hour of the day. It doesn’t matter. Text me or call me. I want to know. Was that really off the top of your head? I think you just took Fast Glass to a new level. Man”––he stops, his light blue eyes scanning my face––“the way you light up when you talk about something you care about.Fuck, it’s stunning, Lindsay. You’re stunning.”
The breath leaves my lungs entirely. My legs wobble, and I wonder if this is what it feels like to swoon. No one has ever been so happy to hear me talk about menu additions. Granted, I’ve never slept with any of the restaurant owners I made suggestions to, but still. Basking in the glow of this man’s attention is like a full-body high. It’s a new feeling.
A sad realization hits me.
It’s a feeling I’ll miss when I drive home tomorrow.
