Nicole
"Where are the vegetables?"
WHACK! THWAP!
Two line cooks look up at me. One shouts back, "We can't hear you, what?"
"I said, where are the—" but my voice is again cut off by the overhead noise.
WHACK!
WHACK!
THWAP!
The noise of construction workers a floor above us has put me on edge.
I can't think. I can't cook. I can't sear a piece of chicken without hearing what sounds like a dozen drag cars moving full throttle above my head.
The line cooks shrug their shoulders.
"THE PRODUCE—WHERE IS IT?" I say, struggling over the noise.
Danny, one of the two, finally understands what I'm asking. "Oh that. The driver mumbled something about a missed payment and took off."
I look around the kitchen and see that he's right. We haven't received our fresh produce this morning. Beyond a few stray onions, we have nothing.
How am I supposed to cook today?
I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair.
Stay calm, I repeat to myself.
"Okay, thanks. I'll give him a call."
"Sorry, I figured you knew."
"It's fine," I say, even though it doesn't feel fine at all. In fact, it's taking everything in me to not lose it today, but I have to keep my cool. "I'll get it sorted."
I walk out of the kitchen and into the main dining room. I look around at the tables, at the blue gingham table linens, at everything I've worked so hard to build.
Blue.
The color reminds me of my grandmother. I can almost hear her whispering into my ear, “A woman with no wrinkles is a woman without a story to tell."
I remember sitting on top of her knees, looking into her pale blue eyes as she hummed some old song from the forgotten 50s; in my memories, it’s always Doris Day and Dream a Little Dream of Me on her lips, and then she’d just wrap her arms tight around me and cradle me against her chest.
I’d close my eyes, surrendering to the warmness of her embrace, and the world would feel like a dream—blurry at the edges, but bright and comforting all the same.
She's the reason I started this restaurant. She instilled in me the love of food and the notion that anything is possible with enough hard work.
And believe me; none of this was easy.
In fact, it was the hardest thing I've ever done.
I washed dishes, I waited tables. I worked double shifts, and I saved every single penny I could get my hands on. I once worked through a fever of 104º, and I honestly thought I wouldn’t make it through the day.
But there was that dream.
A dream that burned hotter than any fever ever could. That unrelenting need to do something, as small as it may be.
Then one day, I simply made it happen.
All those pennies, the long hours, the exhaustion...I just threw them all into the pan and stirred. I added a lease to the mix, a healthy dose of anxiety, and then I just closed my eyes and bet it all.
It’s been a year now.
That anxiety remains, along with all the penny counting. The dish washing, table-waiting, and frantic cooking are all part of the process as well. But now I do it all in a place I can call my own.
The Old Tale is my restaurant, and it's huddled among New York's high rises. You can almost feel the way time bends once you step inside.
Thousands of people rush by the door every day, barely noticing this small bistro that seems to exist in a universe of its own; but for the few people that step inside, they have no choice but to leave the rush and frenzy of New York City outside.
There’s nothing fancy about The Old Tale. No glamorous logos, no overpriced menus or waiters wearing a suit and tie.
The wooden tables in the small dining area proudly display their age, and even the dim glow of the lights is a throwback to a time when restaurants and cafés weren’t supposed to be a natural extension of a shopping mall.
You could dig out this restaurant by its roots, slam it down in a crowded street from the 50s, and no one would bat an eye.
It doesn’t feel like a restaurant—it feels like home, a shelter from the cold embrace of a city that doesn’t remember your name.
But sometimes, you can’t fight the city; a small restaurant is just a small restaurant, after all. And now there’s the sound of drills and hammers, a backdrop to the hoarse shouts of construction workers pacing back and forth.
Sometimes it feels like I'm fighting against a rising tide that's whispering its warning—get out or we’ll drag you back with us.
That tide has a name: The Pearl on Park.
And it's going to completely change this neighborhood—bringing Park Ave into a working class corner. Its doors are still closed, but I can already feel the inevitable trot of progress. Soon enough, these streets will belong to expensive European cars, and boots and jeans will give way to polished shoes and creased dress pants.
Then the rents will go up, and The Old Tale will become a gnarled wreckage lying at the bottom of the ocean.
"Someone looks deep in thought." A voice breaks my concentration and pulls me into the present.
"I didn't see you come in. It's good to see you, Percy," I say, looking over to find a familiar face. "What are you doing here today?"
"Just enjoying some of this city's best cooking, is what I'm doing," he says.
I lean over and give him a hug. "You're too kind."
"And you're too humble," he says, returning the smile.
"Well, humble or not, I hope I can just survive The Pearl over there," I say, pointing across the street. "I mean, how can I compete with that?"
Percy shakes his head. "Don't worry about that place. Fancy flagstone tiles, porcelain dishes, and silver cutlery don't make a good restaurant."
"Maybe not...but it seems to help," I say with a laugh.
Percy Whitman is one of the biggest food critics in the city. He's known me ever since I opened The Old Tale, and if it weren't for his early, glowing reviews, I wouldn't be here today.
“I wouldn't worry about it," Percy says. He places both hands into his pockets and rocks on his heels as he says this, as if it's the most casual thing in the world. "Chef Palmer is a Grade-A asshole and even though I've never been to one of his restaurants, he's never impressed me much."
"I've heard he has talent," I say, not willing to believe that his presence in this neighborhood isn't going to be disruptive. "He's become a huge celebrity."
But Percy continues to shrug away my fears. "I doubt Palmer's all that."
"I guess we'll find out," I say.
"I plan to review every one of that asshole's restaurant’s, including The Pearl on Park," Percy says, and his face flushes pink as soon as the words leave his mouth. "You'll see."