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Her answer to my unasked question.
Should we give this a shot?
And damn if a “yes” has ever made me feel as if I could float. I’d say something if I could think of words that might do this moment justice.
But I can’t, so no use trying. Instead, I enjoy the feeling of Evie in my arms and try not to think about how the rest will sort itself out.
27
Evie
I try not to look at the couple, again.
Play it cool, Evie.
“How are you so calm?” Maggie asks as we both pretend not to see the Cucina judges sitting in the corner, finishing their dessert.
Turning from them, I give her my full attention, prepared to head into the kitchen.
“Calm? Are you kidding? I’m freaking out,” I whisper to her.
“I’d never guess it,” she says as we head off in different directions, Maggie toward the hostess station and I to the kitchen to check on the back of the house. As always with Saturdays, thankfully, it’s slammed.
“Chef,” Phil calls to me as I scan, making mental notes and glad everything seems to be in order.
“Since we eighty-sixed the filet special, do you want me to replace it with the prime rib with Tuscan spice?”
I try to remember that special.
“It was last month. Remember the judge said it was the best meal he’s ever had?”
Oh yeah. “Definitely, if you can manage it. Thanks, Phil. I’ll let the waitstaff know.”
I look to the lamps.
“Pull that salmon; it’s dead.”
“On it. Will get a new one up immediately.”
“Thanks, Phil.”
“Chef, they’re leaving,” Maggie yells in. I don’t have to ask who “they” are.
By the time I make my way to the husband and wife—at least I assume them to be married by their interactions—I’m pretty sure Maggie wouldn’t compliment my calm anymore. Stomach in knots, the embodiment of a dream with my fate in their hands looking up at me, I ask about their meal.
As expected, their comments are vague, no hint of what they’ll report other than two empty dinner and dessert plates. A good sign.
“You’ll hear back fromCucinasoon,” the man says. “Good luck on an official nomination.”
No hint at all.
“Thank you for coming to Mama Leoni’s,” I say to them both. “It’s been our pleasure to serve you.”
An encouraging smile from the woman and her own “Good luck” as I walk away leaves my hands a bit shaky.
An official nomination, semifinal round, and that’s it. Three more steps to a Cucina Award, and then I can enter the Beard Awards with a chance at actually being considered. The rest of service is a blur, and long after the staff has gone home, I sit at the bar, staring at the empty table in the corner.
It’s hard not to see myself as a kid, sitting at that table, my favorite one tucked into the corner as it was, and coloring while I watch my mother and her staff prepare to open. A paralegal with recipes to share and a dream. She made it happen.
