Melissa Jacobs - Love, Life and Linguine

Because I am still Daddys little girl.

Home

Welcome home. The U.S. Customs agent smiles as she closes my blue passport.

Minutes later, a cab carries me away from Philadelphia International Airport toward the heart of the city. Ah, yes. Im home.

Two weeks in Paris seemed like two months. It was a business trip. I had to go. But I was anxious to return. Im starting a new chapter in my life. Before I left for Paris, I moved in with my boyfriend, Nick. Technically, my boxes moved into Nicks house. I didnt have time to unpack before I left.

I should have rescheduled the Paris trip. But when else could I have gone? Today is my last day with Dine International. Tomorrow I become the business manager of Il Ristorante, Nicks restaurant.

Not for the first time today, I look at my tote and read the business card placed behind the protective plastic. Mimi Louis, Executive Restaurant Consultant, Dine International.

Mimi Louis isnt my real name. I was born Miriam Louis. I nicknamed myself Mimi when I was a toddler and couldnt pronounce my own name. The Louis? My grandfather left Russia a Luvizpharska and arrived in Brooklyn a Luvitz. My father left Brooklyn a Luvitz and arrived in South Jersey a Louis. Whats in a family name?

My name might not be real, but my job is. Seven years. Thats how long Ive been at Dine International. Im ready for a change. Im ready to stop traveling. Im ready to settle down and work on my relationship with Nick. Weve been dating for three months, and I want Nick to be It.

Ive paid my dating dues. I had the amuse bouche of boys in high school, the butlered hors doeuvres of Penn guys in college and the soup du jour men in my early twenties. When I was twenty-eight, I had what I thought was a main course relationship, but there were too many ingredients swirling around my life. My ambition, his ambition. My traveling, his traveling. My promotions, his promotions. We didnt make time for our relationship, let alone a future. After that breakup, I had a palate cleansing rebound in Florence with Gio the Italian wine maker. Now, at thirty, Im ready for the entre. The main course. Marriage.

Nick is ready for marriage, too. I know this. How? I know chefs.

Seduction by Risotto

Being a woman in the restaurant industry, I am used to being preyed upon by male chefs. But Nick? Hes different. For starters, hes the most talented cook Ive ever met.

Before Nick became Philadelphias newest celebrity chef, he was the cook at a thirty-seat restaurant in South Philadelphia. A date took me to Nicks for dinner. It was amazing. The food. Not the date. The next day, I told my bosses at Dine International that we should recruit Nick to be the chef at the new Italian restaurant we were already building on Avenue of the Arts. A month later, the deal was done.

Nick and I worked side by side to create the new restaurant. He flirted with me, and although I was hesitant to get involved with a client, my resolve crumbled when Nick invited me to his house for dinner. His passion for food ignited my passion for him. Nick cooked pan-seared salmon in white wine and herb sauce with julienned zucchini and yellow squash. And risotto. It was the risotto that did it. The textures of the rice and cream combined with the earthiness of the mushrooms. It was seduction by risotto. I couldnt resist Nick. I didnt.

Mustard Memories

Where are you going, miss? the cabdriver asks, jolting me away from Nickalicious memories. I have given him Center City as a destination, but its time to get specific.

One moment, please, I say. Am I going straight to the office or do I have time to stop at Nicks? Theres no room in my head for my schedule. I am BlackBerry dependent. Reaching into my tote, my hand closes around a glass jar of mustard I bought in a shop near Muse Rodin. I collect mustard.

When I was a child, I would lie in bed at night, trying to stay awake until Dad got home from Caf Louis, the dressed-up diner he owned in South Jersey. Dads workaholism made precious any moments I had alone with him. If I could stay awake until Dad came home, I would tiptoe down the stairs so as not to wake Mom, who was usually asleep after a long day of housework, car pooling, and homework.

I adore my mother. She is, as Dad always said, a real looker. Mom has shoulder-length, gray blond hair and dark green eyes. Mom is thin, although she eats like a horse. I wish I had Moms looks, and metabolism, but I have dark, wavy hair and milk chocolate eyes from my fathers family.

As much as I love Mom, I always felt closer to Dad. I loved hanging out in the restaurant with him. I would greet the regulars and they would say, Theres Jays little girl. On school nights when I couldnt be in the restaurant, I would try to wait up for Dad.

Id turn on the kitchen lights and be waiting for Dad when he came through the door. You should be in bed, he would say. It was the opening line of our routine.

Id say my line. Im hungry, Daddy.

No one should go to bed on an empty stomach, hed answer.

Sandwiches were our late night snacks. Dad could make a sandwich from anything in the refrigerator. He was a leftover artist, but he never compromised on mustard. Good mustard makes everything taste better, Dad would say. Now, my Mimi, tell me about your day. Whats the what?

We continued this tradition through my childhood and adolescence, right up until I left for college. As I got older, it got easier to wait up for Dad, but harder to tell him about my life. He didnt want to hear about boys, but I always wanted to hear the daily goings on at Caf Louis. First, though, came the making of the sandwich. Dad constantly reminded me about the mustard. Good mustard makes all the difference, he said. Are you listening, bubbeleh ? Pay attention to the little things in life. Like mustard.

I can hear his voice. Booming, with the Yiddish lilt of his parents. He looked like Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof . The beard. The belly. Jay Louis is larger than life. Was. He died two years ago.

The Diva

Where are you going? the cabdriver asks again.

Il Ristorante, I tell him. On the Avenue of the Arts.

Its just after four oclock. I have thirty minutes before my meeting. Just enough time for some smoochies.

You have time for more than that, the diva says. Its been two weeks. I have needs. Wants. Demands. Take Nick into his office and have at it. The diva groans.

Luckily, only I can hear her. Not that Im embarrassed to talk to her. Men have been talking to their penises for eons. Why cant I talk to my diva?

The First Lady

The cabbie pulls onto the Avenue of the Arts while I look at my face in my compact.

I need a WASAP. Waxing as soon as possible. With all the traveling Ive done over the years, I should have had a waxer in every major city. The rest of me is presentable. Under my white trench coat, Im wearing my flight suit. Black pencil skirt, white blouse, black pumps. The rest of my wardrobe is more colorful. I like pinks, lavenders, and soft greens. But in my flight suit, I can go from plane to meeting to dinner.

Traffic, the cabdriver says as he gestures to the cars trying to merge onto Broad Street. When the boulevard twinkles with theater, music, and fine dining, I think of it as the Avenue of the Arts. When it is constipated with cars, I think of it as Broad Street. Same road. Different attitudes.

Ill get out here, I tell the cabbie. It will be faster to walk the few blocks to Il Ristorante. The cabdriver pulls to the curb and takes my suitcase from his trunk.