A Taste of Slice and Dice

Sophie had hoped that after a couple of martinis and a plate of the Belmont's famous tiger shrimp on a bed of spicy couscous, Bram would be in a good enough mood for her to drop the bomb. She'd been preparing her speech all afternoon—ever since she'd talked to her son, Rudy. Rudy was currently biking and backpacking his way across Europe with his partner, John Jacoby. On the phone, they'd made an important decision, one she needed to tell Bram about right away. However, not only were the tiger shrimp no longer on the menu, but the service at the restaurant, usually prompt and friendly, was tonight a study in indifference. Any good mood the drinks might have engendered had been destroyed by the annoying boy-waiters buzzing about the dark, intimate dining room.

Neither Sophie nor Bram had eaten at the Belmont since last fall. Almost all the old wait staff was gone, replaced by a more youthful crew—lads who seemed to think having fun was the essence of their job description. They clumped together at the wait stations, chuckling at little in jokes, and occasionally, when the mood struck, wandered off toward one of the gilt-edged mirrors to check their look. They seemed exceedingly adept at pouring water, but that was about the extent of their skills. Sophie and Bram were so amazed by their bustling inactivity that they hardly noticed, at least initially, that the their waiter had hardly noticed them.

Twenty minutes after their arrival, having received nothing more than two glasses of water and a couple of menus, Bram had reached his limit. He tried some polite arm waving, but when that was ignored, he stood, placed two fingers between his teeth and gave a piercing whistle. Not only did that catch their waiter's attention, but every eye in the place turned his way. Most of the other diners nodded their approval. Some even clapped.

According to the local restaurant scuttlebutt, the Belmont, an institution in downtown Minneapolis, was currently having problems. This was clear not only from the service, but from the wilted rose on the table, as well as the pile of dry toast with a slice of bland pate the waiter brought with him when he finally did saunter over to take their order.

"What the hell's happened here?" muttered Bram as the young man strolled off toward the kitchen.

Sophie just shook her head.

Harry Hongisto, the owner of the Belmont since the early fifties, was an old poker-playing buddy of her father's. They were both Finlanders from the Iron Range, both born and raised in Hibbing. Over the past winter, Sophie had been sad to see a restaurant review in one of the local papers trash the food at the Belmont. She couldn't believe the place had sunk that low, especially since she knew the bias of the reviewer, a man with whom she rarely agreed. And yet, perhaps in this one instance, the review had foundation. For the first time, Sophie felt as if she were sitting in the faded glory of what had once been a premier restaurant in the Twin Cities.

That wasn't to say that Harry hadn't done his best in the last few months to stem the tide of decline. First, he'd hired a new head chef. David Polchow had arrived with the highest recommendations. He was a graduate of the New Orleans Cooking Institute, and had studied under some of the best chefs in Europe. Before coming to Minnesota, he'd worked at Sur la Mere in Boston. His attempts to improve the food service at the Belmont, however, didn't seem to be working. Sophie couldn't understand how a chef of his caliber could have produced such an insipid pate, though perhaps it was an off night. Or more likely, the rest of the kitchen staff wasn't working at his level. He could do his best to educate and make demands, but he couldn't do all the work himself.

Harry had also begun to modernize the interior—though interior decorating seemed to be the least of the restaurant's problems. It was true, of course, that the wine-colored leather booths, once the height of elegance, had begun to look a bit tired. So had the pool-table green walls and the heavy-handed gold accents. In an earnest attempt at modernity, Harry had replaced the carpeting, a bold playing card design of clubs, hearts, diamonds and spades, with a dreary putty color, all wrong for the more aggressive, Las Vegas style ambience. And plants, totally unnecessary greenery, seemed to be starving for light in every corner of the room. The Belmont had history and tradition going for it. It had a flavor, a style. All it needed was some retouching—not a whole new look. Ferns and minimal furnishings belonged in a more self conscious Uptown bistro. A less self-conscious, more overt fifties take on opulence was the name of the game here. Why not appreciate it for what it was?

"A piece of rancid pate for your thoughts," said Bram, gazing at Sophie over the rim of his martini glass.

Her smile was wistful. "Oh, I was just thinking about what this place used to be like."

"You came here with your parents a lot when you were a kid, right?"

"In those pre-cholesterol-conscious days of yore." She sighed.

"Well, at least there's one upside to the evening. We're not here so that you can review the place. That headache is finally behind us."

Sophie did her best to hide her startled look. "You never told me you hated my reviewing."

"I didn't hate it, but on those rare occasions when you convinced me I had to come with you, you insisted I wear one of those silly disguises, too. It made me feel like a freak—not, I might add, the best way to enjoy a an evening out with one's wife."

"Come on," she smiled, chucking him on the arm. "Restaurants today are like theatre. You simply have to think of yourself as one of the cast."

He grunted. "I never understood how you could enjoy eating a meal dressed like a biker moll."

"I had other costumes."

"Right. The professor with the beard and pipe. Very sexy."

She was beginning to believe he had hated her reviewing. "But, honey, I needed to keep my identity a secret. When you came with me, you did, too. Otherwise we'd get the royal treatment. I wouldn't be able to report accurately on the food or the service."

"Well, now you don't have to report at all." It was his turn to chuck her on the arm. "We also won't have to put up with irate restaurant owners and chefs calling you in the middle of the night to rant about how you slandered their bechemel sauce—or whatever."

She had to admit, she'd never much liked that part either.

Last fall, Sophie's parents announced their intention to retire and spend some time traveling just around the world. In a matter of days, Sophie found herself the surprised and somewhat bewildered new owner of the Maxfield Plaza in downtown St. Paul. She'd been playing catch-up all winter, trying to get a handle on the day-to-day running of a large metropolitan hotel. Bram had grumbled every now and then about how much time she was spending in her office—and how little time she was spending with him. His job as a talk-show host for a local radio station didn't consume him in quite the same way Sophie's new position consumed her.

Sophie was a perfectionist. She also couldn't stand the thought that she might fail her father, a man who had total confidence that his only daughter could take over the reigns of the hotel and run it profitably and well. Over the winter, she'd let every non-essential part of her life slide—and that meant her occasional restaurant reviews for the Times Register. She simply couldn't do everything. Her editor at the paper hadn't been terribly happy to lose the column. Since she'd begun writing it, five years ago, she'd developed quite a loyal following, and that kind of interest sold newspapers. But she had to put the hotel first.

Once she got all her ducks in a row at the Maxfield, she promised Bram that she wouldn't need to put in such long hours. She'd already begun to ease up on some of her duties. For the most part, Bram had been a good sport about the extra work load, but that was because he expected that their lives would get back to some semblance of normality sooner or later. And that was Sophie's dilemma. How could she tell him about the phone call she'd received yesterday?

"You seem kind of preoccupied tonight, honey." Bram gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

She tried a smile, but knew it was a weak attempt.

"You know, Soph, when you get that look on your face—"

"What look?"

"The one where your eyes get all big and round and...well...you start to look like some tragic Dickensian waif. Sometimes I get an irresistible urge to find you a bowl of gruel."

"Cute."

Unfortunately, Sophie knew what he'd described was accurate. She'd looked like a waif ever since she was a small child. The fact that, barefoot, she was just over five feet tall only added to the image. Actually, her "Tiny Tim face," as she thought of it, was why she favored tailored "power" clothes, spike heels and kept the cut of her strawberry blond hair sophisticated and short. "How nice that you see me as such a strong, independent woman."

"But I do," he protested. "You're beautiful. Sexy. Everything a guy could want. I just see other sides of you as well. Sometimes, when you get upset—flustered that maybe you're not doing the right thing—that's when Oliver Twist appears."

"Tiny Tim," she muttered, correcting him.

"Whatever."

"And what side of me do you see tonight?"

"The one that wants to tell me something but is afraid I won't like what I'm about to hear."

It galled her that she was so transparent.

"So, tell me, Tim, what's the big secret? Once it's out in the open, we can have our argument, and then, when I've won, you can enjoy your sea scallops in lobster sauce, and I can enjoy my steak."

Sophie knew the humor and the smirk were intended to lighten the mood—make it easier for her to say what she had to say. Bram was an essentially kind man, though he hid it well on his radio show, where raucous opinion was the name of the game. "First, you've got to promise you won't get mad. That you'll think about what I'm going to say before you respond."

He touched his fingers lightly to the knot in his silk tie. "I am the picture of rationality—as always."

"Finish your drink."

He eyed her a moment, then downed the martini in two quick gulps.

"Good. Now—" She took a deep breath, then began, "Yesterday afternoon, I got a call from Yale McGraw."

"Senior editor at the Times Register?"

She nodded. "It seems George Gildemeister announced last week that he was going to retire." George had been the food editor and primary restaurant reviewer at the paper since the mid seventies. He also happened to be the man who'd written the negative review of the Belmont.

"And?" said Bram, elongating the word.

Another deep breath. "They've offered me his position—if I want it."

Bram cocked his head. "Am I missing something here? You have a job—running one of the most prestigious hotels in downtown St. Paul. It already takes all of your waking hours just to handle that. Or...is the operative word here, waking? Are you planing to give up sleep?"

She ignored his sarcasm. "The position at the paper wouldn't need to be a full time job. Besides, I'm in the process of cutting back on my hours at the hotel. Things are humming along pretty smoothly now. I feel like I can ease back on some of the reins."

He gave her a disgusted look. "You're kidding me, right? You're not really serious about this? I already have to make a date weeks in advance if I want to have a five minute conversation with you. I'd never see you if you took on a second job."

"That's not true," she said, twisting the wedding ring on her finger.

"Maybe it's not literally true, but it's the way I feel."

"But... just give me a chance to explain how it would work." When he didn't object, she continued, "I told Yale that I'd think about it—but only on one condition. I wanted to hire a full time assistant—someone I could train to do some of the reviewing as well as answer mail, e-mail, phone calls, and take care of the website. And someone who could organize all the menu's we'll be receiving. George stopped keeping them on file years ago. If you ask me, he's been coasting for a long time, waiting for his magic sixty-fifth birthday. I know I could do a much better job. I adore food, Bram. I always have. I remember my whole life in terms of the food I've eaten. And I've got the absolutely perfect candidate for the assistant position."

Bram had all but tuned out. "Who?"

"Rudy."

His head popped up. "You're going to ask them to hire your son?"

"He'd be perfect for the job. He's responsible, intelligent, and he's been cooking part time in the Maxfield's kitchen for the last year. Now that he's graduated from the University, I think it would be good for him to work nine to five for a while. Get his feet under him before he decides what to do next. He's got three major interests—food, the theatre, and theology. I don't have a crystal ball so I don't know where he'll ultimately end up, but I also know he's currently unemployed. And I'd dearly love to work with him—teach him what I know about the restaurant world, pass on my love of food."

"Doesn't Rudy have something to say about this? He might hate the idea."

"He doesn't," said Sophie, leaning back as their meals arrived. "I caught up with him at the youth hostel in Venice this afternoon. Explained the entire situation." Her eyes took on an excited glow. "He wants to do it, honey. He's agreed to work with me!"

Bram cut into his steak, mulling it over. "I get it now. This isn't so much about becoming the food editor as it is wrangling a chance to work with Rudy."

"Do you blame me? I've lost so much time with him, honey. Since he's willing, how can I turn it down?"

Sophie had been separated from her son for most of his life. The reason why was a long, convoluted and ugly story. He'd only come back into her life a few years ago. Working together would give her a chance to get to know him in a way she'd only dreamed about.

"I can see any protests I might make would fall on deaf ears."

That hurt. "Bram, listen to me. You have my solemn promise that I won't let this new position interfere with our lives any more than absolutely necessary. You've been nothing but patient with me while I've been learning the ropes at the Maxfield."

"Damn straight I have."

"As soon as I get Rudy trained in, we'll take a long vacation. Anywhere you want. Just as long as we're together—and alone."

"I want that in writing."

She could tell he'd relented. That he wouldn't fight her. "I'll start collecting travel brochures first thing in the morning—right after I have a meeting at the paper with Yale and George."

"And when does Rudy return from his European adventure?"

"A week from this Sunday."

Bram was about to make another comment when a the sound of a loud crash and angry shouts burst from the kitchen.

"What the hell is that?" he demanded, turning around.

The shouting didn't let up. If anything, it grew even more hysterical.

"Maybe we better check it out," said Sophie. She'd recognized one of the voices as Harry Hongisto's. From the tone of the commotion, she was concerned that he might be in some danger.

Another loud bang.

"Come on," said Bram, pushing his chair away from the table. "At times like this, I wish I looked more like our honorable Governor, Jesse the Body."

"Worry about your pecks later, darling."

"That's the problem, dear. I never worry about my pecks."