Happy Birthday: A Novel

She was a little fuller in the face than he remembered, but it suited her, and she was even prettier as she smiled at him. She had deep hazel eyes that looked slightly worried as she smiled and thanked him for coming. She ordered a bottle of Chilean wine for them, he stuck with the lobster she had suggested, and she offered him some of the last remaining white truffles on pasta. It sounded like a perfect meal to him, and much better than the meat loaf, roast chicken, or steak tartare she was famous for. His tastes were more refined and his palate more critical, but she knew that about him now. And the wines Jean-Pierre suggested for the meal were even better than the ones he had had with her before.

“See what I mean?” he said, savoring the pasta, and the lobster afterward. “You’re better than what you usually do. Why would you want to make hamburgers, when you could be in Paris earning three stars for your restaurant, or doing the equivalent here? You’re underachieving, April. That’s what I was trying to say in my review.” It had come out harsher than he had intended it to sound, which he was slightly sorry for now, but he believed that the essence of what he had said was true.

“How often do you think people want to eat food like that?” April asked him honestly. “Once a month, every couple of months, for a special occasion? No one can eat that way all the time. I can’t, and I don’t want to. Maybe you do, but most people don’t. Our customers, our regulars, come here once or twice a week, some more than that. I want to make the best possible version of what they want to eat every day, and the occasional exotic treat, like truffle pasta or escargots. That’s the kind of restaurant I always wanted. I can still do special things, and we do. We offer that too, but most of the time I want to offer real food to real people for real life. That’s what this restaurant is all about,” she said honestly. It had been her theory behind it since the beginning, and it had worked. The tables had been jammed around them all night, and people were still coming in close to midnight, begging to be seated and eat her food. Mike had noticed it while he chatted with her about restaurants in France and Italy that they both loved. And as he had noticed the first time he met her, she knew her stuff, and also about wines.

“Maybe I missed the point,” he admitted. “I just figured you were being lazy and going for an easy shot.” She laughed at what he said. Lazy she was not, and anyone who knew her knew that wasn’t the case.

“I want to serve people’s favorite foods, whatever they are, fancy or simple. I want to be the restaurant they wish they could go to every night. My mother and I love La Grenouille, but I can’t go there every day, although my mother does, or close to it. Maybe I’m a simpler person than you are and she is. I need comfort food sometimes. Don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” he confessed sheepishly. “I go to a pancake house when I want that, not a top-notch restaurant. When I go out to dinner, I want a great meal,” he said, savoring the last of the lobster. It had been absolutely perfect as far as he was concerned, four star, and would have won a flawless review from him if he’d been writing about it, which he wasn’t.

“That’s my point,” April insisted. “You can get fantastic pancakes here, or waffles, or mashed potatoes, or mac and cheese. You should try my pancakes sometime,” she recommended seriously, and he laughed at the intense look on her face. She really believed in what she was doing. He hadn’t fully understood that before. Maybe he’d been too drunk. But that had been her fault, she had absolutely buried him in wines that had been too good to resist. He was more careful tonight, he didn’t want to drink too much again and make an ass of himself. He liked her, and her passion for her restaurant.

“Okay, I’ll come back for pancakes the next time I’m feeling sorry for myself.”

“You’re welcome anytime. The pancakes are on me.”

“It was nice of you to invite me here tonight. I figured you hated me after what I wrote about the restaurant.”

“I did for a while,” she said honestly, “but I got over it.”

“I’m glad you did. The meal was fantastic tonight.” He was beginning to understand that she was trying to do something for everyone, the more refined palate as well as the simpler one, and even food that children loved. There was a certain merit to her theory, although it had escaped him before. “So why did you ask me here, since I can’t write a review this soon, and you said it wasn’t a date? Burying the hatchet in lobster and white truffle pasta?” he asked with an amused look, and she smiled at him, wondering if their child would look like him, or her, or a combination of both. It was strange to think about that.