“Grams used to be in that group, I think.”
“She was indeed.”
“I did a little serving during school, but never really handled the reservations or hosting.”
“Well, the serving experience will come in handy.” Gary looked pleased to hear it. “One of the biggest challenges with manning the front desk is controlling the timing and flow of customers to the tables. When possible, you try to avoid sitting several parties in the same station at once, as that strains both the kitchen and the server.”
“I used to hate that. We called it being ‘in the weeds’, when all your tables needed you at once.”
“It’s not pleasant for the guest either, so we try to stagger new tables as much as possible and work in reserved ones as well. And then of course we have our special guests. We’ll go over who they are and what you need to know.”
“Regulars you mean?” Emma asked.
“Regulars yes, but there are also special guests that don’t come in often, but we need to be aware that they are VIP status and make sure they are well taken care of. For instance, tonight we have Senator Jameson and the mayor coming in. They are VIPs.”
“Got it.” Emma smiled. “I imagine if things didn’t go well for them, that kind of PR would be terrible.”
“Exactly.”
As Gary walked her through the reservations and pointed out any regulars or customers with special requests, the kitchen door suddenly opened and the most delicious smell wafted out. Involuntarily Emma’s stomach growled, and she quickly took a big sip of coffee.
“Are they making eggplant parm?” she asked wistfully. It was one of her favorite dishes and the scent of the roasted eggplants and rich tomato sauce was intoxicating.
“It might be a lunch special. Jason mentioned doing an eggplant rollatini today, like parmesan, but rolled up and filled with ricotta. A bit like a savory cannoli.”
Emma sighed, then realized that the look on her face must have spoken volumes because Gary chuckled and said, “I think perhaps you need to try a little, so you can describe it to a customer if they ask.”
“Yes, in case a customer wants to know. What a good idea.” Emma had a feeling she was going to like Gary. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with two small plates, each with an eggplant rollatini smothered in sauce. They sat at the bar rather than risk dirtying one of the dining room tables that were covered in elegant, white linen. They ate quickly, with Gary glancing at his watch every few minutes and continuing his tutorial between bites.
“How long have you worked here?” Emma inquired. She guessed that Gary was in his mid-forties and wondered what he’d done before coming to Mimi’s Place. Almost as long as she could remember, he’d been here running the front of the restaurant.
“Forever,” he said with a smile, and Emma liked the way his whole face lit up and how the small wrinkles around his eyes enhanced rather than detracted. She’d always thought it unfair that laugh lines never looked as flattering on women.
“Actually, it will be twenty-five years next month. Time flies.”
“Every year does seem to go by more quickly. Grams always said that it would once you got older. I never understood what she meant until recently. What did you do before Mimi’s Place?”
“I was in college until we had some financial issues at home and I had to get a job. Times were tight then. There were almost no jobs available to a kid like me without a degree and no experience of any kind. Your grandmother took a chance on me. My mother had been one of her students many years ago and they were neighbors. I knew she put in a good word for me here, but I never knew until recently that she was actually the owner.”
“We still can’t quite believe it ourselves,” Emma said with a chuckle.
“Mimi’s Place has been really good to me. I started out in the kitchen, washing dishes. As you probably know, that’s just about the lowest rung on the ladder in a restaurant. I was so grateful to have the job. I got lucky when one of the busboys was out sick, I filled in for him, and that went well. I think I’ve done just about every job here, except cook of course. I’m terrible in the kitchen. Ironic, isn’t it? You’d think I’d learn by osmosis, but I think cooking is like singing. You either have the talent or you don’t.”
“I like to cook,” Emma admitted. “I like to play around with recipes and try new dishes, but it’s easier to cook for yourself. I couldn’t imagine doing it for an entire restaurant.” Emma actually thought it would be terrifying. She used to marvel at the intricate dance the chefs in the kitchen did. How they coordinated the timing of multiple dishes and parties mystified her.
“In a well-run restaurant,” Gary continued, “the front of the house and back of the house work in harmony. If it gets too chaotic out here, it can screw up the flow in the kitchen and then we have a real mess. Fortunately, we have a well-oiled machine, and that rarely happens. Not on my watch anyway.”
“I remember coming here for lunch with Grams and the dining room would be absolutely packed. The energy was so exciting, with all the well-dressed customers and the hustle and bustle of food coming out of the kitchen and tables being cleared. It was always a treat, coming here.”
Gary frowned and then smiled so quickly that Emma almost doubted what she’d seen.
“Is it still busy like that at lunch?” By the look of the reservation page, it seemed like they had a busy day ahead.
“Sometimes. Not often enough though,” he admitted. “There’s more competition now, more restaurants. Some of the newer ones are more appealing to the younger ‘foodie’ crowd. We’ve fallen off the radar some.”
Emma took an objective look around the restaurant. The colors were warm and inviting, the table linens crisp, but the carpet was uninspired, a bit faded and worn in spots. You really didn’t notice the carpet at first, but Emma wondered if it was just a symptom, a contributor to the overall ill health of the restaurant. She made a mental note to pay close attention to everything throughout lunch, at how many customers came in, what they ordered, and how happy or unhappy they seemed to be. She knew that Mandy had taken a copy of the restaurant’s financials home to look over with Cory. They were both great at understanding the ins and outs of financial statements and P & Ls.
Jason, the lunch chef, came out of the kitchen a half hour later and handed a slip of paper to Gary with the day’s luncheon specials.
“What did you think of the rollatini?” he asked Emma.
“Incredible. So delicious. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He turned to Gary. “What time do the Garden ladies want their soup?”
“Not until one-thirty. They want a full half hour with their cocktails before we interrupt them with food.”
“Of course they do.” He shook his head and strolled back into the kitchen.
“Has he been here long, too?” Emma asked. She guessed that Jason was closing in on sixty.
“Not too long. Five years maybe? He worked all over the North End before moving here. I think he is a native Boston-Italian. You can tell by his specials.”
“Rollatini, braciole and escarole and white bean soup with Italian sweet sausage. Oh, braciole, isn’t that the meat that’s stuffed and rolled up and then cooked for hours in a sauce?”