Chương 199: The First Sign

Dave's efficiency was frightening. Once his objective narrowed from build a commercial empire to open one small restaurant, the energy that came out of him left Chris genuinely impressed. Inside a month he'd found a perfect space on a quiet block in Brooklyn. Not large — it had been a bookshop that went under — with a small terrace looking down at the street. He'd also negotiated the rent down to something absurd.

"Don't ask me how," Dave said smugly on the phone.

"I simply told the landlord that if he didn't give me a good price I'd mail his wife the photographs of him working at a strip club in his twenties." Chris didn't know whether to laugh, but he knew perfectly well that Dave's professionalism and contacts had done the actual work. For the next two months Chris was in that small space more or less permanently. He didn't hire an expensive designer. He worked out every detail himself. He wanted a warm room, comfortable, with nothing aggressive in it.

He painted the walls a soft off-white by hand. He chose old timber for the floor, warm, with the grain still visible. He adjusted the lights over and over until every table had enough to see the detail of the food and never enough to be harsh. The largest investment went into a small, beautiful open kitchen. Every piece of equipment, the height of every surface, the direction every drawer opened — all of it went through a thousand mental rehearsals. It was more exhausting than a world championship, and he loved it.

That afternoon he was up a ladder, covered in paint, adjusting the angle of a pendant light, when the door opened.

"Hey! Am I in the wrong place? Is this a world champion's restaurant or a building site?" Chris turned around to a familiar voice. Nathan — one of his closest friends from Le Château — and behind him another young man in whites carrying beer.

"Nathan! What are you doing here?" Chris came off the ladder grinning.

"If we'd left it any longer you'd have worked yourself to death in here." Nathan crossed the room, gave him a bear hug, and then patted the paint on him with distaste.

"Look at the state of you. A stranger would assume you'd retrained as a decorator." They punched each other's shoulders and laughed. It was the most direct greeting cooks have. Once that was over, Chris found out that Nathan and the others had left Le Château and were working at a new French place in New York. They'd heard Chris was opening his own restaurant and had come to find him. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

"Let me see your kitchen." Nathan was already ducking into the half-finished kitchen like a lion inspecting territory, touching things and looking at other things.

"Mm. Good burners, plenty of power. This bench height — that's built to your height, isn't it. Selfish. Sink placement… acceptable. The flow's actually sensible." He kept criticizing out loud, and everything in his eyes was approval. Then the door opened again.

"I swear to God, if I smell paint one more time I'm pouring this 1982 first-growth Bordeaux down the drain." Ethan's enormous voice arrived from the doorway. He was standing there travel-stained with an elegant wine carrier in one hand.

"Ethan! You came too?" Chris was delighted.

"Your first restaurant. How would I not?" Ethan came in, put the wine on a table and looked around.

"Hm. Not bad. There's something here. Bit small, though. How many does it seat?"

"Eight tables."

"Fine. I'm booking one now, for opening night." Ethan didn't bother asking. Old friends meeting means drinking. They didn't go anywhere respectable; they sat down on the floor of a dusty building site smelling of paint, spread charcuterie and baguette out on newspaper, and got into the beer and the wine. They talked about the stupid things they'd done at Le Château, about what each of them was doing now, about what they meant to do next. And at the loudest point of it, a small truck pulled up outside.

The driver leaned out.

"Excuse me — Mr. Chris White? Your sign's ready." Everyone went quiet. Chris's heart jumped. He knew this was the moment that mattered. Between them they carried in a long shape wrapped in red cloth, carefully.

"Open it! Come on!" Ethan was more impatient than Chris was. Chris drew a breath, stepped up, and slowly pulled the cloth away. A sign in dark walnut, warm to look at, appeared in front of them. There was no ornament on it and no elaborate typeface. Only two words, cut in an elegant serif. The Potato. The air seemed to set. Nathan stopped. He rubbed his eyes, looked at the sign in disbelief, looked at Chris, and his face did something very strange.

"Potato? Chris, you're joking. Your first restaurant, everything you've worked for, and you're calling it Potato? Have you forgotten how you got eliminated?" Chris didn't answer. He just looked at the sign, smiling. Ethan, after a brief blank, got there first. He laughed quietly, and then louder, and finally slapped his thigh hard.

"Perfect. That name is absolutely perfect." Nathan still looked lost. Chris turned to him and said it calmly.

"Of course I remember. I'll never forget it. That's exactly why it goes above the door, where I can look at it every day." You get up where you fell down. Better still: you take the hole you fell into and lay the foundations of your new kingdom in it. Nathan looked at the ease and the openness on Chris's face and finally understood. He shook his head and swore at him cheerfully.

"You are a freak." Together they hung the sign that said The Potato over the front door, in the most visible place there was. The moment it settled into place, the afternoon sun came onto it and lit the letters warm and bright. Chris stood across the street looking at his first sign, and at the people beside him who had cried and laughed and fought with him. He touched the brass tasting spoon in his pocket without thinking.

He thought that if Philip could see this, he'd probably twist the end of his moustache and produce a satisfied little smile that said I knew it.