Cecilia’s

A Creative Writing Piece

I wasn’t sure what irritated me most, the way the Maitre’d spoke to us or his general demeanor. He was wearing brown linen pants with a matching brown linen shirt, exuding a sense of bourgeois bohemian-ness that had spread throughout north London like the flu. His voice was forcefully deep, and his thin glasses vibrated as he asked us, “Do you have a reservation for this evening?”

“No,” I said. 

I always found it incredibly irritating when restaurant hosts asked their customers this question. Especially when customers come in and ask: “Can we have a table for two?” If I had a reservation, would I be asking for a table?  

“Hmm… It’ll be hard today,” he said. “It’s been crazy ever since the list came out.”

“Which list?” Tim responded. 

“You haven’t heard,” the linen man said, looking up from his tablet.

“Of course we have,” I cut in. “It’s fantastic for the neighborhood, that’s why we’re here tonight. Tim just has a unique sense of humor.”

The linen man puffed his chest out and said, “Oh actually, we have a couple of seats at the bar, follow me.” 

“That’s just perfect, thank you.” 

We followed him behind the beige curtain and entered the main dining room. Ahead of us were a series of oak tables, each shaped like large beans. The walls were painted three different colors of off-white shades – almost as if the painter had run out of paint not once, but twice, and haphazardly picked the closest shade available to finish the job. The ceiling was exposed, revealing its electrical circuits, reminding me of a fish that had its innards pulled out. There were a few small fig trees scattered across the room in ceramic pots, each with lime-colored twine wrapped around its trunk. The linen man delivered us to the sturdy brown leather seats at the bar. 

“I hate this place,” Tim whispered in my ear as he hooked his coat on the brass loop under the bar top. 

“I know, but it’s important we’re here.”

“I know, sweetie. I just had to say it to get it out of the way.” 

A few moments passed and the bartender came over to us. He handed us some embossed leather menus and shifted his weight from side to side.  

“Welcome to Lilia. Is this your first time?”

“Yes, it is,” I responded.

“Oh, what a treat. I’m always so jealous of our first-timers. And you’re in excellent hands tonight,” he smirked. 

Tim’s mouth started opening and I quickly said, “We’re really looking forward to it. Chuffed we managed to get a seat.”

“You two must be really lucky,” he said. “It’s been so hard ever since the list.” 

“We’re ready to order our drinks if that’s okay,” Tim said. 

“Of course, I’d want to start drinking if I were you too.” After a pause he added, “You must both be lawyers.”

“No, we’re not,” Tim said.  

“Ah, ok. Just took a guess from your general vibe,” he said flatly. 

The bartender pushed his hair behind his ears revealing a thin tattoo of a branch, spreading from the base of his neck and creeping up to the left edge of his forehead. 

“Before I take your drinks order, I just want to explain the menu. So, the concept here is little plates, followed by medium plates, and some big plates. I recommend two to three little plates, one or two medium plates, and one or two big plates, just so you can really taste everything.”

“Ok great, thank you,” I said. “May I have a cucumber mocktail, please? Tim, do you want the same?”

Tim nodded and passed the drinks menu to the bartender. 

“Not drinking tonight? Too many case files to read in the morning?” He asked. 

Tim smiled weakly and the bartender left. 

“Do you really think we look like lawyers?” I asked Tim.

“That was the poorest attempt at a masked insult I’ve ever heard. He only said it because we’re showered and not wearing rags. Just ignore him.” 

Tim held one of my hands and, with his other, softly lowered my raised shoulders. His effortless smoothness calmed me. After a few moments, the bartender brought out two tall chilled glasses filled with a pale green liquid and garnished with thinly sliced cucumbers pressed up against the rim. 

“We’re happy to order food now too,” I said. 

The bartender scratched down what we wanted on a shabby notepad and winked before he left us. Our first dish came out a few minutes later. It was served on an oval, shallow plate, with little divots across its surface. The beige ceramic was filled with bright pink and orange petals, topped with flecks of orange zest. The linen man was back, holding a little jug.

“This is our spring special: flowers from the Dover seaside, served with an herb broth.”

He poured the green broth over the flowers, enveloping them in a puddle of green. He placed two wooden spoons in front of us, each with a delicately twisted spine. 

“The flowers were harvested by Angela, a wonderful lady we’ve been collaborating with for a year or so, and the spoons were crafted by our local carpenter, Andy. He also landscapes our fig trees. Enjoy.”

He moved away from us, and we each picked up our spoons. 

“Their landscaper Andy and –” I said.

“It’s ridiculous,” Tim said. 

I picked up the spoon and moved the petals around in the bowl, coating them in the green liquid. I lifted it to my mouth and pressed down on its fibers, letting them cover my tongue and seep into my taste buds. They were tangy and crisp – the herb broth bringing a sense of lightness that ignited their flavor even more.  

“This sucks,” I said. 

“It’s honestly not that good,” Tim responded. He hesitated for a moment and then added, “Ok, I’m sorry, it is.” 

“Shit. Tim.”

“Laura, I promise you. We have nothing to fear. We’ve been at the top of the list for years.” 

The bartender brought the second plate over: skewered grilled squid with a citrus vinaigrette. The dish was served on a deep blue tile with a little pile of flaky salt to the side. I bit into the squid and a subtle sweetness came through, in harmony with the intensity of the vinaigrette. 

Tim and I locked eyes. 

“Laura, be kind to yourself.”  

“This is just too good, Tim. You know it. What if we aren’t number one this year, what if they knock us off?” 

“Sweetheart, the list is just a game. And it’s a game we’ve mastered. We’ll find out the order of the top three in two days.”

I turned away from him, placing another tentacle in my mouth to chew on. Tim leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.  

“It will be ok,” he consoled me. “Let’s try to enjoy the meal as much as possible, okay? This is exciting, Laura; we finally have a worthy challenger. Isn’t that kind of beautiful?” 

I smiled at him, squeezing his hand in agreement. Our dishes came in quick succession after that, each one more memorable than the last: Stuffed baby aubergines with late summer fruits, lamb polpette in a warm raspberry bath, and beef tenderloin with duck fat roasted carrots. We ate it all. I felt a complicated mixture of jealousy and deep gratitude. 

Our final few bites were that of a burnt honey flan, so pleasantly simple and light it was a flawless end to the meal. Tim asked for the bill, tipped more generously than I would have liked, and we left. 

“You know you’re better than them. You know it.” 

I looked down at my feet and he moved my chin upwards, kissing me softly. 

“It’s just going to be harder than it was before. But you’ve got it in you, and I’ve got it in me.” 

We continued walking home, passing the familiar shops and bars we used to frequent often before we opened Cecilia’s. 

“I feel okay, Tim, truly.” 

“Good. And, may I add, we are never giving our wait staff linen clothing.”

We got home and changed into pajamas. I rested on Tim’s shoulder as we watched TV in bed. We both fell asleep shortly, exhausted and full. The next morning Tim woke me up, opening our blackout curtains. I blinked my eyelids open, the sunrise lightening the color of our soft blue bed sheets. Tim stood in the corner, stretching his legs. 

“Good morning!” he said, a bit too enthusiastically for 5:30 am. “I’m going for a run, okay?”

“Of course, sweetie. I’ll see you at Cecilia’s?”

“Yes, I’ll be there in a few hours. I’ve got a meeting with the supplier at 11:30 so I’ll head over right after.” 

Tim finished his stretches and walked out quietly as I brushed my teeth and hair in the bathroom. I took a quick shower, burning myself slightly as my elbow accidentally nudged the dial in the tight space. I dried quickly, changed into my chef whites, and slipped on my clogs. I left our bedroom behind, passed through our kitchen and walked the familiar three minutes to our restaurant. 

I walked through the backdoor, flicked on the lights, and waited for their familiar stutter to simmer down. I went straight to the walk-in refrigerator, and grabbed a tomato and a slice of leftover bread. By this point, the lights had settled into themselves and the flickering had stopped, lighting up the steel countertops. I turned on the gas for the stovetop and placed a small pan on it, dropping a few knobs of butter and adding a slice of bread on top. I let it crisp up, thickly cutting a tomato and sprinkling it with flaky lemon sea salt. Once the bread was toasted, I took out some ricotta from the walk-in, spread it on, and topped it with the heirloom tomato. I took a bite and pulled out my notebook to plan a few potential dishes for the daily menu: duck with roasted plums and stewed lentils, maitake mushrooms glazed in port, and, finally, a simple vanilla ice cream with gently macerated strawberries. 

I started with the duck dish, adding the lentils to a pot with cool water, some bay leaves, salt, and a few star anise. As it started to simmer, I turned on the oven to 400 degrees seasoning both sides of the duck with salt and pepper, and scored its skin with shallow crisscrosses. Next, I put a large skillet on the stove and placed the duck skin-side down. It started to heat up slowly, hissing as the drippings of fat oozed as it rose in temperature. I added a few cubes of butter and some rosemary to the pan, spooning it on top of the duck every so often. Finally, I placed the skillet into the oven to finish cooking and started on the plums. Their juices burst out once they were hot and I covered them with white wine as they reduced, taking a circular ceramic plate from the dish area, and a cookie cutter. I placed some lentils in the cookie cutter, lifted it up, and spooned the hot plums on top. I sliced the duck, placed it on top of the lentils and the plums. Someone breathed behind me, and I turned back to see Tim. His shirt was drenched in sweat.

“I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to taste something.”

I gave him a bite and he chewed thoughtfully, taking the fork from me and making me a small bite too. 

“It’s delicious.” 

“It is. Oh, Tim. Oh, thank God. I’ve honestly been so scared.”  

“When you taste this, you know there’s no way they’ll top us.” 

“I really hope so Tim, can you imagine if we lose?”

“We won’t lose Laura. I promise you.”

He smiled at me, and in that moment, my chest lifted just a little. I took a deep breath, letting the comforting smells of the kitchen sink in around me. Maybe he was right, or maybe it didn’t matter. I checked the clock standing over the oven – 6:59 am. 

I went over to the desk that overlooked the kitchen and opened my laptop. The website was already on there and I hit refresh continually until 7am. I scanned the updated list, my heart sinking as I realized Cecilia’s was not in its usual spot. “We’re third,” I said. 

Tim, who had been standing behind me the whole time, leaned over to see the screen. His expression tightened for a moment and then softened. He squeezed my shoulders as he whispered “third isn’t the end of the world, Laura.”