* * *
“What do I know about running a restaurant?” Oona asked.
She and Edward were on their way to Clary’s Pub, due to open at the end of February. As the taxi crossed the short bridge over the dingy green waters of the Gowanus Canal, they left behind the tidy tree-lined streets of Park Slope for a neighborhood filled with mismatched buildings, dilapidated warehouses, and auto repair shops.
“You’re more of a backer, but I know this industry, and we’ve hired people to handle the design, construction, accounting, PR, you name it. I—we have a small army of skilled people.”
Gamble on the unknown, her letter had said. Would their marriage survive even if their restaurant didn’t?
They approached a converted redbrick carriage house. A shingle hung over the wide black doors, Clary’s Pub carved onto it in Old English script. Beside the door was a sign that read: COMING SOON.
“Isn’t this a great property?” he asked as they got out of the car. “We got a good deal on it, too.”
“I can see why,” she said. The desolate street contained warehouses, a sign-making store, and farther down the block, yet another auto repair shop. A dirty plastic bag blew in the breeze like a tumbleweed. “There doesn’t seem to be much of anything around here.”
“Maybe not yet, but the area is undergoing scads of development. Gowanus will become a trendy neighborhood before you know it.” He unlocked the front door.
“And if it doesn’t?” Because it wouldn’t, not to that extent—at least by 2015.
Edward turned around, mouth pursed. “Are you getting déjà vu having this conversation? Because I am.” Ignoring her blank expression, he continued. “If it doesn’t—though I believe it will—this can be a destination restaurant. Look at Peter Luger. People have been coming to East Williamsburg for ages just for that steak house.”
“Actually, Williamsburg would’ve been a better choice.” That neighborhood’s gentrification was already in progress—the struggling artists and musicians who enjoyed its inexpensive housing wouldn’t be able to afford living there in a decade’s time.
“Well, we didn’t get a space in Williamsburg, now did we?” His voice was light, but his jaw twitched. “None of the places we saw there were quite right. Besides, Gowanus is right between Park Slope and Carroll Gardens, two neighborhoods with gobs of money. We’re hardly asking customers to trek out to Staten Island. Now, can I get on with the tour of the restaurant, or would you like to stand out in the cold and bicker some more?”
It was like a teacher admonishing a grade schooler. As the one funding the restaurant, Oona had a right to voice her opinion, but she didn’t want to kick off her marriage with a fight. So she put a hand on her husband’s arm and adopted a conciliatory tone. “I don’t mean to argue. There’s so much I need to learn all over again—sometimes I get hung up on details.”
“Well, don’t.” A quick squeeze of her fingers. “That’s my job.”
He opened the door and waved her in.
The raw space had a bar running along one side and an exposed brick wall on the other. Bare lightbulbs hung from electric cords, and exposed beams revealed a high ceiling threaded with ductwork like geometric aluminum snakes. The floor was covered in power tools and drop cloths.
“No furniture?” Oona sidestepped errant extension cords.
“It’s coming in a few weeks. There’s still some electrical work that needs doing, and the ceiling has to be finished, so that all needs to get squared away first. Come see the kitchen.”
She followed him to a room with lots of brushed steel, pots and pans suspended from ceiling racks, a wall lined with fryers, flat grills, ranges, and other equipment gleaming under the harsh white light. Edward pointed things out with the enthusiasm of a little boy showing off his Christmas presents. “… and this tilting skillet is top-of-the-line…”
While he talked, her mind drifted. What were her friends from 1991 doing now? Recovering from some terribly fabulous party? Had any of them settled down? Had Cyn followed her advice and become wealthy? And what about Kenzie? He’d be in college now. How long before she saw him again? She meandered around the kitchen, running a hand over metal counters, smooth and cool to the touch. Everything new. Yet another blank slate.
Edward came over and draped a casual arm around her shoulder. The weight of it should’ve been disconcerting, but it felt natural. Nice. “You’re making a childhood dream of mine come true.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ve said it countless times, and I’ll continue to say it: thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” Her face burned with the lingering warmth of Edward’s kiss. How could she not be moved by his excitement and gratitude? “Tell me about the menu.”
“Oh yes.” His eyes flashed, and his fingers splayed out, trying to create an image for her. “The concept is British meets classic French. Chateaubriand with béarnaise sauce and Yorkshire pudding. Shepherd’s pie with dauphinoise potatoes instead of mash. Bouillabaisse with a side of bubble and squeak. That sort of thing.”
Oona wasn’t familiar with half the dishes he listed—and didn’t know whether customers would be, either—but let herself be swept up in his enthusiasm as he led her back to the dining area and continued to share his plans for Clary’s Pub.
“We’re thinking of having a curtain separating the bar from the dining area. We can accommodate about a hundred, depending on how we do the layout.” He took her around the room in a circle as he talked. “Let me show you something else.” Down a short corridor at the back of the dining room, a door opened out onto a waterfront patio. “When it gets warmer, we’ll serve food out here, let the guests take in the view.”
And the smell. Her eyes watered at the potent stench: sewage, rotten eggs, garbage left out too long. How much worse would it get in warmer months? The view wasn’t much better. The polluted canal was dark and grimy, speckled with patches of oil and litter. Beyond the water was an elevated subway, a building topped by a large gloomy water tower, and mountains of construction debris flanked by yellow cranes. The total effect would be dining al fresco in the postapocalypse.
“It may not look like much now, but remember, we’re getting in on the ground floor,” Edward said. “There’s talk the canal will undergo a massive cleanup, and rumors of nearby condo developments. By the time the neighborhood picks up, Clary’s Pub will already be a local establishment.”
If it survives that long.
But Oona banished the thought and tried to see the horizon through Edward’s quixotic lens. He had a vision, and she had the means to help him bring it to life. As his partner, her job was to have faith in him.
“I think the New York restaurant world is in for something special,” she said.
Behind them, the patio door creaked open. “Oh! I didn’t realize anyone else was here.” A petite woman with a fox-like face, olive skin, and thick, wavy dark hair stepped out onto the patio. She had sophistication and poise like she was sure the world was going to deliver exactly what she demanded. Her features made her lineage tough to guess—could’ve been South American, Mediterranean, Middle Eastern, Spanish, even Southeast Asian.