Day 2 (Part 3)

“Grilled Cheese!” says one. 

“I’ll have the hot dog!” says another.

“PBJ!” pipes the third.

I am half-listening. It is enough to memorize their childish orders (they are children, after all), but not enough to pick up on the subject of the endless bickering.

“I’ll have the corn chowder pie,” came a more dignified voice at the table. I looked the man over briefly and smiled before returning to my ticket book, easily passing over the disgusted expressions of his tasteless children.

“Good choice,” I say. “That’s one of my favorites.”

“It might be mine, too,” says the man. I feel myself turning red and I hurry to the kitchen.

“Huh,” says Cook. “I pegged him as a Salisbury steak kinda guy. How did you sell that boring white bread on your chunky pie?” I flash Cook with a devilish smile.

“I have my ways.”

“Well you won’t get very far with him. Don’t you hate them rugrats?”

Butter sizzles on the flattop and my stomach responds with a growl.

“I don’t hate them,” I say before peering back to check on the family. The children were reaching across the table in a scramble to take one another’s crayons and drawing pages. The man sat easily beside them, but miles away in a book with no title. “They’re almost cute I guess. I just don’t really see the appeal.”

Cook laughed and shook his head. “You’ll feel differently when you have kids of your own.”

I roll my eyes—not because I believe his words are false, but because I have heard them many times before.

The food goes out. The kids eat half of their meals, but they don’t complain, and I assume their tiny bodies can carry no more. Or are children supposed to eat endlessly? I’m never sure.

The fatherly figure with the book leaves a couple of corn kernels and nothing else, and I feel some sort of gratification.

“And your meal, sir?” I say as I lean over the table to gather the messy plates. I notice peanut butter and jelly smeared across the remaining, bunless half of the dog, but as a strict professional, I say nothing about it.

“It was good,” he says. “I haven’t had a homestyle meal in too long.”

“She looks like Grandma, right Daddy?” says Grilled Cheese. I wince, but continue smiling.

“That’s right,” he gently replies. “She has bright red hair, just like Grandma used to.”

I clear the plates and the family leaves. Hot Dog says “Thank you” on his way out, just like his papa. PBJ says nothing, but somehow I earn a high-five from Grilled Cheese.

The tip was okay. The mess was incredible. Cook laughs unhelpfully while I clean.

Day 2 (Part 4)

I plop down in the kitchen nook and am quickly greeted with a plate of fresh greens and salmon. I look up, but Handsome does not return my gaze until he sits across from me.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he says.

“I usually am,” I say guiltily, though I do not feel guilty and I take a big bite. Handsome smiles and follows my lead.

“Mmm,” he says. “I knew this would be good salmon.”

“You know your fish, Handsome,” I said before swallowing.

“I might.”

We enjoy a peaceful meal, talking about work and other things. I mention the rugrats from earlier in the context of the disgusting mess.

“Better let the kids trash the diner than the home,” Handsome replied before shaking his head. I remember what the father figure said and my train of thought pivots.

“What does ‘homestyle’ mean?” I ask.

Handsome chews the question as thoughtfully as his last bite of salmon. I sip white wine in the meantime—a sweet, unspecified blend that is not enjoyed by a connoisseur of such things. He swallows and then answers. “I think it’s food that reminds you of home. I feel like it has to be kind of rough around the edges, too.”

“Huh.”

Handsome cocks his head. “Why?”

“Just something someone said about the pie today.”

“Cook ran your special? How did it go?”

I shrugged. “I sold a serving.” Handsome smiles and reaches out to touch my hand.

“That’s great!” He raves. I laugh, but also nod in agreement.

“Thank you.”

“So you want to make food that tastes homestyle?”

I turn the wine glass in my hands, watching the shimmering grown-up juice swish back and forth.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just thinking about how to make food homestyle.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Anything!” I gesture to the empty plates with the hand holding the wine glass. It does not spill, but threatens to. “What about this?”

Handsome snickers. “What about it?”

“Was this a homestyle dinner?”

“Uh, hmm.”

“It was made at home, but it’s not very rough. In fact, it tastes downright professional.”

“So my cooking isn’t homely enough for you?” Handsome asks. He looks offended, but I know he isn’t. I smile like a devil for the second time today.

“No it isn’t. This belongs at the Governor’s dinner table. You could never serve it in my dingy diner.”

“We’re going to finish eating, and then I am going to do the dishes, and then we are going to read for a while, and then—you are going to be in big, big trouble.”

“What—no dessert?”

---