Russell Andrews: Icarus

But he knew that wasn't true. Caroline was no handful. She was easy. And it would always be easy between them because they were in love.

They left the next morning for the honeymoon, a week in a small hotel on the Caribbean island of Virgin Gorda. They had their own one-bedroom cabin, with a thatched roof and an outdoor shower, which was all they needed since it never went below eighty degrees.

On the plane ride down, they were holding hands, sitting in a comfortable silence; he was thinking about the party in Virginia and he knew she was too. He squeezed her hand tighter and said to her, "Why did you marry me?"

"You mean seeing where I come from, seeing my friends, seeing the bucolic life I'm leaving behind to go live the pauper's life in the evil city with a nobody like you?"

He shrugged, then nodded and said, "Something like that, yeah."

She turned her head, just an inch, so her eyes could search his. When they were done searching, she smiled gently, then she, too, squeezed harder and said, "I don't want you to become like those people, you know."

"I won't," he told her. "I don't think I can."

"That's good," she said. "That's why I married you."

Their week in Virgin Gorda was a lot like being in heaven. They sat on the beach and read, took long walks, spent hours out on the water, motoring around in a little putt putt that came with the room. They snorkeled and ate grilled lobster and drank rich, foamy pina coladas that were dappled with nutmeg. They talked long into the night, confiding their fears about and their confidence in their future and revealing what little they hadn't yet revealed about their pasts.

Day and night they lay in their king-size bed under the ceiling fan, the slats in the windows letting in a faint sea breeze, holding each other. She would stretch out, naked, and let him stroke her. He would kiss the tops of her thighs, staring down the seemingly endless length of her magically bronzed legs toward her slender bare feet. She would guide him into her and moan with pleasure. He was always surprised that someone so elegant and in control could be so sensual and sexually uninhibited. Sometimes she screamed so loudly they would start laughing. She told him it was a good thing their room was so close to the water, that the roar of the waves better drown her out or hotel security would come and drag him away.

When they returned to New York – there was never any question that they would live there – they began the daunting task of becoming not just life partners but business partners. They found themselves strategizing long into the night. They would go out for a pizza or some Chinese food, planning on a movie afterward, but they would get so excited discussing the details of their planned restaurant that the movie never materialized. They would stay in the pizza place, jabbering at each other, throwing out questions, tossing back just-thought-of answers, until they'd be asked to leave because the table was needed, then they'd move on to a coffee shop or a bar and plan away until they'd realize it was two in the morning and time to go home.

They searched for the right location. There were all sorts of variables and rules, they knew, but "right" meant "affordable," so they wound up breaking the rules. They found the perfect setup: a small brownstone with the first floor licensed for a commercial business. It was easily convertible into a restaurant space; there was even a garden out back with a patio. The only problem was that it was on a side street in Chelsea. Hardly any foot traffic. Not a very desirable area, not back then. Too far west, too far downtown. Too downscale, too rough a neighborhood. But they could afford it. Their first investment, before they bought a can of paint or a single piece of silverware, was a small blue-and-white awning. On it, it said "Jack's T-Bone" in small, scripted letters. The awning stood at the front of the building for a full year before the restaurant opened. Every time he saw it, it gave Jack the confidence to succeed and made him understand that his dream was about to become a reality.

Caroline was the one who insisted they buy, not rent. It made him nervous – Jack had never owned anything more expensive than a leather jacket. But she said they had to look into the future. If they owned the property, they could do what they wanted with it. They would be the ones in control. And, besides, they could live above the restaurant. Not only would they have a beautiful home, they could serve the last customer, lock the door of their business, and be in bed two minutes later.

"That'll save us an hour in travel time a day," she said. And then with a deviously innocent look, "We're going to have kids, Jack. I figure four or five of them. That means an hour more we can stay in bed and work on that."

She put up her trust fund as collateral, which the bank instantly accepted, and the town house was theirs.

It seemed like the world was theirs, too.

The restaurant was an immediate success. It started out as an old-fashioned chophouse, serving the best cuts of carefully aged meat, the perfect Caesar salad, and their signature dish, Jack's Potatoes, a circular sculpture of thinly sliced potatoes fried in a cast-iron skillet with shallots and onions. Jack learned about other kinds of food, too. He absorbed the details that, for him, made what he did an art, not just a business. From the fish vendors at the South Street Seaport, he learned that line-caught was better than net-caught – water got in a fish's mouth when it was net-caught; that bloated it and made it less tasty. He learned about baking. Jean-Guy, the white-haired Parisian who was the master baker at the Van Dam Street Bakery, taught him that hard wheat is best for bread, soft wheat is most proper for pastries, and it didn't take Jack long before he could, by taste, pick out the breads that were naturally leavened from sourdough starters. From the farmers who sold him fruits and vegetables at the Union Square Farmers' market, he began to understand the subtle tastes of the best tomatoes and onions and herbs. Gradually, as Jack became more sophisticated, gently guided by Caroline, so, too, did the restaurant. They traveled to Italy, rented a small house in Tuscany, and stumbled into a wonderful trattoria outside of Lucca called Prago. They asked questions, observed every little detail, and, most of all, made friends with the owner, Piero, who finally sent them on their way with the secrets to three of his special pasta sauces, all of which were added to the New York menu. And, suddenly, aromatic truffles began appearing, for special customers, in Jack's Potatoes. When California cuisine came in, they resisted the extreme and faddish combination of tastes, but accepted that American cooking had changed and changed for the better. The restaurant reflected those changes. They were soon serving sliced onions and blood oranges on a bed of arugula, and their chicken and fish began to be influenced by everyone from Wolfgang Puck to Paul Prudhomme. The key to their success, though, was always simplicity; both Jack and Caroline recognized that and never strayed from it. Soon, even the name was simplified. Jack's T-Bone was shortened to Jack's. Within two years of opening, they were a New York institution. Reservations had to be made weeks in advance. But the menu stayed small, the atmosphere homely, the service impeccable. Jack knew, as good as his food was, people did not come to his restaurant for the food. They came because he and Caroline – and everyone who worked there – made each and every customer feel important. They made a point of only hiring nice people, smart people, people who cared. They paid well and treated the staff as if they were family and it paid off big-time because customers left the restaurant with a sense of intimacy and loyalty.