Susan Johnson: Wine, Tarts & Sex

© 2007

“I’m not sure I’m interested in Minnesota wines. My menu’s going to be slightly different from yours,” Jake Chambers added politely, when he was really thinking, Minnesota wines… no way. “Just how much flack will I get from the local wine growers’ association if I don’t buy their wines? Are we talking boycotts, picketing, letters to the editor-what?”

Chaz Burnett grinned. “This is Minnesota, man, not an activist state like California.” The former owner of the restaurant Jake had recently purchased shrugged. “I just like to support the local growers. If you don’t see these regional wines on your menu, don’t sweat it. Restaurants change hands; shit happens.”

Jake understood there were ramifications to former customers when taking over a restaurant and making radical changes. But then again, his road to success had been paved with radical change. “I’d like to be amenable. It’s just that my wine list is-”

“I know-world-class.” Jake had restaurants in San Francisco and L.A. that always made everyone’s top-ten lists. “Hey, I understand your reluctance to offer less distinctive wines, but”-Chaz jabbed a finger at Jake-“FYI, some of our local stuff is pretty damned good. Judd Jacobson ’s for one, and darling Livvi’s, too.”

“Darling Livvi?” There had been something in Chaz’s tone that required further explanation.

“Man, I’d buy her wine even if it wasn’t a class act- because she sure as hell is. She’s one smokin’ hot babe with a bod and face that actually used to grace the covers of magazines. But her Frontenac reds are really first-rate. I suggest you try them.”

“What about her? Married, single, available?” The habitual man-to-man queries when talk of cover models entered the conversation.

“Single. And I don’t have personal experience, but rumor has it, she’s not above enjoying herself if the mood moves her. Picky, but available, if you meet her criteria.”

If he hadn’t been interested before, Chaz’s last sentence had gotten his attention; that phrase, if you meet her criteria , was intriguing. Not that he had Neanderthal impulses when it came to women. In fact, he never much cared who was in charge so long as the payoff was beneficial all around. But he hadn’t reached his current level of success without acquiring well-honed principles of constraint, nor had he come out to Minnesota to play. Quickly dismissing his sexual thoughts, he returned to the business at hand. “So then, we’re all set here?” Jake nodded at the two large duffel bags near the door. “I understand you’ve been packed for a week.” He’d met all the staff that morning.

“Packed and ready to launch. Thanks, by the way, for buying my furniture and stuff sight unseen. It would have been a pain to have to clear out my upstairs space. The cleaning staff put everything to rights this morning: fresh sheets, towels, that sort of thing. And you can always rent it out if you don’t like it.”

“Nah-I’m good. I prefer being close to the action until everything is up and running anyway. After that”-Jake shrugged-“who knows.”

“You’re not actually thinking of settling here permanently, are you?”

“Probably not.” More like million-to-one odds: no. But it never paid to give too much away in the ephemeral world of fine dining. A chef’s presence could make a big difference in the success of a restaurant.

“Personally, they’re gonna have to bury me on Saint Barts,” Chaz declared. “I’ve been wanting a place there so long I’m never leaving. In fact, the way this deal all came down, let me tell you, man, it made me believe in miracles- like this was all some big cosmic enchilada. Offenbach’s Topaz had just come on the market. I was lusting after it big time, trying to figure out how to swing a deal, and then out of the blue you called and said you wanted to buy my restaurant. ”

Jake grinned. “Definitely a psychic phenomenon.” And the fact that he wanted a restaurant with a prime location on the Mississippi River.

“No shit. I finally must be living right,” Chaz said with a grin. He put out his hand. “Since I have a two o’clock flight to paradise, I’d better hit the road. Good luck, man.”

Jake took Chaz’s hand in a firm grip. “Same to you.”

“Check out my new place next season,” Chaz offered. “The views are a helluva lot nicer than the ones here. Not that I’m knocking river views.”

“Hey, each to his own,” Jake said with a smile. “And don’t be surprised if I show up in Saint Barts.”

“You always have a place to stay, amigo.” Chaz turned to go. “Not to mention prime room service,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.

A minute later, the front door shut on Chaz Burnett, and Jake surveyed his new restaurant space with that feeling of anticipation and impatience he always experienced when taking on a new venture. He’d given the staff a month’s vacation so he had time to start renovating the bar and redoing the menu. With luck, the River Joint would be open for business in six to eight weeks.

And this time, he wasn’t interested in pleasing the food critics or decorators or even a certain segment of the population that followed, lemminglike, each new entry onto the restaurant scene. This place was for himself alone. No pretensions, no sleek decor. He wanted it to be comfortable and laid back, a neighborhood joint that just happened to have world-class food and wines.

He’d earned the right to indulge himself in this labor of love. The fact that he used to spend summers near here with his aunt was only a nostalgic bonus to his new creative endeavor.

Everyone in his organization had tried to talk him out of buying in the Midwest. The profits wouldn’t compare to those in major metropolitan centers, they’d argued. But he’d lost interest in profits alone a long time ago-or he’d been fortunate enough to be allowed that luxury.

People only eat bland food in the Midwest, he’d been cautioned. And even if he wanted to introduce more eclectic cooking, the ingredients couldn’t be found locally, his colleagues had warned.

“Not true and wrong,” he’d replied. “Besides, I need some downtime.” Which was perhaps the more cogent reason for his flight to what his West Coast cohorts perceived as the outland of the world. He’d been working too hard and playing too hard. “I’ll check back with you in six months,” he’d added, knowing he was leaving competent managers in charge of his restaurants. “Consider this my long-delayed sabbatical.”

At thirty-five, he’d been in the business in one form or another for twenty years, and while wildly successful in every sense of the word, he found he wanted more or something else-or something different.

Not that he knew what the hell something different meant.

But he’d given himself six months to find out.

Olivia Bell, known as Liv for obvious reasons- or at least obvious reasons to anyone who had been plagued with the teasing designation Olive Oil in grade school-lifted her booted feet up on the railing of her front porch and leaned back in her chair.

It was hotter than hell today, especially with the sun at high noon. She was dripping with sweat under her jeans and T-shirt, her fingernails were dirty as usual-no matter she’d scrubbed them after working in her vineyard-her pale hair was a riot of curls with the humidity at near record highs, and even unkempt and sweaty, she was happy, content, and really grossly self-satisfied. Sitting on the porch of her old farmhouse, surveying her vineyard that bordered a bubbling creek running through her land, she felt as though she’d found that much-lauded promised land. Or at least her own little piece of heaven, she decided, opting for a modicum of modesty in her assessment.