Tara and Henry meet
After a tiring day, Henry opted to walk home in the South End just to burn off the nervous energy rather calling an Uber. It was going on nine. The heat of the August day had dropped, and the early evening was pleasant.
As he reached Tremont at Berkeley, he turned right toward his place. Having eaten nothing since lunch, he yearned for dinner. He was still new to his neighborhood, having moved in just three months earlier, so he wasn’t entirely familiar with the various eateries, though he was discovering them one at a time. He scanned the shops for a promising restaurant. Nothing fancy. He just didn’t have the energy to fix himself anything. Most seemed to be closed or winding down, since it was a weeknight and nearly nine.
That was when he spotted Tara’s Own Kitchen tucked in between a convenience store and dry cleaner. He must have walked by the place nearly every day but never noticed it. He thought it looked pleasant, so he stepped through the door and was greeted by a mélange of pleasant aromas. He could pick out the distinct components: rosemary, sage, butter, and something else.
A few guests were lingering over their dinners, a couple in the corner were clearly done but sipping wine while they canoodled. A waiter stepped forward to greet him. Henry asked whether he could get a quick bite.
“Sir, we’ll be closing soon. But if you like, I can see what the kitchen still has. They won’t be able to whip up something new this late. Give me a ‘sec.”
He returned a moment later. “Sir, we have one serving of our herb-roasted chicken cutlet left if you’d like it. I can get you a side order of rosemary shoelace potato fries and a small, tossed salad. Would that be okay with you?”
“That would be fabulous. Far more than I expected. Thank you.”
“Perfect. Would you like a glass of wine or a beer?”
“Sauvignon blanc, if you have it.”
Of course. Have a seat anywhere and I’ll bring it to you.”
Henry took a seat at a two-person table near the kitchen. He could see into the kitchen through the pass and noticed a woman and a young man, both wearing chef’s aprons, hustling around behind the scenes.
The waiter returned and put the wine on his table.
“Thank you. Could I look at a menu, please?”
“Coming right up.” The waiter turned and took a menu off the adjacent table.
After briefly checking his iPhone for messages and email, he let his eyes wander around the room. He liked what he was seeing. A pleasant, cozy place. It had a rustic, lived-in feel, with a lot of dark wood moldings, a mix of art hangings, copies of some classic Impressionists and Post-Impressionists, and modernists, etc. He felt instantly comfortable, as though in his own home, and was happy to have discovered it. As his eyes wandered, they landed in the kitchen pass, and he saw that the chef was looking at him. When their eyes met, she looked away as though embarrassed.
She’s pretty, he thought. He stole a few more glances at her while she worked, obviously focused on the food in front of her. When she caught him looking at him, it was his turn to look away in embarrassment.
He brought his eyes down to study the menu. An intriguing mix of dishes. Not a huge menu, but this wasn’t a huge restaurant. Not like the books with hundreds of selections you get at places like the Cheesecake Factory. Just four appetizers, three salads, four entrees plus a special of the day, several sides, and five desserts.
He felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket, pulled it out and saw a brief message from Ginger. She was leaving the office, headed for home, writing him a quick note to assure him the strategy she’d been toiling over was done and ready for his review in the morning. Good, Henry thought. He could always count on Ginger. He dropped her a quick response.
“Glad to hear. Thanks, Ginger. Sleep tight. See you in the morning.”
He put his iPhone back in his pocket, sipped his wine briefly and looked back into the kitchen. Again, the chef was looking at him. This time, he held her gaze. She did, too, but she soon broke a small smile. He did, too. They continued staring, probably for only three or four seconds but to Henry, it felt like a full minute.
She finally broke away with the faint smile still on her lips. She lifted the plate she’d been working on and walked out of view, only to reappear through the swinging kitchen door, and walked toward him, with a warm smile.
“Good evening, sir. Welcome to Tara’s Own Kitchen. I’m Tara. Tara Lloyd. Here’s your dinner. I don’t think I’ve seen you in our place. Are you new to the neighborhood, or just visiting?”
“Thank you, Tara. Nice to meet you. I’m Henry. Henry Bancroft. Actually, I live around the corner. Moved in about three months ago. I walk by here almost every day on the way to my office. And it wasn’t until tonight that I noticed your nice little place for the first time.”
“Well, I’m glad you finally noticed. I hope to see you again, Henry. Soon.” And she smiled again before turning back to the kitchen.
As Henry dug into his dinner, hungrier than he realized, he kept looking into the kitchen, hoping to catch another glimpse of Tara. But she was moving around a bit, probably cleaning up for the night.
Soon, the young man in the kitchen—Tara’s assistant, Henry assumed—left while Tara continued puttering around in the kitchen alone. The waiter dropped by to check on Henry.
“Everything all right, sir?”
“Please, it’s Henry. And yes, everything is just great. This dinner is the best thing I’ve eaten in ages. Tara is quite the chef.”
“Oh yes, she is, Henry. One of the best in the city.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bret. Bret Parker.”
“Pleased to meet you, Bret.” And Henry half-stood to shake his hand.
“I’m Henry Bancroft and I will be back, I promise you that. I love this place. I’d like to try the whole menu.”
By the time Henry was finishing his meal, he was the last customer. Bret brought by the check.
“No hurry, Henry.”
“Don’t be silly, Bret. Here’s my credit card. You probably want to finish up and get home.”
“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
As he walked across the room, Tara emerged from the kitchen, walked to the bar and poured herself a glass of sauvignon blanc. She glanced at Henry. “Would you like me to top up your wine, Henry?”
“Please, that would be nice.”
She put her glass on his table as she poured his wine.
“Care to join me for a minute or two?” Henry asked while she poured. “Or do you need to do anything more in the kitchen?”
She grinned. “Oh, I’m quite done. I never have my evening glass of wine until I am. Let me put the bottle back or we may be tempted to keep pouring,” and she winked.
Bret returned with the credit card receipt, which Henry signed just as Tara sat.
“Tara, if you don’t need me for anything else, I’ll be leaving.”
“No, you’re good. Thanks, Bret. Have a good evening.”
You, too.”
As he departed through the front door, Tara turned back to Henry, raised her glass for a toast. “Here’s to our newest customer. I hope we’ll see again.”
“Indeed, you will. That chicken cutlet was fabulous,” and Henry smiled as he touched the rim of his glass to hers while they locked eyes. Henry was spellbound.
Tara held his eyes for a moment longer before raising the wine glass to her lips.
“Ah, nothing better after a long day in that hot kitchen than a crispy cool glass of sauvignon blanc,” she said quietly as she took in Henry’s face again. “So, you said you just moved into the South End three months ago. Where from, if I may ask?”
“I had a condo out in Medford. I hated the commute. Didn’t really care for Medford, either. I wanted a place closer to my office, close enough that I could walk.”
“And what do you do?”
“I’m partner in an ad agency, over on Boylston. And you obviously are a chef in a restaurant that has your name on the door. So, I assume you’re owner?”
“Yes, me and my partner, Anne Simmons. We opened two years ago last May.”
“Well, you’re obviously doing quite well. I must say I really love the place. And the dinner you served me tonight was the best meal I’ve had in ages.”
She chuckled. “I can see you cleaned your plate thoroughly. I’ll be able to put that plate right into the dishwasher without rinsing it.”
“I will be back. In fact, I may become your best customer.”
“You’ll have a lot of competition. Many neighborhood folks are frequent guests here. If you come regularly, you’ll meet a lot of your new neighbors. We’re all friendly. Where do you live?”
“Mid-block on Waltham Street, between Tremont and Shawmut.”
“You’re kidding! We’re practically neighbors. I’m one block over on Hanson.”
They both smiled broadly and continued looking into each other’s eyes while sipping their wine.
“Tara, do you usually sit with your customers like this?”
“Just about every night. Once I’ve got the kitchen buttoned up, I like to have my one glass of wine, and if there are any malingerers, I’ll ask to join them for a few minutes, just to chat and unwind. I always enjoy that part of my day the most. Gives me chance to get off my feet and talk to my friends.”
“That’s a lovely routine. I’m glad I was the favored one tonight. I like your company,” he added, grinning sheepishly.
Tara blushed and smiled back at him. She finished off her wine and said, “Well, I should shut things down now and get out of here.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve been keeping you.”
“Not at all. But I can see your wine glass is empty, too. Let me take your dishes to the kitchen and I’ll shut things down.”
“Since we’re practically neighbors, may I walk you home?”
“That would be lovely. Give me a minute.”
Henry was captivated. Tara is beautiful, he thought. So pretty and natural. No make-up that I could detect. Easy to talk, comfortable in her own skin. I wonder how old she is. I’ll bet she’s about forty. Thirty-nine? Is she married? No wedding ring.
He could see she’d shut the kitchen lights. The dining room lights went off next, save the one by the front door, as she emerged from the kitchen.
“Well, that’s it. Only thing left is to lock up.”
Henry walked with her to the door, stepped outside holding the door open for her. After locking up, they began walking down Tremont. The evening air was fresh. Few people were out and traffic was light. They crossed mid-block toward Tara’s street.
“I was studying your menu. Small offering for a small restaurant, but all the dishes are intriguing. I look forward to trying them all. How often do you add to it or change it?”
“Fairly regularly. In fact, I’m working on a special veal dish right now that I hope will be ready to serve next week.”
“When? I’ll be there.”
“Tara chuckled. “Then you’d better come every night because I’m not sure which night it will be.”
“It’s a deal.”
Soon, Tara stopped at her front gate. “This is mine.”
“That row house is yours? That’s magnificent.”
“Not the whole building. Just the second floor.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Just me and my big old orange tabby, Herman.” She paused a beat, looked at the ground and then brought her smiling eyes back to Henry. “Well, Henry, it was really nice to meet you,” and she reached out to shake his hand. “Hope to see you again,” and she smiled broadly.
Henry returned the big smile as he shook her hand, clearly a working chef’s firm grip.
“Oh, yes, I will be back. I can assure you. As I said, I may become your best customer.” For more than just the food , he thought to himself, still smiling.
“Well, good night,” and she turned to climb her steps, stopping at the top, turning and giving Henry a little wave and smile. Henry responded in kind, turned and began walking to his house around the block, feeling as though he was walking on air.
“Yes, Tara, I will indeed see you again. And again and again,” he said quietly to himself, smiling broadly.