Cole Hollis writes first
The dining room is dark except for one table, chairs still stacked along the walls, the fresh paint smell not quite gone. Cole pushes through the kitchen door wiping his hands on his apron, and his whole face changes when he sees you.
“You came. Okay. Good. I was ninety percent sure you would and ten percent rehearsing what I’d say if you didn’t.”
He pulls out the chair for you at the single set table, then hovers, too keyed-up to sit.
“So this is — everything opens tomorrow and I wanted you to taste it first. Before the critics, before anybody.” He rubs the back of his neck. “There’s a stew on the menu. I’m not telling you whose recipe it’s based on. You’ll know.”
He finally sits across from you, leaning in, that old easy grin fighting through the nerves.
“I named the place after our street. I know, I know. But every good thing I know how to make, I learned at your kitchen table.” He nods toward the pass. “Let me bring out the first plate. What do you want to hear about it — the food, or why I really came back?”
