Hot Potato

9. Food for Thought

I scanned up and down Hot Potato's menu, getting nowhere with finding ways to lift it from the mundane. Stumped and frustrated, I finally realised that I'm stuck in the details without knowing their target market. Then trying to picture the people seated on their patio, I saw nothing but a blurry recollection. Yeah, focused on other things – both going and coming.

Still, I pondered possibilities. What's popular these days? Hah! How would I know? Cloistered in two very upscale kitchens for years – and cooking here. I've not eaten out in so long – except for Marcy.

Ummm. Warming at the thought of doing her, I checked the time. Still over three hours. I'm going to think myself into a tizzy long before that.

For distraction, I picked up my phone, opened Wattpad and settled back into the couch cushions to continue reading. A few minutes later, still on the same page, I heaved a deep sigh. Reading? Hah! Wondering why they've all that equipment. Imagining what I could create with it. Trying to remember kitchen management theory.

Clicking off the phone, I plugged it in to charge. Then I went to the bookshelf to find my old hospitality course textbooks and manuals to begin refreshing. I was deeply immersed in graphs, tables and text of menu pricing, food cost ratios and staff cost when the entry phone buzzed.

As I headed across the room, I glanced at the clock, realising I'd completely lost track of time. Then at the door, Marcy's face appeared on the screen, so I pushed the entry button and heard the latch click in the speaker. "Hey, Marce."

"Hey, Gigi."

I watched until she disappeared from the screen, then with my mood up, I went to the kitchen to fill the pasta pot with water and set it on a high burner before returning to look through the peephole.

As she neared, I opened the door, and we merged in a hug. Then after a long kiss, I said, "You feel all wound up."

"The last while's been nothing but hassle, hustle and increasing tension."

"A glass of viognier? I've just put the pasta water on, and you can sip and relax while I cook."

"Those can wait – my tension can't. Turn the stove off. Let's enjoy each other first." She nodded toward the bedroom.

Our mouths were too busy to talk for a long while, then as we lay in an entwined embrace, she said, "Couldn't spare a minute to look at Plimpton's. Did you find anything?"

"Seems the takeover has just happened. Some of the staff had quit as the chain foundered. The new owner has engaged a consultant to rebrand, hire replacements and get it rolling again."

"Certainly needs that. Gone way downhill. How'd you hear about it?"

"On the job site. Appeared in my afternoon search. Wasn't there this morning. That's why I phoned you. Got your in a meeting message, so I bit the bullet and applied."

Marcy chuckled. "So unlike you. Finally, some initiative."

We continued cuddling as I told her how it had evolved, then while we dressed, I asked, "What do you know about Plimpton's before..." I paused and winced. "Before the accident?"

"Arnie bought out the five Left Coast Cafés, and he moved them up a notch or two into premium-casual before he rebranded to Plimpton's."

"Premium-casual. What's that?"

"Like Pearls, Bacchus, Boaters, and their ilk. It's a Western Canadian genre that has grown like Topsy while you've been cloistered, and it's now spreading to the rest of the continent."

"How long ago was that? That he rebranded?"

"A year, maybe two. Then this summer, he took over the space on West 2nd, fudging a bit when he called it Olympic Village; that's two blocks away."