A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) by Hillary Manton Lodge Page A

the dining room table, “looks incredible.”
    “That’s very generous of you. Please, take a plate. We’ll be experimenting today, and the best compositions will go into my new column series.”
    Over the next few moments, I did what I did best—hostess. I explained the crepe ingredients and assembly, and made sure the bottles of Pinot Noir and Auxerrois were close at hand, as well as the water and espresso.
    The crepes were assembled, various combinations attempted. We made small talk as I photographed the best results. When we were all full, we moved to the living room with our beverages.
    “If we do decide to move forward with a restaurant,” Frank said, “those stracciatella crepes have to be on the menu.”
    Nico nodded and sipped from his drink. “You’re right. They had just the right amount of chocolate without being overwhelming.”
    Two compliments in one night? “Thank you,” I said with a genuine smile. “So, Frank, you said it—if we do move forward with a restaurant. If we did, what’s your vision for it?”
    “I’m just the money guy. My job is to find people with vision, with a voice, who have something to say with their food. Obviously, the nomination for the James Beard award is great, but I was already mulling the offer when I had dinner last month at D’Alisa & Elle. Elle’s a Portland fixture, of course. But exciting? Not always. But Nico’s menu—a breath of fresh air.”
    If I didn’t know better, I’d think Nico had grown three inches taller just listening.
    “Now, Nico,” Frank continued, “if there are some grand family plans for you to take over the restaurant from your dad, I don’t want to get in the way of nepotism. But if you’d like to strike out again, I want to be your guy.”
    Nico nodded. “I’ll be honest—I’d love to have my own place again, but I need a collaborator. At Elle, that’s my dad. If we do this, I’d like Juliette to join me.”
    “Now, Juliette,” Frank said, turning to me, “you orchestrated the update at La Taverna some six years ago, isn’t that right?”
    “You have a very long memory,” I said, impressed. “I worked with Montage and Nonna’s Table as well.”
    “I should have guessed Montage. Good work.”
    “Portland already has a selection of industrial, minimalist restaurants that have experienced certain amounts of success,” Nico said, leaning forward and tenting his fingers. “To do another would be redundant. We grew up at D’Alisa & Elle, but we don’t want to be in competition with it either. And let’s face it, the economy is still in recovery. So I’m thinking something small, boutique … a bistro, a café, that sort of thing. Now, I have a hard time with small.” Nico paused to laugh at himself. “It’s not in my nature, you know? But as a business model, it’s very wise. So, a small restaurant. French and Italian flavors—”
    “It has to be special, though,” I interjected without thinking. “Not gimmicky, but special. L’uccello Blu was more of a trattoria, so maybe we want to go in a different direction. Crepes are very French, but they’re not huge sellers in the States at this point, so I think a crêperie is out of the question. Coffee should be served, obviously, but I don’t think anyone’s worrying about Portland suffering a café shortage anytime soon.”
    Nico examined his empty demitasse cup. “Speaking of, do you have any more of this espresso in the kitchen?”
    “There’s more. What about a date restaurant?”
    “Interesting,” Frank said approvingly.
    Nico left for the kitchen, coffee cup in hand. “I’m listening.”
    “Something romantic, but not in the traditional restaurant sense. No tablecloths. Certainly no violins. I’m thinking warm, dark wood, leather upholstered chairs, corner booths, low light. A central hearth. Sophisticated. Sexy. Unfussy.”
    “Leather chairs—they are expensive for restaurant furniture,” Nico argued upon his return.
    “True,” I