Home

"Welcome home." The U.S. Customs agent smiles as she closes my blue passport.

Minutes later, a cab carries me away from Philadelphia International Airport towards the heart of the city. Ah, yes, I'm home.

Two weeks in Paris seemed like two months. It was a business trip. I had to go. But I was anxious to return. I'm starting a new chapter of my life. Before I left for Paris, I moved in with my boyfriend, Nick. Technically, my boxes moved into Nick's house. I didn't have time to unpack before I left.

I should have rescheduled the Paris trip. But when else could I have gone? Today is my last day with Dine International. Tomorrow I become the business manager of Il Ristorante, Nick's restaurant.

Not for the first time today, I look at my tote and read the business card placed behind the protective plastic. "Mimi Louis, Executive Restaurant Consultant, Dine International."

Seven years. That's how long I've been at Dine International. I'm ready for a change. I'm ready to stop traveling. I'm ready to settle down and work on my relationship with Nick. We've been dating for three months and I want Nick to be It.

I've paid my dating dues. I had the amuse bouche of boys in high school, the butlered hors d'oeuvres of guys in college and the soup du jour men in my early twenties. Now, at thirty, I'm ready for the entree. The main course. Marriage.

Nick is ready for marriage, too. I know this. How? I know chefs.

Seduction by Risotto

Being a woman in the restaurant industry, I am used to being preyed upon by male chefs. But Nick? He's different. For starters, he's the most talented cook I've ever met.

Nick and I worked side by side to create the new restaurant. He flirted with me, and although I was hesitant to get involved with a client, my resolve crumbled with Nick invited me to his house for dinner. His passion for food ignited my passion for him. Nick cooked pan-seared salmon in white wine and herb sauce with julienned zucchini and yellow squash. And risotto. It was the risotto that did it. The textures of the rice and cream combined with the earthiness of the mushrooms. It was seduction by risotto. I couldn't resist Nick. I didn't.

Mustard Memories

"Where are you going, miss?" the cabdriver asks, jolting me away from my Nickalicious memories. I have given him Center City as a destination, but it's time to get specific.

" One moment, please," I say. Am I going straight to the office or do I have time to stop at Nick's? There's no room in my head for my schedule. I am BlackBerry dependent. Reaching into my tote, my hand closes around a glass jar of mustard I bought in a shop near Musee Rodin. I collect mustard.

When I was a child, I would lie in bed at night, trying to stay awake until Dad got home from Cafe Louis, the dressed-up diner he owned in South Jersey. If I could stay awake until Dad came home, I would tiptoe down the stairs so as not to wake Mom.

I adore my mother. She is, as Dad always said, a real looker. Mom has shoulder-length, gray blond hair and dark green eyes. Mom is thin, although she eats like a horse. I wish I had Mom's looks, and metabolism, but I have dark, wavy hair and milk chocolate eyes from my father's family.

As much as I love Mom, I always felt closer to Dad. I loved hanging out in the restaurant with him. I would greet the regulars and they would say, "There's Jay's little girl." On school nights when I couldn't be in the restaurant, I would try to wait up for Dad.

Sandwiches were our late night snacks. Dad could make a sandwich from anything in the refrigerator. He was a leftover artist, but he never compromised on mustard. "Good mustard makes everything taste better," Dad would say. "Now, my Mimi, tell me about your day. What's the what?"

I can hear his voice. Booming, with the Yiddish lilt of his parents. He looked like Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof. The beard. The belly. Jay Louis is larger than life. Was. He died two years ago.

The Diva

"Where are you going?" the cabdriver asks again.
" Il Ristorante," I tell him. "On the Avenue of the Arts."

It's just after four o'clock. I have thirty minutes before my meeting. Just enough time for some smoochies.

You have time for more than that, the diva says. It's been two weeks. I have needs. Wants. Demands. Take Nick into his office and have at it. The diva groans.

Luckily, only I can hear her. Not that I'm embarrassed to talk to her. Men have been talking to their penises for eons. Why can't I talk to my diva?

The First Lady

Civilians are not allowed to roam unattended through a restaurant, but I am the First Lady of Il Ristorante.

" Nick?" I ask everyone as I make my way through the kitchen. They shake their head and don't volunteer to help me find him. "Nick?" This Marco Polo game is nothing new. Chefs don't stand still for long in their own restaurants.

Finally, I hear Nick's voice and turn towards the dish room. "Buon giorno," I say from behind Nick.
Turning, Nick smiles. "Mimi."
" I'm home," I tell him.

Flatware crisis solved, Nick leads me into his office and shuts the door. Nick's office is just as horrid as every other chef's office. Windowless and airless, it's the size of a coat closet. Wedged into the office is a wood veneer desk that looks like it was trash picked. Half of the desk is consumed by a fax machine that overflows with notices from vendors announcing the daily or weekly specials. The other half of the desk is dedicated to a computer, the main server for the restaurant's ordering and inventory network. Since the computer is the brain of the entire restaurant, you would think it would be cared for and protected. Nope. I have cleaned grill grease, olive oil, and tomato sauce from the monitor. From the keyboard, I have emptied snipped parsley leaves, dried citrus pith, and salt.

Nick's street clothes hang on the back of the door while his dirty chef pants and chef coats lie in a heap on the floor, emitting the odor of sweat, herbs, and fried food. An extra pair of kitchen clogs wait on a shelf. Unopened mail forms a carpet, cookbooks are stacked in the corners, a half-empty Rolodex yawns on the desk, and an open drawer reveals socks, deodorant, Altoids, and hair goop, which Nick uses to tame his brown, wavy locks. I have often thought that chefs' offices are like the inside of boys' lockers.

Nick sits on his office chair and I straddle him. "I missed you," I whisper and kiss him, gently opening his lips with my tongue. Pesto is what he tastes like, which means his staff has made a fresh batch and Nick's been tasting it all afternoon to make sure it is up to his standards. i never know how Nick's mouth will taste. It's like an Everlasting Gobstopper.

The diva smiles.

The foregoing is excerpted and adapted from Love, Life and Linguine by Melissa Jacobs. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022