Don't Touch

“I'm in shock,” I say quietly, leaning over and whispering to Monroe. “George Deligato. Seriously? You actually know George Deligato?”

“Me? No, not directly. But my father did. They go way back like he said, but I've seen him plenty of times over the years, ever since I was a child.”

“It's impressive, that's all I’ve got to say.”

“No, it's humbling. This man has built his empire. You can't own a restaurant like this and not have some flare to bring in people. People come for the food, yes, but they also come for him. He remembers everyone, every face that's ever sat at one of his tables or at the bar. That's what makes people come back.”

“So, your father was a chef too. Is that how you got started?”

“That's right.”

“And your mother? Did she cook too?”

“No, she did the books, and helped however she could.”

“Well, it seems your parents set you up for success.”

Monroe chuckles, glancing down at his glass of wine. He pinches the stem and takes a long sip. “Not exactly. We weren't rich. We didn't have much, just a small apartment above the restaurant my parents sunk all their money into. And my father, well, for all you might hear about his reputation, let me just say there's a whole other side to him. An unforgiving, relentless man, with a drive and passion he was never going to give up on, no matter how much he struggled to keep his head above water. In the end he made it work, his food carried him to places he only dreamed of. He was blessed.”

“I think that's honorable. Nothing should be easy. If making it was easy, no one would appreciate the ride to get there.”

He tilts his head to one side and peers at me. “That's exactly what he used to say. I worked my ass off for him, and worked just as hard to get where I am today. It took years for my father to build up his name and turn The Roost into what it was before he died. He didn't have magazines with his face on the covers, or food critics hyping him up to the public. My father made it on pure blood, sweat, and tears. Not only of his own, but also the tears of my mother and me. But it worked. By the time he died his place was legend.”

“If it was legend, why didn't you keep it going? Why close it down?”

“Because that was his legacy, not mine. I took what he taught me and made something of my own. His legacy isn't gone, it lives on inside me. The restaurant didn't make the man, the man made the restaurant. That's what I'm doing. I'm taking his legacy and building on it.”

Pursing my lips, I let my eyes drift around his face. “You know, honestly, this whole chef thing was never my dream. I didn't know what I wanted to do really; I was kind of lost. But my brother helped push me here.”

His hands become skittish, playing with the silverware at his side as he jerks his eyes away. “So, what are you going to get?” he asks, completely changing the topic.

I'm not sure if it's talking about his father that's making him uncomfortable or if it's me bringing up my brother. Why would he care about your brother?

Maybe he's just not into a long deep conversation. It's possible he can only do it in short bursts. Or maybe just reliving the memories of his childhood, of his mother and his father, it's too much for him.

Cooking is a release. I've come to learn that and enjoy it. It releases stress. It gets rid of worry and fear. When you're in the kitchen, there's nothing but you and the food. Some people do drugs, some people drink until they can't stand up and don't remember their name, but for me, cooking's become my vice.

I think Monroe and I have that in common. A love of escape. A love of sharing a piece of yourself with someone else. A simple recipe can become so much more than just a meal. It's a memory. A thought. A feeling and emotion. That simple meal can take you back to a specific day and time.

That's what I truly love about cooking. And for Monroe, I think he feels the same, only maybe he enjoys the escape more than the memory.

We order our food. Of course, we're going for a full three course meal. Appetizer, main course, and dessert. It's only right. For our appetizer we order seafood stuffed mushrooms, and pomegranate pistachio crostini.

The presentation is incredible, the aromas bold, making our mouths salivate. I cut through a mushroom, picking it up with my fork. Monroe chuckles.

“What?” I ask.

“You're eating it all wrong.” He picks up a mushroom, holding one hand underneath as he leans across the table. “Here, like this,” he says. I open my mouth and he feeds me the mushroom. “Feel that? All the juice that spills out when you bite into it?”