Le Petit Jardin

“A meal is a simple thing, really. Just a combination of ingredients that happen to work well together, that are then put onto a plate for someone to eat. That’s it,”

She closes the book and tosses it onto the ever-growing pile of papers next to her desk. Sighing, she lets her head fall into her hands.

“Don’t fall asleep,” she reminds herself.

She’s overworked. That’s the truth of it. The number of gray hairs on her head seems to be increasing, and she wears makeup to cover tired eyes. Her skin is stretched slightly too tight over aging bones, but she stopped caring long ago.

She’s worn out. Call it stubbornness, or call it pride, but whatever it is, it stops her from abandoning her workload. So the pile of papers on the desk keeps growing, the phone rings more often, and cups of coffee go cold on the table when she falls asleep in her chair.

She lifts her head from its makeshift cradle, blinking the tiredness from her eyes. She opens her laptop and turns on the desk lamp, preparing for a long night of work ahead. Then, she stands up, careful not to knock over anything. The floorboards creak under her as she leaves the room.

She walks down the stairs, brushing her hand along the wall. The photos that once hung there are long gone. Once she reaches the base of the staircase, she flicks a switch and washes the kitchen in bright creamy light (it’s much too harsh for a late-night dinner, but it’ll have to do.)

Her kitchen isn’t anything special. It’s a nice kitchen, sure, but it’s not the place of happiness and special memories it used to be. It’s just a bland kitchen, like in a show home. White marble countertops balancing on carefully constructed and painted white cupboards, all against navy blue walls.

She lights a lemon-and-mint scented candle (titled, “Relax”) before washing her hands. She needs to refill the soap dispenser, but there’s hardly any time to do so. The sound of the water rushing fills the space, and she almost forgets to turn off the tap before she glides across the room to take ingredients from the fridge.

“These mushrooms’ll go bad soon,” she thinks to herself as she digs through the produce drawers. 

She doesn’t have much of an idea what to make, but finds herself chopping the mushrooms, along with an onion and some garlic.

“Pasta,” she decides, “wouldn’t be too bad,”

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She mindlessly places the pasta in the nearly-boiling water. The sauce gently bubbles away, placed on a dimly lit burner. It’ll be a while before it’s done.

The kitchen lacks a familiar presence. It’s lacked this person for years, but their absence is noticed more often during the winter months. The kitchen doesn’t feel like a kitchen (a good, homely one) should without them. It was seven years ago now that they left. Six years since phone calls turned into text messages turned into nothing at all. 

She chooses to relive one of her happier memories with them as she whisks the sauce.

__

“Mom, can you come in here for a moment?” they ask.

“What is it, honey?” she answers, already turning the corner. 

“Can you help me with dinner? I’m really bad at peeling potatoes…”

Mrs. Goha chuckles and ruffles her daughter’s hair.

“How many do you need?” she says, rolling up her sleeves.

“Eight medium ones?”

“You got it!”

They cook together in a happy sort of silence. One that could easily be broken with a joke or a simple “how was class?”. Onions sizzle in a pan behind them, and her daughter prepares the breading for the chicken. 

Cooking together is rather routine for them (they get each other’s help, one way or another. Sometimes, they ask, but other times, one of them wanders into the kitchen as the other is cooking and gets involved.)

__

Soon, she’s back at the desk with dinner in her hands and reading glasses on. The mushroom sauce and pasta are warm against the pervading chill of the house, but soon the bowl stops steaming as she becomes immersed in her work. Memories of the past are tucked away again as her fingers move across the keyboard. 

She types review after review, sending them away to newspapers in the late hours of the night. The cold pasta slowly disappears and the bowl that previously held it is moved to the edge of the desk. Papers take the bowl's place.

The house is silent. The slightest noise (the ruffling of paper, the swish of clothing) sounds far too loud, like a scream in a church. She’s grown used to the silence, however. So, she flips through notepads with the utmost care, types as quietly as possible, and doesn’t dare tap her foot against the floor. 

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Finally, the pile of papers seems to shrink. It’s begun to snow heavily outside, and the house grows even colder than before. She turns off the desk lamp before sending in the final review, and sinks into bed. She doesn’t bother pulling the covers over herself before she falls asleep.

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The next morning, the snow seems to be coming down even harder. A few inches fell in the hours she slept, and the forecast predicts snow for the next few days. The clouds outside are a yellow-gray, and they block the sun, casting a dim, strange light across the city. 

“I’ll have to shovel the driveway later,” she thinks.

She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and gets up, flinching when her toes touch the cold floor. She does her best to get the wrinkles out of her clothes (the same ones from last night) while walking to the bathroom. 

The chill of the tile evaporates any traces of sleep left in her body. Carefully, she brushes her teeth and hair before turning on the shower (at the hottest temperature, aiming to eliminate the cold that settled in overnight.)

The water manages to wash away some of her stress- and for the first time in a while, she looks forward to going out. 

“It’s something about snowy days that gets me excited,” she supposes.

The smell of lavender-and-honey shampoo fills the bathroom as she stands under the showerhead.

__

She’s supposed to visit a new (supposedly “up-and-coming”) place today. They called a few days ago, saying “Please, Mrs. Goha, we’d love a review from you,” leaving no room for argument. Her hair is still limp and damp as she selects an outfit. 

She goes downstairs to eat a late breakfast (or early lunch, she doesn’t know) of last night’s leftovers. Luckily, the house’s heating system has finally kicked in, so the chill is a bit more manageable.

“I need to go grocery shopping tomorrow,” she reminds herself.

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It’s later in the evening when she parks her car downtown and walks through the snow towards the restaurant. A decently sized line wraps around the corner.

“Excuse me,” she says while getting in line, “is this the line for Le Petit Jardin?”

“Yup!” the man in front of her says before turning back around.

“Huh,” she thinks, “it must be pretty popular,”

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Roughly five minutes later, a strangely familiar voice sounds behind Mrs. Goha.

“Mind if I join you?”

She turns around, greeted by a face similar to her own (just a little less aged.)

“Maia! Wha- I- hi! What a surprise!” Mrs. Goha says, moving to embrace her daughter. After years of stress and tiring work, an embrace has always been a welcome escape.

“Hi, Mom,” she replies, smushed against her mother’s chest. She’s quickly released.

“What brings you here?”

“Just hungry for dinner!” she pauses before continuing. “I know you’re here on official food critic business and stuff, but do you want to eat with me? It’s been so long!”

“Of course. I’d love to,”

Mrs. Goha tries to read her daughter before ultimately failing and resorting to words.

“How have things been with…” she trails off, hoping that Maia understands.

Her daughter looks slightly sad, but still manages to answer the question.

“I left Michael, if that’s what you’re asking,” Maia replies.

“Oh,” Mrs. Goha breathes.

Maia raises her hand to show her mother the bareness of its ring finger. Mrs. Goha pats her hand.

“I’m proud of you, Maia,” she says.

The years of stress and work didn’t take away her love for Maia.

“Yeah, he, uh, wasn’t the best. To me,”

“I’m sorry,”

“But, anyway! There are much better things to talk about than that guy! We haven’t talked in years thanks to him! We need to catch up!”

“Right! Well, then…”

They slip into a simple conversation, trying to make up for the lost time. The line moves ahead, slowly but surely, and eventually, they’re seated inside the welcoming space of the restaurant.

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From: Sana Goha (gohareview@critique.com)

To: bostonreader@newsroom.org

Cc:

Bcc:

Subject: “Le Petit Jardin”- A Review

“Le Petit Jardin” is a relatively unassuming restaurant. It sits on a less-than-busy street corner and its size doesn’t draw much attention. However, step inside and it’s a different story. I’m not an interior designer, so I won’t comment on the decor, but it’s definitely not an unwelcoming place.

As for the food- I had the waiter’s recommendation of potato and leek soup as an appetizer, followed by gratinéed scallops, and lemon mousse as a dessert. A bit of an unusual combination, but it would prove to be one of the best dinners I’ve had in a while.

To start- the soup. It had a certain richness to it that perfectly complemented the creamy texture and the addition of red pepper flakes wrapped up the dish perfectly. One could tell that the ingredients were carefully prepared and cooked to bring out the maximum amount of flavor. The usage of herbs and spices in this soup was excellent, and every part of the dish worked together perfectly. 

Next, the scallops. Absolutely sublime! The flavors worked in a delicate balance- mushrooms, garlic and onion served as the perfect base for the poached scallop. All of this covered in a toasted creamy, cheesy sauce created an extremely satisfying taste experience.

The lemon mousse served as the perfect ending to this meal. The light and sharp cup of mousse (with a creative decoration) had the perfect amount of lemon flavor in it. It managed to remain rich-tasting while maintaining an airy texture, and it tasted extremely fresh.

“Le Petit Jardin” is truly one of Boston’s best up-and-coming restaurants- and its food is best enjoyed with family and friends.

Review by S. Goha

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“Maia! I was wondering when you would show up!” Mrs. Goha says, opening the door for her daughter. She quickly shuts the door after her daughter enters, trying to keep out the early December chill. She takes Maia’s coat as well.

They head into the dining room where food sits on the table. It’s a simple meal (for a food critic, Mrs. Goha isn’t the most creative cook), but it’s warm and inviting compared to the cold outside. Two plates have already been prepared, but their individual elements sit on the table as well.

“Let’s dig in, shall we?” Mrs. Goha says, settling into her wooden chair.

Maia sits down across from her and nods.

“Thanks for dinner, Mom,” Maia replies, “Next time, invite me over earlier and I can help!”

They each take a bite, and agree that it’s nice to eat together again.