Mom leaves for her lecture and lunch. I stand in the kitchen and I feel alone. I need to be somewhere I feel safe, and that place is not here, in Mom's new house with Mom's new life. Where can I go? Well, there is one place.

Home.

Twenty minutes later, I sit in my car staring at Cafe Louis.

Although I haven't seen her for almost two years, Cafe Louis looks the same. But worse. Her burgundy paint is peeling like chipped nail polish. b.u.t.terscotch-colored roof tiles are turning black at their roots. Crowning the restaurant is her once glittering tiara, a painted sign that reads "Cafe Louis." She looks like what she is. A relic. A discarded remnant of an era when independent and family-run restaurants dominated this area of New Jersey. The party is over; it's moved down the street to Red Lobster. But no one has told Cafe Louis. She wears lipstick and stockings and waits by the door, wondering when her guests will arrive.

And yet, I love her. Cafe Louis is part of me. Part of my family.

The restaurant business is hereditary, Dad said. As far as family legacies go, it's not so bad.

Cafe Louis is a descendant of Luvitz's Deli in Brooklyn, where my father learned the restaurant business at the nudging elbow of his father. Just as my father left the borscht-colored shadow of Luvitz's Deli, so did I leave the cheese fryscented atmosphere of Cafe Louis. I ascended to the white-linen stratosphere of fine dining. But now I've come crashing back to the beginning, back to where I was taught to waitress and to cook, back to the place I got hooked on the restaurant world.

Sitting in Sally, I close my eyes and see my younger self, tripping on good tips, dancing with the cooks as we tried to keep up with the dinner rush. Drinking the camaraderie of the waiters.

And then, I turned the party into work. I took my waitressing smile to the board room and left the short, black ap.r.o.ns to the younger, pierced girls. I lost my mise en place in the world. But I can get it back.

The gla.s.s door creaks as I open it and walk into the restaurant. It's midmorning. The waiters have yet to arrive. The house is empty. Slowly, I walk the length of the chrome counter, running my hand along the red leatherette and chrome stools. Behind the counter are soda fountains, a metal vat for iced tea, and display cases holding pies, cakes, and giant cookies. The dining area is lined with booths and filled in with tables of four. Everything is just as Daddy left it.

"Well, now." A voice comes from behind me. "Look who's come home."

Grammy Love Behind me stands Althea Jefferson, affectionately known as Grammy Jeff. She is a tall, round, black woman and she has been in charge of the lunch shift since I was a child.

Grammy Jeff folds me into her thick arms. "Honey, it's good to see you," she says in her North Carolinaflavored voice. "What brings you here?"

"You. I came to see you." Maybe that's true. Grammy Jeff was a source of comfort for all of the adolescent turmoil I couldn't tell my parents. Mostly boyfriend stuff. There was nothing I couldn't tell Grammy Jeff. She has lived through it all.

Grammy Jeff holds me away from her body. "You supposed to be at your fancy job, traveling around the world and such. Something bad must have happened. I'm guessing it has to do with a man. Am I right?"

"You're always right."

"Mmm-hmm." Grammy takes my hand. "Come on, then. I got to get ready for lunch, but I got time to make you something good to eat. You can tell me all about it."

Grammy Jeff's macaroni and cheese is a miracle to behold. I like watching Grammy cook the dish almost as much as I like eating it. Sitting on a stool next to the metal table, I watch Grammy pull a pasta pot, a double boiler, and a ca.s.serole dish from the storage area. When she has water on to boil and the cheddar melting, Grammy turns her attention to me. "Tell me what happened, baby girl."

By the time I finish the story, Grammy has cooked the macaroni and melted the cheddar. To the cheese, Grammy adds milk, eggs, b.u.t.ter, salt, and pepper. She puts the noodles into a ca.s.serole dish and drowns them in the sauce. Grammy puts the dish into the oven, then turns to me and says, "Let me tell you a story."

While the macaroni and cheese bubbles in the oven, Grammy tells me a story. She speaks in biblical parables. A devout Christian, Grammy has a biblical psalm, proverb, or parable for each of life's situations. Her voice is deep and it rises and falls in a beautiful rhythm. Now, Grammy says, "The lips of a forbidden woman drip honey. Her mouth is smoother than oil. But in the end, she is as bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Proverbs, five," Grammy finishes. "Praise the Lord."

"Amen, Grammy," I readily acknowledge.

As Grammy places the ca.s.serole dish of macaroni and cheese on the metal utility table, the kitchen's back door slams. In walks a six-foot-five, thin man in his thirties wearing khakis and a Sean John T-shirt. This is Grammy's grandson, Nelson Jefferson.

"Good morning, my Jewish queen," he says.

"Good morning, my African prince," I reply.

Nelson doesn't ask what I'm doing at Cafe Louis. He doesn't ask a lot of questions. We've known each other since we were children, but we come from very different backgrounds and we've learned that it's best not to be nosy. Nelson is a good person who got dealt a bad hand in the form of his mother, Grammy's daughter, who had him when she was fourteen. Grammy raised Nelson after his mother left for parts unknown. He's helped Grammy in the kitchen for most of his life, and as he puts on a white chef coat, I realize that he's now a bona fide employee of Cafe Louis.

As if to answer my unasked question, Grammy says, "Nellie works the grill and the Fry-o-later during lunch."

"One person can handle the lunch crowd?" I ask.

"It's not so much of a crowd anymore," Grammy says.

Business is slow? That's news.

"Anyhow," Grammy says, "I do all the cold stuff ahead of time. Tuna salad, chicken salad, seafood salad, macaroni salad, potato salad. You know I make the best potato salad in New Jersey."

"Yes, ma'am," I say. But this a lot of work for one woman, especially one pushing sixty-five. Jumping off my stool, I say, "Let me help, Grammy. Where are the recipes?"

Grammy tsks. "Honey, I don't have recipes. I cook from my heart."

I laugh. "You don't want anyone to know your secret ingredient?"

"I'll tell you my secret ingredient," Grammy says. "Love."

When the first lunch order comes in, Grammy kicks me out of the kitchen. "Me and Nellie got a system," she says when I volunteer to help.

I walk into the hundred-seat dining room and see that only four waiters are working lunch. I guess business is really slow.

But the people who are eating here have been eating here for decades. Mrs. and Mr. Byrem. Dave Arthur and his firefighter buddies. Rabbi and Mrs. Levine. Mrs. Leopold, who leads a brigade of community volunteers. The Riesenbachs from down the road. Maury Levy. Marlene Kaplan and her daughter, whose name I can't remember. But they remember my name.

Restaurant Diva What exactly is the status of Cafe Louis? Getting my Nancy Drew on, I go to the downstairs office to sleuth for clues. Although it feels like I'm spying on my brother, I'm not really doing anything untoward. I own half of Cafe Louis and I have the right-nay, the responsibility!-to check on Jeremy's management of the restaurant. After all, I am a restaurant consultant. So? Consult.

The office is the same mess it was when Dad was alive. The four-walled room is lined with wood bookshelves, most of which groan under the weight of piles of paper. Receipts, recipes, reviews. In the corner, an ancient, black-and-white TV spreads its antennae. On the wood veneer desk sits a beige telephone sprinkled with food particles. I sit in Dad's chair, a creaky metal contraption with torn leatherette cushioning.

Every man needs a throne, Dad said.

Other than the phone, the desktop is empty. No papers, no files, no computer. Dad mistrusted computers. So where is the paperwork? Opening drawers, I see decades of detritus. Pencil stubs, carbon copies of bank deposits, my fifth grade school photo, a repository of rubber bands, a postcard with "Greetings from Asbury Park" on the front. Turning the postcard, I read its message. "To, All my love, B." There's a lipsticked kiss next to the letter B. How cute are my parents?

In the bottom drawer of the desk, I find an expandable file folder with neatly marked tabs. It is so logical and neat that I a.s.sume the file folder is the work of my brother, not my father. Sure enough, the monthly pouches hold the information I want: paperclipped purveyor forms, stapled piles of credit card slips and bank deposits, and rubber-banded ordering slips decorated with the handwriting of waiters.

I organize the information, stacking piles of evidence that can tell me the story of at least three months of business at Cafe Louis.

One number that's not here is liquor sales. Cafe Louis is a BYOB. Like many other restaurant owners, Dad never wanted to deal with New Jersey liquor laws. Had he purchased a liquor license in the seventies, subsequent liquor sales would've made back that money a hundred times over. Oh, well.

By late afternoon, I have formed a working theory about Cafe Louis. Check averages can be increased by making the menu a la carte to encourage customers to order more food instead of including soup, salad, and two sides with each entree. Food costs need to be lowered by finding more affordable purveyors. I can make this happen. I am a restaurant diva. Right? Of course, right.

Cafe Louis needs me. I need her. As far as codependencies go, it's not so bad.

Cafe LouisSoup $3 $3Matzo Ball Soup French Onion Manhattan Clam Chowder Soup du JourSalads $5 $5Tossed Greek CaesarCup of Soup and Salad $6.50 Cup of Soup and Half a Sandwich $8Sandwichesserved with lettuce, tomato, pickle, and chips.White, rye, pumpernickel, wheat, or Kaiser roll.Grilled Cheese $5 Chicken Salad $6 Corned Beef $7 Jeremy's Club $8 Tuna/Egg Salad $5 Chicken Parm $6 Roast Beef $7 Meatball $8Cold Platters $9 $9served with lettuce, tomato, onion, cole slaw, and the best potato salad in New JerseyChicken Salad Tuna Salad Egg Salad Whitefish Entreesserved with bread and b.u.t.ter, choice of soup or tossed salad, and two sidesLasagna $10 10 oz. Sirloin Steak $13Chicken Parmigiana $13 Spaghetti with Meatb.a.l.l.s $10My Wife's Meatloaf $13 Chicken Marsala $13Fettuccine Alfredo $9 Brisket $13Chicken Cordon Bleu $14 Broiled Scallops $14Broiled Flounder $14 Shrimp Scampi $15Sideschoice of two with entree, or $3 eachMashed potatoes, baked potato, French fries, creamed spinach, rice pilafFor Children $5 $5PB&J Hot dog SpaghettiDessert $5 $5Cheesecake, Boston cream pie, sweet kugel, Mimi's Favorite Chocolate Cake, tapioca or chocolate puddingJay Louis, Chef-Owner-King

Lady of the House.

Returning to the dining room, I see a group of waiters dressed in black pants, white shirts, and black vests. The waiters are doing their opening side work, which consists of setting tables, organizing the bread station, stacking gla.s.sware, and cleaning menus.

"And you are?" A tall, portly, middle-aged man with ginger hair stands in front of me with his eyebrows raised and his hands on his hips.

"I am Mimi Louis." From his outfit, I see that he is a waiter.

"Mimi, darling," the man says. "I've heard so much about you. At last we meet." He clutches his chest. "I am Christopher von Hecht. Everyone calls me Chrissie, although I ask them not to. It is a pleasure to meet you."

So this is the lady of the house.

"I am the senior waiter on the floor," Christopher says. "With the exception of Bette, who is not on the floor but on the counter. And she's off today, which means I'm in charge. Are you here to eat dinner?"

"No," I say, startled by his lack of transition. "I'm here to work, actually."

"Well, there's plenty to do," Christopher says. "We have a party of ten and a party of eight coming in at the same time. School concert, apparently. They will be here at five o'clock and need to be out the door at six-thirty. I don't know who took that reservation, but we don't turn away business, do we? Do you cook?"

"Do I cook?"

"Yes, dear. Do you cook? In other words, will you be in the kitchen doing back of the house work, or will you be with us waiters in the front of the house?"

"Well, I..."

"Just trying to allocate resources, squash blossom. Now which is it? Front or back?"

I clear my throat and stand straighter. Chrissie here is doing what all waiters do when confronted with new management. He's making a power play. While I respect his seniority and loyalty to Cafe Louis, I need to make it clear that Christopher von Hecht works for me. Not the other way around.

"I plan to observe both the back of the house and the front of the house," I say. "It's clear to me that some changes need to made in the restaurant, but I will observe first, before I make any decisions. And I would very much appreciate your input."

Christopher looks down at me and raises an eyebrow. "Of course."

Restaurant Music All of a sudden, it's five o'clock and the front door is clogged with people. The two big, back-to-back parties have arrived. Christopher and I get to the door at the same time.

"Good evening," he says. "Welcome to Cafe Louis. I am Christopher, and this is Mimi. If the Duvall party will follow me, the Gormezano party can follow Mimi."

Christopher has graciously given me the smaller of the two parties, but I am determined to prove my front of the house skills. Pulling menus from the pile, I seat the Gormezano party, take their drink orders, and hand them over to a waiter. Ta da.

After seating half the restaurant, I decide to check on the kitchen. When I open the kitchen door, a cacophony of noise greets me. Pans bang, voices shout, and a tangle of white ordering forms hang from the rack above the heat lamps. I should have realized that the cooks would be overwhelmed. A waitress is yelling for her food. "Oye, oye!" "Oye, oye!" I shout. I shout. "Me llamo Mimi Louis. Soy la hermana de Jeremy. La hija de Jay. Comprenden?" "Me llamo Mimi Louis. Soy la hermana de Jeremy. La hija de Jay. Comprenden?"

Four heads nod at me. I grab the orders and shift them into a pile, guessing when they were delivered by my memory of when I sat the tables. "Mesa tres," "Mesa tres," I shout. The cooks man their stations and wait for me to call out the dishes. I shout. The cooks man their stations and wait for me to call out the dishes. "No platos primeros. Un sirloin medio rojo. Un pollo Parmesan. Un pollo Marsala." "No platos primeros. Un sirloin medio rojo. Un pollo Parmesan. Un pollo Marsala." Looking up, I see the cooks are keeping up with me. Looking up, I see the cooks are keeping up with me. "Mesa catorce. Ensalada Greco..." "Mesa catorce. Ensalada Greco..."

Two hours later, I'm still expediting in the kitchen. Sleeves rolled to my biceps, hair tied in a rubber band, and a white ap.r.o.n around my waist, I stand sweating in the kitchen. Working with the four cooks, who introduced themselves as the San Padre brothers, I have almost cleared the board. "Oye, por favor. Mesa nueve. Un fettuccine Alfredo. Un flounder. Al lado: tres frites, dos arroz." "Oye, por favor. Mesa nueve. Un fettuccine Alfredo. Un flounder. Al lado: tres frites, dos arroz."

A waitress bangs through the kitchen doors. "I need a side of mash and a side of rice pilaf on the fly." She turns to leave, her black and red ponytail bouncing.

"Wait for it," I tell her. "Oye, por favor. Rapido. Un mash y un arroz." "Oye, por favor. Rapido. Un mash y un arroz."

"What?" she says to me.

"Wait for it. You put in a fly order, you wait for it."

"I'm totally weeded," she says with her hands on her hips.

"You're weeded?" She has only four tables.

Fly Girl rolls her eyes at me. "Weeded is restaurant talk for being, like, overwhelmed."

"I know." I smile indulgently at her. "I speak restaurant."

Ten minutes after Fly Girl leaves the kitchen, the San Padre brothers put their hands on their hips and wait for more action. "Bueno, bueno!" "Bueno, bueno!" I tell them. They smile, proud of their teamwork. Taking off my ap.r.o.n, I head for the dining room. I tell them. They smile, proud of their teamwork. Taking off my ap.r.o.n, I head for the dining room.

Because the orders came in all at once and the food went out at a fast clip, everyone is eating at the same time. Scanning the restaurant, I see general calm. Fly Girl looks frantic, swinging her ponytail to and fro, but after watching her for a few moments, I see that hers is self-induced mania. Some servers work better when they are on the edge. It's a buzz, a rush.

Because I am completely disheveled, I don't walk through the dining room. Instead, I stand at one end of the counter and lean against the wall. I'm starting to come down from my kitchen high. Closing my eyes, I listen.

Humming conversation, interspersed with laughter. Knives and forks clicking and clattering. The soft whoosh of the kitchen door opening and closing. Plates chiming as they are cleared from tables. Gla.s.ses ringing. This is restaurant music.

Jeremy Louis After my day at the restaurant I decided to see my brother. To do so, I had to make an appointment. I look around the anonymous corner office Jeremy maintains as a junior partner in his Philadelphia accounting firm.

My big brother is a very busy man. Always has been. In high school and college, he was president of this, that, and the other thing. Sports, too. Jeremy was captain of Westfield High's basketball team. Which was a handy way for me to get boyfriends.

Jeremy gives me the finger. "One minute," he mouths, as he holds up his index finger. I smile and sit myself in one of the chairs facing Jeremy's desk. While Jeremy talks about something financial and boring, I look at him and marvel at our physical differences. Whereas I have Dad's dark hair, skin, and eyes, Jeremy has Mom's light brown hair, green eyes, high cheekbones, and wiry build.

Madeline says that Jeremy is her married crush. "It's not just that Jeremy is good-looking," Madeline told me during a Louis family seder. "Part of his appeal is that he loves his wife and kids. See the way he looks at Allison? That's hot."

I don't know about the hot. One thing is for sure. Jeremy's got it all. Career. Attractive wife. Great kids. Two SUVs. Beautiful house.

At least one of us Louis kids got it right.

Jeremy puts down the phone. "Sorry, Mimi."

Jeremy comes out from behind his desk and gives me a big hug. I always forget how tall he is. Same height as Dad.

"Ally told me about your breakup," Jeremy says. "Are you okay?"

"I will be," I say, pretty sure that I'm not lying.