The Blue Bistro (17 page)
Authors: Elin Hilderbrand
“I can’t,” Thatcher said. “The man is the health inspector.”
The two blondes unstuck themselves from the bar at ten o’clock. Off to the Boarding House, they said.
“Cute bartender,” the girl in the blue halter said. “He needs to lose the uptight girlfriend.”
“Okay, bye-bye,” Adrienne said. She was relieved to see them go. It had been another very, very long night, and it wasn’t over yet. At eleven, Thatcher helped her bounce, and this was something new. Adrienne relayed the saga of Caren and Duncan as they watched the headlights pull in.
“The bar is popular for two reasons,” he said. “Duncan and our indifference.”
“Our indifference?”
“Well, Fiona’s indifference. She hates the bar. She think it’s all about money.”
“Isn’t it all about money?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.”
At midnight, the crackers came out of the kitchen: parmesan rosemary. Adrienne took a handful and offered the basket to Thatch. He nodded at the kitchen door. “I’m going to eat,” he said. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven.”
“Where are we going?” Adrienne asked.
“Where aren’t we going?” he said.
Notre Dame
magazine,
Volume LXVII,
September 2004
“
GREEN AND GOLD GOES BLUE
”
Thatcher Smith (B.A. 1991) believes there are two kinds of people in the world: those who eat to live and those who live to eat. Until he was twenty-two years old, Smith, owner of the Blue Bistro, a highly successful restaurant on Nantucket Island in Massachusetts, categorized himself as the former.
“I grew up in South Bend, a town that is virtually devoid of cuisine. My mother left the family when I was young and my father and brothers and I subsisted on shredded wheat, bologna sandwiches, and pizza. And Burger King, of course. But nothing you would ever call cuisine.”
So how did this native of South Bend, and Notre Dame graduate, end up in the restaurant business? He gives credit to the girl next door.
Fiona Kemp (daughter of Hobson Kemp, a professor of electrical engineering at Notre Dame since 1966) lived four houses down from Smith growing up.
“There’s a picture of Fiona and I on our first day of
kindergarten,” Smith says. “I can’t remember not knowing her.”
Because of a childhood illness, Ms. Kemp could not participate in sports. So she turned her energies to an indoor activity: cooking.
“She was always making something. I remember when we were about twelve she made a chocolate swirl cheesecake sitting in a puddle of raspberry sauce. She invited some of the boys from the neighborhood over to eat it, but it was so elegant, none of us had the heart.”
After graduating from John Adams High School together in 1987, Smith and Kemp went their separate ways. Smith enrolled at Notre Dame, where he majored in economics. He planned to join his father and brothers at what he modestly calls “the family store”: Smith Carpets and Flooring, which has five outlets in South Bend and nearby Mishewaka. Meanwhile Kemp enrolled at the prestigious Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York. She wanted to fulfill her dream of becoming a chef.
Smith and Kemp reunited on Nantucket Island in October 1992.
“Fiona had been working on the island for two years at that point,” Smith says. “And she felt ready for her own place. She convinced me to visit, and once I saw the island, I decided to leave South Bend behind. I sold my interest in the business to my brothers and took the money and invested it in Fiona. I knew there was no way she would fail.”
Indeed, not. Smith and Kemp bought a run-down restaurant on the beach that had formerly served burgers and fried clams, and they transformed it into the Blue Bistro, with seating for over a hundred facing the Atlantic Ocean. The only seats harder to procure than the seats at the blue granite bar are the four tables out in the sand where the Bistro serves its now-famous version of seafood fondue. (Or, as the kitchen fondly refers to it, the all-you-can-eat fried shrimp special.) Many of Ms. Kemp’s offerings are twists on old classics, like the fondue. She serves impeccable steak frites, a lobster club
sandwich, and a sushi plate, which features a two-inch-thick slab of locally caught bluefin tuna. Ms. Kemp relies on fresh local produce to keep her plates alive.
Ms. Kemp’s cooking has been celebrated in such places as
Bon Appétit
and the
Chicago Tribune.
She was named one of the country’s hottest chefs by
Food & Wine
in 1998. All this notoriety comes despite the fact that she is, in Thatcher Smith’s words, “a highly private person. Fiona doesn’t give interviews. She doesn’t allow herself to be photographed. She doesn’t believe in the new craze of ‘chef as celebrity.’ Fiona just wants to feed people. It has never been about the reviews or about the money, even. For Fiona, it’s all about love; it’s about giving back.”
For Thatcher Smith, running the Blue Bistro is a dream come true—a dream he wasn’t even aware he harbored. “I love every minute of my work,” he says. “The fast pace, the high energy, the personal interaction, the management challenges. And yes, I love the food. Once I tried a plate of Fiona’s steak frites, I learned the difference between tasting and eating. I knew I would never hit the drive-through at Burger King again. I became a person who lives to eat.”
FROM
: [email protected]DATE
: June 7, 2005, 7:33
P.M
.SUBJECT
: possible datesHow about the last week in July? Love, love.
Adrienne was so nervous when she woke up on Wednesday morning that her ears were ringing.
Where are we going? Where aren’t we going?
The blue dress hung in the closet on a padded hanger that Adrienne had borrowed from Caren without her permission. When Adrienne had gotten home the night before, she went online and looked up the article about Thatcher in
Notre Dame
magazine. Then she lay
in bed for nearly an hour thinking about it. It gave her a better sense of Thatcher than the other articles. He came from a family of men who worked in carpet and flooring. His mother had left, maybe for that very reason: too many men, too much carpet. Adrienne wondered about Fiona’s “childhood illness,” just as she wondered about everything else regarding Fiona. She had liked the story about the cheesecake. She could imagine Thatcher and his grubby twelve-year-old friends staring at the marbled cheesecake sitting in a bright pink raspberry pond as though it were a work of modern art they were being asked to understand.
Adrienne heard the swish of Caren’s bare feet against the floorboards of the hall, then the espresso machine. She looked at her clock: It was nine. She had hoped to sleep in, but there was no chance—too much on her mind.
By the time Adrienne made it out to the kitchen, Caren was alone, sipping her short black, flipping through the pages of
Cosmo.
“Where’s Duncan?” Adrienne asked.
“I have no idea.”
Adrienne eyed the glossy pages of the magazine. Caren was reading an article entitled: “Is Your Relationship on the Rocks? 10 Early Warning Signs.”
“Are you fighting?” Adrienne asked.
“I have no idea,” Caren said again.
“Oh,” Adrienne said.
“You’re off tonight?” Caren asked.
Adrienne poked her head into the fridge for some juice. “Yep.”
“You’re going out?”
Adrienne got a glass out of the cabinet, steeling herself. What was the first thing Caren had ever told her?
I know the dirt on every person who eats at the Bistro and every person who works there.
“I am,” Adrienne said.
“With Thatch?”
“Yes,” Adrienne said. She let out a long exhale; it was a relief, having it spoken. “What do you think?”
“I’m psyched to work the front,” Caren said. “It’s such a breeze.”
Adrienne recognized that as some kind of slight, but she let it go. “What do you think about me and Thatch?”
“I think you should be careful.”
Adrienne poured her juice and sat down across the table from Caren. Caren was not exactly her friend, but Adrienne knew she wouldn’t lie.
“Why?” Adrienne said. “Has he been with a lot of women?”
“No,” Caren said. “He hasn’t gone on a date in the twelve years I’ve known him.” She slapped her magazine shut. “And that’s why you should be careful.”
Thatcher arrived at five to seven bearing a bouquet of red gerbera daisies. He looked like an old-fashioned suitor: He was dressed in a jacket and tie, holding out the flowers, and he had a very clean-shaven look about him.
Haircut,
she realized after studying him for a second. Adrienne was glad Caren was at work—she might have teased this version of Thatcher Smith. Earnest, fresh-faced, with flowers, on his first date in twelve years.
“Look at you,” Adrienne said. She carried the flowers into the kitchen, where she hunted for a vase. No vase. She filled one of the unused sunflower canisters with water.
Thatcher followed her in. “Look at
you,
” he said. “That dress. I can’t get over it.”
“Good,” Adrienne said, smiling. She grabbed a gray pashmina (borrowed from Caren, with her permission) and checked her silver-beaded cocktail purse (ditto): lipstick, dental floss, a wad of cash, just in case. “Let’s go.”
Thatcher took her to 21 Federal, in the heart of town. The building was one of the old whaling houses; inside, it had a lot of dark wood and antique mirrors. The woman working the front wore Janet Russo and had a professional manicure. She smiled when they came in and said in a flirty voice, “Thatcher Smith! The rumors are true!”
Thatcher put a finger to his lips, and the woman said, “You don’t want anyone to know you’re here? Would you like to sit in the back?”
“Even better,” Thatcher said, pointing at the ceiling.
The woman led them up the staircase. “Siberia, it is,” she said.
The upstairs of the restaurant was even more charming than downstairs, Adrienne thought. There was a darling little bar and a couple of deuces by the front windows that looked down onto Federal Street. Thatcher pulled out Adrienne’s chair then seated himself. The hostess whispered in Thatcher’s ear. He nodded. A second later, an elderly bartender appeared with their drinks: Veuve Clicquot for Adrienne and a club soda with lime for Thatcher.
“Our compliments, Mr. Smith,” said the bartender.
“Thank you, Frank.”
“The hostess forgot our menus,” Adrienne whispered.
“No, she didn’t,” Thatcher said. “I’ve ordered for us already.”
Adrienne tried to relax. She gazed out the window at the cobblestoned street below. “Okay,” she said. “You’re the boss.”
Thatcher lifted his glass to her. “Thank you for coming out with me tonight,” he said. “I don’t do this enough.”
Adrienne clinked his glass and sipped her champagne. “From what I hear, you don’t do it at all.”
“You’ve been talking to Caren?”
“Of course.”
“She thinks she knows everything about me,” Thatcher said. “But she doesn’t.”
The hostess approached the table again and whispered something else in Thatcher’s ear. The whispering was in very bad taste; Adrienne would never do it.
Thatcher said, “Not tonight. Sorry. You’ll tell them I’m sorry? But not tonight.”
The hostess disappeared. Thatcher turned to Adrienne. “The chef wants to prepare us a tasting menu.”
“That’s nice,” Adrienne said.
“It’s a commitment,” Thatcher said. “And I have other plans for us.”
“Do you now?” Adrienne said.
“Yes, I do.”
A few minutes later the bartender, who was keeping a shadowy profile behind the bar, presented two plates. “The portobello mushroom with Parmesan pudding,” he announced.
Thatcher lit up. He spun the plates. “This is the best first course on the island,” he said.
“If you’re not eating at work,” Adrienne said.
“Right,” Thatcher said.
Adrienne brandished her knife and fork. She was used to eating family meal at five thirty and now, nearly two hours later, she was starving. She tasted a bite of the mushroom, then a little of the creamy, cheesy pudding. The dish was perfect. Thatcher stared at his plate, smiling at the mushroom as though he expected it to smile back. Was he nervous?
“I read an article about you this morning,” Adrienne said.
“Which one?”
“
Notre Dame
magazine.”
He raised his pale eyebrows. “You must have been doing research,” he said. “I gather you’re not a subscriber.”
“No,” she said. “I went to three colleges, but I wouldn’t call any of them my alma mater.”
“Where is your degree from?”
“Florida State,” she said. “Psychology. I did my first two years in Bloomington, then a year at Vanderbilt, and I ended up at Florida State—and that’s where I got into hotels. My adviser at FSU got me a job on the front desk at the Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach.”
“Starting your enviable life of resort-hopping.”
“Exactly.” Adrienne took another bite of her mushroom. “In that article, it said Fiona had a childhood illness.”
