The Chicken Sisters(3)
Once, long ago, that had been the plan for Frannie’s. Back then, the town had been bigger and the world felt smaller, and Daddy Frank—great-grandson of the original Frannie, and father to Amanda’s husband, Frank—was a leading figure in Merinac’s business scene, a restaurant owner and real estate magnate with big ideas. A Banquet chicken dinner in someone’s freezer or the sight of a Tippin’s potpie at Albertsons would send him into a lengthy monologue about his dream of sharing Frannie’s with the entire country, or at least the shoppers at major midwestern grocery stores. They all dreamed big along with him, back when the Franks had been in charge of the business plan, Nancy a capable and steady first mate, and Amanda a mother first, a student second, and a Frannie’s fill-in hostess and waitress only a distant third.
Now, six years after the car crash that killed both Franks and left Nancy and Amanda in charge, the restaurant did little more than break even. Every day brought more bills and more tax forms and, for Amanda at least, a giant, soul-sucking fear that the future held nothing but more of the same. She often thought that Frannie’s could spiral around the drain and finally get pulled under and no one would even notice that she and Nancy had gone with it.
But Food Wars would change all that.
Amanda looked down at her mother-in-law’s tiny, tense frame, at the burgundy hair that was due for a color, thinning, just a little, in a way that was hard to disguise. Please don’t let her start in on the risks and the worries and the things that could go wrong. Please let her see how much she needs this, how much we all need this.
Suddenly Nancy rushed forward and hugged Amanda, hard. “Food Wars? Us? Frannie’s? You did this? You got them to come here?”
One more wish, granted.
“I did. I did!” Amanda squeezed her mother-in-law back, dancing them both back and forth before they let go. “I wrote them, and they’re coming. They loved what I told them about the chicken sisters, and the history and everything.”
“We’ll be on TV.” Nancy grabbed a chair from around her kitchen table and sat down on it, hard. “TV. Like Mae—TV. Frannie’s.”
Mae. Oh hell. But even the thought of her sister wasn’t enough to suck the glory out of this moment. “Television, yes, and they do a lot of live bits on the Internet. Social media.” Amanda loved those. She followed all of TFC’s social media accounts, but Food Wars was her favorite. Nancy, though, looked at her blankly. “Like, they record a little bit, and people can watch it on their phones or computers if they follow the show. It usually takes a while for the episodes to get on television, but they do a whole bunch of live stuff while they’re recording, to get people excited about it. It’s sort of a cross between a web show and a regular show.”
Nancy brushed that aside, as though Amanda had said Food Wars would also be available for pandas to watch from the zoo, and rushed on. “Television! Do you have any idea what this could mean?”
Amanda, who thought she did, laughed, and Nancy got out of her chair and grabbed Amanda and hugged her again, then stood back, still clutching Amanda’s shoulders. “We have to win,” Nancy said. “I mean, of course we’ll win. There’s not even a comparison.” Nancy paused, and her voice, which had been getting increasingly higher, dropped. “In fact . . .”
Amanda knew where she was headed, and this, unlike the mention of Mae, did suck a little air out of her bubble. Mimi’s and Frannie’s both served fried chicken, yes. And they had the same kind of name. And they had been started by sisters. But from there, the similarities—and any competition—ended. Frannie’s was open all day, with an extensive menu. Mimi’s offered only dinner: chicken, biscuits, French fries, and salad, and off-the-menu doughnuts on Saturday mornings for those in the know. And of course pie, but only when the spirit moved her mother to bake. It wasn’t a real restaurant so much as an erratic takeout joint, supported by loyal customers willing to overlook the way the place had run down over the years.
There was no way Mimi’s could compete. And very little chance Amanda’s mother would want to.
Nancy gazed at Amanda, her expression serious. “Did you ask your mother about this?”
Amanda shook her head. “I didn’t think they’d actually come.” It was only in the past few years or so that she’d really been able to have a conversation with her mother at all. Ask her about a wild, crazy dream that could never happen? No way. Nancy sat back down, and Amanda joined her across the table, sighing. “I know. I know. She might not do it. But Mimi’s could use more business. And she doesn’t really even have to do anything differently from what she’s doing. She just has to let them film her.”
Nancy, who had known Barbara for thirty-five years, drummed her fingers on the table. “She’s not going to win, that’s clear enough, although the money could sway her. Mimi’s always needs the money.”
She didn’t have to tell Amanda that. Mimi’s need for money was in Amanda’s bones. It seeped through her pores; it beat through her veins. Mimi’s needed money, Barbara needed money, but whether her mother would accept the connection between Food Wars and her bank account was an open question. Barbara didn’t see things like other people did, and certainly not like Nancy did. Amanda glanced around her mother-in-law’s kitchen, at the clear counters, the sun streaming through the neatly curtained windows with barely any dust in the air to set alight. Amanda had loved this kitchen since she first set foot in it, although it felt more spare now, almost too clean, if that were possible. It was so unlike anything she’d ever known—and, she thought with a little regret, not much like her own kitchen, either.