The Big Cheese

“Oozing fromage on Bardstown Road,” read the headline in the weekend dining tips column. Ordinarily, such publicity would be welcome. But not on opening night of an unpublicized slow rollout with a limited menu. Not when the idea was to diagnose and correct problems before enduring the scrutiny of a grand opening. But that’s what was happening at The Big Cheese tonight, thanks to the ill-timed article.

Despite co-owner Brian Cooper’s careful preparations, the evening seemed headed for disaster. Already a crowd was lining up at the door, and inside the freshly painted gray walls it was chaos. To make matters worse, both the cashier/host and the chef were no-shows. Brian, a sizable man in his fifties with a gray moustache, was doing double duty while his wife Eleanor had stepped into the kitchen at the last minute.

“The wait’s 45-minutes to an hour, folks.”

Brian had to tell the people in line something. Only ten sandwiches had been served and customers were already beginning to grumble and walk out. If only his staff could provide service equal to the homey smells of toasting bread and melting butter wafting from the griddle.

“The sandwiches taste even better than they smell,” he said.

“What’s good here?” a customer asked.

“Everything. Try the Goat Cheese Meltdown with fig and honey on walnut bread.”

“Why only grilled cheese?”

“Because everybody loves it, especially vegetarians,” said Robin, the errant server who had finally arrived for work dressed all in black. “We use local and regional cheeses. We bake all our own bread. Write down any you’d like to see here in the future.”

Brian had wanted to open a pub emporium. Serving only grilled cheese was his wife Eleanor’s idea. It had occurred to her during a trip to Paris when she fell in love with the humble Croquet Monsieur. “The last thing Louisville needs is another hamburger joint,” she told Brian. “But we all share an emotional bond with grilled cheese. They don’t call it comfort food for nothing.”

The menu was limited to the holy trinity of cheese, butter, and pressed bread in all its many manifestations, from simple classic grilled cheese to items like the dill-chive cream cheese with smoked salmon and honey melt. There was also soup (chunky tomato and basil) and dessert (turtle cheesecake or chocolate-cherry mascarpone).

What closed the deal for Brian was when he learned that Americans consumed more than two billion grilled cheese sandwiches a year. It seemed the perfect way to appeal to gourmet tastes at popular prices.

Brian hurried back to the bar where customers were grousing for drinks, or just grousing.

“How about some service here?”

“Whatever happened to The Red Chicken?”

The reference was to a one-story greasy spoon that formerly occupied the Big Cheese building on one of Louisville’s busiest thoroughfares.

“I heard they went bust after firing the cook.”

“Why’d they do that?”

“Something about substance abuse.”

Brian had heard the story. Such tales were common in the restaurant trade, but hard to verify. In this case, the rumor had been enough to dissuade him from hiring The Red Chicken’s former cook, even though he’d always relished their food. Instead, Brian and Eleanor had hired Peter Ames, a suave character who showed up one day in a white chef jacket.

“I’m a professionally trained chef. You need one, and I’m available,” Ames said.

Naturally, Brian and Eleanor wondered why he was available. But Ames looked and sounded like a chef, which got him a trial run, and he demonstrated not only competence but culinary mastery. Feeling their immediate need for a cook outweighed the risk posed by Ames’s lack of references, they hired him.

The sign painted on the front window fanned out like a sunrise with “Big Cheese” on top and “Bar & Grill” on the bottom, with a line suggesting the horizon. They’d put so much money and effort into this place, refurbishing the five tables, three high-tops, and four booths. There were half a dozen new bar stools lined up under slowly rotating fans at the bar, a gorgeous slab of dark oak rescued from a downtown hotel scheduled for demolition. In all, seating for 51. Two white chrysanthemums and a sprig of green graced each table, and all were taken. Only the few diners who’d been served looked happy.

“How can I get a drink around here?” someone yelled.

“Keep your shirt on,” Brian barked as he filled that order, and two more, before sticking his head in the kitchen to see how Eleanor was managing.

Although the kitchen was a shambles, with pots and pans and jumbled cooking ingredients covering every inch of counter space, Eleanor seemed everywhere at once, buttering, grilling, and flipping, all at Mach 2 speed. She was usually stylishly dressed, but now she looked bedraggled. A scarf was wrapped around her perspiring forehead. Her bobbed brown hair was fuzzy with moisture. Her T-shirt and apron were saturated.

“How are you doing, hon?” Brian asked, already knowing the answer.

“Have you tried calling that shit-head Ames again?” Eleanor rarely cursed.

“Still no answer. Is something burning?” Brian said, sniffing smoke.

“Damn it.” Eleanor dashed to the griddle barely in time to save three sandwiches from incinerating. “We’ve sunk every penny we’ve got into this place, and now we’re going to lose it all.”

“No, no. It’ll be okay. How can I help?” Brian started rolling up his sleeves.

“I appreciate it, but—”

“Give me an apron.”

“Look, darling, we both know you can’t cook. And somebody’s got to handle the front. Just keep doing what you’ve been doing. Give them a free beer or something. When Ames shows up …”

“I’ll send his sorry ass back here.”

Back at the bar, Brian heard more restive voices.

“How about some service around here? We’ve been waiting for hours on a table. What’s up?”

Knowing he should be pouring drinks, Brian instead retreated to the kitchen once more.

“Maybe it would help pacify the crowd if we made some little samples to hand out,” he suggested.

“Samples? Are you out of your mind? I can’t even keep up with the orders I’ve got, and you want more?” Eleanor yelled.

Brian knew it was another bad idea, but what else could he do? They were about to go down with the ship.

Out front again, he saw Robin slide another order into the pass-through window.

“A short rib and Bel Paese on sourdough,” he heard her say.

A bar customer looked at Brian and observed, “Quite a turnout for your first night.”

“It’s a disaster. What are you drinking?” Brian said.

“Could I get another old fashioned?”

As he saturated a sugar cube with bitters, Brian decided to supply the rest of the thirsty mob with a round of beer on the house. It wouldn’t be enough. No matter how fast he filled up their glasses, or Robin delivered their grilled cheese sandwiches, some business was walking out the door, probably never to return.

At this grim moment, a customer stepped up to Brian’s favorite framed photograph of Denny Crum and yanked it off the wall.

“Ma’am, what do you think you’re doing?” Brian snapped at the woman in the red athletic outfit.

That picture of the former University of Louisville Hall of Fame basketball coach had been hanging in the place when it was still The Red Chicken. Eleanor had objected that sports memorabilia would not match their new décor of casual sophistication. Having kept it up over  her objections, Brian damn sure wasn’t going to allow someone to wander in and grab it.

“I asked you a question. Do I need to call the cops?” he threatened.

“I’m only taking back what’s mine. Look here. See how it’s signed? ‘To my number one fan, Daeshanda Bledsoe.’”

Thinking he recognized her, Brian took a closer look. She was in her mid-thirties, thin, with latte skin and peroxide-blonde dreadlocks. “You were the cook at The Red Chicken.”

“That’s right, baby. Look like you classed up this place some. No more ripped vinyl seats. But I’d say you could use some help.”

Whatever shortcomings had led to the Red Chicken’s demise, Brian remembered its delicious food served in a timely manner. Knowing a lifeline when he saw one, he grabbed it.

“Oh, God, could you?”

Putting Denny Crum back on the wall, she said, “Okay, but this is only temporary.”

“I understand. Thank you,” Brian said, in a heart-felt way.

“Guess I know my way to the kitchen then.” Halfway through the swinging doors, she paused. “You know, you could’ve just put a note on the door saying, ‘Private party.’”

“Didn’t think of it.” Brian felt like a fool but saw a glimmer of hope.

Other than having a fresh coat of paint the old kitchen hadn’t changed at all from its Red Chicken days in Daeshanda’s eyes. Same old appliances. Same stainless-steel table out in the middle of the room—except now it was full of bread and toppings. The pale new owner-lady seemed to be melting along with the cheese.

“I’m Daeshanda, the cook for tonight.”

“Oh, thank god,” said the liquefying woman, looking like she might faint with gratitude.

“Got a lot of work to do if you wanna make this happen,” Daeshanda said. “We need a system. Collect these orders you’ve already made and send ’em out. I’ll tell you what to do next. Let’s go, honey. We don’t hurry up, we gonna to lose half the customer out there.”

There were half a dozen sandwiches on the menu, Eleanor explained. Some were pretty elaborate and required a bit of technique. Was Daeshanda sure she’d know how to make all those without having them turn out spongy and greasy?

“Grilled cheese? Please. All right, now tell me which orders are up next.” Daeshanda listened to the list, then grabbed the basic ingredients and started working.

“One tomato soup and a no-frills cheddar and Sourdough, no bacon,” Robin said, sliding in another order.

Next came a ham-and-cheese with homemade pickles. Then a roasted asparagus and four cheeses on olive bread. As Daeshanda churned out grilled cheese sandwiches, Eleanor delivered them to Robin, who passed them on to customers, who found it hard to grumble with their mouths full. Leaving the kitchen to Daeshanda, Eleanor handled the cash register, freeing Brian up to stay at the bar. The drinkers began to calm down.

From then until ten o’clock, the sailing was much smoother. Brian turned the the front door placard to “Closed.” At 10:45, after the last customers trickled out, he hugged his wife.

“Hon, you were magnificent tonight. We’d have been lost without you. Why don’t you go on home and take a bath and have a nice long rest. I’ll see you later.”

Eleanor protested but left with a hint of a smile on her lips.

Brian decided that clean-up duties could wait. When the sweat-soaked cook appeared, her apron covered with bits of every cheese on the menu, he invited her and Robin to join him at the bar for a glass of wine. Filling their glasses, he lifted his own in a toast. “To you both, for saving the day, and quite possibly The Big Cheese itself.”

Their first sip of wine was interrupted by a loud commotion at the front door. Brian swiveled in time to see his erstwhile chef tapping on the window with a key. When Brian opened the door, Peter Ames burst in, blood-shot and reeking of bourbon, and pointed at Daeshanda.

“You!” he said. “I might’ve known.” He turned to Brian. “You can’t give this woman my job. She’s not even a chef. Throw her out.”

 “Hold on, Ames,” Brian said, with an edge in his voice. “I’ve had my doubts about you right from the start. Not that it matters anymore, but where were you tonight?”

“I, ah …”

As Ames stuttered, Daeshanda stepped over to sniff his breath. “Well, I think we already know the answer to that.”

Again jabbing his finger at her, Ames said, “This woman has no culinary degree. No extensive training under a chef. She’s nothing but a short-order cook.”

“And you have a drinking problem, Peter. I don’t know if you realize it, but we certainly do,” Brian said.

“I don’t have a drinking problem,” Ames smiled. “I drink, I get drunk, I fall down. No problem. Or as Thomas Deloney said, ‘God sends meat and the devil sends cooks.’”

Brian grabbed Ames by the arm. “That’s it. Let’s go.”

“You can’t do this to me. ‘Drink is the feast of reason and the flow of soul.’ Alexander Pope.”

Brian shoved him out the door. Robin finished her drink and continued bussing tables. “How do you know Ames, Daeshanda?” Brian asked.

“Word get around in the business. I knew he was a loser, so I wandered in to check things out.”

“I thought you came to get your picture of Denny back.”

“That, too.”

“What a crazy night,” Brian said.

“Better get used to crazy. Word get out how good this food is, you going to be slammed all the time,” Daeshanda said.

“With you in the kitchen, we just might.”

“You offering me the job? Permanent, I mean? Old Peter was right. I ain’t got no fancy culinary degree or chef training.”

“Not what we need right now. What we need is someone who’s dependable and a hard worker. That’s you. Minimum wage is $7.75. Suppose we pay you ten for the first month, then re-negotiate?” Brian said.

“Ten dollars an hour? After I saved y’all’s ass tonight?”

“Yes, you did. And we are eternally grateful.”

“Make it twelve-fifty for the first week, and then we’ll talk again.”

“Deal. Okay, let’s shut this down. I’m exhausted. And Daeshanda? It would be wise if you didn’t smoke pot in our walk-in refrigerator.”

“I hear you,” Daeshanda said.

But Brian thought he detected a glint in her eye.

© 2025 Rick Neumayer

“The Big Cheese” will appear in the forthcoming THREE FOGGY MORNINGS: Stories by Rick Neumayer. If you like this one, I’d love to hear from you.