Note: Longtime SE readers will remember Hannah Howard's column Served about working in the restaurant biz. Now she's managing a Philadelphia restaurant, and we're excited to bring back her behind-the-scenes dispatches. Welcome back, Hannah! —The Mgmt.

When I was in California, obsessing about whether to leave my job, my parents were at their favorite restaurant in Frenchtown, New Jersey, eating dinner at the bar.

"We met the nicest couple," they told me via phone the next day. G was a big deal Philadelphia real estate guy. D was a ballerina turned photographer, who also ran one of the restaurants that she and her husband owned.

My parents shared the story of my unhappy employment, and G proposed that I work with him and D at their restaurant. D kicked her hubby under the table--they had just hired a manager. It was a small restaurant, and they didn't need any more staff.

Quitting the Hellish Job

A week or so later, I drove to my California steakhouse and handed in my keys. I got a hug from the kind older manager who had taken me under his wing. "What's next?" he asked.

"I don't know!" I said, and it was an ecstatic answer. I drove to the beach, smiled at the ocean, and felt like the whole world was in front of me.

I had a few weeks left on my lease. I spent the time reading books at the beach and sniffing citrus at the farmers' market. Back east, it was a record snowy February. For the first time, I enjoyed the California sunshine.

Philly?

There was a message from D. "The woman I hired as my manager quit via text yesterday. No reason. No indication of any unhappiness on her part. She just quit at 4:30 in the afternoon, during Restaurant Week."

D knew from my parents, who had become fast friends with D and G, that my return to New York was imminent. Philly was a scant two-hour drive. She urged me to come see the restaurant and the neighborhood. Perhaps I could replace this AWOL manager.

I was intrigued, but didn't want to get too excited about the possibility. Everything was up in the air, and for the first time in my life, I liked it that way.

"I think Philly is the fattest city in the world," one of my few Cali friends told me. (It's not true.) We were driving home from an empty art show, drinking milkshakes. Philly was a dim, far away place, now populated in my mind by belly rolls and cheesesteaks.

Homecoming

A few days after arriving in New York, drinking too much bubbly, giving blissful hugs, eating pork buns at Momofuku, I drove to Philly--with my mom, as D urged.

D was a warm, tiny, bubbly woman. She showed us her beautiful photography studio and the colonial boutique hotel of which the restaurant was part. There were multiple fireplaces, French doors, and a big, stunning garden.

D introduced us to her husband's property manager, who took us to see apartments. If I was coming to work for them, I would need a place to live.

My mom and I met G and D at their restaurant that night for dinner. "Should we go somewhere else with more action?" G asked. No! I wanted to see the restaurant. Was it a bad sign that the owner hoped to dine elsewhere?

The restaurant was slow. The candle holders on the tables were dirty and caked with old wax. The food--empanadas, ravioli in creamy sauce, salmon with tomato (in February!)--was good but missing something, missing spark. The restaurant was spark-less.

Would G and D let me add some something? We talked about what it would take. "You can do whatever you want!" G said. I wondered if that was true. I wondered if I had it in me, to transform a weary restaurant.

Perfect Package

They offered me the job. It helped that G and I shared the same alma mater, and D and G shared friendship with my parents. And they offered me an apartment--four blocks away from the restaurant, with high high ceilings and windows that looked out onto the Philly skyline. For the same price, I could rent a closet in the far reaches of Brooklyn.

Why not? I signed up for a six-month lease and a six month contract. If I had survived six months in corporate restaurantland, I could handle six months working for a lovely family in a quirky, beautiful place and living in a badass apartment.

Philly Here I Come

The goodbye hugs were less sad this time. I was moving a busride away. For the second time in less than a month, I packed and unpacked boxes and bed frames. As I waited for the cable guy, explored my new city, got ready for my new job, my thoughts were on an amazing man.

We had met at the cheese and wine bar where I worked in New York. He cooked there only a few weeks, as a favor to the owner. We didn't talk much.

Then he left for bigger and better things. He worked his way through the best restaurants in New York. We had started talking only when I was in California, and met upon my return to New York. There were fireworks. He was something special. I knew it. I missed him.

Next Week...

The amazing man becomes my boyfriend, and later, the chef of my new restaurant.