Adventures with Max and Louise (13 page)

“You can’t fire friends,” Trina says, picking up the pace.

“She’s not my friend,” I reply between deep, ragged breaths. This is awful.

“So what if she’s Dad’s friend?”

I bend over, heaving. “Can we please turn around?” We’re at a triangular park overlooking Lake Washington across from the cemetery where Chas used to take his dates.

Trina checks the odometer on her running shoe. “We haven’t even gone half a mile, Molly.”

Sitting down on a bench, I wipe my forehead. “You’re kidding me! We made it that far?”

She stands over me, stretching her hamstring. “This is the same sister who won a medal in cross-country at Seattle Prep?”

“It was Most Improved, and I only joined in the first place because I wanted to ride in the bus to meets with Chas Bowerman.”

She stretches her other leg. “And did you?”

I nod. “He ate two baggies full of cut navel oranges before every meet.”

She locks her arms together behind her back, bends over, and stretches her arms toward the ground. “I remember him. He was really cute.”

I drag myself off the bench and grab my shoe, making an attempt to stretch. Maybe I can make it a mile. “He still is.”

Trina jerks upright, her eyes wide with interest. “What?” She pushes me playfully. “Where did you see him?”

I let go of my foot and grab the other one, lifting it behind my back. “Trin, you are never going to believe this: we’re going skiing.”

Chapter Thirteen

“O
KAY, NOW WAIT.
I swear you have nothing but pleasure in store.” Wolf presses a button on the center of the table. A motor above us gently whirs. The painting begins its descent.

I am seated across from Wolf at my third Food Fest meeting with Sasha. This is the first time I’ve seen him in real clothes, and it’s a vast improvement. His jeans and baggy sweater give him a respectability that his former getup, paint-stained sweats, did not. His unshaven cheeks lift in gleeful anticipation as I strain my neck to watch the painting gently descending above our heads. When he smiles, I notice his hazel eyes have the most unusual gray flecks. I’ll admit, he does clean up nicely, but he’s no Chas Bowerman.

Sasha, inured to the confusion overhead, pours six wines, pairing each with a small plate of food. “We couldn’t get the venison sausage. Try the duck and tell me what you think.”

In the course of working with her son, she’s learned the art of timing. Sliding gracefully into the booth, she sits down just as the painting floats to the middle of the table, a mere three inches from wine glass rims.

Absentmindedly, I pop a sausage into my mouth, but my brain short-circuits my taste buds as my eyes feast on the exquisite still life: burgeoning apples, grapes, and ripe melon, rolling autumnal nuts, quivering Burgundy caught in the orb of a still, clear glass. It’s so much to take in: the rich colors of the painting, each detail coming to life. The close proximity of the work really does enhance the experience. I can see the brush strokes, almost feel the painter’s presence in the whorls of deep pigment. My world, for that moment, is reduced to studying this lovely painting in absolute comfort and privacy. How often in life are we allowed to really examine anything, let alone art?

“Perfect,” I pronounce, allowing my thoughts to wander to the succulent food. The perfect marriage of food and art.

“Oh, I’m so glad,” Sasha exclaims, clapping.

The bitter licorice fennel breaks through my reverie. It is awful. “Ah, no, I meant . . .” I glance at Wolf, whose eyes light up. He knows that I get it. He nods and rises from the table.

“I’ll let you ladies get back to work. Nice to see you, Molly.”

“I think the sausage is fine, Mom.” He kisses her on the cheek. The tender gesture touches me.

As I watch him leave, I notice the other paintings waiting to be installed, all food themed. Before, they’d been wildly colorful abstracts more in keeping with Schubert’s decor.

“What happened to the paintings?” I ask. Sasha hands me a forkful of braised portobello that smells of dirt. I dutifully chew while my eyes roam the restaurant.

Sasha swirls a mouthful of wine before delicately spitting it out in a silver bowl. “Oh, you know. He’s always changing everything. One moment he does nothing but make fun of Food Fest, and now he runs around the city telling artists to submit food-related paintings and photos. Here, try this.”

She pushes a glass of Burgundy toward me. Wolf appears from the back room wearing his coveralls. Roping himself in, he ascends the wall, preparing to install the next work. Straining my eyes, I lean out of the booth. The photo is a winter scene of apples and snow. Blood red apples, bleached snow. Intent on his work, Wolf ignores us. I pretend to taste the liquid swishing through my teeth.

“He’s a very sporadic worker, that one. Like his father. I tell him, if he applied himself, he could have a big business in construction. The father runs away to his music, the son to his mountains. You’d think he’d outgrow it and want to take on some responsibility, but no, even when it snows, he takes that horrible van and disappears.” She sighs and raises her eyebrows. “Perhaps when he finds the right woman, no?”

I select another wine and take a sip, forcing myself to pay attention. “Mmmm,” I murmur. “Very crisp.”

“Sometimes a man needs to move into the next phase of his life before he can let go of the last one.” She looks at me expectantly.

I nod noncommittally, spitting the wine out into the silver bowl. “I like bottles one and two. Four might be okay if it was decanted longer.” I wave my hand over the preferred bottles. “And the dill sauce on the fish is too tart. Tell the kitchen to add a bit of honey.”

Disappointed that she can’t get me engaged in a discussion of Wolf’s dating prospects, Sasha summons a waitress, who clears the appetizer plates. “Now, the main course.” The waitress loads up the dishes and leaves.

We both watch Wolf ascend the wall, hoisting himself arm over arm, his toes finding purchase in nooks and crannies.

“Why doesn’t he just climb outside?”

Sasha sips her water, picks up her pencil, and taps the table. Shaking her head, she doodles on her notepad. “When he was young, we agreed he could try anything he wanted, so long as he paid for it himself. And with climbing, well, let me tell you, that boy, when he wanted something, was a machine. He mowed every lawn in the neighborhood, painted our house, got up at three in the morning to work on his uncle’s sport-fishing boat. Not easy work, I tell you.”

She flicked imaginary breadcrumbs off the table. “I thought, if I let him explore it a little, he’d get it out of his system and move on, as teenagers do. He never did. One time, in college, he had a terrible fall. He was taken by helicopter to Harborview. They told me he had a 50 percent chance of survival. When they pieced him back together, he had a shattered femur that was more metal than bone, a broken arm, and a fractured spine that took months and months of rehab. After spending weeks at his bedside worrying, I talked to him. I told him how it broke a mother’s heart to see her son in such a state. I felt torn to pieces, worried he’d never walk again. It was a very real possibility, you know. My boy, he listened. He agreed to scale things down. Ha! You see the results. He takes construction jobs that involve climbing. I know he’s planning a big climbing trip soon.”

She shrugs, then tastes her wine. “One time he told me that when he’s hanging off the side of a cliff trying to figure out his next move, he feels more alive than he does on the ground.” She sighs. “What can you do?”

The main courses arrive. The waitress lines them up across the table. A curious diner at a nearby table ogles the two women with six big plates of food between them. I’ve forgotten to merely taste the appetizer, absentmindedly eating my fill. Each succulent dish melts into the other as I take notes. My stomach groans. At last we’ve reached the final plate. It’s ribs slathered messily in sauce, wedged between a lump of coleslaw and a slab of corn bread. A plate from another restaurant, I think. She’s testing me.

“You don’t have to eat that,” Sasha snaps.

Wiping my mouth, I take a sip of water. “Why not?”

She sniffs disdainfully. “We didn’t cook that.”

“Who did?” I poke the meat with my fork. It falls off the bone. The muscular spices—garlic, chilies, and cumin—overpower the more delicately flavored dishes on the table. The airy apple and sweet potato foam and lavender-scented cream sauce I’ve just tasted seem fussy and pretentious.

Sasha breaks off a piece of corn bread and nibbles. Sweet, corn-scented steam floats across the table. “It’s nice; very tasty, in fact. It’s just not us. We’re Schubert’s. People come here for fine continental cuisine, not ribs.”

Taking a bite, I wonder what murky waters I am entering. It is delicious: bracing, simple, perfect for a cold night.

“Who cooked it?”

Sasha arches her eyebrows, tossing her head to the ceiling. From above us Wolf salutes with a crisp, amused grin and goes back to work.

“His camping food. Everyone loves his camping food.” Sasha shakes her head woefully.

“This kind of food does taste better outside. If we were going to eat inside . . .” I shrug, waving my hands around the elegant restaurant.

“You really think his barbecue is better than my European chef’s best efforts? He doesn’t even use a stove; he just makes this packet and buries the whole thing in some coals.”

The chef, a moody Viennese named Michel, sips seltzer at the bar, a heavy scowl creasing his face. I feel sorry for the man. Waiting for judgment on his creations can’t be much fun. I wave and give him a smile. “I don’t think it’s better food, but it is simpler. We’re eating outside in November. It’s going to take more than a few heat lamps to warm people up. This food fills a very specific need.” For some inexplicable reason, these homely ribs do taste better.

“Wolf is always telling me to simplify. That, I tell him, is home cooking. People do not pay top dollar for simplicity.”

I think about my cookbook. Isn’t that what I am saying in my cookbook, simple food prepared well? Eating is important; it’s the glue of the family evenings and celebrations, but food should be elemental, not complicated.

“Wake up and smell the barbecue,” sings a familiar melodic voice in my head. It is Louise.

My head spins around as if I can see her. “What?”

“They don’t pay for things they can cook at home,” Sasha emphasizes, thinking I am questioning her. “Most people enjoy being dazzled, entertained by professional cooks. Who would pay these kinds of prices for barbecue when you can get a Styrofoam box full of it down at Pecos Pit in Sodo?”

Up in the rafters, Wolf cups his hands over his mouth. “I’d put my barbecue up against Pecos Pit any day.” Seattleites who know barbecue salivate at the mention of Pecos Pit.

A woman across the aisle leans over confidentially. “I’m a big fan of Pecos Pit. Mind if I just try a nibble? I’ve got a fresh fork right here.”

I’m aghast, but Sasha leans back, gesturing at the plate. “By all means.” The woman scurries over to our table and extracts a huge dripping mouthful.

Chewing thoughtfully as she sits back down at her own table, she whispers to her companion, “Oh my God, David, it is better. Honest to God.” She turns toward me and says, “Thank you so much.”

Taking advantage of the confusion, I whisper, “Louise, what are you talking about?”

“Food, honey,” she answers. “Nothing beats good barbecue and a man who can cook it. Takes time, takes patience, takes a whole lot of knowledge ’bout how to spice things up.”

David, a large man with a neat beard, lifts his own clean fork and waves it at Sasha. By now she has given up any sense of decorum. “Do you, um, mind?” he begs before lumbering over for his own bite. David doesn’t even wait to return to the table before shouting up to a highly amused Wolf, “Totally. Knocks Pecos Pit off the chart. Do you do a brisket?”

“No,” Sasha snaps indignantly. “We do not do a brisket. We serve continental cuisine.”

Wolf chuckles to himself before continuing his struggle with a heavy motor he is installing high up on the wall. I watch him, his ropy muscles tense, holding the motor brackets in place, completely absorbed in the task at hand. Why has he bothered preparing food for me to taste? Is he trying to prove that he isn’t a complete dolt? And what the hell is Louise blabbering on about? Yeah, maybe Wolf can dig a hole in the ground and call it an oven, but why can’t she shut up when I’m working?

“So, we go with the camping food?” Sasha seems more defeated than enthusiastic.

“What?” I am irritated with Louise.

“The barbecue?”

“Sasha, I know you’re looking for something to showcase the wine, but most people really enjoy simple food. There is only a very small minority of people at a picnic who would choose roast duckling over a good pulled pork sandwich on a sweet bun. Eating outside is different. The barbecue will stand out and make the other restaurants’ choices look pretentious.” The idea of sprinting ahead of the competition makes the corners of her mouth lift into a wicked little grin.

The chef glares at me from the bar. Sasha catches his eye. “We’re ready for dessert, Michel.”

Seltzer in hand, Michel kicks at the kitchen door, muttering darkly about “goddamned interfering know-it-all consultants,” before disappearing. Moments later we hear pots clattering loudly.

I smile, pretending not to hear. “He seems nice.” My cell phone rings: Martin. “I’m sorry, Sasha, I have to take this. It’s my boss.”

“Hey! I am having so much fun playing agent. Liz the PR woman is so hot to do this, now that you’ll do media. Come over, and we’ll negotiate your deal in my office.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“It’s all done but the dirty work, sister.” Martin sounds positively giddy.

“Martin, this is amazing.” Sasha eavesdrops with great subtlety, pretending to polish a glass.

“Get on over, we can wrap it up.”

“I can’t. I’m with a client,” I say, hoping he’ll remember our deal.

“All right, then afterwards—what’s bigger than negotiating your first book contract?”