Bread and Butter (30 page)

In the doorway she turned around, pulling her dress strap up, and Britt thought that maybe she was coming back.

Maybe now she’d had her say and was as empty and scraped dry as he was. He felt as if this had been going on for hours, but the last table at the restaurant had left only forty-five minutes ago. He took a deep breath to slow his pulse and was about to speak when Camille said, “You should have seen what was happening with him,” and that was when he gave up and let her go.

H
ARRY WENT INTO THE RESTAURANT
at eight
. T
he first morning he’d returned, he’d been nervous just to be there, as if the air itself would go to work on him. But every morning since then he’d come in early, enjoying the silence and the methodical process of cleaning, organizing, and prepping.

At nine his watch beeped to remind him to stop for breakfast, which consisted of a couple of bananas and a handful of nuts from a container he kept on the line. He was trying his best to be one of those guys he used to laugh at for being weak, who paused for two minutes to eat, who kept dried fruit on hand and drank a lot of water and limited booze to one shift drink. It was like being either very young or very old. Did other people do this? Did they do it so naturally that they simply did not require the kind of attention he had to give it? Maybe Harry had just assumed that everyone did to themselves what he did to himself, that because they didn’t make a show of eating meals and sleeping soundly, they weren’t eating and never slept, just like him. But it turned out that no one needed to discuss it.

Harry was reasonably certain that Britt had been adding to his almond stockpile, for the level never seemed to dwindle. He never asked, but the image of his brother surreptitiously tipping bags of almonds into the stash made Harry feel simultaneously frustrated and chastened. Last night he’d realized that Britt might not ever forgive him, which meant that he might not ever trust him again. Somehow Harry had never thought of their relationship in these terms. He’d always thought of his brothers as impervious and distant, secure and stationary in their partnership and their maturity, while Harry himself flitted about, gnatlike.

He finished his breakfast, wiped his hands on the towel at his waist, and went back to the kitchen. He’d eaten, he was doing his work, he was here taking care of his restaurant. He would concentrate on the next few steps. Finish the shallots. Get the stock bones into the oven. Clarify the butter.

AT LEAST IT WAS EASY TO PARK
at this hour. Britt pulled in directly in front of Stray, where no one was around on a weekend morning for anything but cigarettes at the bodega
. A
warm summer wind was kicking in from the river, and Britt slowed down to let it soak in. He was already late anyway.

He hadn’t slept so much as drifted into the occasional whiteout during which the clock had leapt forward
. A
fter Camille left, he wasted an hour debating whether to go to her house, but by about twelve thirty he realized it wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t going to go dashing after her late at night, as if they were twenty-one and drunk—as if they were servers at Stray
. T
hat had at least given him a bitter little smile.

At least if he were still that young, a fight like this might feel dramatic. But you bought a place, you opened a business, you were nearer forty than thirty, and being up all night was simply desolate
. T
hey’d unearthed something wretched, and it sat there with him while he dug up a bag of potato chips from the back of one cupboard and then went to bed and tried to sleep, his phone silent on the table beside him.

This was not the same mess he’d thought it was; his position was not the purely victimized position he’d felt so certain of. He tried to stoke the belief that Camille had heaped something on him he didn’t deserve, but it did not entirely work. So she didn’t like how he’d dealt with Harry’s disappearance; it didn’t mean his response was invalid. She could have talked to him. She didn’t have to suffer in silence and then lash out at him a week later
. A
nd Harry was a grown man—Britt didn’t ask him to manage his life, so why would Britt have to do this for him? He ran through all these arguments, and he knew plenty of them were reasonable, but he wasn’t sure that would ever matter.

He hadn’t had a real argument with a woman in years—nothing ever got that heated; they just dwindled until the final conversation was as quick and dry as a kiss from an aunt
. W
hat was a fight and what was a breakup?

As he turned back from the river and toward the restaurant, the Ethiopian guy waved from the coffee cart. Baklava seemed no worse an idea than anything else
. T
he guy was already pouring two coffees and wrapping up two pieces of baklava. Britt had only intended to buy one for himself, but he let the man pack two pieces and clap lids on both coffees
. T
hen he stacked the coffees on top of each other, tucked the bag beneath one arm, and made his way to the restaurant.

He was feeling strangely experimental. In the past several months, not one thing had gone as he’d expected, in his restaurant, in his relationship, in his family
. T
he walk to the restaurant seemed to take a long time, with the tree leaves looking sharp and crystalline in the sunlight. He felt a not unpleasant weightlessness, a general willingness that was not focused on one particular thing
. W
hatever awaited him at the restaurant would be no worse than what he had left last night.

When he got to the restaurant, he set the coffees and baklava on the bar. Harry came out of the kitchen, carrying a bus tub full of pans, and paused as the door swung shut behind him. “You want some breakfast?” Britt said. “Or did you already eat?”

Harry came around the back of the bar and set down his tub. “I can always eat more.” He began lining up his pans and utensils, folding towels and stacking them on the counter. “You look like shit,” he said after a time.

Britt shrugged. “You look okay. You look better than you did a few weeks ago, anyway.”

Harry nodded. Britt watched Harry move from the pans to the cutting board to the walk-in and back, trying to tell if he was still missing some clue in Harry’s behavior, as he obviously had before. But Harry moved with the same quick grace that Britt had been so surprised to see last fall.

Britt watched Harry’s knife slide through some onions
. T
here came a time when you were either going to turn someone loose or stick around. He could keep punishing Harry—he probably wouldn’t even be wrong to demand a new apology from his brother, maybe even every day, and he knew Harry would do it if he asked. But Britt wanted his brother back to his old fearlessness, back to what Harry used to be, or whatever Britt had thought he was.

BRITT MADE A PROJECT OUT OF
the rest of that day and the next. Before he went running off to Camille, before he even phoned her, he would assume that they were finished. Maybe it would feel better than he expected. Perhaps it would be an unexpected relief.

In service of this idea, he thought a lot about her flaws. She’d told a story about her first restaurant job more than once, and the second time she’d hit precisely the same beats and all the same jokes. She often texted when she could have called, and her texts always read as if a robot had written them. She had said a particularly obnoxious novel was inventive and enthralling.

The idea was for him to realize that he had been miserable with her without actually knowing it, but this was, on its face, such undiluted bullshit that Britt very nearly impressed himself at how long he kept it up. He kept getting twisted around and ended up thinking about the things he found endearing: the occasional silky patch of golden hairs under her arms; her insistence on overtipping; the overheated passion with which she had stated that she would never try horsemeat.

She did not contact him, and he tried to take the hint, but her absence was yawning and tangible. It seemed impossible that she lived so near him, that she was going about her day and seeing people and talking to them, that her friends could simply drop by, that some jam-maker could call her up and actually
see
her
. T
he nadir was on the morning of the third day, when he sat morosely over his coffee, thinking of all the random accountants and telemarketers who could talk to her at any time at all. He became aware that he’d begun to think of her less as a woman he could call, as a grown-up might, and more as some type of mythical creature. It had been long enough; he was going over there. She’d won, and he didn’t even care.

HE PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE KNOWN
that her house would look the same. It had been only three days. Still, when Camille let him in, he looked around in disbelief at the bowl of fruit on her table, the plate of half-eaten toast beside a cup of tea.

When she appeared at her front door, she looked unsurprised. She was wearing gray yoga pants and a long, belted sweater. She had no makeup on; her face was pale and slightly worn around the eyes, her hair loose around her shoulders. “Hi,” she said, and waited until he asked to come in.

That plate of toast made him very nervous. He didn’t think a distraught person would bother to spread her toast with butter and honey, or to replenish the fruit on her table.

She gestured him in the direction of her couch and sat down opposite him in an oversized armchair. She waited for him to speak, her face as bright and enigmatic as it had been when he’d first met her.

Now that he was here he wasn’t as sure of himself. He’d smoothed over countless little disagreements with countless women, with varying degrees of difficulty, but the irony was that the less invested he was, the easier it was. He could offer up whatever people wanted to hear if he was interested only in a few more good weeks or months.

And Camille did not seem to be trying to torture him, necessarily. She sat cross-legged, her hands on her knees as if she were meditating, and observed him with what appeared to be mild interest
. T
he tea steamed on the table beside her.

Maybe he should have brought flowers. It seemed so childlike and stalkerish, though, to present a bouquet of roses and baby’s breath as if it wiped everything away. But it might have been nice to be occupied by the business of fetching a vase and trimming the stems.

“I didn’t realize Harry’s leaving was so upsetting for you,” he finally said, when the silence had stretched out too long. “And I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I just thought you were being easy on him because he might still be interested in you.”

“That’s flattering,” she said. “You thought I was keeping him in reserve?”

“No,” he said, and now he meant it. “I just thought you had a soft spot for him.”

“I do,” she said, but her tone had changed. “But he’s my friend. That’s all.”

They looked at one another, waiting to see what else there was. Britt had nothing else to add—this was as far as he’d planned on the drive over, because he’d thought she’d start talking
. T
he clock ticked gently on the wall; the tea sent up a curl of steam that disappeared into the light coming through the window. Camille leaned back in her chair.

He found it very hard to meet her eyes without smiling from nerves or self-consciousness, or both. Finally he couldn’t bear the stillness and said, “Camille. I came to you, I apologized. I have no idea if we’re making up or just having a very yogic breakup.”

She blinked at him. Then she lowered her head and covered her face with her hands. Uncertainly, Britt rose and took a step in her direction. When she lifted her face she was laughing, weepily, and she shook her head, looking at the ceiling.

“I didn’t know until just now,” she said. She reached out her hands for him to pull her up from the chair, and as he wrapped his arms around her he breathed in the scent of clean wool from her sweater, the scent of her hair. Every time, she was taller than he remembered; her chin was wedged tightly over his shoulder, her cheek against his. They stood that way for a long minute, as if to ease the transition, and finally she pulled back and kissed him, tasting faintly of honey.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked.

“Your toast scared the shit out of me.”

Camille laughed. “I’m one of those people who eats normally even when I’m miserable.” She reached up and clasped his hand, sending such a deep sense of relief through his body that Britt could think of nothing to do but raise her hand to his mouth and kiss it. He waited for her to tease him about the toast, to let him know she’d been just fine really, but she leaned her forehead against his and closed her eyes. “I was miserable,” she said.

H
ARRY AND BRITT HAD SPENT
three weeks developing a menu and spreading the word about Monday night family-style dinners, Britt calling up a few local columnists, Harry releasing a stream of witty little updates on Facebook and Twitter, and both warning all reservations about the different menu
. A
fter that, there was nothing to do but open the doors on a Monday and give it a shot.

Harry and Jenelle had tried out the dishes at staff meal, but Harry still had his doubts. Lamb shank, flatbreads by the yard with an oily, fragrant salumi, great platters of fritto misto, broccoli rabe, or roasted eggplant, a rabbit fricassee with porcini and bacon and white wine. Suddenly they were an Italian restaurant on Mondays, it seemed, but when they’d brainstormed dishes, that was what had popped into their heads. Something about these dishes, plus the cooling fall air, had felt comforting and generous, just what the staff was feeling desperate to eat, and so they decided to go with it. “Maybe we’ll try out a new region every week,” Harry had mused as he and Jenelle stood over a dish of rabbit, tasting shreds of its lean little haunches. “We do Italian this week, we fry up chicken and biscuits next week, in the dead of winter we do couscous and tagines, coq au vin, or daube, maybe.”

Jenelle had shrugged. “I have no idea what daube is,” she said, “but if we can serve it in a vat, I’m on it.”

“It’s just French stew, with beef or lamb,” Harry said. He slid the house copy o
f T
he
Food Lover’s Companion
, much thumbed by servers, across the zinc bar, thinking that this was both Jenelle’s curse and her blessing: she came to the line without pretension, having cooked for years not for passion but to make a living, the same way she would have worked at upholstering chairs or carving wood or any other craft one did with repetition and attention to detail. So what if she never showed up wanting to try a new spin on pho crossed with laksa? You could give her rabbit, you could give her quail eggs, you could give her whatever, and after a test run or two she had it down. She was a quicker study than Harry had ever been, and he prided himself on having picked things up fast. But he’d always been busy trying to impress Shelley or Amanda, and as a result his early cooking had been a slideshow of muddled influences and pretensions. But Jenelle’s cooking, while not high in flourish, was so crisply executed that Harry almost never had cause to correct her. Now and again he said a little silent thank-you to Shelley for pushing him in that direction, tempting though it had been to listen to Britt and consider talented, schizy Elliott, who after a few years and drug therapy trials might be a powerhouse.

Their first Monday was passable: the servers seemed nervous explaining the setup to the tables, the guests kept looking around uncertainly to see if other tables had gotten the regular menu, and the staff had to keep pushing tables together to accommodate each new crop of large groups, a process Harry found inelegant when it occurred during service. Harry decided that they would do a shorter menu for these Mondays in the future, two main course choices at most and one side. On the plus side, Hector had amused himself by making a fig and mascarpone crostata and grappa ice cream; for the largest tables, they simply served the crostata whole in its round dish.

There was something disconcertingly smooth about the entire evening. Though the numbers were not impressive, they were sound, and at the end of the evening, no one looked beaten or crazed. And this was the whole point.

Harry was still amazed that it had been Britt’s idea. Normally Britt was a much bigger believer in anything that pleased the guest, regardless of the extra work for the staff. (Britt was under the impression that this was primarily a failing of Leo’s, but in fact he was just as bad.) Nevertheless, he’d come bustling in one morning, barely recognizable in faded jeans and ancient work boots, and said, “Once a week, we are going to relax.”

Britt’s idea was to serve a different menu each Monday, family-style, with some tweak to the dishes to make them so interesting that the clientele would actually make the trip for them
. T
hat was what the big idea came down to: bigger plates.

Harry had been secretly receptive—though as a matter of form he had debated it—to any solution to the exhaustion they were barely managing to assuage even with added waitstaff and a search under way for another prep cook. “But it isn’t what we do,” Harry had said at first. “What about all those places that we say never know what they want to do, that have no focus?”

“We’ll keep it within our focus,” Britt said. “That’s what menu planning is for—we make sure we do this so it feels like us
. W
hat about paella?”

“People like trying a lot of different things, though,” Harry said. “It’s kind of why they’re here.”

“So we’ll make a lot of booze part of the variety somehow—we’ll get some great hard-to-find wines, or make cocktails tailored to each week. If there’s one thing the restaurant business has shown me, it’s that people think drinking’s just as much fun as eating.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I feel like we’re just getting our feet back under us.” Britt raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I feel like I’m just getting my feet back under me. I’m a little scared of changing up the systems. Maybe we should just keep rolling. And we’d need new tableware.” But even as he said this he was thinking of grand platters of one perfect dish. Such simplicity.

“We can hire more people,” Britt was saying. “We can rethink the line setup
. W
e can just put our heads down and hope we all come out intact when things settle, whenever they do settle. I mean, we don’t even
want
them to settle, we just need to be able to meet the burden and be sure we keep our staff in the meantime
. T
he servers are doing better, but you and Jenelle still need help. Hector being Hector, every day could be the day that he finally builds a life-sized marzipan version of himself and leaves it in the kitchen instead of showing up. I’m just saying we can try out a few weeks of service that might be fun for the guests and give us one night of breathing room
. W
e can roll this out and roll it back up if we need to.”

“That’s true,” Harry conceded. It was a perfectly reasonable, small-scale, and, yes, reversible idea. “But I don’t want you feeling like you have to carry the kitchen.” He said a silent apology to Jenelle and Hector for including them as “the kitchen” when he really meant himself. “Carry
me
,” he corrected.

They looked each other over for a moment. Britt’s clothes and hair looked a little creased and faded, as unthinkable on him as a backward baseball cap, but Harry was noticing his brother’s expression, which was somewhere between wry and affectionate, and just as unexpected. Finally Britt shrugged. “I have plenty to do without carrying the kitchen,” he said. “I’m not suggesting this because I think you’re going to lose it again. I’m suggesting it because I think you’ll do this well.”