Out to Lunch (5 page)

When he graduated from high school, he won a scholarship to Kendall Culinary School. Aimee and I gave him a monthly stipend to cover books and equipment, and Aimee bought a small one-bedroom apartment in Lincoln Square and rented it to him cheap. Now twenty-two, and fresh out of culinary school, he’s having the classic struggle of figuring out whether he wants to focus on fine dining or casual; hotel work or restaurant or catering; whether he wants to open his own place someday, and he changes his mind every day. The fact that Aimee left him his apartment means that he has the freedom to continue training and exploring, since he just has to cover his bills with no rent hanging over him.

Benji flies into the room and throws his arms around my neck.

“Auntie Jenna! You’re back!”

“Hello, darling.” I kiss the cheek he brandishes at me, trying not to poke my eye out on his heavy black-rimmed hipster glasses.

He makes the rounds kissing the rest of his “Aunties” and collapses in Andrea’s lap, folding his long gangly legs up over the arm of the chair, and nuzzling in her neck. Volnay immediately abandons me and jumps into his lap, licking his face emphatically like he is a dirty puppy. Which, considering that he is twenty-two, completely adorable, and “sexually flexible” as he says, he probably is. I don’t understand the whole bi or “pansexual” thing, I’m old enough to think you just pick a side, but he seems happy and comfortable with himself and is having a good time.

“Well, this is a sight,” Lois says.

We all fall silent, take sips of tea, reach for more cookies.

“This SUCKS,” Benji says, gray-blue eyes flashing behind thick black lashes, and blushing to the roots of his artfully mussed dark hair.

“Ben . . .” Eloise admonishes.

“No, THIS SUCKS. I miss Aimee. I hate that she isn’t here. And I’m really mad about it.” Tears swim in his eyes. Benji has received a lot of group therapy over the years, is very in touch with the immediacy of his emotions, and something about this circle of care has clearly put him in a sharing mode.

“Ben, this isn’t . . .” Andrea starts. I put my hand up.

“Yes. This is. If not here? With us?” My voice breaks a little, surprising me. “He’s right, it sucks and we all miss her, and we all hate that she isn’t here, and we’re all angry at how unfair it is. And I’m sorry I haven’t come sooner, I just . . .” I trail off.

They are all weeping. Lois reaches for my hand, and squeezes, pulling a hankie out of her bosom and blowing her nose like a foghorn. Eloise puts her hand on the back of my neck like a cool compress, and then gets up to find tissues for the rest of them. I’m just sort of cried out. I did a lot of late night sobbing when Aimee was first diagnosed, and again when she took her final turn for the worst. And again when we had to move her to hospice. I’m fairly well desiccated at this point.

Andrea and Benji snuggle on the chair, and Volnay rests her chin on Benji’s shoulder.

“We’re all miserable, and sad and pissed off, and we are just going to have to lean on each other and ask for what we need and make it okay. Because no one is more angry at this whole thing than Aimee, and if we don’t figure out how to live without her, she will never forgive us.”

“There’s my girl,”
the Voix says.

I look at these people, my odd family, and make a decision.

“I’m making lunch. Who wants pasta?”

“We have leftover caramelized cauliflower and some cannellini beans soaking,” Lois says.

“There’s a chunk of pancetta in there,” Benji pipes in.

“I roasted a mess of garlic yesterday,” Andrea offers.

“Perfect,” I say, smiling, the dish coming together in my head.

Andrea smiles and nods. Benji raises his head and grins through tears. Eloise smiles a little, and Lois slaps her meaty thigh as if an important decision has been made. I stand and head for the back of the store. Because if I’m going to help these people heal at all, it’s in the kitchen.

5

M
aking dinner for Wayne is either the easiest thing or the hardest thing on the planet, depending on how you look at it. After all, Wayne’s famous Eleven are neither difficult to procure nor annoying to prepare.

They are just.

So.

Boring.

Roasted chicken

Plain hamburgers

Steak cooked medium

Pork chops

Eggs scrambled dry

Potatoes, preferably fries, chips, baked, or mashed, and not with anything fancy mixed in

Chili, preferably Hormel canned

Green beans

Carrots

Corn

Iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing

That’s it. The sum total of what Wayne will put into his maw. He doesn’t even eat fricking PIZZA for chrissakes. Not including condiments, limited to ketchup and yellow mustard and Miracle Whip, and any and all forms of baked goods . . . when it comes to breads and pastries and desserts he has the palate of a gourmand, no loaf goes untouched, no sweet unexplored. It saves him, only slightly, from being a complete food wasteland. And he has no idea that it is strange to everyone that he will eat apple pie and apple cake and apple charlotte and apple brown Betty and apple dumplings and fritters and muffins and doughnuts and crisp and crumble and buckle, but will not eat AN APPLE.

But a good chef knows that food is supposed to be about pleasure, a gift you give to your diners. I’ve never been one of those ego-driven chefs, offended if someone asks for salt, implying my seasoning palate isn’t perfect, as opposed to acknowledging that they might just like things saltier than I do, and are entitled to that opinion. I’ve never wanted to teach my diners a lesson of some kind. I appreciate the current trend of nose-to-tail; I do think there are undiscovered pleasures to introduce to a broader market. I have converted many a guest to the joys of oxtail and halibut collar. But I hate the chefly smugness that seems to come with it, that attitude of “you aren’t a real foodie unless your desert island dish is blood sausage.”

I suppose it’s because so much of my career was spent catering and not in a restaurant. Successful catering is a thousand percent about giving the customer something they want at a level beyond what they dreamed possible. It’s about tapping into their deepest desires and delivering it perfectly to everyone at the same time. Restaurant chefs can often sneer at caterers, thinking that so much of what we do lacks creativity, isn’t as badass as working the line in a churn and burn; we don’t have the pressure of the critics or the next hot Top Cheftestant’s new place to deal with.

But chefs who really know their shit know that the exact opposite is true. We don’t have a handful of critics or Yelpers and bloggers who may or may not like what we do, we don’t have places full of people who have chosen on purpose to come dine at our establishments; we often have five hundred people at one time who did not choose us, who love to stand around and snark about whether the tuna tartare is spicy enough or chopped too coarsely. We have to deliver an exceptional dining experience where we usually have no control over space, flow, timing, equipment, or audience. We can’t, most often, craft a perfect menu that we know will wow and flow, because menus come together by committee and the bride is afraid of anything with a sauce because it might get on her dress, or the eightysomething gala chair still thinks filet and salmon are the only two possible elegant entrée options, and no amount of prodding will get her to pick the skate wing and hanger steak instead.

We sit through endless tastings where people with Naugahyde for palates pick apart our dishes and offer suggestions and changes that we? HAVE TO MAKE. I happen to love a braised pork cheek garnished with crispy bits of fried pig ear, or a smoked bison tongue salad. But I have yet to meet a client who wants me to make that for their daughter’s sweet sixteen.

And at the end of the day, if I can bring integrity to one more chicken breast dinner, to the “trio of salads” ladies’ luncheon, to the surprise hot dog cart at the end of the wedding, perfectly snappy grilled Vienna Beef beauties with homemade steamed buns and all seven of the classic Chicago Dog toppings, then I have done my job and might get another.

What’s the task that all those TV cooking competition folks fall down on? The ones that knock out the favorites and even presumed winners? The Wedding Challenge. The Quinceañera Challenge. The Fundraiser Challenge. Even the Masters, already famous and multi-restauranted and Michelin starred, competing for charity? The cake falls, the apps aren’t hot enough, the salad wilts. Because those are the CATERING challenges, and catering is just fucking hard.

Dinner parties are just small self-catered affairs. Some people, whether chefs or just passionate home cooks, make dinner parties to show off their prowess, trying to turn their homes into restaurants with fancy plating and things assembled in ring molds, trying to replicate something they ate at some fabulous new hot spot.

Not me. Sure, I adore the edamame dumplings at Buddakan in New York. But I don’t try to make them, because stuffing and steaming dumplings while trying to keep glasses full and dinner on schedule would make me insane. So I figured out the filling and turned it into a dip for crudités that I can put out and be done with it.

When I have a dinner party, I want to sit with my guests and not worry about whether the caramel spirals for the dessert garnish are sagging in the kitchen humidity. I want every dinner party to feel like Thanksgiving. I want a ton of delicious food, something for everyone, with one comforting thing and one surprising thing. And this means knowing my audience.

You’re diabetic? I’m making low-carb for everyone.

Vegetarian? The whole party will be meat free.

Eating Paleo these days? We’re having a caveman party with plenty of steak and veg and no dairy or legumes for anyone.

Gluten-intolerant vegan?

I’m making reservations somewhere you like, because seriously, some things I just cannot manage. Sorry. I’m not insane.

Dinner parties with Wayne aren’t hard. I make a great roast chicken. Burgers can be fun and unexpected. I can always save his portion of beef and cook it medium and still serve everyone else medium rare. I love the challenge of making things he will eat for a whole table and not feel like some 1950s housewife serving up banal Tuesday dinner. And I can always go all out on the dessert, which helps.

But tonight it’s just the two of us. No buffering friends or joyful noise. And no Aimee to keep him from going off on a Star Wars tangent, or asking a mortifying and inappropriate question. First time he met Andrea, he asked her if African Americans could get acne. I’m not kidding. I wanted to crawl into a hole. Aimee laughed it off, smacked him in the arm and told him to refill her wineglass and that was the end of it, but that moment haunted me for months.

Wayne called yesterday and said he thought we should get together, so I have a couple of fat pork rib chops brining in cider that I will throw on the grill. Crisp wedges of iceberg lettuce with a homemade buttermilk ranch dressing spiked with fresh herbs. Buttery glazed carrots, steamed green beans with lemon and a little bit of chili. On the sideboard in my enormous walk-in pantry, I have fresh fig tarts cooling, shiny with fig jam glaze and ready to be dolloped with a pistachio whipped cream. A meal that Wayne will eat, and I will actually enjoy. As much as I can enjoy a meal with Wayne.

“Suck it up, buttercup,”
the Voix spits in my ear.
“Get your head in the game. You have one year. One year to be his pal, to keep him from blowing through my money, and to learn why I thought he was the bee’s fricking knees, so how about you put on your game face.”

Sigh. It was bad enough that Aimee was always right when she was around; being right AND dead is sort of monumentally annoying. But it is what it is. And the fact is that the only time I ever have spent with Wayne alone in the eight years he and Aimee were together was in my hospital room after the transplant. Aimee was in the ICU; neither of us could be with her for the first few days, so Wayne hung out in my room. And if I’m going to be honest, he was mostly pretty awesome. Always went on a coffee run when my folks were there or other people came to visit, quick to fetch me a Popsicle or more ice water. Checking with my doctor to see what I was allowed to eat, since while you are recovering from donating part of your liver, stuff can really disagree with you, and then going out to find delicious versions so that I didn’t have to eat the hospital food. He brought me an iPod full of audio books so that I didn’t have to keep my eyes open to read, and an iPad with the entire
Buffy
and
Angel
series loaded in, since he remembered I once confessed that I had never seen them, but was somewhat curious.

Of course, he also managed to knock over my tray table at least once a day, usually right after I had fallen asleep, used my bathroom with loud frequency, which totally squicked me out, and had to be asked to leave the room every time a doctor came by to check my incision or discuss my progress.

Deep breath. One day at a time. And a year isn’t so much. Aimee thought that this little experiment would work, but I know better. Wayne lived in her blind spot. I just have to get through this year. Not even a full year, just have to get to October first of next year. Eleven months and sixteen days. Do I have a calendar in my closet with red Xs on the days? You had better believe it. That’s the truth, Ruth. You betcha.

I take the chops out of their brine, pat them dry and leave them on a tray on the island to come to room temp. I feed Volnay, who eats in her unusual way, delicately removing one piece of kibble at a time from her bowl, placing it on the little rug that serves as her dining room, and then eating it before going back in for a second piece of kibble. It takes her the better part of thirty minutes to finish her bowl. I’m sure if she had thumbs, she’d be patting her chin with a linen napkin after every morsel. When she finishes, she hits the water bowl. Silently. No one can figure out how she drinks, she sort of purses her lips and sucks, none of that slurping and splashing that accompany most dogs’ drinking. She is a stealth drinker. When she finishes, she heads to her little bed in the corner of the kitchen to groom her fur a bit. Lovely girl.

I’ve got my entire mise en place, en place. Prep trays next to the cooktop, ready to be put into quick action. There is a six-pack of Miller High Life chilling in the fridge. Bet you can guess whom that is for. I’ve got a bottle of Raveneau decanted and am working on my first glass, letting the wine relax my shoulders a bit. The doorbell rings, an old-fashioned ding-dong sound that was not only hard to find but ridiculously expensive by doorbell standards. I shake my head, steel my spine, and head to the door.

Wayne fills my porch. The ultimate bull in a china shop, Wayne has a presence much larger than his physical person. His six feet tends to feel more like six four or five, since he is often smacking his head into low-hanging light fixtures or shelves. He is probably only about 230 pounds, but he carries it in what feels like enormous bulk, enhanced by clothes that are neither expensive nor fit well. He borders on schlumpy. His hair is thick, dark brown, sprinkled with gray a little more prominently over the past year, with a serious widow’s peak. He isn’t handsome, but would be considered cute in a baby-faced way, like a giant eight-year-old. Which he sort of is. When clean shaven, he looks like Eddie Munster, so his face is an endless experiment in facial hair, mustaches thick and thin, goatees, full beards, sideburns of various configurations. He was full bearded at the funeral, the last time I saw him, close-trimmed and neat. Today he has only one strange half-inch-wide stripe down the center of his weak chin. It looks like a face Brazilian. Oy.

“Hey Wayne,” I say, stepping aside to let him in. He grabs me in a bear hug and I’m doused in Drakkar Noir. Hello 1984, how I have not missed you.

“Hello Jenny.” He snuffles into my hair. He has always called me Jenny. And I have always hated it. I am Jenna to most, Jen only occasionally, schnookie to my parents. Miss Jenna to Andrea’s folks and Auntie Jenna to Benji. But I am not now, nor have I ever been, a Jenny.

Some other odor is cutting through the miasma of cologne. Wayne steps back and thrusts an enormous bunch of white and pink stargazer lilies at me almost violently. My least favorite flower. They stink to high heaven. Every florist Aimee and I ever worked with at StewartBrand knew that stargazers were a firing offense. And these, grocery store flowers if ever I saw them, still have their pollen pods attached. I look down. Yep, the front of my pale blue cashmere sweater is now sprinkled with yellow dust from the force of Wayne’s imposition of the bouquet on me. He sees me looking down.

“Oh, sorry, did I do that?” he says, reaching over and trying to brush the pollen off my stomach.

“No! Don’t . . .” Too late. The pollen is now streaks of saffron yellow, and from experience, this sweater is now ruined forever. This particular pollen is as bad as beet juice in the stain department. Many a perfectly good tablecloth has met with an early demise when a florist forgets to remove the pods.