A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (7 page)

The conversation over dinner the previous night inspired me to invite Maman to lunch and light shopping the following Tuesday. I knew Maman tended to keep a busy social calendar, but was pleased when she agreed to meet me on Northwest Twenty-Third.

We were close, but not in the traditional American mother-and-daughter sense. I was aware, growing up, that my mother was different from my classmates’ moms.

She worked, for one, and not as a nurse or a teacher or a bank teller, but as a pastry chef. In the mornings while she worked—she’d be at work at five—my sisters supervised my exodus to school. In the afternoons, Maman would be home and we’d have adventures. We attended museums, walked through gardens. She took me to nice restaurants, where I was expected to behave in a civilized fashion.

I was the baby of the family, which my siblings reminded me of constantly, Sophie in particular. “When I was your age,” she’d say, “I took care of myself and I lived at the restaurant.”

By the time I showed up, though, the restaurant had been a success for multiple years and life had become more stable. Maman had time to do things with us in the afternoons, rather than work in the pastry kitchen in the morning and manage the front of the house in the evenings.

Unlike my classmates’ moms, my mother had style. She wore silk, good jewelry, and high heels. She’d sooner die than wear a themed sweater, unless the theme was “nautical stripe.” She never complained about finding jeans that fit, partly because she had most of her clothes tailored anyway.

And if I hadn’t already figured out that my mother was different, once or twice a month, she would excuse herself, sit out on the patio, and have long phone conversations in French with her cousin Sandrine, while smoking a single cigarette.

After the loss of Grand-mère, though, shadows had appeared beneath her eyes. The phone calls to Sandrine—recently sans the cigarette—had increased.

That Tuesday we met in front of LeLa’s Bistro. “You are so sweet,
ma biche
,” Maman said when she saw me. “You know how I love Vietnamese.”

Maman ordered the pork meatball
bánh mì
, and I ordered the lemongrass chicken bánh mì, with an order of shrimp salad rolls to share.

“People forget about the French and the Vietnamese, sometimes,” she told me as we waited. “The French brought their baguettes, and the Vietnamese used them to make bánh mì sandwiches. And then the French came home with a love for Vietnamese chicken soup deep in their souls.”

“There are perks to imperialism,” I noted. “How are things with Grand-mère’s estate these days?”

Maman peered at me. “Are you worrying about me?”

I gave a small smile. “Maybe a little.”

“You must stop that, you know. I am fine. I will die one day. Prepare yourself. I didn’t, and look where it got me.”

“I think grieving is normal,” I said, dunking my salad roll into peanut sauce.

Maman lifted a shoulder. “I think I may visit a
psychologue
, just for a little while. But until then, everything is fine. Her estate was very neatly prepared. I sent some jewelry last week to your
tante
Margueritte. She sent me a nice note back.” Maman gave an approving nod. “She was brought up well. And as for
the patisserie,
je ne sais pas
. I hate to leave it there, but I hate to sell it or lease it to strangers.”

My ears perked up. “Oh?”

“I hate to leave it empty, but it is difficult to clean out.
C’est la vie
. I cannot have it all.”

“I’m happy to help with the cleaning.”

We both leaned back as our sandwiches arrived. “
Ah, bon
. You are such a good girl,” she said. “And these? These are very good sandwiches. We should give them our full attention.” Maman patted my hand. “Death is a part of life,
ma fille
. Let us not worry overmuch.”

A part of me had hoped that Marti would forget about my new column. But when I returned from lunch with my mother to find a half-dozen e-mails from her on the subject, I knew it wasn’t meant to be. Marti’s mind had set to work, and now she wanted my input.

I resisted the urge to smack my forehead against my monitor.

After reading the last e-mail, I took two minutes to breathe deeply and then hit the Reply button.

I hit Send and hoped that my suggestions would appeal to Marti. E-mail taken care of, I made myself a cup of MarketSpice tea in the test kitchen. I watched the tea steep—the water growing darker and darker—not realizing until the last moment that I really couldn’t wait to be home, working on the restaurant that wasn’t.

I spent the next few hours working as quickly and efficiently as possible. Once I’d accomplished all I’d set out to do, I shut down my computer, said my good-byes, and headed to the grocery store—my day was far from over.

“It’s really great of you to do this, Etta,” Nico said as he folded the cloth napkins into elaborate fan shapes and nestled them inside the wineglasses.

“One meeting,” I answered, tightening my apron around my waist. “One meeting with Frank Burrows. That’s all I’m committing to.”

“You should have let me cook.”

“You’re not the only one who went to culinary school. Besides, I needed to test the recipes before handing in the piece to Marti.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but there’s too much food here. Are you sure you weren’t stress cooking?”

“Me?” I arranged my features into their best imitation of serenity. “I’m not stressed. Not stressed at all. No stress here.”

“That’s good.”

Perception has never been Nico’s strong suit.

For the meeting, I’d laid out a wide variety of fillings and sauces on the table, with the sauces in my antique chafing dishes to stay warm. And it was true—there was a lot of food. I’d provided prosciutto, roasted red peppers, toasted walnuts, fig preserves, and a cheese sauce made with fontina. The savory ingredients were intended for the brown-butter buckwheat crepes.

For dessert, I’d provided sweet crepes made with my grandmother’s recipe. Antique china bowls containing Nutella, sweetened mascarpone, lemon curd, and sliced fresh fruit fought for space on the table.

The crepe I was most proud of, though, was my stracciatella crepe. In a nod to the gelato flavor, I’d attacked the chocolate bar with my trusty Micro-plane zester and incorporated it as a last ingredient in my chilled crepe batter.

Nico reached for one of the stracciatella crepes and tore off a corner. “These are really good. Texture’s perfect. Just the right amount of chocolate. You haven’t lost your touch, you know.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m actually a little mad I didn’t come up with them myself.”

I shrugged. “You probably would have at some point.”

“You should have been a chef. You’re more creative than I am.”

A dozen responses soared through my head. “It’s not for me,” I answered simply enough.

“Do you think you’d be able to leave the newspaper?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said, filling the crystal pitcher with ice water. “We’ll see.”

A knock sounded at the door. Nico stood up straighter. “You’ll keep an open mind?”

“If you make me say ‘I’m thinking about it’ one more time, I’m going to go medieval on your copper cookware.”

Nico winked at me but said nothing as he moved to open the door.

I untied my apron and smoothed my bangs, pasting a smile onto my face as Frank Burrows came into view.

“Juliette D’Alisa!” his voice boomed when he saw me. “Great to see you. How’s Marti these days?”

“Well fed, as always,” I answered, shaking his hand. “She’s a great lady.”

“That she is. Tough, but good. Did I see you last month at the winemaker’s dinner with Jim Haberman?”

“I was there, so you must have. That was a wonderful night—I still think about those pinot truffles they served for dessert.”

“Well, this,” he said, eyes wide over the spread on the dining room table, “looks incredible.”

“That’s very generous of you. Please, take a plate. We’ll be experimenting today, and the best compositions will go into my new column series.”

Over the next few moments, I did what I did best—hostess. I explained the crepe ingredients and assembly, and made sure the bottles of Pinot Noir and Auxerrois were close at hand, as well as the water and espresso.

The crepes were assembled, various combinations attempted. We made small talk as I photographed the best results. When we were all full, we moved to the living room with our beverages.

“If we do decide to move forward with a restaurant,” Frank said, “those stracciatella crepes have to be on the menu.”

Nico nodded and sipped from his drink. “You’re right. They had just the right amount of chocolate without being overwhelming.”

Two compliments in one night? “Thank you,” I said with a genuine smile. “So, Frank, you said it—if we do move forward with a restaurant. If we did, what’s your vision for it?”

“I’m just the money guy. My job is to find people with vision, with a voice, who have something to say with their food. Obviously, the nomination for the James Beard award is great, but I was already mulling the offer when I had dinner last month at D’Alisa & Elle. Elle’s a Portland fixture, of course. But exciting? Not always. But Nico’s menu—a breath of fresh air.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Nico had grown three inches taller just listening.

“Now, Nico,” Frank continued, “if there are some grand family plans for you to take over the restaurant from your dad, I don’t want to get in the way of nepotism. But if you’d like to strike out again, I want to be your guy.”

Nico nodded. “I’ll be honest—I’d love to have my own place again, but I need a collaborator. At Elle, that’s my dad. If we do this, I’d like Juliette to join me.”

“Now, Juliette,” Frank said, turning to me, “you orchestrated the update at La Taverna some six years ago, isn’t that right?”

“You have a very long memory,” I said, impressed. “I worked with Montage and Nonna’s Table as well.”