Bread and Butter (14 page)

Amanda poured more wine into his glass and got up to start the bacon. Harry watched her work, feeling exhausted but peaceful, happy to observe the elegant way she flipped the bacon in its hot pan, the rush of the gas flame, the comforting sizzle of fat and the rich, smoky-sweet scent that filled the room.

THE KNOCK AT THE RESTAURANT WINDOW
sounded just before dark, startling him. He’d been sitting at the bar, hunched over a spread of uniform catalogs and information on various types of point-of-sale software, all of which cost several thousand more than he’d intended to spend on servers with pads and pens
. W
ell, Britt’s money could cover the POS system
. W
hen Harry looked up, he saw only a homeless guy at the window, knocking and waving. He waved back, then raised both hands helplessly and shrugged. Just how many guys were going to be knocking at the kitchen door, or the front door, and asking for handouts?

The man moved on, and as he disappeared Harry sighed and picked up his phone. He’d been avoiding it for days, maybe weeks, but he was alone in downtown Linden in his empty restaurant space not long before the opening, and no one would know.

“Harry,” she said, sounding entirely unsurprised.

“Hi, Shell. How’s it going out there?”

A gusty sigh. “Oh,” she said, “it’s moving along. We got a nice review in the paper the other day. That’s something. Except it was one of those lame ones where they just describe. You know, ‘The salad has cucumber, tomato, and carrot and a choice of dressing.’ That kind of thing.”

“You’re serving that kind of salad?” Harry said.

“No, we’re serving local greens and a tarragon vinaigrette, Harry. I was making a point.”

“Oh.”

“Right.”

Harry tapped his pen on the bar. It was never easy talking to Shelley. She always seemed to be responding to something happening just beyond your shoulder, or something you’d said in your last conversation but didn’t remember. “I’m opening a place of my own,” he blurted. “With my brother. He just signed on.”

“I thought you hated your brothers,” she said mildly.

“Of course I don’t hate my brothers,” Harry protested. “Jesus, when did I ever say that?”

“It was more something one sensed. You seemed to have a lot of unresolved feelings toward them. And they never came to visit.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t easy for them to get away from Winesap. You know how that goes. I certainly never said I hated them.”

“Which one?”

“Which what?”

“You said one brother signed on. Which one, the shallow one or the serious one?”

Harry gave up. “The shallow one,” he said, then amended: “Britt.”

“Well, that should be helpful,” Shelley said. “It’s not like he has to be your spiritual guide. He probably has a good eye for color and whatnot. Jeff does too, but there’s more to him than that.”

“That’s nice,” said Harry. “Listen—”

“Let me send you a link,” Shelley said. “To our website. I’d love your opinion. But also I think you might enjoy seeing the scenery out here. Why didn’t we ever go to Northern California, Harry?”

“We were indentured to Amanda, for one thing. And for another, you hate flying and you were sure California would be a pollen-swarm.”

“I don’t think I thought that.”

“I really do.”

“Hmm. Well, I was wrong. Here, I sent it. Got it?”

Harry opened his e-mail, clicked the link in her message, and up popped the browser with their website. La Nonna. No bad Godfather music played; no scary mustachioed chefs leered out from the page. Harry couldn’t help but be relieved. He’d had no idea what kind of horror show Jeff might come up with in service to a pizza place
. Y
ou just never knew what people would do once they were making all the decisions. But the images looked clean and crisp, the restaurant interior warm and inviting and casual, farmhouse tables and high ceilings and a fire roaring in the background.

“You’re right,” he said. “It looks great. Good for you, Shell
. Y
ou guys did a nice job. Never occurred to me Jeff would be capable of it.”

“I know what you mean,” she said, “but I’m proud of it too
. T
hank you, Harry.”

“You’re welcome.”

“If you ever come out this way, we’d love to buy you dinner. Bring your brother. Or bring a girl if you’re seeing one
. A
re you seeing anyone?”

“Shelley. I need something from you.” He heard the plea plucked from his mouth as if on a hook: his voice didn’t even sound like his own.

“What’s that?”

“I just want your input. I need your opinion on what I’m doing here.”

She made a murmuring, noncommittal sound. “I don’t think you need
me
. W
hy else do you have your brother?”

“That’s why I need you,” he admitted. “I prodded these guys for months and Britt finally either gains confidence in me or loses his mind and signs on, and now I think he’s going to take a close look at what I’ve been doing here and know it’s just a big clusterfuck.
I
don’t even know what I’ve been doing here all this time. I mean, I’ve done a ton—you should have seen this joint when I leased it, and now it looks nice, it looks beautiful, even, but we open in a few weeks, and he’s got me buying POS systems and leasing dishwashers, and I thought I would remember more from working with Amanda, you know? But I don’t remember shit, or else I never knew shit to begin with
. A
nd you do, Shell
. Y
ou grew up with this, you know it like the back of your hand. I just need a fresh opinion.”

There was a long silence. Harry realized he could hear voices hollering and metal clanging about in the background. She must be at the restaurant, of course
. T
he sounds of a thriving, bustling business place made him both nostalgic and terrified. Impossible to believe his place would ever be filled with voices and cooks and customers. But it had to be. He had an operating budget for two months after opening, and after that money had to come in
. T
hat was it. Money came in or they died and his brother never forgave him for decimating his finances—though Britt would be fine. It was Harry who wouldn’t. Britt would go back to Winesap, and maybe Harry would get a job there too, as a dishwasher or shallot-peeler.

“Fine,” Shelley said. “Send me your website materials and your business plan, send me your menu. I’ll take a look.”

Harry closed his eyes. “I was hoping you’d come out here, actually.”

“That seems unnecessary, doesn’t it? Besides, it’s practically winter out there, Harry. Do you recall what happens to my skin in winter? I crack like clay. It takes weeks of moisturizing just to even it out again. And I don’t know how Jeff would feel about that.”

“I’m sure Jeff would be pleased to moisturize you.”

“I meant me staying with you.”

“Well, you don’t have to,” he said. “I’ve been staying with my parents anyway. Though maybe that helps.”

“No,” she said, “your parents don’t like me. You’d better get me a hotel room, I suppose.”

“They like you,” he said. “What hotel?”

“It doesn’t matter. Not one near a highway, please. Look, Harry. I’ll come out for a day or two and I’ll take a look around and tell you what I see. Next week, perhaps? There’s some dried fig festival here that’s going to cut into our business anyway. But then I have to get back. Jeff needs me here.”

“That’s all I’m asking. And if Jeff has any issues, just remind him he still owes me a girlfriend, so we’ll call it square.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous. You left me mentally and spiritually long before I left you geographically.”

“Maybe. Listen, thanks, Shelley. I mean it. Let me know your flight info and I’ll pick you up.”

Shelley’s voice took on the pudding-smooth tone it always did when she was feeling ennobled. “I’ll send it to you and you can reimburse me,” she said.

“I
START WITH SOUP,” SHELLEY SAID.
“I tell them to go in there and make me a soup, and then if the soup isn’t a travesty, I tell them to make me a protein
. Y
ou’ll need to stock the cooler, obviously.”

“Obviously,” said Britt. “But I disagree about soup. How much soup are we ever going to serve here? Probably none.”

Shelley gazed at him sadly. Her long brown hair hung in a braid down her back, and she wore some sort of knitted porridge-colored scarf or cap or babushka over the rest of it
. T
he two of them faced each other across the banquette. Harry sat at the end of the table, eyes shuttling between them. He had not warned Britt about Shelley’s visit, allowing him instead to show up that morning and discover her there like the corpse of a mouse. Now Britt had to make conversation until he could collar his brother out of earshot.

“It’s not about soup,” Shelley whispered. Britt had noticed that she liked to whisper when she wanted to convey a bone-deep weariness with others’ foolishness. “I’m sure you’d rather they arrange a centerpiece or tailor a suit, Britt, but I’m trying to keep things relevant
. T
he soup is just the medium. Can they build flavor? Can they work with what you have and keep their food costs down?”

“She’s right,” said Harry. “We did that on the island a lot. I had to make a soup.”

Shelley laughed. “I remember,” she said.

“The bisque!” Harry yelped.

“I don’t think you can call that a
bisque
.”

“Maybe a chowder.”

“Okay,” Britt interrupted. “I like the soup idea, you’re right. We tell them to make soup. I’d like to suggest their protein be eggs, though.”

“And why is that?” asked Shelley.

“Because it’s easy to fuck up an egg,” Britt said shortly. He knew a test when it was sitting across from him with its wispy hair and pursed lips.

“True,” said Shelley grudgingly. “Agreed.”

“Great,” said Harry. He looked at his watch. “The first one’s going to be here at eleven. Shell, you want to run to the store with me to stock up?”

“You and Britt should go,” she said. “You know what you need, I’m sure. And I’m still a little tired from the flight. I’ll just have a cup of tea and be restful. Do you have rooibos? Genmaicha?”

“We do!” Harry said.

“We do?” Britt said.

“I picked some up.” When Harry brought her a tin of green tea, Shelley sniffed the cap and inspected the tea and toasted brown rice grains. She picked up a grain of rice and squeezed it inquiringly
. T
hen she gave a wan smile to Harry and said, “I’ve gotten spoiled on the West Coast.” Harry looked crestfallen. Britt considered setting fire to the tea but decided it must be doing Harry a rough kind of good, being reminded what it was like to have Shelley in close proximity.

Harry and Britt walked silently to the car
. T
hey said nothing until they’d reached the grocery store, gotten a cart, and were chucking essentials into it: olive oil, butter, heavy cream, broth
. A
s Harry compared diced tomatoes in juice with whole tomatoes in puree, Britt finally lost patience.

“There is something so different about the restaurant today,” he said. “It’s hard to put my finger on it. It’s like something blew in through the vents, perhaps. Have you had the ventilation checked?”

Harry placed both cans of tomatoes in the cart and turned to face him. Britt raised his eyebrows. “I should have told you,” said Harry. “It was last-minute, and I want you to know this came out of my personal budget, not the restaurant’s. I know how you feel about Shelley, but you have to remember she was grinding Italian sausage when she was eleven years old. I needed a fresh opinion.”

His lack of combativeness was disappointing. Britt had been ready for a good pissing match. “A, I am your fresh eye,” he said. “B, you can’t be springing things on me. I can’t walk in every day to find an exciting new employee I wasn’t told about.”

“Not an employee. I agree, but I still think we can make use of this.”

“She has completely different taste,” Britt complained. “How are we supposed to get useful input from someone who’s going to tell us Sysco has a nice tempeh now?”

Harry nodded and started pushing the cart toward the produce aisle. “She’s much more workmanlike,” he agreed. “But I think that can be good. I don’t know about you, but I need ballast sometimes. I need someone who doesn’t get all flighty about inspiration but knows her basic food costs, you know?”

“Sure,” Britt said, sighing. He threw onions, leeks, and garlic into the cart. He was mollified, but only slightly. He’d walked into the space that morning, two cups of coffee in hand and a bag of pastry under one elbow, whistling, and there was Shelley, gliding out from the kitchen like some kelp-colored apparition, Harry sheepishly in tow.

“Britt!” Shelley had said, as he found himself, trancelike, pressing cheeks with her. “It’s been so long. You’ve barely aged at all. Maybe the tiniest bit around the eyes.”

“Since last Christmas,” Britt said. “You made that whole wheat pudding orb, if memory serves.”

“And you brought a woman—Pamela, was it? Or Penelope?—who just seemed so in love with you even if she never said a word. Really, it’s odd to see you without some woman trailing after you like a nanny goat.”

“I guess I don’t bring too many women to work with me. Most of them are busy running businesses.”

“I know the feeling,” she said. She crinkled her eyes at him as if they were old sparring partners. They smiled fiercely at one another and then turned to Harry, who was lurking near the bar.

It was this demeanor that worried Britt: the way he hung back at first, then eagerly pointed out this or that item to Shelley for her approval, as if Shelley were Thomas Keller. Watching him, Britt had felt downright uneasy: where was the steely resolve Harry had shown with hiring Hector, the lack of apology in his dealings with Leo? Because however uncomfortable those moments had been on a fraternal, social level, they’d also set off a welcome bell in Britt’s mind, telling him that his feckless little brother was tougher than he seemed. Britt was just praying this was a minor setback, but nevertheless he now watched with a critical eye as Harry pawed a pile of collard greens and shook water off some chard. Where was the decisiveness? Get the water off with a brisk shake and get the hell on with it. But there was Harry, lifting a bunch of spinach to the light as if it were an offering for an angry deity.

THE FIRST INTERVIEW WAS WITH FREDDY,
who’d been working as a line cook in Linden for ten years
. T
old to make a soup, he did a double take, then said, “Like what?” Told that it was his decision, he pressed for likes and dislikes, expressed dismay at the range in the cooler and coded resentment at the assignment, and eventually placed before them a roughly pureed tomato soup studded with seeds.

The second was Elliott, who was fresh out of culinary school. He terrified all three of them by leaping up from the bar and running full-tilt into the kitchen for supplies, until Britt realized that Elliott thought he was being timed and hollered after him to calm down; it wasn’t a quick fire. Elliott made a smooth carrot ginger soup with a garlicky crouton and a confetti of tarragon. He was jittery and high-octane as he moved about the range, murmuring to himself and to his carrots, dropping tasting spoons
. W
hen Britt asked where he’d found the fresh tarragon, Elliott blushed and confessed he had brought his own.

The third was Jenelle, who’d started working the egg station at the Breakfast Bar six years before, not long out of high school. She stood before them with hands on her hips, her short hair hidden beneath a baseball cap, thick brows gathered as she listened to the soup assignment
. T
hen she nodded shortly, set a pot of water on to boil before she did anything else, and made a brisk, calm assessment of the contents of the kitchen and coolers. Jenelle moved easily and quickly about the station, slicing leeks, rinsing mushrooms, and in twenty minutes served them a silky mushroom and leek soup thickened with potato and cream and topped with crisply fried shiitakes. Britt detected a faint hint of sesame oil and took another sip, pleased.

Fourth was Marianne, two years out of culinary school, soft southern accent, hoping to open her own restaurant. “I’m a baker as much as anything,” she said, causing Britt’s heart to sink, but then she made a stunning cream biscuit to accompany a corn and shrimp soup with bacon, and he revised his judgment.

Fifth was Phillip, who caused a small fire.

Finally they saw Janet, who was in her forties and had been knocking around—her words—the kitchens of Linden for ten years. She worked clean and quick, didn’t overthink it, gave them a chicken and rice soup.

Of the six, Jenelle, Elliott, and Marianne were asked to make an egg dish. “You’re probably sick of that,” said Harry to Jenelle, but she simply said, “Nah,” and turned out three perfect, satin-yolked eggs en cocotte with Gruyère cream, spinach, and spiced tomato. Elliott made a thoroughly correct spinach soufflé bearing a faint whiff of shallot and nutmeg, during the baking of which he stood, back to them, at the oven, periodically peering at them over his shoulder. Marianne poached eggs and served them with hollandaise, sautéed spinach, and crisped prosciutto.

By seven o’clock the interviewing was finished and Harry, Britt, and Shelley were sprawled in a banquette, biliously eyeing their seltzer. Finally Harry hauled himself into a sitting position and clapped his hands.

“So, anyone we can just rule out?” he asked.

“Elliott,” said Shelley.

Britt frowned. “He’s well trained,” he said. “Young and nervous, but his soup was fantastic.”

Shelley sniffed at her seltzer and then put it back down. “If he calms down, I could see it. But he prepped a lot more ingredients than he needed, and don’t forget, people are watching him cook out here.” She gestured languidly in the direction of the empty space. “He’ll make people nervous. Have you ever been around one of those animals who’ve spent too many years in a really tense household? And they just make you prickly and upset because their energy is so…so disrupted? That’s what Elliott’s going to be like out here.”

Britt said nothing. He was trying to sort out his emotions. Shelley was possibly the most annoying person he had ever met, which made it extraordinarily difficult to accept when she was talking sense. Harry, perhaps sensing a watershed moment, was as still as prey. “Let’s keep an eye on him,” Britt said. “In a few years he might be good to know.”

Harry took a deep breath, and Shelley smiled and closed her eyes.

“I like Jenelle,” said Harry. Shelley nodded approvingly.

“She was good,” said Britt. “It’s just…not a lot of fire, you know? Or creativity, maybe. She seems so stolid. We have all those kinds of cooks at Winesap and after a while you want some personality in there. And how much training can she have had to just do the egg station for six years? Don’t get me wrong, I thought she was really solid, I just…I don’t know.”

“But I want solid,” said Harry. “You never go to the Breakfast Bar, but if you did, you’d see that they serve about six hundred people in a weekend. Maybe more. You cannot do that station without losing your mind if you aren’t cold as ice. That chick was like a metronome.”

“Hey, why’d you like the water?” Britt said suddenly. “You smiled when Jenelle set a pot on to boil.”

Shelley turned to look at him, truly meeting his gaze perhaps for the first time all day. “Because she started her water before she even looked in the cooler. It takes the longest, and if you don’t know what you need to make, it’s just a smart way to get going—chances are you’ll use it, and then you don’t have to wait. It was just a smart basic move, that’s all
. W
e had a cook in St. Louis who liked to keep a big vat of water at a high simmer at all times. He said you never knew when you’d need it.” Then she rolled her neck and resituated herself. “Oh, Lionel,” she said fondly. “He was one of those tortured souls who stumbles through the world but fries a great eggplant.”

Britt and Harry were silent for a long beat, waiting to see what had happened to Lionel, but Shelley just glanced between them and said, “So, my vote is Jenelle, but obviously my vote only counts for so much. I’m just a visitor. Harry, can you run me back to my hotel if we’re done here?”

“Of course,” Harry said. “You’re not hungry, I know, but we could buy you a drink. A glass of wine.”

Shelley gave a trill of laughter. “That sounds lovely. I have to tell you, though, that living among the vineyards has ruined me. I’ve become kind of an accidental connoisseur. You wouldn’t believe how hard to please I am! I won’t subject you.” And because it really had been a useful day in the end, Britt stopped himself from thanking her.