Bread and Butter (32 page)

Authors: Michelle Wildgen

BOOK: Bread and Butter

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He was so busy advancing on the kouign amann that he was startled when Hector turned from the counter bearing a grand pâte à choux ring, split in half and filled with what looked like a tawny-colored mousse of some kind. It looked magnificent and ridiculous, like the Sun King’s take on a doughnut.

“What
is
that?” Britt murmured. Hector and Kelly drew themselves up with an identical air of hauteur.

“You disappoint me,” said Kelly. “At least Harry recognized a kouign amann! This is a classic Paris-Brest, I’ll have you know
. W
e filled it with cinnamon-scented cream instead of plain whipped cream.”

“It’s named for a bike race,” Hector said.

“Jeez, you guys,” Leo said in wonderment. “They’re mind-boggling
. T
hey’re so traditional.”

“I can do traditional,” Hector said, shaking his head. “Everyone forgets that.” He nudged an almond back into place.

They all went silent, as if waiting for someone to dim the lamps or light a candle and sing, and then Kelly shrugged and broke the moment by sinking her knife into the heart of the crepe cake. Harry almost laughed, because all three of them had flinched, as if the last thing anyone would expect for a cake was to slice it.

The rest of the party surged in to get their desserts, and the three backed over to one wall to let them through, listening to the exclamations over the desserts (“A Paris-Brest!” Alan cried) and the remnants of conversations that carried on as people picked up their plates and forks
. T
he little kitchen was humid and loud, there were great piles of dishes to be washed, and the staff moved like one animate mass of hunger, swarming the table and then dispersing more quickly than seemed possible.

Harry, Leo, and Britt waited until all the employees had returned to the other room amid conversation about the glazed fruit, the light pastry, the richness of the cream, and then they stepped forward to serve themselves.

The table was empty, its platters cleaned of all but a scattering of crumbs
. T
hey looked around to see if any further desserts might be lingering on a counter or above the fridge, but there was nothing but empty plates, beer bottles, and utensils. On the stove, two stockpots each held a half-inch of pork broth, and nearby sat an extra tray of naked steamed buns without filling
. T
he kitchen was finally quiet, but the rest of the house swelled with a comfortable volume of laughter and the clinking of china and silverware.

There was one lone swirl of cinnamon cream left on a platter, just enough for each of them to taste a dollop of it. Harry managed to collect a few shards of pastry from another serving dish, enough for each of them to manage a bite. Even the remnants—the faint tang of salt, a shattering medallion of browned caramel clinging to a shred of soft dough—were enough to incite a murmur of appreciation and contentment from each brother
. T
hen they sat at the table, slouched peacefully in their chairs
. T
he three of them listened as their guests, oblivious, devoured the last of their meals.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not exist without the efforts of a small army of readers, writers, and restaurant gurus. My novel group—Susanna Daniel, Judy Mitchell, Jesse Lee Kercheval, Jeannie Reynolds Page, and Melissa Field—allowed me to hijack our meetings for several months until I’d completed a first draft, and they fed me delicious snacks to boot. Rae Meadows and Sarah Yaw provided the kind of trenchant reads that make me hound them to quit their jobs and neglect their children in favor of being my full-time readers, and sometimes I am kidding. Edenfred is no more, but when it was a gracious writing space for Madison artists, you can bet I used it to complete yet another round of revisions.

Though I worked in the restaurant business for a number of years, that was a long time ago, and when I sat down to write about the business’s day-to-day workings, I needed professionals. Leah Caplan and Daniel Momont let me pick through their knowledge and their psyches, and any inaccuracies are all my fault
. T
he staff at Lombardino’s let me hang around the kitchen during service and never once admitted that I was in the way, which I absolutely was. Michael Ruhlman’s wonderful series on the life and career of the modern chef was invaluable, and not just for the excuse to read the books all over again, in the process kiting at least one Michael Symon dish. I have yet to make it, but Harry can prepare it in his sleep.

Emilie Stewart’s guidance and tenacity were once again instrumental in getting this book out in the world. Liz Duvall and Nora Reichard caught every inconsistency and repetition
. T
here are not enough superlatives in the world to heap at Jenny Jackson’s feet for her faultless ability to find the crispest solution to the fuzziest manuscript issues and her supernatural ability to read each new draft afresh
. W
orking with her has made me not only a better writer but a better editor.

Emily Dickmann, Farah Kaiksow, Jeremy Kraft, Tom Kuplic, Daniel Momont, Ryan Narzisi, Tara Waldron
, A
lison Weatherby, and Kate Zurlo-Cuva are some of the best friends and extended family the world has to offer, and one of these days I will set us all up on that commune to which I am pretty sure they’ve implicitly agreed.

There is no better husband and father than Steve O’Brien, who is my cheerleader, my structural support, the funniest man on earth, and the most memorable childbirth class participant the world has ever known
. A
nd finally, I spent a long time dithering around with the first seventy pages of this novel, until Holly O’Brien set a firm deadline
. T
hat’s my girl.

A Note About the Author

Michelle Wildgen is the executive editor of the literary quarterly
Tin House
. A
graduate of the University of Wisconsin, Wildgen received her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. Her fiction, personal essays, and food writing have appeared in
The New York Times; O, The Oprah Magazine; Best New American Voices; Best Food Writing; Prairie Schooner;
and elsewhere
. W
ildgen is the author of the novels
But Not for Long
and
You’re Not You
, and the editor of the anthology
Food & Booze: A Tin House Literary Feast
.
You’re Not You
has been optioned for film by Hilary Swank and Denise Di Novi.