Bread and Butter (7 page)

“Can you imagine what that wedding would have been like?” Britt mused. “Instead of a toast, she would have made people stand up and confess how they’ve contributed to the patriarchy.”

“I wish Frances had met her,” Leo said. “She would have hated her.” The joy of being able to discuss Shelley, unafraid of summoning her presence, never lessened.

Britt watched Leo for a beat. “How is Frances?” he asked. “You never talk about her.”

“I don’t?” said Leo. He thought Britt was being sarcastic—he felt as if he talked about Frances all the time—but Britt’s face was open and sincere, his green eyes intent. Britt had heavy reddish gold eyebrows and deep-set eyes; they made his stare a little penetrating. “She’s in Portland,” Leo said. He shrugged. “They’re having a baby.”

Britt waited for more, but Leo only lifted his chin in the direction of Donnie and Barbara, bearing down on them with an array of dessert plates. Leo and Britt set down their drinks, picked up their forks, and braced themselves.

Leo’s ex-wife, Frances, had been in the restaurant business too, training as a sales rep for a wine importer when Leo was managing a bistro. Leo and Frances rented a little house, painted the rooms, weeded the garden, and hosted Thanksgiving
. A
round Frances Leo had felt as close to relaxed as he ever did. She was small, round but compact, with curling dark hair and snappy black eyes, given to showing off her olive skin with white halter dresses and a Slinky’s worth of wire-thin silver bracelets. But after five years, right about the time they were completing the build-out, Frances moved out. She said she’d come to hate the wine business and the restaurant business too, its booziness and brashness.

What seemed to clinch it was New Orleans. She and Leo had gone to a convention where the culinary community converged annually for a combination of professional development and Roman orgy
. T
hey drank Sazeracs with some new brand of absinthe, martinis showcasing new brands of gin and vodka
. T
he drinks were usually embellished with weird striving garnishes like cantaloupe batons, which floated in the booze looking, fatally, like fingers
. A
fter several of these, Leo remembered seeing Frances gaze slowly around her for what felt like hours, from face to face to face, while people talked at her. He had been listening to her boss go around the room person by person and enumerate their professional failings. Frances had been nodding and nodding, fingering a pendant on her necklace and talking to a boy-wonder chef who’d released a cookbook that year and was now dumping the remains of abandoned cantaloupe drinks into his own glass
. T
hey’d gotten swept into a crew heading out for gumbo z’herbes and had crowded into a run-down old house turned restaurant with a bunch of strangers
. A
fter the bread pudding, the boy wonder had tried to kiss first Frances and then Leo
. T
he next morning Leo had woken up with a vivid flash of memory, the boy wonder’s scratchy chin against his, Frances laughing, and the smell of smoke in the air
. T
he hangover had descended on them both like a fever, and when it had gone she’d been distant and morose.

Every year they all headed down there, closed their eyes, and splashed in, and Leo actually liked the annual madness. He liked the chance to behave like a frat boy when no one even noticed, and now that he and Frances were opening a restaurant and working a staggering number of hours, he’d enjoyed it all the more
. T
he rest of the year he was measured and calm and drank wine paired with each course, and once a year he and Frances tore the lid off and then stuffed it back on. He liked the randomness of each year, the conviviality of Frances with a few cocktails in her, when she could and did talk to anyone. He liked the gumbo. He liked the fact that Frances was the one who’d shown him around the event, since she had been attending for her job a year or two before Leo went; he associated the place with Frances in her most Circean element, three days spent eyeing her through a constant, glowing buzz. But that year she’d said she hated the whole business, actually, that she wanted to go home at six o’clock like a normal grown-up, and that she was sick of discussing food as if it were art or a cure for AIDS. “But I don’t do that,” Leo had protested on the plane ride home. “Food’s our craft, that’s all. I just want to do it well.” “But all those assholes, arguing about ramen broth,” Frances had said. “We’ll never get away from those people if we stay in it, you know. They’ll break our spirits and we’ll end up running an Olive Garden.” “I think there’s a third way,” Leo had said mildly. He’d snapped open a magazine while Frances turned toward the window. Frankly, he was insulted. He didn’t enjoy the rabid foodies any more than Frances did, but he recognized that they would provide a livelihood. Let people caress their slices of pork and argue about seasoning
. W
hat did he care? They could photograph their food all they wanted. Leo thought Frances—who’d spent a few years rolling wine around her tongue and gazing at the ceiling herself—was being snobbish and reactionary. Leo liked being out among people he knew; he liked to finish a shift and go out for late dinners of a few first courses and a free glass of grappa or a comped dessert. Frances just wanted to go home and wake up early to go for a run. She was a morning person. Sometimes Leo thought it all rested on that.

The rupture took on other forms, but within a year she’d gone back to school to be a teacher and moved out.

Now and again it hit Leo all at once, the fact that of the three of them, him and his brothers, not one was happily married or attached, and any lessons from their parents’ long marriage must have passed them by. Leo feared that he and Britt were just getting too old now to reorder their lives for a woman, and he feared even more that Harry would follow their example.

THE DESSERTS WERE NOT BAD.
Once the Makaskis disappeared, Leo and Britt looked hard at their plates and tried to be subtle about poking around in them
. T
he ice cream trio arrived on a black plate scattered with fruit
. A
tuile, rolled at the edges like a potato chip, perched on top
. T
he roasted pear was halved and opened, filled with something creamy; the sour cherry cake a little golden loaf in a pool of compote. The chocolate quills arrived tied up in a strip of orange peel and set in an upright bundle.

They started on the ice creams: cinnamon, crème fraîche, and Damson plum.

“Ever had Damson plum ice cream?”

“Nope. Nice color.” The plum ice cream was vanilla marbled with a rich winey purple.

“By ‘cinnamon,’ do they mean cinnamon the spice?”

“As opposed to what?”

“The candy. Try it. Plus, it’s pink.”

“Oh.”

“I would have plated this differently.”

“Yeah. The plum is perfect, though. So’s the crème fraîche.”

The quills were filled with a boozy ganache. “Do we eat them with our hands?” Britt asked. Leo shrugged. They tried them both ways: Leo ate a quill as if it were a French fry, and Britt ate one with a fork. It shattered easily under the tines, and Britt found himself absorbed in trying to get every shard of chocolate. Leo’s fingers were printed with chocolate after the first bite. “It tastes pretty good,” he said. “A little uniform. But it’s kind of impossible to actually eat.”

At the other end of the bar, Barbara was in conversation with a server, her eyes trained on them
. W
hen Leo smiled at her, she inclined her head respectfully and turned away.

They set aside the quills and inspected the roasted pear, which was filled with mascarpone and scattered with pistachios. Leo considered. “The mascarpone’s a good idea,” he said. “It’s not sweet
. T
here’s some cardamom in there too.”

Britt nodded
. T
he tuiles that accompanied the pear were caramelized and sparkling with coarse dark sugar. He took a bite of pear and mascarpone and a bite of tuile and chewed, still nodding. Leo took one more bite. “That’s actually really good. I hate a mushy pear, but this is just right.”

They moved on to the sour cherry cake, which was moist and fragrant with almond and some herbal note that quieted both of them
. T
hey sat, tasting and thinking, for several seconds, until Leo said, “Hyssop.”

They finished all the cake, two of the ice creams, half the pear, and only a couple of the chocolate quills. Leo left a big tip and they waved to Donnie and Barbara, who were swooping down on another table with a great platter of prosciutto. Outside, Britt said, “Well?”

“I thought it was mostly pretty nice,” Leo said. “Couple missteps.” He shrugged. “I’ll file it away for now. Where you headed? Are you still seeing the brunette? Maria?”

“Maren. Kind of. I was supposed to see her tonight but I rescheduled, and now I’m not really missing it. I think we’re at that stage after three or four months where it feels a little depressing to state the obvious. Now it’s just hanging over me. You headed home?” Leo still lived in the house he’d shared with Frances.

“Yeah, it’s late.” Leo glanced at his watch. “We’ve been gone two hours, which means Camille and Harry are probably about a third of the way through that banquet you inflicted on them. You should stop back and see if they’re awake.”

S
UNDAY MORNING, BRITT DRANK AN ESPRESSO
at one end of his massive barn door table, then ran six miles
. T
hen he did a quick scan through Craigslist to see what was being sold on the cheap.

He’d reached the point at which he could discern in seconds whether there was anything of worth. His eye skipped over curlicues and egg-and-dart detailing but might pause over painted wood
. T
his was how he’d found out where to have peeling old radiators sandblasted and freshly painted to look like new. It was where he’d unearthed a massive Wolf range—he wasn’t much of a cook, but it had been sold cheaply and he believed in the real estate value of a serious stove—as well as a Stickley chair and his beloved barn door. People had no idea what could be done on the cheap, and Britt prided himself on the fact that no one looking through his apartment or his restaurant would suspect he knew, either.

This was one of the vexations of the restaurant, and the reason Britt obsessed about his suits, treating each with as much care as if it were a royal corgi. He and Leo courted clientele who thought little of dropping hundreds of dollars on a meal, or who expensed ridiculous dinners for a gaggle of doctors in order to stuff them with steak and wine and give them free pens and logo pads
. A
nd Britt moved among them with a modicum of power, because he had the ability to make them seem more important and respected than they might actually be. But his income, though good, as was that of his busiest servers, was nowhere near that of his clients, and nowhere near what he took great care to project
. T
he false parity was crucial, but it was a strain at times, and one felt by the entire staff
. T
hey were there, servers and cooks alike, because they knew what good wine was, what excellent food could be, and had sought out ways to obtain it despite the limits of time, education, and income
. T
hey were working at Winesap not only for tips and paychecks and even career integrity, but to get wine, fish, cheese, or the occasional white truffle at cost, to be paid to taste the lobster prep, and to dine out under the restaurant’s aegis and reap its benefits.

When any of their staff, be it backwaiter or prep cook, traveled or went to a big-name restaurant, Britt, Leo, or Thea would phone ahead and call in favors, owner to owner, chef to chef, to ensure that they were known as fellow industry people and treated accordingly: esoteric extra courses, obscure wines, and bits of culinary info to which the average diner, however wealthy, was not privy. “They’re massaged and fed beer each day,” confided a server at one astronomically priced place where Britt had eaten the previous year. She had placed the last plate of wagyu beef—scarlet meat threaded with ivory fat, ringed with a rich browned crust—before him and glanced around, lowering her voice. “But also, to ensure they aren’t stressed by the slaughter, they’re periodically thwapped with the flat of a sword
. T
hey get so used to it that when the time comes, they’re totally unfazed
. A
nd the meat, of course, stays as tender as…well, as this. Of course I can only say this to you—you’ll appreciate it.” It wasn’t just about freebies, though that helped
. T
his was the reward for working when everyone else was relaxing, for treating the petulant and ignorant with grace, for learning to give the appearance of toadying to the kind of ass who needed it while retaining one’s self-respect through the occasional subtle retort.

There was nothing of note online today, and he didn’t need much of anything. Restless, he went out to a coffee shop to read the paper and get a snack, but the place was full and the pastry was wrapped in plastic
. A
s he left, on impulse he turned into the bakery down the street, bought six sfogliatelle, and drove to his parents’ house.

When Britt arrived, he was relieved to see Harry’s truck at the curb; for all Britt knew, Harry might be young and energetic enough to have muscled his way through that meal and spent the night with Camille anyway. But inside he found Harry at the stove, flipping pancakes
. T
heir parents were standing in the kitchen in matching khaki pants and plaid vests, hands on hips, watching him work. For a moment after Britt walked in they seemed unable to disengage entirely, watching Harry peek at the crust on a golden cornmeal cake before being satisfied it could be turned
. T
heir father observed until the pancake was safely flipped before he turned his attention to Britt.

“Ahh
. A
surprise!” He inhaled at the edges of the box. “I almost don’t want to know.”

“Sweetheart.” His mother kissed Britt’s cheek, smelling faintly of hand cream. Her hair had been the same ruffled auburn cap since they were children, though her cheeks were now downy and tender as overripe fruit. His father had taken his pocketknife from his khakis and was slicing through the red-and-white string that tied the bakery box.

“How was Hot Springs?” Harry asked.

“Good. Pretty good. A couple missteps, I guess, but some great spots too.”

“Good to know,” Harry said. “Leo leave his card on her windshield?”

“Of course not.” Britt laughed, slightly offended.

“Doesn’t mean she won’t hear you were in and wander through Winesap some evening,” Harry observed.

“True. Hector’s off harvesting cacao, so we’d better find someone.”

“Oh,
Hector
,” said their mother. “He did such intriguing things with fruit.”

Harry slid the last of the pancakes onto a plate. He held up a plate in Britt’s direction. “No, thanks,” Britt said. “You go ahead.”

Harry laughed. “I’m not eating. Are you kidding?”

Embarrassed, Britt picked up a corn cake and tore off a bite. Now that massive meal seemed so childish.

Their parents seated themselves at the table and busily spooned some sort of preserve onto their pancakes. The sfogliatelle were arranged prettily in a circle on a white plate. “It’s very carby in here,” Britt said. “I should have brought you lean protein. Some tofu.” His mother waved this away, pouring coffee from a carafe into his father’s cup and then her own.

“I’m going to see if anything’s left in the trees,” Harry said. “You coming?” Britt nodded, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for the previous night’s excess. Harry had barely met his eyes so far. Maybe he was angry, maybe he was still a bit hungover, maybe he was thinking ahead to a day at the restaurant.

Outside the back door, Britt picked up a flat cardboard box from a stack beneath the eaves and followed Harry up the hill to the apple trees. For a few minutes the two of them parted the remaining leaves of the trees, peering into the branches for fruit. It was early November now, and the trees were giving up their last meager harvest. Their mother would make apple butter and give it away for Christmas.

Harry circled a tree, reaching up occasionally. He had new glasses, Britt realized, tortoiseshell horn-rims that gave him a professorial air. He wore a red corduroy shirt and brown work boots. His face seemed older, the beard neatly trimmed beneath sharp cheekbones
. W
hat was he now, thirty-one? Thirty-two? Britt wondered how long Harry intended to stay with their parents—he couldn’t be paying as much as if he’d had his own place—while the restaurant siphoned off as much cash as Harry could give it
. T
hese things had a way of becoming permanent if you weren’t careful. If Leo hadn’t dragged Britt out of the PR agency and into the restaurant, he might still be there.

Then again, their parents and Harry seemed to be enjoying each other, playing cards and puttering around the house, anticipating Harry’s latest test of some new dish. Britt was even feeling slightly intrusive, which reminded him in a disquieting way of having had the same sensation in college
. T
hen, his visits home had revealed that whereas in high school Britt and Leo had been furtive and absent, off sneaking weed and trying to recall where they’d hidden the condoms, Harry was a brash but winning teenager who was allowed to split a beer with his father, his curfew tacitly extended well beyond his brothers’ old ones; a teenager who felt no need to lie about parties or to stay in the family room when a girl was over. Britt had been torn between envy—why not have Harry go through the same motions of rules and secrecy as his brothers had, just for form’s sake?—and admiration for Harry’s sheer finesse.

“
We
were never allowed to have girls in our rooms,” Britt had once noted. He’d been visiting from Penn then, where he was a senior and free to take a girl to his apartment whenever he liked, yet for a moment he had felt that his little brother commanded more freedom in his parents’ house than Britt enjoyed miles away from home. “They don’t even have to keep the door open.”

“Well, they never stay in there more than an hour or two,” his mother had said, turning the page of her novel.

“Mom, how long do you think it takes?”

“Oh, Britt, don’t be crude. You can’t police people forever.”

She’d bestowed on him an understanding smile, which had the effect of shifting Britt’s halfhearted envy into regret. Harry wasn’t getting the fun of being sixteen, he realized, of sneaking around, the exhilaration of slithering out a bedroom window and jogging down the block to where a car wouldn’t wake his parents, the extra snap of the night air long after curfew. He decided to make up for it that weekend. He told their parents they were going to a movie and then took Harry out for a tour of accommodating dive bars, where Harry charmed the waitresses, bought a round of shots for a mangy crew of guys Britt would have crossed the street to avoid, and finally came in second in a pool tournament, winning a beer cozy and a free pitcher of Bud.

Feeling nostalgic, Britt took off his jacket and laid it carefully on the grass. “Hey,” he said. “You’re not so far from that dive bar I took you to once
. T
he Tip-Top
. Y
ou see if it still exists?”

For a second Harry looked confused, then his face cleared. “The
Tip
-Top,” he said. “If it’s not there anymore, then there’s something just like it. I still have a soft spot for dive bars for some reason.”

“You must, if you went to Mack’s. Now that’s a dump.”

“Yeah, but it’s like a Linden restaurant convention. Pretty handy for research
. A
nd they have an okay jukebox.”

Britt climbed onto a stepladder his parents kept propped against a tree trunk during fruit season and reached further into the branches
. T
hese apples tended to be tart and hard, better for cooking than eating out of hand, but he sometimes tried a bite, just in case something had changed from year to year. He broke them off by the stems, then realized he’d left the box on the grass. He was about to climb down when Harry appeared below him, holding out the box, and took the apples from Britt’s hand. “Hand ’em down,” he said.

They worked that way for a few more minutes, Britt climbing a step and then another further into the tree, bracing one hand against the trunk while he reached
. T
he remaining leaves gave way and drifted to the grass
. T
he air smelled faintly of grill smoke from the neighbors’, and the sun kept flashing golden through the branches, like a reflection off metal.

“So,” Britt ventured. “You ever find your in?”

Harry glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“With Camille. How was dinner?”

“Oh, right. Yeah, dinner was great. Maybe I’m finally getting somewhere with her. I owe you.”

“Great,” Britt said, sounding toneless even to himself. The intensity of disappointment caught him off guard. Maybe that rugged, well-read cannery worker thing was Camille’s style after all. Britt felt fussy and sheltered in comparison, a state of affairs so unexpected that he stopped, one arm midair, just identifying it. He was jealous of his kid brother. Jesus.

He redirected the subject, not wanting to hear any details about why Harry thought he’d gotten somewhere but still enjoying a little reminiscence. “Remember the O’Connor kids? We used to play kick the can with them,” he said. “Terri O’Connor came into the restaurant a few weeks ago. She married a banker or something. She got all sleek. I didn’t even recognize her.”

“I think I got to play, like, one summer before everyone else got too old and quit,” Harry said. “I remember Terri, though. ‘Sleek’ isn’t the first thing that comes to mind.”

Britt laughed. “Tell me about it.” Terri O’Connor had had dark-lined brown eyes and uncontainable flesh, her hair thrillingly roughened with hairspray and cigarette smoke. Britt had made out with her once at a party when she was a senior and he a junior. She was surprisingly sweet to kiss, mentholated and tentative, her hands resting lightly on his back. It was a little disappointing, actually; for years he’d entertained fantasies about the carnal riot that must be Terri O’Connor. “She was nice
. T
wo kids.”

Harry nodded. “What’d she order?”

“Fish in saffron broth with the aioli on the side. Her husband was not impressed by the wine list.” As Britt looked down at his brother, he saw Harry open his mouth as if to speak and then shrug. “What?” Britt said.

“What do you mean, what?”

“You looked like you wanted to say something.”

Harry stepped back from the tree. “Come on down,” he said. “We’ve got them all. Dad won’t break his neck trying to pick them, at least.”

Britt jumped down and brushed at his hands. “Hey,” he said. “What?”

“It’s just something I’ve been thinking about,” Harry said. “Not the wine list—that’s good.”

“I know it’s good,” said Britt. “Terri’s husband was the sort who thinks it’s sophisticated to harp on rosé.”

“You guys really did a serious meal for us last night,” Harry said. “And I appreciate it. Helene wouldn’t even charge me what she should have. Which you don’t have to do.”

“I know, you don’t want to feel like you’re using a coupon in front of Camille,” Britt said.