Bread and Butter (8 page)

“Camille wouldn’t care—she’d be glad to see it,” Harry said, mystifyingly. “It’s just that I’ve been coming into Winesap for years, obviously, and I’ve always been proud as hell of it.” He hesitated, and Britt realized that Harry might be angry at him for not being equally proud of Harry’s ventures. Britt was so used to needling Harry that he forgot to do anything else, even when Harry really did impress him.

“I’m still proud of it,” Harry went on, “but I just think there have been a lot of changes.” He hesitated again and then lifted one hand as if to give up altogether and said, “I think you’ve lost focus, to be frank.”

“You think what?” Just when Britt had been feeling so nostalgic and familial.

“I don’t know if it would have seemed as clear if we hadn’t eaten pretty much every dish on your menu
. W
ell, that’s not true
. A
look at the menu does kind of make it clear. But when you wade in like that, it becomes really evident that it just needs some
editing
. Like that toro dude—he doesn’t make soba, you know? He doesn’t do any pan-Asian crap, he doesn’t even do pan-Japan. He learned how to source and cut sashimi and sushi and that’s what he does
. T
hat’s what you get, fucking perfect fish and rice. It’s a little austere. But it feels all of a piece, it feels right for the place, you know.”

Britt couldn’t decide whether this was wisdom or effrontery. Harry had a way of ostensibly explaining his own learning process when in fact he was aiming to educate the listener. It was always a rather galling attitude for a younger brother, even when he was saying something genuinely insightful
. A
nd while Britt liked to think of himself as open to criticism, at the moment his indignation felt so piercing and vital that he went with that instead.

“I get it,” he said. “You like the toro. But do you really think I don’t know about
fish
? Have you even started talking to your purveyors yet? Do you even know who they are around here?”

Harry shook his head. “The toro’s not my point. My point is that you walk into that place, or a pizza place, or whatever, and you know exactly where you are. There’s a clarity of vision that you trust, because it’s clear the chef has done the hard work, made the choices, and you can relax and you can get a little excited too, to see what they’re going to show you. But I don’t even know if you guys know. You do everything now. I mean, Jesus, the venison brittle is this kind of molecular gesture, I guess, and now you do your own pasta, and then you get kind of Alsatian on the foie gras, but then there was rösti with something else, and it’s too much, Britt. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s all over the place.”

Britt picked up his jacket and shook out the grass from its sleeves. He shook his head. “Your restaurant isn’t even open yet,” he said. “Harry, you’ve done all this stuff over the years, you bounce from idea to idea, and you land on
my
idea and start correcting me about focus?”

“I know,” Harry said. “I’m not really one to talk about laserlike focus, but I’d rather tell you than not. I think Leo is the one who’s lost some focus. Leo’s the one who created it in the first place. And Leo’s brilliant. But I don’t want you to hear from a reviewer that your pistachio currant brittle doesn’t work. Wouldn’t you rather hear it from me?”

“You were psyched about the brittle!”

“I thought I would be. But it’s a little off-putting, to be honest. It softens in a really gluey way. I get the idea, and the flavor was good, but texturally, it’s a failure
. T
hea’s usually on that kind of thing. I’m actually kind of surprised at her.”

“Well, thanks, but you really might want to worry about your own reviews.” Britt tried to sound unconcerned, but it came out catty instead. “Because that’s the fun part. Soon you’re going to experience the joy of working your tail off so every single person can nitpick your brittle.”

Harry gave a bark of laughter. “Okay. Britt, where did I live for the last three years?”

Britt stopped brushing at his jacket sleeves. “You were in Michigan or something. Iowa.”

“I was on an island in Lake Michigan,” Harry said. “And what was I doing?”

“Come on.”

“No, seriously, what was I doing?” Harry set down his box of apples and crossed his arms. For a moment Britt almost laughed at them, sparring beneath an apple tree. At times the food business wasn’t exactly a roar of masculinity.

“You and Shelley were working at some restaurant,” he said, more softly. He was feeling foolish. So Harry needed to take him down a peg—so what? He understood. It couldn’t be easy to enter the fray when your brothers had already done it.

Harry smiled at him. “Shelley and I were managing a restaurant and cooking for it too. And it was fun because we did whatever we wanted. Amanda had us just branching out in any direction we wanted to try.”

“I have no idea who Amanda is,” Britt said.

“She was the owner and the chef,” said Harry. “I sent you that article.”

“Blond, flinty-looking, chef-on-the-cusp kind of thing?”

“Exactly. She had this concept for years, but she had a hard time getting funding till she got nominated for a James Beard. It was completely different from what you guys do, and yes, it turned out to be unsustainable over the long haul, but it was also like getting a Ph.D. in restaurants and food
. W
e grew a lot of what we served
. A
nd forget all this fish distributor shit—I caught fish. Or I hired someone directly to catch it. If we wanted flour, we got a local guy to grow the wheat and then I bought myself a mill and ground it. Chefs from all over the place were trying to buy the stuff, except no one had time to hire another person to grind it. Shelley made her own butter, I made my own ricotta, and we figured out how to cure our own bacon
. A
nd it was really shitty bacon at first because I got the wrong breed of pig, and it turns out I have no aptitude for cheese-making. But I really wish you guys had seen it. If you’d come up then, you’d see why I’m doing this now.”

“Well, you never told us
that
,” Britt said uncertainly.

“I don’t know, I thought I did. I could’ve sworn I e-mailed you guys about it, or at least I figured Mom and Dad would tell you
. T
he point is, you think I have no idea what I’m doing, but I do
. T
o some extent
. A
nd I’m telling you, every now and again you could listen to me.”

“Okay,” said Britt, holding up his palms.

“Not really,” said Harry.

“No, really,” said Britt. “I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay.”

There was a long silence while they looked around the yard uncertainly, wondering what the next thing should be. Maybe a handshake. “I have to say, though,” Britt began. Harry looked sharply at him, tilting his head, and Britt went on. “No, I really mean this. Harry, you don’t have to make life so hard on yourself. You’re not going to make it so difficult here too, are you? Let the world sell you flour. Pounding your tablecloths on a rock in the river isn’t going to make it a better restaurant, you know? Get a linen service and call it a day.”

Harry laughed and handed the half-full box of apples to Britt. “Now you tell me. No, listen, half the reason to come back here is that there’s just more infrastructure. But when we were getting it right, we were making better food. It’s a lot of Sysco around there, that far from the farms
. A
nd that island was struggling economically
. W
hy not try to build more than just a restaurant? That was the idea, anyway.”

“Okay,” said Britt. “I get it.” They began walking back to the house.

“I’ll tell you what, though,” said Harry. “We could bring a little of that here. Build up some relationships with the farmers.”

Britt sighed. “We do a little of that,” he said. “Thea’s the one in charge of it.”

“You guys helped start that here. You take a town like Linden that was in a downturn for so long. I always wondered why Mom and Dad stayed.”

“Their parents were still around then. And Dad’s attached to Linden. I think he still sees it the way it used to be.”

“I suppose
. A
nd to be honest, now I feel attached to it in a weird way—you know, I even feel fond of the crappy sections
. T
he Tip-Top! Now I have to go see if it’s still there.”

“Probably with all the same patrons,” said Britt. “But listen, Harry, if what you were doing out there was such a great idea, why’d you stop?”

Harry held open the side door for him. “Amanda closed it down. It just didn’t make enough money
. A
nd I think she just got so fucking tired
. W
e all did. I loved it, but it was pretty lethal
. T
hat’s why I’m not doing the same thing here, not on that scale. I’ll make it manageable—I’ll make it fit the town. I know you guys are afraid I’m in over my head, but I have a good feeling. It’s going to be great.”

“We don’t think that,” Britt said, but it was for form’s sake. “I didn’t quite see your plan before,” he admitted.

In the kitchen their parents were just finishing breakfast, and their father shooed them out of the kitchen when Britt tried to help with dishes. Harry disappeared into his room, and Britt watched his parents move about the kitchen, putting lids on jars and covering up the leftover corn cakes. He watched his father wrap half a slice of bacon in plastic and set it in the fridge. Harry took good care of them when he was here; there was no denying it. And so when he appeared again wearing a jacket and holding his keys, Britt said, “Let’s go see how it looks,” and followed his brother to the waterfront.

IN THE TWO MONTHS SINCE BRITT
had seen it, Harry’s restaurant had developed from an empty space with glimmers of possibility to a place that looked almost ready
. T
he most amazing part was the ceiling: Harry had had it opened up, the beams exposed, raising the height of the room by three or four feet. It changed everything. Suddenly the room was airy and industrial, lively and unfussy
. T
he tables were in; the long zinc bar was installed and ringed by stools with cracked saddle-colored leather seats. Behind the bar at one end was a beverage station and at the other, toward the back, were the grill, the oven, the salamander, and a fryer
. T
he refinished floors glowed a warm honey
. T
he east wall was freshly drywalled and painted the color of vellum
. T
he wooden support beams were a rough chestnut color, sturdy and grand against the brick wall and the old leather seats, the gleaming curve of the bar and the tall windows and pale linen
. A
grandly proportioned mirror with an old gilt frame was propped against one wall. Harry gestured at it and said, “I still have to get that hung.” He paused before it, cocking his head. “I wanted a darker frame, though. But it’s really expensive. I could strip it, I guess.”

Britt shook his head. “The frame is beautiful,” he said. “It picks up the zinc. If you get too much dark rough wood in here, it’s going to stop feeling modern and feel Hobbity.”

He looked around, touching the tables, jostling the chairs to see how sturdy they were. He gazed up at the clear bells of glass in the pendant lamps. Harry watched him move around the space. After a minute he uncrossed his arms and looked around too, as if seeing it for the first time.

At a huge old hutch that Britt guessed would be a server station, he paused. “Why do you have a pancake griddle in your server station?”

“Oh,” Harry said, embarrassed, “I grabbed it at Bed, Bath and Beyond to warm the coffee cups. It’s nicer than pouring hot coffee into some cold porcelain cup. This is just a stopgap.”

“And you can have the waiters grill cheese on it. Let’s hear the menu,” Britt said.

Harry got out his laptop and set it on the bar. “It’s a work in progress,” he said. “It has to be simple, just because of the space limitations, but I don’t want it to be too simplified. On the island we did pretty stripped-bare stuff, you know—wood-fired-oven breads and pizzas, roast chicken
. W
e kind of had to up there. I think I can do a little more here.”

Britt was nodding, scanning the page Harry had opened for him. Pan-crisped socca with baccalà and arugula. Nduja toasts with sardine and blossomed caper. Lamb’s neck with gremolata and artichoke. Korean glutinous rice stick with crisp pork, grilled scallion, and house-made chile sauce.

“You might want to pull back on some of the culinary terms,” Britt mused. “Call it crispy chickpea pancake and whipped salt cod, you know? People zone out if they don’t recognize enough words.”

Harry looked at the page, nodding. “You’re probably right. But I don’t want to condescend to the people who’d know.”

“In this town that’s about a dozen people. Leave a few in there for interest, but if you don’t think most people can pronounce it, reword
. Y
ou should’ve seen us when we first started. Leo went hard-core Francophile
. T
hat first menu was all sauce bordelaise and entrecôte—no one knew what we were talking about, and the waitstaff kept mispronouncing it anyway. In a year, you get your clientele, you start calling it socca again.”

Harry looked cheered by this. He had gone back around the bar, opened a toolbox, and taken out a level and a pencil.

“All small plates?” Britt asked.

Harry began marking the wall. “I think it has to be,” he said over his shoulder. “For one thing, people spend more on a bunch of small plates than on one entrée. But also if you put entrées on, they make people feel cheap if they don’t order that instead.”

“Uh-huh.” Britt returned to the menu. He kept getting stuck on the Korean rice stick. “Why just one Asian influence?”

“There’ll be more,” said Harry. “The rice stick doesn’t even seem super-Asian when you eat it. I mean, yes, that gooey texture does, but I thought, why not use that starchy soft component like you’d use, say, polenta? Serve it with contrast and heat, but not actually Korean flavors.”