Vintage (4 page)

Her tear slipped, running down a long eyelash and dropping on her cheek, and his fantasy evaporated. He was simply standing across her desk from her. For a sad, awkward moment he wanted to bend down and kiss her. But instead he asked: “You sure you don't want to grab lunch? How about Trotter's? My treat. It'll knock your socks off.”

Iris glanced back toward Grovnick's office. She smiled. She thought. Then she looked at her bundled lunch on the desk. “I can't, Bruno. Mom doesn't like it when I waste food.”

“Of course. She's absolutely right.”

Bruno bowed again with mock formality. He blew her a kiss. Iris laughed. He skipped to the elevator. He'd put up a brave front for the gang, but as soon as the doors closed and he began to sink back to earth, the weight of the moment bore down on him. His shoulders heaved and he buried his face in his hands and wept.

The magic of the humble cardoon lies in its contrasts. It's an ugly, thistle-like plant with unappetizing leaves. Even its brief flower is unspectacular. Much of the world considers it a weed. But beneath its scrubby exterior there is much to love. The delicate petals, steamed and buttered, pack more subtlety than the leaves of its artichoke cousin. The ancient Etruscans prized its braised stalks as much as today's Tuscan chefs. While often consumed for its medicinal properties, I recommend it as a reminder that beneath the thorny skin of an angry world lies the nourishment and comfort of those we find most dear.

—
B
RUNO
T
ANNENBAUM,
T
WENTY
R
ECIPES FOR
L
OVE

T
here is a certain magic in holding a double-bagged brown paper sack full of good groceries. It reminded Bruno of a hug from his grandmother. Standing on the steps of the brownstone where he had once lived, Bruno found comfort in the sack even while his knees threatened to buckle. He clutched the groceries
and buried his face in the bag, breathing in the mix of flavors: earthy vegetables, the coppery tenor of fresh porterhouse cuts of Chianina beef, all wrapped in the clean, dull aroma of a new paper bag. Perhaps he lingered because that mixture of scents was glorious. Or more likely because he was afraid to go inside and tell Anna that he'd been fired. But admitting his unemployment was the right thing to do and he was proud of himself for being responsible, though this may have been canceled out by his purchase of a few hundred dollars' worth of groceries and wine for the evening's meal with money from his severance check. He figured he was facing a drought, so this was his last chance to cook and eat well for some time.

He swallowed hard and knocked.

But before his knuckle could rap the door again, it was yanked inward and a freckled, round-faced girl of eight stood looking up at him, blinking through a wild mop of mousy brown hair. Green eyes sparkled and she released a squeal, leaping into his free arm.

“Daddy!”

“Lamb Chop!”

She squeezed his neck until it cracked and Bruno was reminded that the desperate affection of your child is perhaps the finest sensation one can experience. This recognition conjured a deep sadness in his chest now that he could only be around her and in this house as a visitor.

“What's in the bag, Pops?” the girl, Carmen, said, peering inside. He held it away from her, chuckling.

“You'll have to wait. You gonna help me cook?”

“You bet!”

The house was tidy, almost pristine. Every time Bruno came it felt more foreign. At first his stacks of books disappeared.
Then the knickknacks he and Anna had collected as a couple started to vanish. Bruno used to keep empty bottles of some of the better wines they'd uncorked as decorations, but such trophies had long since been recycled.

Anna had also replaced many of the family photos. He noticed one now on a table in the foyer. It showed her and the girls at Disney World. Bruno would have been no more likely to take the girls to witness that gauche spectacle than he would have brought them to a McDonald's. Perhaps that was selfish and pretentious of him. But in the photo, they looked happy. A giant-headed Minnie Mouse hovered, out of focus, in the background behind the trio. They all wore broad, genuine grins. The photo seemed a demonstration of the fact that they were doing just fine without him.

Bruno's older daughter, Claire, drifted quietly down the stairs. She was more restrained and aloof than her sister. She stood on her toes and pecked Bruno on his cheek. At sixteen, she seemed almost a grown woman rather than a child. She was striking, her long blond hair fashionably haphazard, bookish glasses traded for contact lenses, and teeth perfectly emerged from braces to grace her with a smile she was not yet quite comfortable using.

“Claire! How are you, sweetheart?”

She shrugged and offered a half smile. Carmen frowned, not wanting to share her father's attention with her big sister.

“Why don't you get some pans out? We've got cooking to do.”

“I've got to finish my homework, Dad,” Claire said. It felt like a rebuke.
How could schoolwork be more important than dinner?
More evidence of Anna's disproportionate influence.

“I'll help you, Daddy,” Carmen piped in. He smooched her on the cheek.

“Of course you will, kiddo!”

He headed into the kitchen and found Anna unloading the dishwasher. She wore a shortish business skirt. He set Carmen down and indulged himself in a long gaze at his estranged wife's posterior, longing to walk up behind her and place one hand on her hip, burying his beard in the back of her neck.

She must have felt his presence, because she started speaking before she turned around. “You're late.”

“I needed to pick up a few things.”

“The girls have school tomorrow.”

“I'll help Daddy cook! We'll have it ready lickety-split,” Carmen said. Anna turned and leaned against the counter. She released a long sigh. She wore her long curls tightly bound, but a strand had slipped free and hung in her eyes. She was pale and drawn. It seemed there were more lines of worry around her mouth than he'd remembered. He'd had a hand in creating a few of those back when their marriage had begun its decline. The extra week in Paris for “research” that could more accurately be described as binge-drinking, eating and a tad bit of copulation, and so he'd confessed in an article for
Playboy
. Why try to hide it? During another junket he was photographed with a model in Milan for some Italian rag. It had only been lunch, according to the caption, but Anna could read through the newsprint.

And then there was the money, which seemed to last no longer than his fidelity. There was always an expensive bottle of wine to invest in. A lavish dinner. The lifestyle didn't change as the funds dried up. His TV spot on the news only lasted a few years before folks grew tired of him. The newspaper didn't pay much for a washed-up columnist. The new book never came. The magazine articles appeared fewer and farther between.
Bruno's drinking increased. He slept until noon. He disappeared for more research trips, though he never seemed to return with a story. He finally came home to find a set of cardboard boxes melting from the rain on the front porch, a signal even Bruno couldn't fail to understand.

They'd had an amicable separation. There had been no demands. No rancor. No split time with the girls. Anna had instead insisted that he simply leave until he grew up. At first he was happy with the arrangement; it would allow him plenty of time to restart his new book and put his career back together, which would eventually lead to winning his family back.

That was two years ago.

In the meantime, Anna struggled to meet the bills. She'd taken on freelance bookkeeping work on the weekends. There was an after-school program for Carmen and college test prep classes for Claire. She socked away what she could for university tuition.

Bruno sent money at random, though due to the steady collapse of his career it amounted to even less than when he'd lived here. Still, he'd made attempts at being good. He came by a few nights a week for dinner. He took Carmen to gymnastics and jazz dance. He took Claire to Cubs games. He hadn't slept or even dined with any other women since the separation, though admittedly not for lack of trying.

Anna sighed. “Remember, Claire's got a test tomorrow.”

“Then she needs a good meal in her belly!” He unpacked groceries. He unwrapped a bloody paper bundle, breathing in deeply the deep red steak. “Carmen, pepper!”

“Yes, Chef!” Carmen leapt into action.

She produced a pepper mill.

“We'll have everyone fed in no time.” He winked at Anna as
he cracked pepper onto the steaks. “Carmen, we'll need risotto—two cups. Pronto!”

Anna left the kitchen wearing a straight-lipped smile that was either indicating amusement or masking annoyance. After all these years she was still a mystery. He dreaded telling her that he'd lost his job. But he thought that it might finally put him on a baseline footing. It provided clarity. If he could convince her it was a wake-up call, that he'd hit rock-bottom and now knew he had to change his ways, maybe he could start to play a bigger role in his family again. But first there was dinner.

He immersed himself in the preparation.

Bruno could remember the first time he cooked with Claire. It was a simple pizza margherita. She was three. It was a complete mess, but he recalled her amazement as she watched the miraculous transformation through the oven glass. As the girls grew, they spent more hours in the kitchen together, working their way up to cabbage rolls, cassoulet and brown sauce reductions. Dabbling in pastries and coating the counters in flour dust.

With Carmen's help, Anna's clean kitchen was again transformed into the staging area for an elaborate production. Carmen inexplicably used three pans to create one risotto dish. Olive oil coated the counters and peppercorns speckled the stove. Bruno reveled in the grand mess of it all.

Carmen turned on the kitchen radio and began dancing to some saccharine pop music as they worked, the beat heightened by the clatter of pots and pans. Ever nimble on his feet despite his size, Bruno hooked arms with Carmen and they do-si-doed. Claire passed by and rolled her eyes.

In truth, Bruno detested most of this contemporary music. He'd been an opera fan after he learned that James Beard, one of his personal heroes, had pursued an opera career before he
began cooking. It started as an affectation, a way for a kid from a working-class Chicago neighborhood to pose as cultured, but it had grown on him. Bruno had once insisted that only great works should be played during the preparation of food, and this in his view included mainly opera, though Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday and Lightnin' Hopkins were acceptable alternatives. One Direction certainly didn't make the cut, but then the girls were moving on without him, and the new default station on the kitchen radio served as evidence.

But when Carmen later paused mid-stir to switch the dial to a public station playing
Don Giovanni,
Bruno felt a warmth in his belly that, either by nurture or by nature, he'd somehow managed to remain present in his daughters' lives. Carmen dirtied two different cutting boards for the morels. She splashed milky, foaming broth and rice onto the stovetop while she attempted to sing along with Ottavio's aria, clutching the pan with one hand and her chest with the other.

Bruno sang, too. He prepared the meat carefully, trimming and molding it into shape with his fingers. He snipped parsley.

Claire drifted by the kitchen door again and peered in. Bruno caught her eye as he flopped a steak on the lightly floured board. He winked at her. She nodded and left.

Moments later, she showed up again, this time ostensibly for a glass of water. Bruno smiled to himself. She hovered over Carmen's shoulder. Despite his younger child's best efforts, she was making a hash of the risotto. Claire couldn't restrain herself.

“You need more oil.”

“It's already in there!”

“It's not enough.”

Claire sighed dutifully and took over from the sulking Carmen. A minute later the teenager was immersed in cutting
fresh cardoons and humming along with
Don Giovanni
. Bruno grinned and uncorked one of the two pricey bottles of Barolo he'd brought, splashing himself a generous pour.

They fussed over the presentation. Anna was coaxed out of her office. She had changed and let down her hair, brown curls resting on her shoulders. Bruno thought he detected a trace of orange peel when she drifted past, perhaps the Annick Goutal perfume he'd bought to make amends after the Italian incident. It hadn't worked, but it smelled delicious.

The girls set the table and lit candles. With one hand on the dimmer and the other cupped under the bowl of a wineglass, Bruno dipped the lights as Anna scooted in her chair. The girls lingered in the dark kitchen, exchanging harsh whispers like the nervous scramble before a school play. Anna pressed her lips together, but a smile swelled in her cheeks.

The girls made their grand entrance, carrying serving dishes. Carmen set a clean white casserole dish before her mother and removed the top with a clink, revealing a mound of fluffed risotto garnished with a pair of cilantro sprigs, waxy morels glistening in the candlelight. “
Risotto al carciofi,
madam.”

She curtsied and Claire took her place, laying out a platter of sautéed cardoons, the stalks piled in the middle, and the blades of the flowers arranged around the edges.

“
Cardi trippati
. They have medicinal value in some cultures. Some people think it's a weed, but Dad says, ‘If it's—' ”

“ ‘If it's good enough for the ancient Etruscans,' ” Anna finished, glancing at Bruno, “ ‘it's good enough for us.' ” He smiled. It was immensely pleasing to be feeling like a family again. It made Bruno think that splurging on this meal had been a masterstroke. He hoped it would help lessen the blow later when he told Anna about his job.