by Laure Baudot
He pushed aside coats and hats and sat next to me. He smelled of beer and a pine-scented cologne I remembered from when he was seventeen. “I’m sorry. I should have been there for you. We were friends.”
There were lines at his cheekbones, etched into his rubbery skin. I touched his hand, which was damp and swollen. His illness.
He took away his hand. “I should go.”
I wiped a tear that had crept down my cheek. “But I haven’t asked you anything. Like what have you been doing all these years?”
“Why do you want to know? You don’t even like me.”
“I do like you.” I realized it was true. There was nothing left to forgive.
He got up and zipped up his coat.
“Can I see you again?” I asked. “You live around the corner.”
I didn’t think of asking him for his apartment number. I didn’t think ahead, not to a few weeks later, when I would be standing in the vestibule of his building, staring at the mailboxes. Nor did I picture the moment five years later, when I would sit at my kitchen counter, read the paper, and find Jesse’s obituary.
“Yeah.” He walked out of my room and didn’t look back. “I’m right here.”
Restaurants with My Daughter
Last week, my daughter Martha took me out for my birthday dinner. In the past her husband joined us, but this year Martha didn’t bring him. I can’t say I blame her — Devin can be cranky. Still, it would have been nice to be a family, all of us together for once.
Martha, like her father Abe, is always getting me to try new things in life. For my birthday, she wanted me to eat venison. I have never cared for venison. It has to do with Bambi, I think. I saw it with my mother when it was released again — was it the second or third time? My mother was glamorous, what you might call an aspiring socialite, but she always had time for me. She died very young, of a rare form of lung cancer, before I got to know her properly.
Martha kept saying, “Mum, venison is the specialty.”
I tried to stall her, to appear open to her input. “Do you like venison?”
“It’s an acquired taste, but I think you’ll like it. Aren’t you up for adventure?”
I reminded her that just last month she had refused my invitation to join me for the city’s Summerlicious restaurant festival, the one where you get an expensive meal for a good price. She used work as an excuse. In her work habits, too, she is like her father. Abe worked all hours no matter how many times I told him that no one needed an insurance claim processed at midnight, no matter how desperate for the money.
I had ended up going alone to Scaramouche, a restaurant that has a good view of the city. It was there that I had the most delicious pea soup I’ve ever tasted. Velvety, aromatic, and not over-salted. It was vibrant green, like those pastures I saw in Niagara County the weekend Abe took me to a bed and breakfast for our anniversary.
Yet as delicious as the soup was, as I ate I couldn’t help but picture someone shelling all the peas I imagined had gone into the soup. When the waiter came by to brush off my table — an undertaking I had never seen before — I pointed out the pea shelling to him. He nodded and smiled, his lips tight, as if he and I didn’t know that it takes the better part of an hour to shell enough for one serving. I used to shell them each spring, when produce is at its best and when you don’t pay five dollars for a carrot. Abe always wanted me to hire kitchen help, but I was not going to pay someone to do something I could do perfectly well on my own.
When I reminded Martha of the festival, and then added something about the pea soup so that maybe she’d experience regret and consider coming with me next time, she sighed. She tried again, pointing out that venison was leaner than beef, and didn’t I want to make healthier food choices? But I wanted steak, had my heart set on it as soon as I knew we were coming to a French restaurant.
Martha had not intended to take me to a French restaurant in the first place. On the phone, she had asked whether I wanted Japanese or Thai. She and Devin eat all sorts of things, even sushi. Abe never understood this. He used to say, “Why would you pay good money to eat something raw?”
I told Martha that I didn’t want either. I asked her if I could choose my own birthday dinner.
“Of course you can, Mum.” Then she asked me if I wanted French food.
I have always been a Francophile. When I was nine, my mother came home wearing extravagant French stockings, and I couldn’t stop touching her silky calves. That was before I realized that her ill-advised spending was killing my tailor father, slowly but surely.
“French would be lovely,” I replied.
When dining at a French restaurant, I usually choose steak. Once, I went with the veal and I regretted it. There is nothing better than a tender piece of steak, cooked medium rare, with a side of curled golden-and-purple shallots. I consider steak done properly to be a piece of heaven.
Martha’s suggestion of venison had thrown me off. When the waiter came by to take our order, I stared at the menu, my eyes drawn to the description of the steak. Bavette à l’échalote. I studied French in school. Abe once told me I had a perfect accent.
Martha’s fingers, including the one with the yellow diamond engagement ring, drummed on the table. As always, she had ordered without hesitation. Well, when you’re earning six figures and are married to a corporate lawyer, you can afford to order quickly. You will always be able to choose something different the next time around.
“I can return, Madame,” the waiter said.
He was tall for a Frenchman, very proper and a little bit of a snob. He reminded me of the waiter at Loire, that restaurant where Abe persuaded me to try caviar off his plate. Little bursts of salt on my tongue. I could smell the ocean. He offered to order me some but I refused — it was enough to have tasted his portion.
I looked up at Martha and my French waiter, and I told him that I would take the steak. “La bavette. ”
“Ah, Madame parle français.”
“J’ai étude…”
“Étudié,” said Martha.
“Étudié à l’école,” I said.
“Bravo,” said the waiter.
Good service makes such a difference to one’s dining experience.
Once he was gone I started to think about the possibility that the steak would be served with herbed butter on it. Until recently, butter was my delight. I have always bought unsalted butter wholesale and frozen it, and brought out little pieces to place into a Versailles butter dish once belonging to my mother. “I hope they don’t skimp on the butter,” I said to Martha.
“Are you sure you should be having that?”
She was referring to my recent doctor’s visit, during which Dr. Davis told me that I have elevated bad cholesterol. The good news was that my good cholesterol was up also. I had told Martha this, but as usual, she was dwelling on the negative.
In her negativity, she’s very different from Abe. “Live a little, Hattie,” he used to say to me. Abe always wanted to do more and take more risks, and he wanted me to join him. That attitude was shaped by the deprivation he suffered as a child of immigrants. He still ate like a Polish Jew, but he chose the most expensive food: the best pastrami cuts, the best sausage. Saturdays, at lunch, he ate bagels, cream cheese, and lox. Three bagels at a time. Abe used to take me to The Pickle Barrel once a month, and he ate there the way he did everything, with great gusto. I tried to caution him not to eat the fatty cuts of pastrami, but he didn’t listen. I should have been firmer. Sometimes I think he would still be alive today if I had been more insistent about the pastrami. Then I remind myself that I am not to blame.
The night we celebrated our thirtieth anniversary in Paris, he presented me with a necklace of natural pearls. “Thirtieth is pearls, right?” I burst into tears. By that point we’d had breakfast at our four-star hotel, gone to see Monet at the Musée d’Orsay, ha
d macarons at Ladurée, and eaten caviar at dinner. I was overwhelmed, bursting with happiness, but also overcome with guilt.
Part of my confusion was due to the fact that I had been wondering for some time what state our finances were in. I suspected that Abe was lying to me about his business, and the amount of debt he may have had, when he assured me that everything was fine. So I made him take back the pearls. I stood outside the jewelry store and watched him through the glass as he made the transaction. When he came out, his face was grey.
After Martha pointed out my error in ordering a dish with a lot of butter, I summoned the waiter again. Beside me, Martha smiled painfully.
On the menu was Daurade aux amandes, which I remembered was a type of fish, here made with almonds. I also remembered reading in The Star that fish is a heart-healthy food. It contains an oil called omega, which happens to be good for your skin as well as your heart. When the waiter returned, I asked him the name of the fish in English, and he said that it was sea bream.
“Ah yes,” I said. Then I asked if there was butter in the fish.
He held the menu away from him as if he were farsighted. “Alors, alors. Oui. The almonds are made in butter sauce!”
“Oooh. But. Would you say the fish has as much butter as the steak?”
“Mum,” said Martha.
“Martha, I’m asking a question.” Young people are so reluctant about making inquiries. It was as if Martha were thirteen again and I was asking a clerk about an advertised discount!
“Well, Madame,” the waiter said, “the chef puts extra butter on the steak. And with the fish, you could push the almond sauce a little to the side, n’est-ce-pas?”
“I could.”
“And butter is good for you.” He smiled, took the menu out of my hands, and disappeared into the kitchen.
“I guess I’m having fish,” I said to Martha once the waiter was gone.
“Mum, he thought you’d decided.”
“But he was in such a hurry.”
Once he returned to serve other customers, I caught his eye again and motioned for him to approach. “I would like a glass of champagne, please.”
Martha looked startled. “Really?”
“I have decided to indulge. It’s my birthday, you see,” I said to the waiter. “That is, if my daughter is okay with it. She’s treating me.”
“That’s fine,” Martha said. Her neck was red. I hadn’t meant to offend her; simply I wanted to make sure she didn’t overextend herself. I had forgotten for a moment that she is no longer a cash-strapped student, but a well-paid career woman.
“And you, Mademoiselle?” The waiter winked at her and she smiled at him, and I must admit I felt a little left out, like when she and her dad used side against me. I wish for once she would take my side.
When the champagne arrived, it had miniature golden fireworks bursting up the flute. I drank half of it quickly, and it gave me a pleasant feeling on the way down. I don’t have it often and I always forget its complexity: tangy, sharp, sweet.
While we waited for our food, I told Martha I was going to meet a friend for tea and Gauguin.
“I didn’t know you were a fan.”
“Oh yes! Those colours.”
“They say he objectified Tahitian women.”
“Oh, but he appreciated the female form. They’re sexy, don’t you think?”
“Mum!”
Young people never realize their mothers have interests beyond the scope of motherhood. I have always appreciated certain of life’s appetites, and Abe always enjoyed my adventurousness in matters of the heart. I may have been frugal in life, but not in this particular department. He used to say, “Hattie, you surprise me.” At least in this, I can say that I made him happy.
“Your dad always wanted me to drink champagne. But I wouldn’t. It went straight to my head, you see!”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want to be like my mother. Did I tell you she overdrank? I think that’s what killed her, in the end. They didn’t say so, but I always thought so.”
“I’m sure Dad understood.”
“He never listened to me. He always asked me, ‘Why do you see the worst in every situation?’”
Martha put her hand on my arm. “You did your best, Mum,” she said, and I was ready to forgive her for flirting with the waiter, who in my opinion was not as patient with me as he should have been. Martha was just trying to make the dinner pleasant. When all is said and done, she’s a good girl.
My sea bream was so tender that it flaked off in little bits under my fork. The almonds were blanched and drowned in butter. They were crunchy and sweet. At first, I pushed the sauce to the side as the waiter had advised. By the end of the meal, however, I had pulled the sauce back in toward the centre of the plate and mopped it up with pieces of baguette.
Martha had ordered the venison, and seemed to enjoy her meal. When she was done, she put her fork and knife at five o’clock on the plate, the way I had taught her when she was a child.
I sat back in my chair. “Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten so much.”
“Should I get the bill?”
“You’re not ordering dessert?”
“If you want.”
“Oh yes, I wouldn’t mind.”
When the waiter came, I said to him, “I think I’ll indulge a little more.”
“Pardon?”
Martha took over. “Could we see the dessert menu, please?”
“Of course.”
The dessert menu was what I had expected, with all the traditional French pastries. There were tartes. I have a soft spot for tarte aux abricots. But I also like crème brûlée. The way the crust breaks under a fork to reveal the pale cream underneath.
When the waiter came back, Martha sent him away again.
“But I’m ready to order,” I said.
“I didn’t want him to wait too long, Mum.”
“But that’s his job!”
“I know, but it was taking a while.”
“Fine.”
“You always get mad about the smallest things!”
The waiter came back at that point, and I ordered the crème brûlée.
“Nothing for me, thanks,” Martha said. “I’m sorry we’re being so difficult.”
“Not at all, Mademoiselle.” He took away our dessert menus.
“Martha, that was very rude.”
“What?”
“You didn’t need to apologize.”
“We have been fussy, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t. He was doing his job.”
“You think that because you pay someone you can treat them poorly.”
“In life you have to ask for what you want. You don’t have to make me look bad.”
“You’re right, Mom.” She looked contrite and I was sorry about how things were going. I was going to tell her not to mind what I’d said, but she got up and went to the washroom.
While she was gone, the dessert came. I waited before I ate it, and when she came back, she said, “I’m not having dessert. Why did you wait?”
“Well.” I was going to say something else but I changed my mind. It wasn’t worth continuing this line of conversation. To make peace, I offered her some of my dessert. She took some with her coffee spoon.
“It’s delicious.”
“Yes, very well done.”
“This is my favourite. I love the contrast between the crust and the cream.”
I paused. “Why didn’t you order some?”
She patted her stomach, which as far as I could see was flat as an ironing board. “I’m trying to be careful.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. You look beautiful.”
She turned a bit red. “Thanks, Mum.”
She wouldn’t take any more of the cr
ème brûlée, so I finished it alone.
While we waited for the cheque, I leaned over. “It’s nice being us girls, right?”
She smiled.
“Are you and Devin taking a little break?”
“What? What the heck are you talking about?”
“Well, he’s not here, so I assumed.”
“Mum, he’s just working.”
“Oh, I see.” Then I added, “Last year, I found him a touch disagreeable.”
She looked even more irritated than before. “If you must know, he was a little frustrated with you last year. So he opted out.”
“He opted out?”
“Yes.” Her face went through a few transformations. First it was frowning. Then her lips moved as if they wanted to add something. Then her eyes looked sad.
I looked down at my empty plate.
She apologized. “Okay,” she said. “Occasionally Devin can be a little tense.”
I wondered if she was going to add ‘and so can you,’ because sometimes I think about these things. But she didn’t, bless her.
When the cheque came, she paid it.
“Not too much, I hope,” I said.
“It’s fine.” She sounded annoyed again. She closed the cheque sleeve, rose, and took her purse. I had to scramble to pick mine up off the back of the chair and follow her. Our dinners always end like this, with us angry at each other. We argue about silly things and I always regret it. She is my daughter, after all, but I can never seem to get things right between us.
Outside, I invited her to join me for my art gallery outing scheduled for the next day.
“No thanks,” she said, without looking up from her cellphone.
As we waited for the taxi that was going to take her back to her office, I thought again about the pearls Abe had offered me on our thirtieth wedding anniversary. I wish I had accepted them. I could have at least done that for him.
Salary Man
The blinds blink open like a sleepy eye. Shinjuku sky-scrapers shoot up from the ground, angular as combs. The light is bright, shatters into white stars whenever it hits a wall.
