Stanley Park

by Timothy Taylor

  “Got a system moving in,” Zeena said, her pen hovering above the blue leather-bound reservation book on the old walnut sideboard.

  You could almost feel a breeze. Tonight was going to slam.

  Six o’clock, Dino and the couriers were still there, several of them loudly drunk. Jeremy was smiling in the kitchen listening to Zeena kibitz out front and collect $12.95 a pitcher. Jules and he were wordlessly prepping, feeling the swell.

  He smiled across The Zone at the back of her head; she was hunched over a floured board making puff-pastry sarcophagi, which, when baked, would be stuffed with goat cheese, tomatoes that she had dried earlier, and topped with green-onion marmalade. Appetizer number one, which came out of the ether earlier that afternoon.

  “Fantastic onions,” Jules had said when she saw them, the idea already forming.

  They were cheap, Jeremy thought, but did not say. He was pulling in the reins a bit, not sure he would survive another card cancellation. Sensing this lately, Xiang would eyeball him as he navigated up and down between the bins at the Happy Valley Market on Cordova Street and say something like: “California artichokes. High quality. Good price.” Or: “Florida strawberries. Whole bag. Ten dollars.” Referring to some huge surplus item he was trying to unload before it went off. Jeremy might still find the local material he was looking for, but more often than not now, if the offer was good, Jeremy would have a look at the item and dicker his way to a price.

  “Cash,” Xiang would say.

  “Visa?” Jeremy would try, with a narrow smile.

  “How about … for The Monkey Paw … cash,” Xiang would say, as if it were an idea that had just occurred to him.

  Jeremy was working on the other appetizer, salmon in phyllo with roasted garlic and red-pepper coulis. The stock for the coulis was made with the salmon carcasses and was steaming luxuriously on the back of the range, giving off a rich velvety aroma and, to Jeremy (he kept it to himself), a slightly rancid back-flavour of burning plastic. CIBC MasterCard was now carrying another few hundred dollars’ worth of wild sockeye picked up at another supplier. But not even in his present, frugal frame of mind was Jeremy going to buy farmed salmon.

  “What’s with the canned peaches?” Jules called from over by the cooler. She was holding a can in her hand. Product of Mexico. Several flats of them, almost free.

  “Today they’re for the guinea hen,” he answered, without looking up. For the most part, the minor adjustments had escaped her notice, but now Jules looked over at him in a way she intended to communicate dissatisfaction, confirm she didn’t find canned peaches minor.

  “I have them soaking in peach juice and some grappa,” he said, sounding guilty already (although he continued to lay out his phyllo). “I’m going to grill them with fennel seeds. I stole it from Umberto.”

  “Canned peaches,” Jules said again, shaking her head. “They must have been a bargain.” And she smacked the can back into its place.

  It chafed. She was the less dogmatic about these things of the two of them, normally. But her reaction made him feel like he was betraying them, or her. It made him think about the impossibility of doing this work alone, of coming up with ideas day after day without her. About simply being without her.

  She came over finally, before service. He grilled her one of the hen breasts and she ate it off a saucer, standing right next to him. If it hadn’t worked she would have told him, but it was tender and the peach juices glazed to a beautiful bronze.

  “You really stole this from Umberto?” she said, chewing.

  He shrugged. “I was browsing the cookbook section. Let him sue.”

  She raised her eyebrows and wagged her head back and forth. She withheld overt approval even after they sold out, but up front the hen with Mexican canned peaches went down huge. He glanced at his watch near to eight o’clock as he put the last one on the grill. He had a dozen going and another half dozen appetizers waiting on the stainless steel counter for Zeena and Dominic. And down the line a way he watched the strong back of his strong friend as Jules cut portions of roasted lamb leg, mounding each thick slice with the soft mixture of bacon, spinach and shiitakes cooked in brandy and butter. Garnished with paprika and grated Parmesan cheese.

  Zeena burst in and took two soups and three goat-cheese fills, balancing the plates up her arms. Then she stopped just before leaving the kitchen, turned to look at them both, speaking over the soundtrack that suddenly surged from the background. Mingus. They were rocking.

  “Cute guy at eight says great chicken,” she said.

  “Guinea hen,” Jules and Jeremy said in unison.

  “Zeena, please tell the man to leave,” Jules said.

  “We want him out of here,” Jeremy repeated, pointing with his tongs as Zeena smirked.

  “And can either of you make a couple simple green salads?” she asked.

  “Simple green salads,” Jeremy said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Brollywood,” Jules said. “What do they want for dinner? No, let me guess. Guinea hen, no skin, poached. Plain rice.”

  “Close. He asked if you could make a seafood omelette, egg white only. Said his name is Dante Beale. He knows Chef Jeremy. Table ten with a friend.”

  Jules registered the name. “Is that guy still sniffing around?”

  “Apparently,” Jeremy said. The words were a bit more cavalier than he felt, but in the weeks since Dante and he had last discussed partnership—Royal Bank Visa and the Canadian Tire near-death experience notwithstanding—Jeremy had felt a surge in confidence. He attributed the improved outlook in part to the Professor’s advice, although he was banishing thoughts of his father. They only made him feel guilty about not having done the one thing requested. Babes in the Wood. He simply didn’t have the time. He was up early, worked all day, and the library wasn’t open at one in the morning when he finally crossed town on his way towards bed.

  “Tell Mr. Beale and his companion that I will prepare their salads and be out in a moment,” Jeremy said.

  Zeena left the kitchen with her armload of appetizers.

  “What does he want?” Jules tried again.

  Jeremy pretended not to hear the question, and after he’d plated the pieces of hen—a portion of dark meat and breast meat on top of a disc of roasted polenta, warm peach garnish, a splash more grappa and a twist of fresh watercress—he slid the plates onto the pass for Zeena. Then he went over to the cold appetizer prep table and made two very simple salads, fresh spinach and butter lettuce tossed with a tablespoon of red wine vinegar and walnut oil, topped with a sprinkling of diced hard-boiled egg, sesame seeds and cracked pepper. He wiped his hands, straightened his chef’s hat and carried the plates out himself.

  In the dining room he liked what he heard: the low-flame roar of the conversational furnace. You could almost feel heat off the jostling movement of so many minds and tongues and egos in such a small place. A round sensation, Jeremy thought, like a whiff of cognac. A couple of heads turned as he came out past the back service station, where the old coffee machine sat, and entered the main room at a measured pace. A couple of approving nods, which he returned, smiling. Someone tinked a glass and a woman laughed lightly. Jeremy smiled again and locked his eyes on table ten.

  Dante’s head was, as always, leaning aggressively into a conversation. In another life, were he less interested in commercial domination, Jeremy thought, Dante would have made a decent drill sergeant. His once dense black hair receding radically in front, Dante had gone for the Bruce Willis shave down. This complemented his grenade-shaped head, nose by Uzi, jaw and eyebrows straight and blunt. The overall effect was a simmering, dangerous aroma, a sense that from his fatless frame—Dante was near fifty and only five foot six, but triathloned and Tai Chi-ed into lean perfection—might burst an unexpected and brutally effective assault. A head butt. The heel of a palm slammed without warning up into the spot below your nostrils.

  He dressed in suits, always, which Jeremy understood were cut into the double-b
reasted V-shape he liked on Saville Row. Shirts made in Jermyn Street, dazzling white with French cuffs and widely spaced, razor-thin stripes in bright orange and blue. Spread Windsor collar, often without a tie. Crockett & Jones lace-ups. He was an elegant thug. A man who started carrying Irish linen handkerchiefs at age thirty, after his first million. Pounds sterling, that is. The nest egg that he brought from London with him—brought with his no doubt conscientiously acquired posh accent—and with which (the date was 1975) he launched his ideas for the commodified coffee experience on the unsuspecting Pacific Northwest. The Inferno sputtered for two or three years, and then it simply caught fire. Nobody saw Dante coming. Business in Vancouver had only recently profiled him (his arm around two of his handsome baristas—he was a team guy). And here he was now, quite indisputably The King of Coffee.

  He saw Jeremy approaching. It was not apparent that the mouth moved into the shape of a smile, certainly not broadly enough to show teeth or crinkle cheeks, but it did move subtly to a less intense disposition.

  “Will you look at this,” Dante said as Jeremy put the plates down on the table. His dinner companion was close to Jeremy in age, wearing a steel grey, zipper-fronted suit with a white T-shirt underneath. He was tanned, with strong features, and he’d shaved his full head of hair down to about Dante’s length, perhaps out of sympathy.

  “Jeremy,” Dante said, reaching up his hand to shake Jeremy’s. He certainly didn’t bray his dominance around like a drill instructor, but used instead a comradely, insinuating tone. A team leader’s tone. “How are things?” he asked. His eyes matched the gun-metal sheen of his suit and he stared fixedly, with almost startling interest, directly into Jeremy’s own eyes.

  “I am very well, Dante. Welcome to you both,” Jeremy said, involuntarily adopting the same posh, conspiratorial tone. And released by Dante, he reached over and shook the other man’s hand, who at least pulled his ass an inch off the chair as he shook.

  “Glad to know you,” the man said.

  “Meet Philip Riker,” Dante said. “I stole him from Nike a number of years ago. A one-man Inferno SAS, Philly is: special projects, Internet presence, competitive intelligence, strategic visioning.… I am essentially forbidden to do a thing without the Philly say so, isn’t that right?”

  Philip grinned and showed teeth. “I am the idea hamster,” he said.

  “Well …,” Jeremy said, clasping his hands in front of himself, welcoming them both with his warm, benign presence. “Plain green salads. Tossed lightly in walnut oil. I hope you like them.”

  “They’ll be just fine,” Dante said, still staring him down.

  “Sorry about off-menuing,” said Philip. “I never eat anything on the sheet.”

  “My pleasure to do something for friends,” Jeremy said, and suggested a crab omelette for a light main course.

  “Philly?” Dante said.

  “Yolks?” Philip asked.

  “Normally,” Jeremy said.

  “Dante shouldn’t eat yolks,” Philly said.

  “Egg whites it is, then,” Jeremy said, nodding very seriously.

  “And a bottle of Pellegrino,” Dante said, waving his hand to dismiss the topic. “I see you’re full. How has your week been?”

  “Good. Tuesday and Wednesday, both good nights.”

  “I am very pleased,” Dante said, and he settled back in his chair to get a better look at Jeremy, who despite the height advantage and the fact that he was now standing towering over the table could not help but notice the comfortable way Dante maintained possession of the space around himself. Philip was looking intently across the table at his master. Jeremy, chef’s hat adding useless, duncelike feet above his head, was inclined politely forward to catch the stream of quiet, approving praise that now flowed from Dante. And around them, Jeremy could sense, the room had begun to shift its gaze downward from him to the seated speaker. Who’s the chef talking to? What are they saying?

  Dante had finished what he was saying with a shake of his head and the words: “I am truly jealous of you, Jay.” Then to Philip: “I am jealous of this man, just as I am jealous in general.”

  “In general you’re covetous,” Philip said. “It’s different.”

  Dante acquiesced with a smile. “But there is such a spirit of creativity here. It would be something to covet, wouldn’t it?”

  Jeremy started to answer—he was thinking of saying something about how Jules took one look at the green onions and saw her evening’s creation blossom in front of her mind’s eye, a creation they might like to try, in fact—but Dante only gave him half a beat and he missed it.

  “Of course there is,” Dante said. “And that is rather special, these driving, youthful ideas full of passion and power. I see you having real chances to be huge.”

  “Thank you,” Jeremy said, although confused by the quality of Dante’s praise. (Huge?) “We are very pleased.”

  “You very well should be,” Dante said. “And we are doing our bit.”

  Jeremy waited for it, finding he was thinking all at once about getting back into his kitchen. A glass of wine might be nice, and the continued cooking of dinner for ordinary hungry customers.

  “I got you into Gud Tayste,” Dante said, taking a sip of his water.

  “Sorry?” Jeremy said. His attention swivelled sharply back to the table. “The magazine?”

  “The same. You know the ‘Global Village’ section they run?”

  Of course he knew, and he nodded mutely.

  “They’re doing a Pacific Rim feature. Do you have any idea what their circulation is?” Here he glanced across at his younger colleague.

  Philip responded without looking up: “250,000 worldwide. They’re huge in England. Sweet demos. Average income coming in at something like a hundred grand U.S.”

  “Hip with money,” Dante said, smiling meanly. “Travel budget, Philly?”

  “A lot,” Philip said, starting on his salad.

  “Average number of languages spoken?”

  Philip looked up from his plate. “Two and a half. The one with the most research rodents wins.”

  Dante looked up at Jeremy, suggesting a response would be appropriate.

  “So, what …,” Jeremy stammered. “Have they been through here already?”

  Dante laughed out loud, some heads turned. “Of course not, Jeremy. But they only review who they like anyway.”

  “And …” He wasn’t sure how to ask this question without seeming ungrateful, but he came up with: “And why would they like me, exactly?”

  Dante sighed, disappointed that Jeremy didn’t just thank them and leave. “Jeremy,” he said finally, “journalists only know what’s hip because people tell them what’s hip.”

  Philip took the tag. “They’re hot on this dawning of the Pacific Century idea. We just shot ’em some of that stuff. Shot ’em some of that stuff on a slant. Don’t worry, it’s all messaging. Keywords to take out the demographic target.”

  “Well, thank you,” Jeremy said. “Thanks both of you, very much.”

  “How’s your father?” Dante asked politely, moving the conversation along and inclining a little forward as he spoke.

  Jeremy stumbled on the question, guilt leaching into his consciousness. “He’s fine.”

  “We used to play chess on the odd Wednesday, he and I,” Dante said. “But it’s been several months now. Seems I keep missing him.”

  “Oh, he’s around,” Jeremy said, growing nervous with the questions. He had the absurd passing sense that Dante knew of his father’s whereabouts and disapproved. Where was his father right now? Sitting cross-legged at the fire, duck grease on his chin, eyes animated as he talked with Caruzo about the Babes in the Wood, Siwash or one of the other tangled stories that consumed him.

  But Dante only reached out his left hand to shake Jeremy’s. He stayed seated, and Jeremy gripped the proffered hand, which fit awkwardly in his own and made him feel like they were holding hands, not shaking at all. Dante squeezed tigh
tly.

  “I am really happy about how things are going here,” he said smiling. “And I am not surprised either. You are really very good.”

  He was shaking Jeremy’s hand slowly back and forth, his fork squeezed in the fist of his other hand.

  “Will you call me this week?” Dante asked, releasing him. “We could talk …”

  “I killed ’em,” Jeremy called to Jules as he burst into the kitchen.

  “Yolkless omelettes and canned peaches,” she said without looking up from the grill. “Who would have thought?”

  They ran late. The last table was finally gone after midnight, and Zeena locked the front door. Dominic turned up the music, and they all danced in and out of the kitchen carrying dishes and trays. Jeremy offered to make a late family meal and set a table for them.

  “Frittata,” he announced, sliding a large plate into the centre of the table and beginning to cut slices. “Made with both the yolk and the white.”

  “Wine, please,” Zeena said, holding out a water tumbler.

  Jeremy got a bottle of Spanish red for them and poured. Standing there with the bottle in his hand, their glasses full and rising to their lips, he said: “I love you all.”

  “That’s sweet, sugar,” Jules said, and then to Zeena: “How’d it go?”

  “Awesome,” Zeena said.

  They ate. They helped the dishwasher clean up. Afterwards Zeena and Jules danced because Dominic had to leave and Jeremy didn’t feel like it. He was on his fourth glass of wine, his fifth even, and found himself struggling to relax into the pleasant feelings he normally felt at this hour. He enjoyed watching the two of them tango around the kitchen to Astor Piazzolla, their faces glowing red. Stopping to smoke a joint Zeena produced from a pill bottle in her purse, then tangoing off again across the tiles, laughing. The truth was, he loved this time, when they ate what he fed them, as much as any other time he could imagine.

  But he was thinking about unkept promises too, each sip of wine deepening a pull like gravity that was overwhelming his enjoyment of the moment, and the more practical impulse to get to bed and rest up for what would hopefully be an even busier Friday night.