“You don’t know what you can really do until then.”
Hogan, kept his focus on the chowder kettle. It was an exceptional device, absolutely suited to one purpose, making large batches of soup quickly. To make the chowder, it took two large number ten cans of condensed chowder, that came out in a near solid, brownish mass, filled with a thousand bits of white potato, and gray clams. Even the green flecks of parsley were included. Add two gallons of milk and set the timer for twenty minutes. The steam-jacketed kettle heated it through without scorching, as long as he remembered to stir it and scrape the bottom every five minutes. A long handle then let you tip the contents right into the serving inserts for the steam table. He liked the efficiency and single mindedness of it.
A trait it shared with Richie. The man was starting in on the different methods of killing the enemy that he had supposedly experienced. To hear him talk, he had won Desert Storm singlehandedly back in the ‘90s and been at the shelter ever since. Even Eric didn’t know how much of Richie was real and how much came from his primary hobby, collecting war movies. He claimed it was the only thing that kept him calm, the sound of war a constant in the background.
Richie was the most extreme person in the kitchen. There was room for five of them, and not a lot more. Richie and Sam worked at a long steel table. Today they were filleting great tubs of cleaned fish, wielding long curved knives as if they were extensions of their arms. The fish flew into stacks, neat little butterflied pieces just perfect for making the fish and chips for tonight. Standard Friday fare.
His friend Eric was at the dishwasher and his wife Betsy worked battering and breading the fish as fast as the other two men sliced it up. Eric had had an easy tour, but none of the three friends who’d signed up when he did had come home. So, he paid back his missing friends by founding the kitchen.
He’d recruited Hogan just recently. They’d met at a bookstore and both reached for the last copy of the new Clive Cussler book at the same time. That was all the opening Eric needed, ever. When he’d learned Hogan was at loose ends, he’d dragged him down to the shelter, “Until he found something better to do.” After a month, Hogan hadn’t found anything better. And the work at the shelter was becoming more important to him, helping out, making a difference, even if it was a small one.
Hogan began chopping the heads of lettuce and throwing them in the big tubs of water to stay fresh. Cans of beans, beets, and a half dozen other items would be opened right before service to set up the salad bar. Then a half-dozen chilled onions to slice up thin.
He wished Richie would stop saying, “Hogan, man” so that he could think about Maria. He’d heard someone call her that one day. The fishmonger, in his big voice shouting to her, “Maria, my love. You must run away with me.” Her laugh had sparkled and lit the rainy day as if it had struck fire and rainbows.
That was a good metaphor for her. Fire and rainbows, heat and life, vibrant and multi-spectral.
He wondered if she smelled as good as her kitchen.
That’s when he noticed the smell in this kitchen. He rushed to the chowder pot. Scorched. The chowder would be fine, but it would take him an extra half hour today to get it clean.
Not that he had anything better to do.
Chapter 3
“Mama!”
“Angelo!” Her tone, as strident as his, brought him to a halt. “What you got to yell for?”
Her son blushed. A grown man of thirty, newly married, and a successful restaurateur and she could still make him blush. He was so sweet. It made her feel all motherly inside. It also made her feel old, and she didn’t like that at all.
“Now,” she took him by the hand and led him over to the stainless steel prep table to one side of the kitchen. The tubs of the iced black sea bass filled one end. A big wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, dusky inside its thick rind and ready for breakdown, sat on the other.
He dragged against her, but she was firm. The last thing Nora or Manuel needed during their lunch preparations was whatever had upset her son. Then she spotted the newspaper in his hand and she suspected that she knew. She pushed him onto one of the stools and pulled another from under the table for herself. There was the dough for a new puff pastry she was developing that would need tending shortly, but it could wait five, perhaps ten minutes.
“Sit like a good boy. Manuel,” she called over to Angelo’s head chef, “make a bowl of pasta with some of Nora’s nice Bolognese.”
“It’s not ready yet,” he grumbled even as he made two plates and brought them over.
“Yes it is, Manuel. Now stop plaguing the girl and tell her that she is doing fine. She’s worried sick that she won’t be good enough.”
He winked at her and offered the sly grin that so rarely creased his handsome Mexican features. The fact that he was the best Italian chef she’d ever met, after her son of course, was only one of life’s little oddities that she so enjoyed.
“Don’t you wink at me, young man. You go tell Nora that she is doing wonderful or I tell her that you are sweet on her whether or not you are.”
He blanched, “No, I—” Then his tongue tied into a knot just as Graziella breezed into the kitchen with the day’s first orders. Now wasn’t that interesting.
Manuel wisely retreated, a quick glance showed that her son had missed his chef’s reaction to the queen of the front of house. They would make such a beautiful couple. Manuel’s dark complexion reflected his Oaxacan heritage and Graziella glowed just as richly with the shade of the Mediterranean. His square features and broad shoulders were in sharp contrast to her slender build. Both had black hair, his short and curled, and hers was a man’s dream, often in a thick braid, at other times free and floating along behind her. She was taller, but Manuel didn’t appear to mind. Yes, they would make a beautiful couple, though she would worry about that later. At the moment she had to worry about her son and her puff pastry, in that order. And neither would wait long.
“Mama,” Angelo laid the paper down beside his pasta bowl. A circle around one of the ads on the personals page. Yes, that was it.
“Why do you read such things,” she waved a fork of Nora’s pasta Bolognese in the paper’s general direction before tasting it. Oh, it was so good. “You are a married boy, you shouldn’t be reading the personal ads.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why are you in here complaining?”
“Mama! Henry read it and asked if that could possibly be my mama? I read the ad and what was I to think?”
She hadn’t really counted on Henry the fishmonger reading it. He was a little too pushy about being in love with her and she had decided definitely no. She also hadn’t planned on her son reading it. So simple an ad. Too simple maybe.
Very Italian cook, SWF, 47 seeks friend(s).
Person to laugh with, dance with, and dine with.
Believes in friends, family, and herself.
“Of course I told him it wasn’t you. Why would my beautiful mama have to advertise for friends, she is already friends with everyone.” Angelo squinted down at the ad then looked back up at her. “It isn’t you, is it?”
Maria thought about how it felt. Yes, she knew everybody, their names and that of their wives and children. But how could she possibly explain it to someone like her son? His best friend Russell lived only a few blocks away. Angelo had moved from his condo in Pioneer Square to live with his beautiful Jo in her high-rise condo in the heart of Seattle looking down at Lake Union and out at the Olympic mountains.
Where did that leave her? She had been in Seattle six months now. She came in early, as a good Italian patissier had to for her pastry to be perfect and her breads to rise. And by mid-afternoon, she was done for the day. She often stayed through dinner, because she had nothing more to do. Going to sit alone in Angelo’s condo in Pioneer Square was not satisfying, and she didn’t like to sit by herself at movies or plays. Or restaurants for
that matter. She liked people, but who in Seattle did she really know? No one except her two boys, Angelo and his everything-but-birth brother, Russell. It was a good soup, but it had no spice.
She refocused on Angelo’s questioning gaze. Some questions, she decided were not to be answered. Time to give him something else to worry about and then go fold her puff pasty dough.
“So my boy,” she whispered to gently remind him of who he was pointing fingers at as she stood and collected their bowls. “Manuel and Graziella. What do you think? Their children would be so very cute.”
# # #
Hogan Stanford left the Lawrence Armed Forces Shelter kitchen later than usual. Eric Lawrence had decided on the name for two reasons. First, it kept the riff-raff out. It was a clear sign that said, “There are messed up military dudes in here. If you aren’t one, stay away.”
The other shelters had so appreciated having so many of the street’s hardcases have somewhere else to go, that they’d done everything they could in Eric’s rough-start first year.
The second benefit had been that the guys, and the one or two really messed up women, understood each other and were better at dealing with each others’ oddities. They’d get into arguments between which force was better or which war tougher, but someone always stepped in when things got too heated. They were like an engine, a really screwed up one that really shouldn’t still be running, but it seemed to work despite all of its problems.
By the time Hogan had scrubbed the chowder pot, Richie had been in full meltdown-recovery. In some ways that was even worse. He’d cornered Hogan for a half hour to apologize for being a jerk and to spin out yet another personal story, one that sounded suspiciously like a John Wayne plot. Though Hogan now knew better than to point that out.
When all was said and done, he’d practically crawled out the kitchen door and turned up First Avenue to head back up to his place overlooking Pike Place Market. It had been a good shift, he’d helped put food into a lot of tired vets with cold bellies, but he was exhausted. He’d planned on hitting one of the banks to break one of his hundred-dollar bills so that he could buy breakfast tomorrow. He’d pay with a ten, to pay Maria back for her kindness today. Or would that be rude? It didn’t matter, it was too late anyway. Between Richie and the chowder pot, they’d made him miss the end of the banking hours. And her window would be closed before the banks opened in the morning.
He hadn’t gone ten steps into the cold darkness of a Northwest evening when he practically ran someone down. He mumbled an, “Oh sorry, just distracted I guess,” and made to move on when a hand on his coat sleeve stopped him.
He looked up, startled, into the dark eyes of Maria… He didn’t even know her last name. They hadn’t been this close this morning. Now they stood mere inches apart. Barely up to his chin in height, she looked up at him.
Her eyes weren’t just dark, even in the streetlights they were rich brown, like warm chocolate that somehow sparkled, almost the same color as the lock of her hair that poked out around a bright blue scarf. His first impression that her face was worthy of a Botticelli painting was powerfully reinforced. She reminded him of the one he’d seen in Florence. Maria was a darker-skinned Venus, observing an Allegory of Spring. Her heavy coat of good brown leather, hugged her frame. He knew from seeing her in the window these last mornings, that Maria had glorious curves and a trim waist.
He also knew that he was staring at her far beyond what was appropriate for their casual meeting. “Run,” he advised her. At least he thought the recommendation loudly. Any woman with the least common sense would know to run away from him, but she remained.
“Did they give you enough to eat?”
“Huh?” That was the best answer he could manage. What was she…
“The shelter. Did they give you enough to eat?”
He glanced over his shoulder. The Lawrence Shelter lay not a dozen paces behind him, she must have seen him exit the kitchen door.
“No. Yes. I…” He never ate there, because he wanted as much food as possible to go to the men. Eric offered him free meals, but he said it was part of his contribution. He’d planned to go home and maybe cook a hamburger or some chicken. Maybe it was an order-out-Chinese night?
“They serve plenty there. Eric does a good job.”
Maria nodded. “Too bad you’ve already eaten. I’d offer you a home-cooked meal. I don’t much enjoy eating alone. Well, have a good night.”
He turned to say something as she walked away, anything. He found no words.
“And tomorrow,” she spoke over her shoulder. “You come back to the window at Angelo’s, I’ll make sure you have a good breakfast.”
Then she was gone.
Hogan could have felt dumber, he just didn’t know how.
He stood at the heart of Pioneer Square so long that a chill finally found its way in to shiver up his spine. The small triangular park that was the heart of the square was a busy bustle of yuppies, though he suspected that term rather dated him. They were hipsters now, weren’t they?
Bars and cafes were filling up with them whatever they were. The spare trees, barren of their summer foliage, displayed their winter finery; thousands upon thousands of sparkling white lights threaded through their branches and lit the crowds hustling along the sidewalk. It was getting into the Christmas shopping season and the city’s cheer showed.
Down the block, the J&M was already packed, one of the liveliest Seattle bars. Two doors down he could already hear the painfully loud rock roaring out the Central, perhaps the loudest bar in Seattle.
He pulled up the collar on his denim jacket and turned to trudge up the hill back to Pike Street. He could practically hear Richie moaning at him in sympathy, “Aw, Hogan man.”
# # #
Hogan had to fix this, it was beyond embarrassing.
He hit a cash machine and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He timed his arrival at Maria’s window to be after the initial morning regulars, but before she’d have run down her supplies. He’d given himself a stern talking to, so he was as ready as he could be.
Except when he arrived at the window Maria wasn’t there. A younger, slender Italian beauty sat there instead. He stumbled to a halt, uncertain what to do now.
The young woman spotted him and waved him over.
He staggered forward the few steps out of the chill rain and into the basking warmth of the overhead heater, dry beneath the cheery red-and-white awning.
“You must be the one Maria described. Manuel,” she called back over her shoulder to someone deeper inside the kitchen, “he’s here.” She handed him coffee, but not the trademark cornetto.
“Where’s…” The woman didn’t even let him finish the sentence. Which was good, he didn’t know if calling her Maria when he didn’t actually know her was being too forward.
“She’s off with her son Angelo. They’re looking at a new place for his second restaurant.” Her accent was light, mostly American with just a hint of the sensuous tones that filled Maria’s voice.
Angelo. Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth Ristorante. Everyone knew, even he knew, about the sensation Angelo was creating with his fine Italian cuisine. He was smashing barriers with his traditional cooking techniques and innovative flavors. So many chefs were trending in the other direction until it often didn’t even look like food. French Gastronomie had become wholly unrecognizable. Angelo had created his art in flavors.
Maria was Angelo’s mother. He’d never met the man, but it was hard to picture her as old enough to have a son grown, never mind one who’d had time to become a rising star at a national, possibly even international level. Oddly, he liked the sound of that. He’d felt a little guilty at his own forty-five to be drawn to a younger woman. It was far too cliché for a Microsoft Millionaire, such a common phrase in Seattle parlance that it had become a title, to be chasing a younger woman. But he and Maria were of
an age, which he liked.
“Here you go, signore.” She held out a to-go container. He almost lost it to the pavement. By the weight of it, there must be a full meal in there, sold out the back window of one of Seattle’s finest restaurants. Sold. Right. He fished after the twenty dollar bill he’d taken care to slip in his front pocket.
“No,” the young woman held up a hand, palm out. “She specifically said that your money was no good here.”
“But I’m not—”
The woman waved him off again. “Maria was very insistent. And you have no idea what a serious set of circumstances that implies if I ignore it.”
He prepared to sally forth once again, but a cluster of locals had arrived and began greeting “Graziella” and making a fuss of asking after Maria. Without even being conscious of it, he was shifted backward until he had departed the warmth of both the window and the heater, was past the protection of the awning, and stood once again on the cold wet brick of Post Alley.
He retreated to a quiet spot, back by the same brick corner he had occupied the day before. He leaned there out of the rain and sniffed the Styrofoam container. It smelled glorious!
He opened it and was pleased to find a small plastic fork had been included. That was a good thing, because it smelled so amazing he would have scooped it up with his bare hands. An omelette with smoked salmon and another taste that took him a moment to place, it was so unexpected. Fresh artichoke heart and some tangy cheese, mascarpone. His tongue was too unskilled to even begin to unravel the delicate spicing beyond salt, pepper, and a touch of fresh basil. One of Maria’s cornetto had also been included, a delicate center of the lightest lemon and basil custard, with a glaze of slivered almonds and browned butter. It cried to be eaten first.
Hogan did his best to appreciate each bite, but knew he was practically inhaling it.
He really did have to fix this silly misunderstanding, but he hadn’t had such a good meal in a long time. He enjoyed it immensely, totally unaware of the cold rain from above, or the woman watching him ever so sadly from the nearby doorway before she entered the restaurant with her son.
Where Dreams Books 1-3 Page 55
