I was the baby of the family, which my siblings reminded me of constantly, Sophie in particular. “When I was your age,” she’d say, “I took care of myself and I lived at the restaurant.”
By the time I showed up, though, the restaurant had been a success for multiple years and life had become more stable. Maman had time to do things with us in the afternoons, rather than work in the pastry kitchen in the morning and manage the front of the house in the evenings.
Unlike my classmates’ moms, my mother had style. She wore silk, good jewelry, and high heels. She’d sooner die than wear a themed sweater, unless the theme was “nautical stripe.” She never complained about finding jeans that fit, partly because she had most of her clothes tailored anyway.
And if I hadn’t already figured out that my mother was different, once or twice a month, she would excuse herself, sit out on the patio, and have long phone conversations in French with her cousin Sandrine, while smoking a single cigarette.
After the loss of Grand-mère, though, shadows had appeared beneath her eyes. The phone calls to Sandrine—recently sans the cigarette—had increased.
That Tuesday we met in front of LeLa’s Bistro. “You are so sweet, ma biche,” Maman said when she saw me. “You know how I love Vietnamese.”
Maman ordered the pork meatball bánh mì, and I ordered the lemongrass chicken bánh mì, with an order of shrimp salad rolls to share.
“People forget about the French and the Vietnamese, sometimes,” she told me as we waited. “The French brought their baguettes, and the Vietnamese used them to make bánh mì sandwiches. And then the French came home with a love for Vietnamese chicken soup deep in their souls.”
“There are perks to imperialism,” I noted. “How are things with Grand-mère’s estate these days?”
Maman peered at me. “Are you worrying about me?”
I gave a small smile. “Maybe a little.”
“You must stop that, you know. I am fine. I will die one day. Prepare yourself. I didn’t, and look where it got me.”
“I think grieving is normal,” I said, dunking my salad roll into peanut sauce.
Maman lifted a shoulder. “I think I may visit a psychologue, just for a little while. But until then, everything is fine. Her estate was very neatly prepared. I sent some jewelry last week to your tante Margueritte. She sent me a nice note back.” Maman gave an approving nod. “She was brought up well. And as for the patisserie, je ne sais pas. I hate to leave it there, but I hate to sell it or lease it to strangers.”
My ears perked up. “Oh?”
“I hate to leave it empty, but it is difficult to clean out. C’est la vie. I cannot have it all.”
“I’m happy to help with the cleaning.”
We both leaned back as our sandwiches arrived. “Ah, bon. You are such a good girl,” she said. “And these? These are very good sandwiches. We should give them our full attention.” Maman patted my hand. “Death is a part of life, ma fille. Let us not worry overmuch.”
A part of me had hoped that Marti would forget about my new column. But when I returned from lunch with my mother to find a half-dozen e-mails from her on the subject, I knew it wasn’t meant to be. Marti’s mind had set to work, and now she wanted my input.
From: Marti, [email protected]
To: Juliette, [email protected]
Subject: Column
Thinking about your new column. What do you think for your first entry? Upscale southwestern cuisine? Or pull more from your French/Italian roots?
Discuss?
From: Marti, [email protected]
To: Juliette, [email protected]
Subject: Column
Some updated French might be nice, especially in light of the renewed interest in Julia Child. Just a thought. Maybe a lighter, northwest take on French fare?
From: Marti, [email protected]
To: Juliette, [email protected]
Subject: Column
Or is Julia Child too much of a cliché at this point? I’m going with yes.
From: Marti, [email protected]
To: Juliette, [email protected]
Subject: Column
Waffling on the Julia issue. She did write an enduring cookbook, which is more than can be said of the “celebrity chefs” who populate the Food Network. I hate the Food Network.
I resisted the urge to smack my forehead against my monitor.
From: Marti, [email protected]
To: Juliette, [email protected]
Subject: Column
Except Bobby Flay. He is kind of cute.
After reading the last e-mail, I took two minutes to breathe deeply and then hit the Reply button.
From: Juliette, [email protected]
To: Marti, [email protected]
Subject: Re: Column
How about family comfort food? I found a collection of my grandmother’s recipes in a table I inherited. How does a Saturday brunch menu sound—or instructions for a crepe party?
We could include a recipe for savory crepes, which are usually made from buckwheat. With the popularity of whole grains of late, might be a nice spin.
I hit Send and hoped that my suggestions would appeal to Marti. E-mail taken care of, I made myself a cup of MarketSpice tea in the test kitchen. I watched the tea steep—the water growing darker and darker—not realizing until the last moment that I really couldn’t wait to be home, working on the restaurant that wasn’t.
I spent the next few hours working as quickly and efficiently as possible. Once I’d accomplished all I’d set out to do, I shut down my computer, said my good-byes, and headed to the grocery store—my day was far from over.
“It’s really great of you to do this, Etta,” Nico said as he folded the cloth napkins into elaborate fan shapes and nestled them inside the wineglasses.
“One meeting,” I answered, tightening my apron around my waist. “One meeting with Frank Burrows. That’s all I’m committing to.”
“You should have let me cook.”
“You’re not the only one who went to culinary school. Besides, I needed to test the recipes before handing in the piece to Marti.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but there’s too much food here. Are you sure you weren’t stress cooking?”
“Me?” I arranged my features into their best imitation of serenity. “I’m not stressed. Not stressed at all. No stress here.”
“That’s good.”
Perception has never been Nico’s strong suit.
For the meeting, I’d laid out a wide variety of fillings and sauces on the table, with the sauces in my antique chafing dishes to stay warm. And it was true—there was a lot of food. I’d provided prosciutto, roasted red peppers, toasted walnuts, fig preserves, and a cheese sauce made with fontina. The savory ingredients were intended for the brown-butter buckwheat crepes.
For dessert, I’d provided sweet crepes made with my grandmother’s recipe. Antique china bowls containing Nutella, sweetened mascarpone, lemon curd, and sliced fresh fruit fought for space on the table.
The crepe I was most proud of, though, was my stracciatella crepe. In a nod to the gelato flavor, I’d attacked the chocolate bar with my trusty Micro-plane zester and incorporated it as a last ingredient in my chilled crepe batter.
Nico reached for one of the stracciatella crepes and tore off a corner. “These are really good. Texture’s perfect. Just the right amount of chocolate. You haven’t lost your touch, you know.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m actually a little mad I didn’t come up with them myself.”
I shrugged. “You probably would have at some point.”
“You should have been a chef. You’re more creative than I am.”
A dozen responses soared through my head. “It’s not for me,” I answered simply enough.
“Do you think you’d be able to leave the newspaper?”
“I don’t know yet,
” I said, filling the crystal pitcher with ice water. “We’ll see.”
A knock sounded at the door. Nico stood up straighter. “You’ll keep an open mind?”
“If you make me say ‘I’m thinking about it’ one more time, I’m going to go medieval on your copper cookware.”
Nico winked at me but said nothing as he moved to open the door.
I untied my apron and smoothed my bangs, pasting a smile onto my face as Frank Burrows came into view.
“Juliette D’Alisa!” his voice boomed when he saw me. “Great to see you. How’s Marti these days?”
“Well fed, as always,” I answered, shaking his hand. “She’s a great lady.”
“That she is. Tough, but good. Did I see you last month at the winemaker’s dinner with Jim Haberman?”
“I was there, so you must have. That was a wonderful night—I still think about those pinot truffles they served for dessert.”
“Well, this,” he said, eyes wide over the spread on the dining room table, “looks incredible.”
“That’s very generous of you. Please, take a plate. We’ll be experimenting today, and the best compositions will go into my new column series.”
Over the next few moments, I did what I did best—hostess. I explained the crepe ingredients and assembly, and made sure the bottles of Pinot Noir and Auxerrois were close at hand, as well as the water and espresso.
The crepes were assembled, various combinations attempted. We made small talk as I photographed the best results. When we were all full, we moved to the living room with our beverages.
“If we do decide to move forward with a restaurant,” Frank said, “those stracciatella crepes have to be on the menu.”
Nico nodded and sipped from his drink. “You’re right. They had just the right amount of chocolate without being overwhelming.”
Two compliments in one night? “Thank you,” I said with a genuine smile. “So, Frank, you said it—if we do move forward with a restaurant. If we did, what’s your vision for it?”
“I’m just the money guy. My job is to find people with vision, with a voice, who have something to say with their food. Obviously, the nomination for the James Beard award is great, but I was already mulling the offer when I had dinner last month at D’Alisa & Elle. Elle’s a Portland fixture, of course. But exciting? Not always. But Nico’s menu—a breath of fresh air.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Nico had grown three inches taller just listening.
“Now, Nico,” Frank continued, “if there are some grand family plans for you to take over the restaurant from your dad, I don’t want to get in the way of nepotism. But if you’d like to strike out again, I want to be your guy.”
Nico nodded. “I’ll be honest—I’d love to have my own place again, but I need a collaborator. At Elle, that’s my dad. If we do this, I’d like Juliette to join me.”
“Now, Juliette,” Frank said, turning to me, “you orchestrated the update at La Taverna some six years ago, isn’t that right?”
“You have a very long memory,” I said, impressed. “I worked with Montage and Nonna’s Table as well.”
“I should have guessed Montage. Good work.”
“Portland already has a selection of industrial, minimalist restaurants that have experienced certain amounts of success,” Nico said, leaning forward and tenting his fingers. “To do another would be redundant. We grew up at D’Alisa & Elle, but we don’t want to be in competition with it either. And let’s face it, the economy is still in recovery. So I’m thinking something small, boutique … a bistro, a café, that sort of thing. Now, I have a hard time with small.” Nico paused to laugh at himself. “It’s not in my nature, you know? But as a business model, it’s very wise. So, a small restaurant. French and Italian flavors—”
“It has to be special, though,” I interjected without thinking. “Not gimmicky, but special. L’uccello Blu was more of a trattoria, so maybe we want to go in a different direction. Crepes are very French, but they’re not huge sellers in the States at this point, so I think a crêperie is out of the question. Coffee should be served, obviously, but I don’t think anyone’s worrying about Portland suffering a café shortage anytime soon.”
Nico examined his empty demitasse cup. “Speaking of, do you have any more of this espresso in the kitchen?”
“There’s more. What about a date restaurant?”
“Interesting,” Frank said approvingly.
Nico left for the kitchen, coffee cup in hand. “I’m listening.”
“Something romantic, but not in the traditional restaurant sense. No tablecloths. Certainly no violins. I’m thinking warm, dark wood, leather upholstered chairs, corner booths, low light. A central hearth. Sophisticated. Sexy. Unfussy.”
“Leather chairs—they are expensive for restaurant furniture,” Nico argued upon his return.
“True,” I conceded, “but comfortable seating encourages diners to linger and order more.”
“I like it,” Frank said. “If you want leather chairs, I can make it happen. And I think you’re right—the leather would look expensive, set the tone for the dining room.”
I did not gloat.
Not visibly, at least.
Nico held his grudge for all of thirty seconds before moving on and throwing out ideas for cuisine. “Sophisticated takes on familiar items. A perfectly roasted quarter chicken.”
“Always a favorite,” I agreed.
Nico nodded and continued. “A meat loaf with grass-fed beef and veal. A house ravioli. A selection of steaks served with pommes frites.”
“How about an elegant ratatouille to satisfy the vegan crowd?” I suggested.
“Smart. I was thinking about another vegetarian pasta entrée, but a Thomas Keller–inspired ratatouille would make a lot of Portland people very happy.”
“It’s also gluten free, for people with dietary concerns.”
“Elegant and approachable. I like it.” Frank made a few notes in his legal pad. “What about location?” he asked, wiping a crumb from his mouth. “Is there an area you guys have thought about?”
“I was thinking …,” Nico began.
I shifted in my seat, hoping he wasn’t about to say what I thought he was about to say.
“Pearl District?” Nico asked me, an eyebrow lifted.
“That,” I said, my voice firm, “is a discussion for another time.”
After Frank left, I methodically began the process of returning my apartment to its original state. I didn’t say a word. Nico stayed two steps behind me, following the motions of helping but really, I knew, waiting for me to say something.
I remained silent.
Nico shadowed me.
His Gallic impatience finally kicked in. “So?”
I turned, my eyes innocent. “So?”
“Seriously.”
I crossed my arms. “What?”
“The patisserie space—it’s perfect!”
“Of course it’s perfect, Nico, but Grand-mère has hardly been gone a couple of months, and Mom’s been to the building just long enough to leave the sign that the place has closed due to Grand-mère’s passing. She lost her mom. Using the space isn’t a conversation I’m ready to have with her.”
“We would lease it. That way the space would stay in the family. You could live in the apartment—”
“That would depend on if I committed to the restaurant.”
“So? Are you in or out?”
“I’m … I’m still thinking. It’s a big deal.”
“I know, Etta. I know.”
I shrugged. “You hogged the impulsive genes—what can I say?”
“Is this about your commitment issues?”
My mouth dropped open. “What?”
“You’ve got commitment issues. It’s why you’re still single.”
As soon as he said the words, Nico seemed to realize that, as far as things to say to make me want to agree to starting a restaurant, accusing me of commitment issues w
as probably far, far down the list.
Actually, it didn’t make the list.
“I’ve, um, got to go.” Nico looked away. “My shift starts soon.”
He was out the door in a matter of seconds.
Angry at Nico, at my singleness, at my life, I continued to scrub my kitchen until my hands hurt. When I finished, my kitchen sparkled and I could barely take a full breath without inhaling a lungful of cleaning product.
Wearily, I sat down at my computer. I toyed with Pinterest and read articles on Salon.com while ignoring the thoughts in the back of my head.
Since I’d hardly eaten any of the food I’d made for the meeting, I made myself two crepes—one savory, one sweet—to nibble on as I navigated the various online matchmaking websites.
Did they work? I had no idea. But I was tired of being the single-girl punch line of the family.
I knew there were dozens of sites to choose from; I picked the one that I’d heard of that wouldn’t cut too deeply into my cheese-buying fund. By dessert, I’d written a satisfactory profile that sounded a little flirtier, I hoped, than a job résumé.
I closed my laptop and stood, feeling empowered by the fact that I’d done something constructive for my love life. A moment passed and I hadn’t stepped away. I lifted the laptop screen and checked my e-mail.
Nothing.
Too soon for a response.
Wasn’t it?
I checked again.
When I didn’t see a response—again—I closed the screen and walked away. There would be time to embarrass myself tomorrow.
STRACCIATELLA CREPES
2 eggs
¾ cup whole milk
½ cup water
1 cup flour
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled to room temperature
Pinch of salt
3 ounces bittersweet chocolate, grated and very cold
3 tablespoons clarified butter, for cooking
Mix the eggs, milk, water, flour, unsalted butter, and salt in blender; place batter (still in blender vessel) in refrigerator to chill. Batter should be slightly thicker in consistency than heavy cream.
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 5
