A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) (5 page)

Most of all, I admired the way Cat had decided what she wanted to do and pursued it, undaunted. Had I somehow missed that gene?

With the question of genetics and Nico’s restaurant fighting for elbowroom
in my thoughts, finding my own work groove required more mental discipline than usual.

My coworkers were not helping.

Whitney from Metro tracked me down moments after I arrived, panic in her eyes.

“Juliette, can I get your advice?”

I turned away from my computer. “What do you need?”

Whitney lowered herself to the extra chair in my cubicle, practically shaking. “I’m throwing a dinner party Saturday—haven’t had one since my kid was born.”

“I didn’t know you had a little one.”

“He’s five.”

Not so little anymore. “Okay. How many people?”

“Six, including myself and my husband.”

I tapped my fingers on the desk. “Dietary restrictions?”

“Excuse me?”

“Anyone with food allergies? Any vegans or diabetics?”

“No—all carnivores and healthy, as far as I know.”

“And how formal do you want everything to be?”

“Put together, but relaxed.”

“Well, you can go lots of ways. Baked pasta—lasagna, baked ziti, that sort of thing—is easy to serve to a group. But if you serve pasta, you’ll want to include a vegetable side dish—or two—and a bread, as well as a dessert. Something light. Enchiladas are good too, but you’ll need to serve rice, beans, and salad. And you don’t want to forget the condiments.” I ticked them off on my fingertips. “Fresh salsa, guacamole, sour cream, that kind of thing.”

I watched Whitney’s face tighten with panic.

“Or really simple, just make up a big batch of chili,” I said, trying to think of the simplest possible solution. “You can make it with or without meat, dress it up with a couple kinds of beans. I like using navy and black beans.” Whitney’s
eyebrows began to unpinch, so I continued. “Throw in a chipotle pepper or ancho chili and add some cocoa powder to the traditional spices—”

The frown returned. “But I don’t
have
to do that, do I?”

“Want me to write up a quick recipe for you?”

“Would you?”

“Sure.” I pulled a three-by-five-inch card from my desk drawer and jotted down ingredients. “The best thing about chili is that it only needs to be accompanied by corn bread.”

“Really?”

“And if you make it in a slow cooker, you can start it before work and let it cook all day. You get home and it’s done. Doesn’t get much easier.”

Whitney nodded. “Corn bread.” She brightened. “I could use a mix!”

I nodded, secretly horrified but relieved to see her look so happy.

Whitney left, and I thought that was the end of it.

But it wasn’t. On Thursday, Jake from Obits wandered to my desk, wondering what to cook to impress a dinner date. Later that morning, Sonia needed a killer chocolate dessert to offset her mother-in-law’s menopausal behavior.

By eleven thirty, Marti called me into her office.

“You’ve been popular lately.”

“Yeah, sorry—I’ll finish the Earthbound Organics piece by two, definitely.”

“Don’t worry about it; it just got me thinking. Whitney practically went all over the building singing your praises.”

I smiled and felt myself relax. “Did she really?”

Marti leaned back in her chair. “You know, I think there’s a renewed interest in event planning. I’m not thinking canapé events—just casual dinner parties. I think … I think there could be a market waiting for a ‘keep-your-pants-on’ approach to social gathering cuisine. Something approachable, by somebody who drinks a normal amount of coffee and recommends boxed corn bread.”

I held up a hand. “For the record, I did
not
recommend boxed corn bread.”

“I think there’s serious potential here. The traffic at your desk has tripled.”

“I also brought in a plate of
fleur de sel
caramels. That might account for some of it.”

“Say we put your regular column on hiatus for a bit. Instead, what if we tried a series? You provide a complete dinner-party menu, all the shortcuts included. We’ll try it for—I don’t know—two to three weeks and see what happens.”

“You know I don’t do shortcuts, right?” If anything, I tended to annoy my friends with my recommendations to make tortillas by hand and spent a day per month making stock.

“Corn-bread mix isn’t so bad.”

I wanted to argue that some mixes had very metallic aftertastes from the rising agent, but clearly, Marti wasn’t going to budge. “I’ll give it a whirl,” I conceded. I could make it work, couldn’t I?

At five minutes past noon, a small wad of paper flew past my face and landed on my desk. I uncrinkled it and read the note, scrawled in pencil.
Lunch today?

“I’m right here,” I told Linn, not even bothering to raise my voice.

“Come on,” she said, her voice barely muffled by the cubicle wall between us. “I’ve heard passing notes is a time-honored tradition; I just missed out on it when it was age appropriate.”

“These days, I think the kids text.”

We left for the food trucks moments later. There was a new Korean food cart I’d been wanting to try, and Linn was more than game. “Asian food is hard,” she told me during the walk. “I’m always curious to see how a chef balances traditional tastes with Western palates.”

She would know—Linn’s mother was Chinese, her father Irish American. We’d met once I started on staff at the paper and instantly bonded over our love of food and diverse family cultures. Whereas I’d grown up steeped in traditional European foods and the gospel of Carême’s four mother sauces, Linn
learned Chinese cuisine from her mother and a fearless appetite from her father.

Linn inherited the best attributes from each parent—her mother’s delicate Asian features and her father’s long limbs. She wore her smooth ebony hair in a closely cropped pixie cut, which was both practical and chic in a way that made me rethink my own longer hair about once a week.

Linn’s Intel-employed husband tended to occupy her evenings, but lunch was my territory. Our friendship thrived happily on discovering new and delicious places to share a midday meal.

“So what’s the deal with this new column Marti’s got you working on?” Linn asked as we walked through a light Portland drizzle.

I described the basic concept as we sidestepped puddles.

“It could be fine,” Linn said, her voice neutral. “But I’m worried she’s trying to turn you into some kind of semi-homemade Sandra Lee or Rachael Ray. They each have their own place in the world, but it’s not really your thing.”

“No. But it might be fine if it’s mostly entertaining. I enjoy a good dinner party as much as the next person.”

“Or more. But you’re hard core when it comes to cooking from scratch. You make your own crème fraîche like a grandmother in the old country. I don’t want to sound snotty, but I don’t know how you find the time.”

“It helps to be single,” I answered ruefully. “And to be fair, I haven’t slept well since Grand-mère passed. It’s a good time to make tart crust.”

“If you didn’t use your powers for good rather than evil, we couldn’t be friends,” Linn pointed out. “I hope you know that.”

“Oh yes.”

“I hope you find a man soon. I’ll feel better when you eat Trader Joe’s freezer foods like the rest of us,” Linn said as we waited for traffic to pass before crossing the street.

Three more seconds and we strode across. “I like their chicken marsala as much as the next girl.”

“That’s good news,” Linn said with an approving nod. “So—men? What’s stopping you?”

“I go out,” I said, feeling the defensiveness creep into my voice. “But either they know what I do and they set out to impress me with their love of squid ink—”

“That would be off-putting,” Linn agreed gamely as a bicyclist swerved around us. “Unless squid ink is your thing.”

“Or they don’t know, and they get really nervous, and we don’t make it to date two. I’ve been set up, I’ve been speed dating … I don’t know. I just haven’t met someone really interesting, who thought I was interesting back.”

“Does he have to be a food guy? Because some food guys are really fussy.”

I grinned at her. “And we’re not?”

“It’s less attractive in a man.”

“Well, if I could make it past three dates, I might be able to tell you.”

“Fine. So what’s this about you not sleeping?”

I shrugged. “You know. Things have been crazy.”

Linn nodded; she was a good enough friend and a skilled enough journalist to read between the lines. “I understand. You’ll call me if you need to?”

“Of course,” I said, though I suspected I never would. Not because Linn wasn’t great, but because the last thing I’d want to do at four o’clock in the morning was make someone else as sleepless as me. “Hey, look,” I said, eager to shift the subject, “the line’s not that long at the Korean cart!”

Linn clapped her hands, partly from the spring chill and partly out of excitement.

We ordered our
bibimbap
bowls full of vegetables, rice, egg, and beef and carried the paper bags close as we speed walked back to the office.

“Hey, everybody, I’m home!” I yelled as I opened the door to my parents’ house on Sunday evening.

Gigi the bichon frise came running, but my twelve-year-old niece ran faster, wrapping her arms around me in an oxygen-depriving hug.

“Chloé, I need to breathe, darlin’,” I said, patting my niece on the back. “Are your mom and dad here?”

She loosened her hold around my neck. “Sorry. I just haven’t seen you in so long! Why haven’t you visited lately?”

Direct and to the point, with a splash of guilt—something she’d learned at the feet of masters. I tried to loosen her grip a bit more, just enough to allow for air. “Work. Sorry—it’s been busy lately.”

“We need to go have an aunt date. Aunt Cat’s still in Chicago, so you’re my only aunt, and my mom’s been
totally
crazy lately. Oops,” she said, covering her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that since she’s your sister. They’re not here yet, anyway. Grandma and I had kitchen lessons today.”

“I see.” I bent over to pet Gigi. “I was just talking to Caterina today—she asked after you, so know you’re not forgotten. But we’ll try to fit an aunt-niece day for the two of us sometime soon, okay?”

She shrugged. “Okay. Want to see my blog? I redesigned it.”

“Sure.” I allowed Chloé to pull me into the living room.

We passed my oldest brother in the hallway. “Hi, Alex!” I slung a quick arm around his shoulders.

“Hey,” he answered, giving me a
thwack
on the back, smiling. “Been a while.”

With Alex’s divorce now six months in the past, his facial expressions had shifted from constantly wary to occasionally happy—I cherished that smile.

“
Giulietta? Giulietta
is here?” I could hear my father gaining on us.

I checked out the perimeter of the room. “Is Nico here yet?”

Alex snorted. “It’s too quiet—can’t you tell? Last time, I could hear him from my place,” he pointed his thumb in the direction of his apartment over the garage.

“Good point.” I turned my attention to Chloé, who had settled into a chaise near the fireplace with her laptop. “I like the layout! Very bohemian.”

Chloé beamed. “Thank you. I totally made the background myself in Photoshop.”

“You did a beautiful job.” I looked over my shoulder. “Dad, what did Mom make for dinner?”

“
Gigot de sept heures
, and it smells like perfection … Do not tell your mother, but I may have added two more cloves when she was turned around.”

“I won’t say a word,” I assured him, mainly because my mother might feel the need to start from scratch.

My dad threw his arm around my shoulder as we walked back down the hall. “When are you going to meet a nice man, Etta? Someone with the energy for the restaurant business. Someone like Nico.”

Like that wouldn’t be awkward
. “I don’t know, Dad,” I said, mentally fumbling for an appropriate answer when the front door opened to reveal Nico, Sophie, and Nelson.

An accounts manager at Nike, Nelson seldom raised his voice, became emotional, or exhibited enthusiasm of any kind.

My own temperament was less fiery than Nico’s or Caterina’s, and Alex could be self-contained when he wanted to be, but Nelson was a whole other brand of stoic. We didn’t much know what to do with him. I tried not to view their marriage as a cautionary tale, myself. But Sophie married him; he was family, whether he wanted to be or not.

Alex’s marriage had run the opposite way—his ex-wife, Stephanie, had been tempestuous and hot tempered, leaving their marriage after four rocky years. The fact that my oldest two siblings had married at the opposite ends of the drama spectrum hadn’t gone unnoticed. Of my married and formerly married siblings, Caterina seemed the happiest. Marriage, on the whole, remained an elusive mystery to me.

The clamor at the front door brought me back to the moment.

“I have the wine!” Nico announced, lifting the bottle in the air as if he’d just conquered the Western world.

I hoped for his sake he’d brought a Beaujolais instead of a Sangiovese.
Mom hadn’t been happy when Sophie brought a Chianti to go with the cassoulet.