Grant shakes his head and mutters about how rude and unnecessary it is to humiliate people, while he slices an onion and chops a bagful of multicolor cherry tomatoes. He drops the veggies in a pan, adds a large sprig of fresh basil from the vase on the counter, smashes a garlic clove, and tosses it in. A hefty glug of olive oil, a sprinkle of red pepper flakes, more salt than you would imagine necessary, a fistful of dried linguine, some water, and the contents of a plastic tub of the gelatinous amber chicken stock that he always brings home from the restaurant. He turns the flame up, gives it a stir, and then reaches into the wine fridge underneath the counter and hands me a bottle of Barolo to open. He begins grating a snowy mound of Parmesan into a bowl, pausing periodically to give the contents of the pan, now at a rolling boil, a quick stir with his tongs. A latchkey kid whose mom worked long hours, he’s been cooking for himself since he was eight, and for others since he lied about his age and got an after-school job as a prep cook in a fast-food joint at fourteen. He skipped college in favor of culinary school, and the rest is history.
I pour the inky wine into two glasses, and we clink before taking a deep and satisfying sip. Cheese finished, he stirs the pasta again, and then takes more basil from the vase, picking the leaves carefully and reducing them to a pile of shreds in seconds. Grant has amazing knife skills. It’s mesmerizing to watch. He removes the basil sprig and garlic clove from the pan, tossing them in the garbage, stirs again, and pulls one long noodle to taste. Smiling, he pulls the pan from the heat, divides the contents between two shallow white stoneware bowls, and gives each serving a healthy twirl of olive oil, a fistful of cheese, a scattering of basil. He reaches behind him and grabs a half of a crusty baguette off the counter and places it between us.
It’s been maybe fifteen minutes. And I have heaven in a bowl. Grant might not be able to pick me up and whisk me to the bedroom, nor do either of us have much energy for that these days anyway. But he wants to know about my thoughts, and he makes me meals full of love, and I always feel so cared for with him. This is as close to home as I’ve had since Joe died, and it guts me that they never met. I think they would have gotten along famously, and I know that Joe always wanted me to have this, a good man who loves me, a place to live that is safe and stable. Grant and I eat right where we are, ravenously quiet, me sitting on the stool, and him standing behind the stove, pausing only to add more cheese, or drink more wine. As little time as it took to make, it takes less to devour—the perfect thing for a late supper after a long day. I marvel at his ability to do something that on the surface looks so simple, and yet is completely beyond me.
Because for all my massive appetite, I cannot cook to save my life. When Grant came to my old house for the first time, he became almost apoplectic at the contents of my fridge and cupboards. I ate like a deranged college frat boy midfinals. My fridge was full of packages of bologna and Buddig luncheon meats, plastic-wrapped processed cheese slices, and little tubs of pudding. My cabinets held such bounty as cases of chicken-flavored instant ramen noodles, ten kinds of sugary cereals, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, and cheap canned tuna. My freezer was well stocked with frozen dinners, heavy on the Stouffer’s lasagna and bags of chicken tenders. My garbage can was a wasteland of take-out containers and pizza boxes. In my defense, there was also always really good beer and a couple of bottles of decent wine.
My eating habits have done a pretty solid turnaround since we moved in together three years ago. Grant always leaves me something set up for breakfast: a parfait of Greek yogurt and homemade granola with fresh berries, oatmeal that just needs a quick reheat and a drizzle of cinnamon honey butter, baked French toast lingering in a warm oven. He almost always brings me leftovers from the restaurant’s family meal for me to take for lunch the next day. I still indulge in greasy takeout when I’m on a job site, as much for the camaraderie with the guys as the food itself; doesn’t look good to be noshing on slow-roasted pork shoulder and caramelized root vegetables when everyone else is elbow-deep in a two-pound brick of Ricobene’s breaded steak sandwich dripping marinara.
“How are things at the Palmer Square house?” Grant asks, wiping his plate with a chunk of bread.
“Never got there today, the day got sucked up with the endless bids, I had to run all the way out to Park Ridge to put out a fire, and then the bathroom door debacle. But hopefully tomorrow after work I can swing by and do a little something. When I’m there it feels great, and what little I’m able to do is going well. And it’s going to be freaking gorgeous.”
“Well, there’s no doubt of that. How are you feeling about the timing? Another two years?”
I think about what’s left to do. It seems endless. When I found the property it was in foreclosure; the previous owner had overextended himself assuming that the three-flat, which had been converted to apartments, including an illegal one in half of the basement, would generate enough income to be self-supporting. But he overestimated the rents he could charge for spaces that hadn’t been updated since the 1970s, and when the housing market crashed, he was so underwater he just abandoned the property completely and declared bankruptcy.
Grant and I thought it would be the perfect first venture for us in the realm of flipping, to restore the place to its original glory and sell it as a spectacular high-end single-family home. Or rather I thought it would be, and Grant was easy to convince. I sold the little house I had gotten from Joe when he died to the people who had been renting it from me, and used half of the profits to buy the Palmer place outright; Grant has been funding the renovations. We got it for a song; it couldn’t be torn down due to the historical landmark status of the street and needed so much work no one wanted to touch it. We took it off the bank’s hands for literally pennies on the dollar. I’ve done most of the renovations on my own, bringing in some specialty help for the major projects like upgrading the electricity and plumbing. It’s been just over a year, and as of right now, the only room in the house that’s completely finished is the kitchen, since that’s always the most fun to design and is the only thing Grant really cared about in the project. I may not cook, but I can do a seriously spectacular kitchen design. Grant actually hasn’t been to see the place since the final kitchen fixture went in, but he’s good about checking the progress verbally.
“I’d like to say two on the outside, but you know how it goes. Verrrry sloooooowwwwly.”
“But you love it?”
“So much. It’s like a gift to get to go there and work.” There have been wonderful surprises, original treasures covered up by drywall and paint and carpet and linoleum. For every bad discovery—asbestos in the basement, lead paint throughout, a horror-movie nest of rats in the old coal hopper—there has been a glorious one: marble wainscoting behind drywall in a bathroom, a covered-up fireplace in the living room, gorgeous coffering in the dining room hidden by an industrial drop ceiling.
“What if you did it full-time?” Grant clears our plates and pours us both more wine.
“Leave MacMurphy?”
“Why not? What do you figure we can clear on this flip when you are done?”
“If we stay on budget, and the market stays strong, we should net about 500K, maybe a smidge more if we get lucky.”
“That seems like enough to get a second project under way. You hate it where you are. They don’t begin to deserve you, and you almost never get the kinds of projects that make it worth putting up with their bullshit. And you love working on that house. Maybe it’s time to do it full-time, get it finished, let it take you to the next step? I mean, don’t you want to just find wonderful houses like that and restore them and then sell them and stop with all the boring cookie-cutter work for ungrateful clients and shithead bosses?”
My heart flutters. I’d never thought seriously about going out on my own full-time so soon; I just thought it would be fun to do a project here and there. To get a lot of experience under my belt, and then MAYBE in another ten years or
so to take the leap. If things were good financially, if the market was conducive. In the meantime, I just figured that working on one personal project at a time, for as long as it took, would be enough to fill that need in me. To have control, to make the decisions, to fully realize a single vision from start to finish. I’m always proud of my work, but when you work for other people, their input takes precedence. The end result is your execution of what they want and need. Hopefully, you’re able to convince them to trust you on details here and there, to make them fall in love with your ideas, but at the end of the day the purity is lost. But the thought, the mere mention, of just getting up every day and going over to Palmer Square and working the way I crave? To finish it and then find another project to fall in love with all over again? That makes me all tingly.
“I don’t know; that is a huge risk.”
“I don’t think it is. You’re really good at what you do, honey, you know that. You’ve got all the right instincts, and great taste. You know the market. I just think that life is short, and waiting around for some magical sign that it is time to stop wasting your talent on projects and people so far beneath you is silly. Go big or go home, right? What is the worst thing that could happen?”
“We could lose money on the house and not have any profit to find another project and then I would not have a job to go back to. The whole thing is very risky. Not to mention an expensive proposition for you. You’d have to be the sole breadmaker AND breadwinner.”
Grant smiles. He reaches across the counter and traces his fingertip down the length of my nose. “You’re worth it. Besides, when the TV thing gets signed this week, the money won’t be much of an issue.” His idea for the show is a wonderful one. Each episode he would get together with one other chef so that the two of them could cook dinner for a small gathering of chefs, foodies, critics, and other interesting cultural figures who happen to love food. Sort of half cooking show, half salon. The deal would be for a guaranteed full twenty-six-week season, and would pay him handsomely. Even better, he would get to work with his friends Patrick and Alana, whose production company put the deal together, and who would serve as co–executive producers. Grant always said that after the World’s Supreme Chef experience, he would only do more TV if he was sure about the people he was working with. He’s turned down half a dozen offers, everything from The Next Iron Chef to recurring judging on various shows. He does a once-a-month lunchtime spot on WGN locally, because they are near to his heart and he loves that Tom Skilling always sneaks in to taste and rave about whatever he’s cooking. When Patrick and Alana approached him, he recognized that he could really create a show to be proud of, and that they wanted him to have a tremendous amount of creative control, and that was what sealed the deal for him. With the TV show plus the anticipated numbers for the new restaurant he is about to open, and the second cookbook that comes out this summer, we aren’t going to be buy-an-island rich, but the cash flow is going to be really very comfortable. And since neither of us wants kids, it isn’t like we have to sock money away for college educations or to try to create intergenerational wealth. We’ve both been diligent about retirement savings, and will obviously continue to be, but the big bump in disposable income that is imminent does present some wonderful opportunities.
“Well, let’s think about it after, then. You know my motto. No drinking till the inking!” I carry the chip on my shoulder of almost every self-made person. On the one hand, you can see clearly where the financial assistance will help you achieve what you want faster or more completely. Yet, your very soul chafes at the idea of accepting, even when offered as generously and openly and with as much love as Grant offers. Since he is also self-made, he knows better than to push too hard.
“Okay. But know that I’m more than prepared to support you in every way. I think you’ll be happier, and I like you happy.”
He comes around to my side of the island and gives me a powerful hug. Grant is a great hugger. I look up at him and he kisses me softly on the lips. “Dessert?” he asks.
I grin at him. “Absolutely,” I say, waiting for the slide of his hand up my robe or a deeper kiss.
He grins. “Coming up!” And he walks over to the fridge to fetch something new the pastry chef has been working on.
Oh well. I’m probably too full and tired for bedroom acrobatics anyway. Grant brings over a plate with what looks like a chocolate pyramid on it, and hands me a fork, and we have our cake and eat it.
3
I’m dreaming about getting a facial, Grand-mère standing over me saying that my skin is horrible, that I don’t take care of myself, and blowing sulfurous steam at me to open my pores. Then she leans over and scratches at my face with her always impeccably manicured fingers, telling me that I have neglected my exfoliation. I open one eye to find Schatzi pawing at my forehead and breathing foul kibble breath up my nose.
“Seriously, dog? You hateful bitch. I know Grant already walked and fed you.” I give her a shove, and she drops lightly off the bed, clicking her claws down the hall in a perfect replica of Grand-mère’s kitten-heeled cadence, making me shudder. Two years gone and she still haunts me. Schatzi is only six, so barring some unfortunate accident or unexpected illness, I could have another good eight to ten years of this abuse ahead of me.
I swing my legs out of bed and drop to the floor to stretch. I may be still a few months shy of my thirty-fifth birthday, but my body bears the signs of a life of physical work. My joints take a few minutes to loosen, my neck and back require some coaxing to unclench. My girlfriend Marie tried to get me to do yoga, but I got twisted into some warrior pose and accidentally lost control of a massively loud and horribly smelly fart, the unfortunate result of a La Pasadita carne asada burrito for lunch. Needless to say, I’ve never had the balls to take another class. I do my own little stretch routine in the morning for a few minutes, and it seems to help limber me up for the day. And if a foul wind escapes me, there is only me and the dog to witness, and frankly, crop-dusting that satanic canine is one of my few deep pleasures. I throw on an ancient pair of jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a zip-up fleece vest. It’s Saturday, my favorite day of the week. I get to spend a whole day at the Palmer house, and then dinner with my best girlfriends, my total me-day.
Saturday is Grant’s longest workday. He hits the markets in the morning, plans menus for the coming week, places orders with vendors, and then goes to the restaurant to prep and do a grueling Saturday-night service, usually getting home between one and two in the morning. I try to stay up for him. When he gets home he’s usually wired, and we often have a snack and a small glass of bourbon or calvados, which is a very nice way to jump-start our Sundays. If Grant isn’t out of town for an event or press thing, rarer and rarer these days, he and I spend Sundays blissfully together, sleeping in, having some sort of brunch adventure, watching shows and movies on Netflix, napping, and having something wonderful for dinner. Since the restaurant is closed Mondays, he often has to get up early on Sunday and fly somewhere for Sunday night and Monday appearances, returning late Monday or early Tuesday to get back to the grind of the restaurant. He’s frantically training his executive sous chefs for both restaurants in anticipation of the television work, which will take him away from them even though it will film in Chicago. When we get them, maybe only once a month, Sundays are the days we make up to each other for having jobs that keep us apart and exhausted the rest of the time.
Grant has left me an everything bagel, the crusty seeded roll smeared thickly with herbed cream cheese and covered with a thin shingling of cucumbers and a slice of the white ham La Quercia makes specially for his restaurant. I wrap it in a paper towel, toss Schatzi a treat from the bowl, and head out. The day is Arctic Circle cold, but sunny and bright, a welcome change from the overcast gloom that is typical of January in Chicago. Luckily we have garage parking next door to our building, so I don’t have to scrape ice off the car, but it isn’t a heated spa
ce, so I always give Lola a good eight to ten minutes to really warm up before I make her drive in winter. This gives me a chance to devour the sandwich, naturally dropping a glob of cheese on my huge puffer coat, and sprinkling sesame seeds, sticky bits of onion, caraway, and salt crystals all over myself. In addition to having no cooking skills, my eating skills also lack finesse. Most everything ends up on my not-insignificant boob shelf, or lost off the fork into my lap. Grand-mère sent me to actual etiquette classes when I was seven and again when I was twelve, but while I understood everything intellectually, it never really sank into my bones. As a result, I get giddy if I get to wear anything nice more than once before I spatter it with stains. I’ve always known that I’m very lucky to have a career that requires grubby dress 99 percent of the time. If I’d wanted to be a lawyer, it would have cost me a fortune in blouses and dry cleaning.
I swing Lola into a parking space in front of Intelligentsia on Milwaukee, and scamper inside to get some fuel.
“Hey, Anneke,” Rainn, my favorite barista, says. “The usual?”
“Yes, please.” I take a seat at the bar while she efficiently pulls shot after shot of dark espresso. Every Saturday is the same; I get a rich double-shot latte with whole milk to prime my motor, and then two quad-shot iced Americanos with four sugars each to give me bits of pep through the day. And yes, I’m aware that ten shots of espresso in a day seems ridiculous, to say nothing of the eight packets of sugar, but Saturday is my cheat day for caffeine, which I limit to one latte a day during the week, and I believe in full indulgence.
I take my tray of enormous beverages, and head over to the Palmer house. It is so much more fun to work here in daylight, to fully appreciate the high ceilings and oversized windows and architectural details. She is a classic graystone, like a little castle, complete with a turret, the subtly wavy glass in the windows curved to match the curve of the stone. I love doing a full walk-through on Saturday mornings, to visualize the plans, to center my thoughts, to let the building tell me what it needs. I drop my coat and Joe’s old leather tool bag on the first floor and put the two iced coffees in the small fridge I’ve rigged up in the dining room. Then I take my latte and begin my walk-through.
Recipe for Disaster Page 4