by Holly Hughes
“Is anyone else down?” Rhetorical question. I say nothing, concentrate on finishing the mushrooms.
“Do I have time to get the papers?” Another rhetorical question. He makes the rules.
“Absolutely, shall I get your tea on so it’s ready when you’re back?”
He’s already left the kitchen, heading for the back door. “Yes, thanks,” he calls without turning around.
He’ll be no more than five minutes. He’s left his BlackBerry by the fruit bowl, and it is already buzzing and pinging. I wonder if I should run out to him with it. But he does nothing accidentally. He will have wanted to be rid of it for a moment.
I should have asked if he was for kipper or poached eggs and bacon. That way they could’ve been ready for his return too. Damn. More creaking upstairs. Someone else is up. I fill the teapot, re-boil the kettle, and load up the cafetière with coffee. It might be worth splitting and buttering the baps.
The bread knife is in my hand when I hear a heavy tramp down the stairs. Forget it. It will be better to focus on the here and now. It’s one of the guests, following the decreed time for breakfast, eager to avoid His wrath. None of His sons will, of course, but guests know better than to delay departure for the river.
Tea on the table, coffee made. Two or three of them have shuffled into the kitchen, warming themselves in front of the AGA. Wondering why the windows are open, but they know better than to ask. He returns with the papers, and the room shifts towards Him as He sits down at the top chair, reaches for the teapot, pours, stirs. Then straight for the grapefruit. He’ll eat it in less than a minute.
“Kippers or poached egg?” I ask, catching His eye.
“Kippers. I’m trying to be healthy. Thanks.” The others are helping themselves to fruit, pouring coffee, waiting for Him to lead the conversation.
He ignores them and flicks through the papers.
“Would anyone else like a kipper?”
“Yes please,” that’s one.
“Can I have poached eggs, please?”
“Just some toast for me, thanks,” says the third, trying to be easy.
I crack an egg, stir the simmering water in the saucepan to create a whirlpool, and drop it in, let it swirl into shape, then add the other. Keep the temperature low, no bubbles. Toast in and go. Kippers will be ready to turn soon. Two more guests are down, one still pulling on his jumper. The other is on his phone checking the fishing conditions.
“I think we’re going to need more tea,” He says, pouring the last of it into His mug.
Kettle filled and on, teapot retrieved, rinsed and bags in.
“What can I get you chaps for breakfast?” I ask as I put the platters of sausage, bacon, black pudding, tomatoes and mushrooms on the table.
They slaver obediently over the bacon, and then one asks: “Any chance of some porridge?”
The first batch of toast is done, very done. Not quite burnt, but too close for comfort. In the rack on the table. Second batch on. The poached eggs are soft to the touch. I lift them out with a slotted spoon, dab them dry with kitchen roll, then slide them onto a warm plate. The guest is munching the last of his fruit as I take them over. Hurry, this plate is burning my hand to the bone. He sees me, swallows the last, and I clear and serve in one.
How did I forget about porridge? Into the pantry, snatch the oats. We may be in Scotland, but there’ll be no water and salt in this porridge. Rather 80 percent milk, 20 percent double cream. On the AGA top: it should be the cooler plate, but this is urgent. So it’s the hot plate, and live dangerously. If I ignore it for even a minute it’ll be burning on the bottom.
He would usually be asking for his kipper by now, but He’s been momentarily distracted by the Racing Post. The fish is done, certainly. Remove, pat dry, onto a warm plate. He clears a space for me to put it in front of him. I bring over the vinegar. There is toast to hand. He’ll be content for a minute or two.
The second batch of toast is ready, and the guests are into the hot food, shoveling on bacon and tomatoes. Another one is down, and he’d like fried eggs please. Soft, but not too soft. Someone asks for ketchup. How could I have forgotten that? I dart into the pantry, fridge one, inside door at the bottom.
His phone rings, an invasive trill. Anyone else would apologise and take it upstairs. He answers around a mouthful of toast, not moving an inch.
“Yes, how’s it going there?” He asks, chewing and reaching for another slice of toast. He’ll be wanting marmalade with that one. It’s at the far end of the table; I divert my attention from the fried eggs and porridge to take it over to him. He raises his eyebrows in acknowledgment.
Fried eggs are good to go. There’s no point flipping them, American diner style—better to use enough hot oil to spoon it over them until the yolks turn from gold to a pale yellow-pink, just enough so they’re warm and runny. Leiths would insist that the white remain perfect, with no crisp edges, but in the real world seriously hot oil ensures the faintest crisp frill at the edges, and no one likes a flabby white. On the plate, and served. The porridge has thickened and swelled, a little stirring and it will be ready. Perhaps a final dash of cream at the end.
He’s getting faintly agitated with the caller. “Well, what can we do then?” I can hear a voice rising to placate Him.
“Fine, do it.” There’s a pause, while the caller is trying to cram in explanations or pacifications. That’s a mistake. Keep it brief, rational, to the point. No fuss, no drama.
“Yes, four, if that’s what it takes.” Another pause, He sighs, takes a large bite of marmalade toast, lets the caller gabble on. “The vet OK with that?”
“No, I’m happy,” he says after a moment, and without preamble hangs up.
There is an expectant silence from the well-trained guests.
As I serve the porridge, satisfied that its texture is correct, with a bowl of brown sugar alongside, He announces: “I’ve just bought a horse.”
Before anyone can say anything, there is a muffled call from upstairs. “Dad, what did you do with my waders?”
He ignores it. “Outbid the Saudis. Four million.”
“Did you see it before you came up then?” asks someone.
“No, but the trainer did. So we’ll see how it goes.”
“Dad, I said what happened to my waders?” His son stomps into the kitchen, hair in disarray, shirt hanging out.
“I’ve got no idea. Ask your mother. You’re late. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes for breakfast stragglers, for filling the rolls. Putting the soup into flasks, slicing some cake. Filling coolboxes. That reminds me.
“What drinks would you like today?”
He thinks for a moment. “Let’s take it easy today. Three Krug and a couple of rosé. And lots of water.”
I dart into the pantry for the coolboxes and he calls after me. “And fruit . . . can we make sure there’s plenty of fruit.”
“Of course, no problem.” He reminds me to pack fruit every morning. And water. Just in case it slips my mind.
“And have we got enough ice packs?” Rhetorical question, really, but I call out my assurances.
Two flasks, check the soup is piping hot. This is pea, mint and chorizo—not His favourite, way too metropolitan for him, I know this. But He’ll like tomorrow’s one.
I split the baps, butter them in a moment and pile in the chicken. As long as the second wave of guests doesn’t come down for breakfast for a few minutes all will be fine. I slice up most of a banana and chocolate loaf, put together a bag of fruit, then add half a dozen chocolate bars. The Krug went into the fridge last night, but I cover the bottles well with ice packs, load the food on top and then quickly make a cafetière of coffee for the final flask.
What else? Corkscrew? Check. Kitchen roll? Check. Spoons for soup. Better wash some. A final inspection of the champagne glasses—He likes them gleaming. A large bag of crisps, and that—surely—must be it. I’m plundering fridge two for soft drinks when I s
pot the pork pie. They’ll go mad without that, not to mention that it took me a morning to make. A few wedges to keep the wolf from the door, well wrapped, and slotted into the final nook in the coolbox.
“Ready?” He asks, and it is of course a rhetorical question.
“Absolutely,” I reply, filling the final flask with coffee.
A few moments later the picnic is hauled out of the kitchen and I survey the debris from the first wave of breakfast.
THIS IS TOSSING
By Chris Wiewora
From Make
Currently pursuing an MFA at the University of Iowa writers’ program, Chris Wiewiora has published fiction, nonfiction, and interviews in The Good Men Project, Bull: Men’s Fiction, and the Chicago-based literary magazine Make. Even a job at a pizzeria provides fodder for his literary vision.
It’s 10AM. An hour before Lazy Moon Pizzeria opens. You have an hour—this hour—to toss. You’re supposed to have 11 pies by 11AM. One hour.
You have always failed to have 11 by 11. Sometimes you fail because you went to bed after midnight or didn’t have a bowl of cereal in the morning or you tear a pie and then you’re already down one and you don’t believe you can ever be anywhere near perfect. On those days, the store manager comes over and inspects your not-yet-full pie rack and shakes his head. More often, you fail because the manager didn’t turn on the doughpress, so you have to wait for it to warm up; or he didn’t pull a tray of dough from the fridge, so all the doughballs are still frozen; or one of the two ovens wasn’t turned on, so you’ll be slower without being able to cook two pies at once. On those days you shake your head and maybe swear a bit, cursing the situation more than the manager, because you already feel like a failure before you’ve even started. Either way, this everyday failure to meet a near impossible expectation weighs down on you. If you could do 11 by 11—just once—you feel like you would truly be a professional, albeit a professional pizza tosser, and it would prove that what you do in this restaurant matters.
But instead of focusing on all that, focus on what you can do: try to go to bed early the night before, in the morning eat a bowl of cereal with your coffee, and on the way to work take it easy, drive nice and easy—not slow or fast, but easy—because 11 by 11 is hard, almost impossible, and you don’t need to think about that when you open the door to the restaurant’s err-err electronic buzzer.
And today when you walk in, in between the err-err, the music blasting through the restaurant’s sound system is good; some simple drum beats, a bass line thumping in your throat, and guitar riffs with a hook. Bluesy rock ‘n’ roll. You bounce your foot as you put on your apron and clock in a few minutes early.
You wash your hands humming the Happy Birthday song to yourself. It’s not your birthday, or anyone’s birthday that you know of, but you’re supposed to wash your hands for approximately 20 seconds. There’s a laminated paper above all the hand-washing sinks that says to sing the ABCs, but you don’t want to feel like some kid who doesn’t know how to do his job.
Today, and all days that you toss, you’re tucked behind the counter by the door, where you will welcome customers when they come in. But for now you should focus on tossing. You take a look at the clock. It blinks 9:59AM. You have an hour.
You check that the doughpress is on; it ticks like a coffeemaker’s hotplate. The temperature knob is set right. And (yes!) there’s a tray of dough already out. You’re ready. Here goes.
The dough has risen a little, each bag forming a sliced-off cone, a plateau. You take the spray bottle of extra virgin olive oil and squirt twice on a hubcap-size round plate that you call the swivel plate because it’s set on a swivel arm attached to the dough press. You spread the oil on the swivel plate with your bare hands, glossing the surface as well as your skin.
You pick up a bag of dough, feeling its weight settle in your palm. You know it’s at least three point five pounds, no more than three point seven five. And out of the plastic, the dough feels like condensed flesh, like a too-heavy breast. You can’t help that that’s what you think of when you take the mound of dough in your hands and place it nippleside up on the swivel plate.
You push the cone down into itself to form a thick circle. You keep pushing with the palm of your hand around and around the circle to even it out, so the circle of dough will fit in the space the swivel plate will swivel under. Above is a heated plate that will come down and sandwich the dough.
You swivel the swivel plate, lining it up with the hotplate, and take hold of a lever in front of you and pull down with both hands. You don’t press down so hard that the dough spills out of the circumference, but also not so lightly that the dough only warms on the outside while the core is still cold. You count six “Mississippi’s” as the dough flattens and warms and expands into a bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger circle.
You pull up the handle, swivel out that swivel plate, take the edge of the dough in your hand, flip it over like a pancake, swivel the swivel plate back into its space and pull down on the handle, letting the hotplate press down again. You repeat until the fourth flip, when you really press down, spilling the dough out the sides. You lift up the handle and again swivel out the swivel plate, but now you lift the dough up and off the swivel plate altogether, placing it onto a tray called a sheetpan.
This circle of dough is called a patout, because before the dough-press—and you can imagine how hard it was to do this—tossers would have to physically push down on the cold dough and shape it with force. No more than six patouts stack each tray, because more than that squishes them with their own weight. When you have filled two trays they go one above the other on a rack-cart that you wheel under a stainless steel counter.
At the counter, you burrito-roll each patout off the tray and unfurl it. There are two plastic containers: one with bright yellow grains like sand (but it’s cornmeal), and another filled with fluffy flour. For now, it’s only flour you need. You take a handful and spread it on the stainless steel counter, powdering the olive-oil-slick dough. Along the edge of the floured patout, you press into the dough with your fingers in a 180-degree arc, forming a crust on half of one side and then the other. And so, one by one, your stack of patouts is floured up.
Behind you is the pie rack where large wooden paddles called peels rest after they’ve pulled pies out of the oven to cool. On top of the pie rack is a square peel without a handle. Next to the floury counter is another counter where this particular peel goes. On it, you will sprinkle—just sprinkle—a little bit of cornmeal so that when the big thirty-inch “skin” of the pie is laid on top and the sauce is ladled onto the skin—when that is all done you can easily shake the pie off the peel, leaving it in the oven to bake.
Now, you set your stance. Lower body: legs under your shoulders and knees bent, with your weight up on your forefoot, your heels hardly touching the linoleum floor. Upper body: torso taut but elastic, because you know that you will be twisting back and forth. Then with your hands straight out, fingers together like you’re about to go swimming and thumbs tucked in so they don’t pierce the dough, you’re ready.
You lightly pinch the first patout. The flour makes taking the patout off the stack feel like a silky turn of a page. You lay the patout over your other hand and, it’s odd, but initially you slap the dough back and forth with your hands. It begins in your wrists, the dough not only slapping but also rotating between your palms in a figure eight, an infinity symbol, an hourglass.
If someone looked closely they would see that in front of your chest, your right middle finger briefly touches your left middle finger. Then your right hand slides from your left middle finger toward your left inner elbow, while your left forearm remains straight. From above, when your two middle fingers touch, your arms will look like an equilateral triangle with one side always collapsing toward its opposite corner, pivoting back and forth, back and forth.
It’s confusing. But you’ve done this so much by now that you just feel it. A
s you go on, your hands slap the dough in a curvy crisscross motion, making it turn, making it stretch into a larger circle. A circle big enough now to toss.
And this is what a tosser does. (Yes, you will sauce the skin of dough, and put the pie in the oven, and set the timer for 3 minutes, maybe 30 seconds more or less depending on how cool or hot the ovens are that day. And after the pies have cooled, you’ll cut some of them into halves and quarters, while leaving a few pies whole.) But what really defines you as a tosser is not the patouts or the flouring or the cutting, but the tossing. It sounds so simple, but you’re a tosser because you toss. And this, this is it:
You drape the dough over your left forearm like a dishrag. No, not a dishrag. That’s too much like a waiter. And you’re so much more than that. You think, How many people in the world know how to do something so particular?
You’re not even in the restaurant when you toss. You’re elsewhere. It’s you and the dough, like matador and bull. You can imagine that flap of dough like a cape. And since you imagine the dough to be a cape, you can imagine the rest of it all as sport, too. And the dough hangs down, slung low, where your right hand cups the heaviest, lowest edge. Your left hand will spring up and out, and your entire left arm will straighten as your shoulder locks, then your elbow, then your wrist, so that your arm shoots out like a discus thrower’s.
But before that, your body winds up by corkscrewing down: your left arm lurches to your hips and curls behind your back, your torso twists, and you’re crunched down with so much potential energy that when you come up, it all goes into your right hand, which whisks the dough off your wrist like it’s a Frisbee. And if you snapped a picture of this moment, your left hand would be turning over, palm-side up, opening. That same swimming hand that slapped the dough now ready to receive it when it comes back like a boomerang. That dough spinning, spinning, spinning in the air, its beauty summed up by little kids who come to the counter to watch. You know they want to ask you how you do it, but instead of asking, maybe because you’re an adult, they point and then explain to you, or the parent holding them up, or especially a younger sibling: “It’s magic!”