“What were they like together?”
“Like springtime in Paris. Flowers and smiles and a love you could see. They were easy together. He worshiped the ground she walked on.” He folded his hands. “I remember when he first came home from class and told me there was a young female student.”
“Really?” I asked.
“I asked if she was any good, and he said he didn’t know yet. He hated the way the other students treated her but loved how she fought back. And he always had a story, always paid attention. I thought he might harbor an affection for her. One day I asked if she was pretty, and he became flustered.”
I hugged my arms to myself. “Did he?”
Caterina grinned. “This is better than a romance novel.”
“He was a gentleman, my brother. And while he was respected throughout the city for his pastry, he was also shy with women. So he waited until the end of the class, you know, to approach her. The day they went to Ladurée, I don’t think his feet touched the ground. And when she left for home? He didn’t smile for a week, not until her first letter arrived. I think it was a relief to us all when they married.”
Caterina set her empty coffee cup down. “How did your parents feel about it?”
“Uncertain, I think. Mireille came from a very old, privileged family, and they married without her parents’ approval. It wasn’t what they had wanted for Gabriel. But Mireille was very respectful and kind to our parents, and after time I think it became easier. They were so happy together.”
“I’m glad,” I said, wrapping my hands around my coffee cup.
“I hope she was happy with her second husband,” Benjamin said. “I hope she had a good life.”
“I always thought so,” I said. “I wish I knew more.”
“He died in ’76,” Caterina offered. “Sophie remembers him a little bit. She doesn’t remember him saying much but said he had candy in his pockets.”
“Grand-mère spoke well of him,” I added. “I think she respected him a great deal. They had a son together.”
“Ah, yes?”
“He’s…a little difficult. Protested us opening a restaurant in Grand-mère’s bakery, among other things.”
“It happens. Violette gave Alice and me fits for years.”
“What’s that, Dad?” Violette called from across the room.
“Nothing, dearest,” he called back with a secret smile.
“I know the rest of my family will want to come and visit,” Caterina said.
Benjamin patted her hand. “I look forward to that. What a Christmas present! I am a fortunate old man.”
The rest of the afternoon passed too quickly. We talked, ate, and talked more, trying to absorb as much of each other’s stories and histories as possible.
When it came time to leave—the boys needed to be in school the next day—Rose sent us home with bags and bags of bread.
“Eat it, freeze it—try a bread pudding with that cinnamon loaf,” she said, before giving each of us a tight, fierce hug. “Merry Christmas,” she said. “And I look forward to seeing you all soon.”
“Be well,” Benjamin said, holding tight to his walker as he bade us good-bye. “And welcome to the family.”
Proust had his madeleines; I am devastated by the scent of yeast bread rising.
—BERT GREENE
I vaguely heard Caterina leave for the school run the next morning. Around ten thirty, it occurred to me that I ought to get out of bed. I reached to pat Gigi but found pillow instead.
Right.
I was in Chicago, at Cat’s, because Adrian and I had broken up, and yesterday we’d been in Saint Louis with Gabriel’s younger brother, Benjamin, and we’d met his daughters, our cousins, and come home with misty eyes, full hearts—and even fuller stomachs.
As if on cue, mine rumbled.
I rose to find Caterina sacked out on the sofa; she lifted her head when I entered.
“There’s french toast in the fridge that Damian made this morning, bless his heart. And coffee. There’s coffee in there.” A pause. “I should drink more coffee. I don’t think I drank enough.”
I made myself a breakfast plate and poured coffee for myself and a second cup for Caterina, wafting it under her nose when I returned to the living room.
“The giver of life,” she said. “I smell it.”
“If you sit up, you can drink it.”
“I shouldn’t be this tired,” she said, slowly righting herself.
I pressed a hand to her forehead. “Are you coming down with something?”
She winced. “I sure hope not. But my chest feels leaden—not a good sign, at least.”
“Well, maybe drink your coffee and chase it with some herbal tea and a fistful of vitamins.”
Caterina leaned against me. “You take good care of me.”
I patted her head and sipped my coffee. “You’re welcome. What’s your agenda today?”
“No classes until tomorrow, so that’s nice.” She lifted the coffee to her lips and gulped it down as if it were a flagon of ale. “Oh, that’s good. Anyway, the boys were chattering this morning about putting the Christmas tree up, and I’m inclined to go along with it.”
“I still think it’s a tragedy, you and your fake Christmas tree.”
“I know it rankles your Oregonian sensibilities, but trees are pricey out here, and we’re usually traveling for Christmas anyway. I like to think of our tree as vegan: no Christmas trees were harmed in its manufacture. And this way we can put up a tree, travel anywhere we like for as long as we like, and it still looks as fresh as ever after Epiphany.”
“There is a lot to be said for that.”
“No, this is a good week to do it, before the parties start, and it’ll get the boys excited for making crafts to put on the tree. I try to encourage creation over destruction, when possible.”
“All of these are good reasons.”
My phone buzzed several times in my pocket; Caterina cut a glance at it. “Nico misses you. He is also the only chef I’ve ever heard of who asks his GM about the menu.”
I shrugged. “He likes the creative feedback, I think,” I said, as I reached for my phone. Sure enough, I had two e-mails from Nico and a text from an unfamiliar number.
“Hi, Juliette,” the text read. “This is Neil’s friend Tarissa. He mentioned to Callan that you’re visiting your sister here in Chicago, and your sister is in Bucktown. We’re in Bucktown! Don’t want to interrupt your visit, but would love to grab lunch or have you to dinner if you’ve got time. :-)”
I read the text twice over before handing my phone to Caterina.
She stared at the screen for several moments. “Oh.”
“Is that normal?”
“Did you guys really hit it off when you met in Memphis?”
“I thought so. I stayed at their home; they were very welcoming. I just didn’t think that after we broke up…”
Caterina handed the phone back. “Well, either she’s feeling you out because Neil’s interested—or she thinks he should be—or she just thinks you’re great and wants to say hello while you’re quite literally in the neighborhood. You can make an argument for either one.”
“I feel like she just passed me a note in study hall to meet in the cafeteria.”
“Pretty much, yes. You should do it and then tell me all about it.”
“You could come too. I’m sure she’d like you.”
“Mmm, you get to do this bit of recon on your own this time. How’s Nico?”
“Haven’t read his e-mails yet.”
I returned my attention to the screen.
To: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
From: Nico, ndalisa@twobluedoors.com
I talked to my supplier, and we are go for Christmas Miracle Cornish Game Hens. That’s what we’re going to list them as on the menu. I’ll have Kenny carve little “presents” out of radishes to put on top.
(I’m 90% kidding about that.)
Also, A
drian has decided he’s cool to stay on as sous. You’ve got final say, because you’re the sister and you come first. If it’s weird for you, I can send him packing.
To: Me, jdalisa@twobluedoors.com
From: Nico, ndalisa@twobluedoors.com
I’ve been thinking about New Year’s. I’m so tired of poultry (with the exception of Cornish game hens), I want to light it on fire. And then I thought, why not?
What do you think about doing Duck Flambé? Festive, huh?
Nico
“He wants to light ducks on fire,” I told Caterina. “I should call him.”
She shook her head. “It’s always something. Okay, I’m going to shower and take the vitamins and come out feeling like a human being.” She stood and stretched her back, hands on hips. “If I don’t see you before lunch—if I disappear into the shower and don’t come out—there’s leftover tagliatelle with lamb in the fridge. If you were anyone else, I’d give you reheating instructions, but I know that you are strong in the ways of the Force.”
I put an arm around her shoulders. “I appreciate you.”
“I know. Call Nico.”
He picked up after the second ring. “Hey, sis. So do you want me to fire Adrian?”
“No, you don’t have to fire Adrian,” I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “He’s a good cook and an important part of the restaurant. If he chooses to leave or stops doing his job, that’s one thing, but the fact that we’re no longer romantically involved isn’t a reason.”
“I love working with the guy, but you’re my baby sister. And I know you’re also a professional and very good at your job, but still. You come first.”
“You’re a softy. And thanks.”
“Did you get my e-mail about the duck?”
“I did. Why don’t you work up a few duck dishes and decide which one you like best from there?”
“I could.”
“You just want to set fire to it.”
“Maybe.”
“I might have to talk to our insurance guy first.”
“What are you afraid of? You know it burns out fast.”
“What would you serve with it?”
“Carrots.”
I laughed. “Make it up, wait until I get back if you can, and we’ll give it a taste. Have you talked to Steve? Does he think he can get us good oysters? I don’t want to bother with them unless they’re very good.”
“I will. I do like oysters for New Year’s.”
“We’ll do a complimentary champagne toast as well.”
“Always classy.”
“Everything is good there?”
“Like a machine. We’ve got a great staff. You made a great system. Enjoy your time with Cat.”
I exhaled in relief. “Thanks, Nico.”
“Just don’t stay away too long. We might not need you, but that doesn’t mean you’re not missed.”
We said our good-byes, and I opened my texts to reply to Tarissa. I told her that I’d love to see her and which days I knew I’d be free.
A short moment later, my phone buzzed in reply: “How about brunch?? We can be ladies who brunch.”
I agreed, and we set plans for Saturday, three days away.
With Benjamin’s family found, I felt more at loose ends than ever. It had been so long since I didn’t have twenty things to do that when I had a chance to relax, I didn’t know what to do with myself.
And I didn’t have Gigi or a man to distract me.
So I cooked. I made a root-vegetable galette, chanterelle soup, and bread pudding from Rose’s gifted bread.
When Caterina brought the boys home, we made gingerbread cookies, decorating them with piped peanut butter and dried cranberries, things that, as Caterina said, “let us pretend it’s healthy.”
And then we got to work on the tree, assembling it from top to bottom, fluffing the boughs as we went. Caterina lit a candle “to remind us what a forest smells like.”
When I opened my mouth to tease her, she threatened to open a window “to remind us that it’s cold in forests.”
We ate my day’s labor for dinner, which both Caterina and Damian appreciated. Damian had been busy with clients, and Caterina still wasn’t feeling like herself yet—I still suspected she was coming down with something.
Those suspicions were confirmed the next day when Caterina woke up without a voice.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she confessed in a whisper over tea in the morning. “I’m teaching tonight! Damian’s going to try to get out of an event early, but he’s catering for a group that tends to start late and run long.”
“Um, there is another option,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I could teach it for you.”
“Could you? Do you still have your Italian?”
“Certo che parlo ancora Italiano,” I said. “Sara’ nel mio cuore per sempre.”
“And you were in Italy just recently. How did I forget that? Of course you could teach it. What’s wrong with me?”
I patted her arm. “You’ve got a virus; it happens. You can’t be superhuman all the time.”
“Okay, well, if you’re teaching tonight, I’m going back to bed.”
“Good plan. Where’s your curriculum?”
“If you go to my computer, the curriculum is in my Docs folder, and it’s listed by date.” She sneezed. “Okay. I’m serious.”
“Yes, you are. Go to bed.”
That evening, I dressed in my favorite jeans and red wrap top, borrowing Caterina’s gray pinstripe apron. As the students filed in, I felt my nerves grow and my mouth dry.
“Good evening, everyone,” I began. “I am Juliette D’Alisa, and I’m Caterina DeSanto’s sister. Caterina has lost her voice.” I paused while people clucked in sympathy. “Fortunately, I have been in town to visit, and I offered to substitute tonight. Like Caterina, I also graduated from culinary school. I worked as a food writer for several years, and I now manage my brother’s restaurant.”
With that out of the way, I dove into the evening’s lesson. Caterina taught largely in Italian. Tonight’s lesson was a breadcrumb cake, and the idea that so many Italian desserts were less about being impressive—as so many French recipes were—than about being resourceful. “After all,” I said, “tiramisu is just cookies dipped in coffee and liqueur, layered with custard.”
For the breadcrumb cake, I walked them through how to make the breadcrumbs. “There’s no sense in buying breadcrumbs, not in that quantity.”
We sliced the crusts off of the bread together, toasted the slices lightly, and ran the bread through the food processor.
Afterward, we grated the dark chocolate, peeled and sliced pears, cracked eggs, and measured cream. The thick batter came together quickly, and we placed them into the ovens.
While the cakes baked, I walked them through the pasta fritta alla Siracusa, the angel-hair pasta twirls fried in a shallow amount of oil. We boiled up the pasta, then stirred together honey and candied orange before chopping pistachios and adding some cinnamon.
One by one, they dropped the knotted pasta into the oil and cooked them on both sides. After draining them, we drizzled the honey mixture over the top, followed by a sprinkle of the pistachios and cinnamon.
The process of frying the pasta bundles, one by one, kept everyone busy until the breadcrumb cakes finished baking.
They asked questions, some adventurously in Italian, others timidly in English. I answered in the language they were asked. It wasn’t a college course; I was more concerned with everyone having a good time. In between instructions, I shared about my summer’s trip to Montalcino and the food we’d enjoyed at Nonno’s party.
After the cakes came out of the ovens, I showed them how to drizzle the Nutella across a cake and sprinkle the hazelnuts on top. I offered them the cake I’d made previously, which had set, so they knew what to expect once they reached home with their own creations.
When the class was through, my face was flushed and I felt a deep
sense of pride.
I returned to Caterina’s to find her in pajamas on her couch, watching The Bachelor and drinking tea.
“How did it go?” she whispered.
I untangled my scarf and joined her on the couch. “Well! I loved it. Want some cake?”
“You ask such useless questions.”
I plated two slices and brought them back to the living room.
“You’re such a lifesaver,” she said as she took her plate. “Damian’s still at the event.”
“I’m happy to help,” I said, cutting a bite of cake for myself with a fork. “I wish we weren’t so far apart.”
“Me too. Is that your way of telling me you’re going to book your flight home soon?”
I pointed at the tree. “Christmas is coming.”
“Technically, Christmas is always ahead of us.”
“True.”
“But you’re right. I have to share you.” She flopped back, heaved a sigh, and took a bite of cake. “This really is good.”
“One of your students asked me out after class.”
“Which one?”
“He introduced himself as Nate. Short hair. Goatee.”
“Oh yeah. Nate, huh? Bless his heart, I think he’s on the hunt for a wife. Did you break his heart?”
“I told him to try the redhead. Emily?”
“He’s tried already.”
“Maybe he needs to try harder.”
She laughed. “It’s possible. Shaving off the goatee might help.” Another bite. “So when are you thinking of flying out?”
“Monday or Tuesday—I’m meeting Tarissa on Saturday.”
She squeezed my hand. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’ll see you for Christmas?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
~ BREADCRUMB CAKE WITH CHOCOLATE AND PEARS ~
7 ounces dark chocolate, grated or chopped fine
¾ cup brown sugar
1½ teaspoons baking powder
3 eggs plus 1 egg white
7 tablespoons butter, melted and cooled
¾ cup heavy cream
¾ cup whole milk
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
Together at the Table Page 13