“As Mumi does,” Priya said.
They’d definitely been seeing less of Marquis and Yumi since they turned into Mumi. Of course, they never missed a meal, and they’d still hang out on the weekends in the city or in the common room after class, but Yumi hadn’t been spending as much time in Priya and Rosie’s room as she used to. Rosie missed her but didn’t begrudge Yumi the time she spent with Marquis. She was falling in love in Paris, for Pete’s sake. Rosie understood why she wanted to spend time with her boyfriend. Alone.
“Carry on, then,” Priya said. “Come on, Rosie. Let’s get started.”
They walked back, and Rosie saw Cecilia making pasta and Anna working on her dumplings, and at almost every station there were students laughing and cooking, and Rosie loved how it felt in there. Even better than when Chef Petit had been teaching. It was kind of amazing how much free rein they’d been given in the kitchen. For all of the strict rules about the dorm floor, the rest of the École was basically unsupervised. Rosie wondered, for a moment, whether people had been disappearing into the nooks and crannies of the École to do things that didn’t involve food at all.
“I heard you’re making samosa.”
Rosie and Priya looked up to see Bodie Tal walking toward their table. He leaned in conspiratorially and peeked into Priya’s shopping bag, arching an eyebrow, like there was something in there that was far more scintillating than maida flour.
“Oooo,” Priya said. “Ahh. Err. Yes.”
Rosie shot her a look. But she also didn’t totally blame Priya. Rosie didn’t understand how Bodie made jeans and a white T-shirt look so good. It was the blandest outfit on planet Earth. Of course, Priya would probably say it had nothing to do with the outfit, but more with what was underneath. . . .
“Shouldn’t you be on a plane to LA right now?” Rosie asked hurriedly, like Bodie could tell what she was thinking.
“Tonight. This is just such an awesome idea, I wanted to be part of it any way I could.”
“You are part of it, Bodie. You’re the biggest part of it. It wouldn’t have happened without you.”
“No way. This is all you, Rosie,” he insisted. “I’m just here to help with prep.”
“Should we start making samosa, then?” Priya blurted out of nowhere.
Luckily, Priya calmed down a bit as she started telling them what to do. Bodie got everything out of the bag as Priya directed Rosie around the kitchen to grab mixing bowls and staple ingredients. Before long, they’d assembled their own small mountain of ingredients.
“Will you two make the dough for me?” Priya asked Rosie and Bodie. “I’m cursed with pastry—yours will be lighter by miles. I’ll tell you what to put in.”
“Sure,” Bodie said at the same time Rosie said, “If you’re sure,” not wanting to step on Priya’s toes. It was her dish, after all.
“’Course I’m sure.”
And so Rosie dumped maida flour into the bowl while Bodie measured the carom seeds and salt, and added those in, too. He stirred, then Rosie rubbed the ghee into the dry ingredients.
“What’s funny?” Bodie asked.
“Huh?”
“You’re smiling. What’s funny?”
“Here. Rub some of this together.” Bodie put his hands into the bowl, too, and Rosie hadn’t counted on how close they’d be, how their knuckles would accidentally graze each other. “Does this remind you of anything?”
“Biscuits,” he said, a smile on his lips.
“Exactly what I was thinking!” Rosie exclaimed. “It’s just like making biscuit dough. That’s what’s sort of funny about it.”
“How two things that seem so different have so much in common?”
“Exactly.”
“Yes, yes, baking is a universal language,” Priya said. Rosie had almost forgotten she was there. “Will the two of you stop fingering my bloody dough and finish up with it?”
Well, Priya certainly didn’t seem starstruck by Bodie Tal anymore. Embarrassed, Rosie looked away as Bodie pulled his hands out of the bowl casually, like he wasn’t in the least bit concerned that Priya had just called them out. Whistling, he poured water into the bowl, and Rosie kneaded the dough until it came together into a beautifully smooth ball. Then they covered the bowl with a towel and set it aside to rest.
As Priya continued toasting and grinding spices, she sent Bodie off to run around the kitchen and get everything else they needed for the filling. Rosie leaned against the counter, resting her elbows there for a minute and looking around the kitchen. She couldn’t help but smile as she watched everyone working side by side. She’d made this happen. And Bodie . . . he’d made it happen, too. How cool of him to come and help out, even when he wouldn’t be there for the actual Thanksgiving dinner. From across the kitchen, Bodie held up three potatoes and attempted to juggle them. Badly. Rosie laughed as a potato narrowly missed dropping into whatever was simmering on Seydou’s back burner.
This was exactly the point of Thanksgiving. Everyone laughing and having fun and sharing their food.
And Rosie hoped that tomorrow, Henry would be part of it, too.
The gravy was warming up on the stove, the potatoes had been boiled, and Hampus was rolling meatballs by hand. It was Thanksgiving at the École, and the kitchen was a riot of tantalizing smells, all disparate but somehow delicious as they came together. Right now, the lamb tagine Seydou was working on smelled particularly irresistible. But even with all this delicious food, Henry swore he could smell the faint vanilla scent of Rosie’s skin everywhere he went. He heard laughter and knew it was her from all the way across the room. Every time he turned around, his eyes couldn’t help but follow her as she moved through the kitchen, talking and tasting.
He had to get her alone today. No more sulking, no more storming out, no more avoiding conversations because he was too afraid of what she might say. Maybe she liked Bodie. Maybe she didn’t. But Henry had to find out one way or the other, once and for all. At least Bodie wasn’t here right now to screw things up for him.
He knew Bodie had been in the kitchen all day yesterday. Henry had hidden at a coffee shop and worked on his history paper instead of doing Thanksgiving prep with everyone, and that sucked. But he hadn’t had much choice. After consistently bombing his way through every pop quiz on the nineteenth century, he needed a flawless paper to bring his grade back up into the A range. As they got closer and closer to finals, Henry was starting to seriously worry that he might not be able to pull this off. All of his grades were hovering in the danger zone. If he had to leave the École because of some stupid multiple-choice questions . . . It was too painful to even think about. So he wouldn’t think about it. Today was about food and about finally hashing things out with Rosie. The minute Henry got the butter into these potatoes, he was going to talk to her.
Before he lost his nerve.
“Bodie!” Henry heard Rosie cry.
No way, Henry thought. You’ve got to be kidding me.
But there Bodie was, standing on the stairs, an expensive-looking leather duffel bag slung over his shoulder. It looked like it had been distressed on purpose and like it probably cost more than all of Henry’s clothes put together. Fantastic, Henry thought. Just fantastic.
“I thought you were going to LA!” Rosie said.
Yeah. That’s what Henry had thought, too.
“I was going to go to LA,” Bodie replied. “But this felt more like home, you know?”
“I know,” Rosie said.
Barf. Henry was going to barf right into the mashed potatoes and ruin the dish he and Hampus had spent all week conceptualizing.
“It’ll definitely beat sitting around the soundstage, waiting for Dad to have five seconds free.”
Right. Because Bodie could have spent Thanksgiving with his dad and Alton friggin’ Brown, filming a Food Network special. But instead, he was here. Henry shot potatoes through the ricer with such force that they sprayed Hampus.
“This is why I prefer the food mill to
the ricer.” Hampus sighed, brushing potato bits off his apron.
“A food mill works the starch too much,” Henry muttered.
“I’ve gotta admit, this is a lot cooler than I expected,” Yumi called to Rosie and Bodie from over at her station, where she was busy turning chicken skewers with tongs. “You guys did it. This is legit.”
“I think they make a very good team,” Anna said as she passed by Rosie and Bodie with a bunch of fresh parsley. Bodie put his arm around Rosie and squeezed.
“They are cute together, no?” Cecilia murmured sotto voce as she paused near Henry on her way to the walk-in. “Perhaps love is in the air.”
“It’s Thanksgiving, not Valentine’s Day!” Henry barked. Cecilia’s eyebrows practically disappeared into her hairline. Awesome. Now she’d probably tell everyone he was unhinged. And even worse, Bodie’s arm was still around Rosie as more and more people came up to them, thanking them, congratulating them, talking about how cool this was. They certainly looked like a couple. Argh. Henry was sick of torturing himself. He just needed to talk to her about what was going on. As soon as he could get her alone. He wasn’t quite desperate enough to shout DO YOU LIKE ME? in front of their whole class.
“We are ready to fry the meatballs!” Hampus announced, and sure enough, he’d assembled a veritable army of tiny meatballs. Henry dragged his gaze away from Rosie and Bodie. He put the oil on for the meatballs and started browning the butter for his mashed potatoes in a separate pan, losing himself in the foaming butter. At least here he could cook whatever he wanted and not have to worry that Chef Martinet was about to tell him his seared hanger steak was “executed with perfection and no imagination,” like she had on his last Dish of the Day. God. Would he ever get it right?
“Happy Thanksgiving.” Rosie was standing next to him. He hadn’t even heard her walk up. “I got you something.”
She placed a small glass bottle of Coke on his station.
“It’s not Sunday,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.
“I know. But I’m thankful for every Sunday I’ve spent with you.”
She was gone before Henry could even thank her for the Coke, hurrying back to her station. He knocked the bottle cap off on the counter’s edge and took a swig, and hope fizzed in his chest just like the bubbles in the soda. She was thankful for their Sundays?! This Coke was a sign. A sign that things between them were far from over. Henry was going to do whatever it took to make Rosie see that they belonged together.
Now he just needed to think of something awesome to do for Rosie. Something that showed her exactly how much she meant to him.
By the time Henry finished his Coke, everyone was ready to carry their dishes out of the kitchen. Someone had pushed a bunch of the cafeteria tables together so they formed one long table, and pretty soon, almost every inch of the surface was covered in food.
Priya’s samosa. Seydou’s tagine. Cecilia’s cacio e pepe. Marquis’s mac and cheese. Yumi’s yakitori. Anna’s Leberknödelsuppe. Fernando’s fideuà, fat prawns and shiny mussels nestled among the noodles. All three of Rosie’s pies. Henry didn’t even know where to look, let alone what to eat first.
The chatter around the table died down, and Henry could see everyone looking around expectantly, almost like they weren’t sure what to do. Or maybe nobody wanted to be the first one to start eating.
“Speech, Rosie!” Hampus said. “Yes! Speech.”
Rosie shushed him, shaking her head, but by that point, Yumi was chanting, “Speech! Speech! Speech!” and pounding her fists on the table. And soon, she wasn’t the only one. So Rosie stood from her spot at the head of the table.
“Um . . . Hi, everyone,” she said. “Thank you for being part of the École’s very first Thanksgiving.” A couple people clapped. “Especially a big thank-you to those of you who are celebrating your first Thanksgiving.”
“Like the pilgrims!” Hampus said, then whispered, so only Henry could hear him, “I have googled Thanksgiving.”
“Yes. Like the pilgrims. Except, for me, Thanksgiving was never about pilgrims. For me, it’s always been about the food.” That got a loud round of applause. Henry grinned at Marquis clapping with his hands above his head, and Yumi, next to him, whistling her approval as she filmed Rosie with her phone. “My favorite part of Thanksgiving is spending all day in the kitchen. And then sitting down with my mom and my brothers and my nana, all of us sharing our favorite dishes, the dishes we make every year.”
Henry realized, for the first time, that Rosie had never mentioned her dad. Ever.
“And when I realized I’d miss Thanksgiving, of course I knew I’d miss my family, but almost more than that, I’d miss cooking, sharing the food I love, and sharing the food other people love. And I’m so glad that today, I get to share my food with you, and you get to share yours with me.”
“Did you write this ahead of time?” Yumi asked from her seat down by Rosie’s elbow, watching Rosie through her phone screen. “This is pretty good.”
“I didn’t— Yumi! Put your phone away!” Rosie scolded her.
“I’m making a memory!”
“No phones at the dinner table!”
“Sorry, Mom.” Yumi rolled her eyes. But she put her phone away.
“Anyway.” Rosie cleared her throat. “I promise I’m not going to make everyone go around the table and say what they’re thankful for, like my mom does.” At this, most of the Americans laughed. “But right now, I’m really thankful for this meal. And for all of you. And all that you’ve shared with me, and with each other. So, um, happy Thanksgiving?”
“And here’s to Rosie.” Bodie stood, and Henry realized then that Bodie and Rosie were sitting at opposite ends of the table, like they were everyone’s mom and dad.
“Oh, no, it’s okay . . .” Rosie protested, coloring, as Bodie toasted her with his glass.
“Rosie, none of this would have happened without you,” Bodie continued. “It’s incredible. Thank you for thinking of this, for inviting us all to share it with you, for making it happen.”
“Well, really, you made it happen.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You did.”
Henry was dying. He was literally dying, watching them ping-pong back and forth, and by the time they stopped complimenting each other, there would be only a skeleton wearing a green sweater sitting in his chair.
“Hurry it up!” Yumi bellowed, and Henry had never appreciated her more. “I’m starving!”
“Right.” Rosie laughed awkwardly. “Let’s eat, then,” she said as she took her seat. “Meatballs, please.”
She crooked her finger at Hampus, and he passed the plate over to her. Rosie started telling them about her nana’s crockpot meatballs, and that no offense to her nana, but they did not compare to these. And then she was so complimentary about the mashed potatoes, both Priya and Yumi started eating them off her plate, and then Marquis leaned over Yumi to try to get some, and then Yumi stabbed him in the hand with her fork, and Henry was laughing, and eating, and before he knew it, he could almost forget Bodie Tal was even there. Almost.
Coming out of the fog of his food coma, Henry realized he’d forgotten something. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten it, but in his defense, he had made it a while ago. Suddenly, he pushed back his chair and darted out of the room, back to the kitchens.
Down the stairs and into the walk-in, Henry pushed aside some produce until he found what he’d made back when Rosie had first mentioned wanting to try it, all the way back on their first night out in Paris. He grabbed the Tupperware and peeled off the plastic lid. The familiar sour smell hit him right away, and there were still bubbles of fermentation on the surface. This was a little fresher than he usually liked his kimchi, but it would still be good. Hopefully.
“Henry?” Rosie stood in the front of the walk-in, half a samosa in her hand. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just forgot something I’d made. For you.”
“For
me?”
“Yeah. Because . . . because I’m thankful for you.”
If she could be brave and say it, so could he. The smile that lit up her face was better than any amount of mashed potatoes.
“It’s—kimchi, right?” she said hesitantly, like she was afraid of saying it wrong, as she peered into the Tupperware.
“Right. Kimchi. It’s like a fermented . . . cabbage . . . thing. . . .”
Definitely not the best description, but kimchi was so much its own thing, he was struggling to describe it. Henry wondered what she’d think of it. Kimchi could be a bit of an acquired taste if you hadn’t grown up eating it.
“Let’s get a fork,” she said, then, “Good gravy, my hands are already full of food. Want a half-eaten samosa?”
“Absolutely,” he said, and finished it in a couple bites as they left the walk-in, grabbed forks, and met back up at the counter, where Henry put the kimchi down. From upstairs, they heard a loud laugh. Rosie looked up toward the noise, and then back down at him.
“Thanksgiving is definitely a success,” he said.
“I think so, too.” She smiled. “So do I just, like, tear off a bit of cabbage, or . . .”
“Here—I’ll get you a good bite.” He speared some cabbage, a bit of daikon, and some carrot onto his fork. Awkwardly, they exchanged forks, and Rosie popped the bite into her mouth. Her eyes opened wide, then she wrinkled her nose, then frowned, then chewed. Then she went back in for another bite. “Do you—do you like it?” he asked.
“I do,” she said. “It’s so . . . different than anything I’ve had before.”
“Yeah. The flavor profile—the fermentation—not common American tastes.”
“Mmm.” She was still eating it, ferreting out bits of daikon. “Spicy. I like it.”
Henry had thought it was pretty mild, and was grateful he hadn’t added any more gochugaru. He was mostly grateful he’d been able to find gochugaru at all. He’d found it at a grocery store in the 13th arrondissement, in a neighborhood called Petite Asie. It was mostly Vietnamese and Chinese, but he’d found some Korean stuff.
“This is good, Henry,” Rosie said. “Really good.”
Love À La Mode Page 20