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

by Lodge, Hillary Manton

  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.

  “How are you two?” I asked, greeting Sophie with a hug before giving Nelson one as well.

  “Great,” said Sophie. “We’re buying a new car. A crossover SUV. More room.”

  “Sounds, um”—I seldom knew how to respond
to Sophie—“fun. Nelson, are you excited about that extra room?”

  “Yes. Sure.” His head bobbed up and down.

  “Are you just going to ignore me?” Nico demanded, pretending to be standoffish before picking me up in a hug. “Have you thought any more about my offer for the prep table?”

  I looked at him blankly, once again struck by his resemblance to the man in the photo.

  The photo itself practically burned a hole inside my bag; I half expected an errant family member to sift through my purse’s contents and find it.

  Maybe it wasn’t an issue. Maybe it wouldn’t rock anyone’s world. But Grand-mère hadn’t been gone very long. I didn’t know the polite length of time to wait before asking the rest of the family if they knew of any excommunicated family members or former flames. For now, I would hold my tongue.

  “The table?” Nico reminded me, bringing me back into the present.

  “You’re selling the prep table to Nico?” Sophie put her hands on her hips. “You should have told me. I would buy it from you; it’s such a great statement piece.” Gigi tried to greet her, but Sophie shooed her away with the wave of a hand. “I can’t believe you didn’t offer it to me too.”

  “I didn’t offer it to anybody,” I said, intent on staying composed. “Like I said before, Grand-mère willed me the table. I like the table. I’m keeping the table. End of story.”

  “You don’t have to get upset about it,” Sophie said huffily.

  “I’m not upset!” I fired back, despite my attempts to retain my serenity.

  Attempt failed.

  “Alex?” my mother’s voice cut through the bickering. “Venez préparer la table. Est-ce que j’entends la voix de ma Juliette?”

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “English, Mom, please. Nelson is here.”

  My mother walked out of the kitchen looking more elegant than any woman holding a dishtowel had a right to. I noticed signs of stress—losing her mother had added new lines to her eyes and shadows in her face. For the first time, she almost looked her seventy-two years. Her expression revealed nothing, though she appeared a bit more tired than usual. “Sophie, I wasn’t speaking to Nelson, was I? And he should learn French. Honestly. You’ve been married fifteen years. I learned English—”

  “Maman!” I cut in before we could get into a linguistics disagreement.

  Having a trilingual family can be high maintenance sometimes.

  Or all the time.

  “Juliette! Ma petite fille! Comment t’allez-vous?” She proceeded to kiss me on both cheeks, pat my hair, and go through the rounds of French motherly attentions, the better to make sure I was fed, groomed, and loved.

  “Everyone!” she said, finally switching to English and addressing the crowd. “There is a creamy leek soup, a frisée and fennel salad with lime vinaigrette, gigot de sept heures, and a fig tart with crème fraîche for dessert. Someone go get Chloé—it’s time to eat.”

  We all took our seats in the long, spacious dining room. Alex passed plates around, while my mother updated us on our sister Caterina’s latest escapade in Chicago. As we dove into the hearty lamb stew, the conversation turned to Grand-mère.

  “Have you decided what to do with the bakery?” Sophie asked, verbalizing the question none of us had dared to pose.

  The chatter stilled.

  My mother took a small bite of the lamb, chewed, and swallowed. “Your grand-mère willed it to your father and me, as you know. I have started to clean the apartment. The patisserie—I have not yet decided, but I will have to decide soon.”

  “You’d earn a fortune leasing it,” Sophie noted.

  I looked at her sharply, as did Alex and Nico.

  “What? It’s true,” she protested, holding up her hands. “Don’t look at me like that. You were all thinking it.”

  My father placed his hand over my mother’s. “We will tell you all about our decision once we have made it. Until then, do not allow the business to distract you from your own affairs.”

  I pressed my lips together to suppress a smile. My father wasn’t usually so diplomatic, but I had a suspicion he was as worried about my mother as I was.

  I lifted my wineglass. “To La Petite Chouquette,” I said. “No matter what the future brings.”

  We clinked glasses all around and returned to the familiar, easy dinner-table chatter. I watched as Nico asked Nelson about his thoughts on the euro, Sophie aired her concerns about triglycerides, Alex ribbed Chloé about a boy at school, and my father slipped a bit of lamb to the dog. I felt the familiar blanket of loneliness wrap around my unwilling shoulders, even as I heard the currents and eddies of conversation swirl around me.

  Nonetheless, I straightened the napkin over my lap and continued to eat my dinner with a pasted-on smile.

  After dinner I said my good-byes, then turned my Alfa in the direction of my apartment complex.

  My temperamental Italian car often raised eyebrows from car aficionados. Granted, it wouldn’t have been my first choice. But my father had a deep love for Alfa Romeos, and Alex enjoyed tinkering with the ones in the family’s fleet. In a way, it was the perfect hobby, since each car required a reliable amount of tinkering. I’d inherited my own car from Cat when she moved to Chicago, keeping it over the years in an effort to avoid car payments.

  The car made it home without incident. At my apartment complex, exterior lights cast a yellowish glow on the steps to my door. I slid the key into the lock and let myself in. This was my home, dark and silent.

  I flipped a few lights on, my shoes off, and settled on the sofa with my laptop. I’d spent the last four years telling myself that maybe tomorrow was the day someone new would walk into my life. I was finally acknowledging that this person in my head—the person who wasn’t intimidated by my job or family—wasn’t going to appear in the life I’m living. Not like this.

  I had two choices: I could sit at home, feeling sorry for myself, or I could do something about it. I could try yet another singles mixer. But I liked the little privacy I had, and the microcosmic nature of the restaurant industry didn’t lend itself to the keeping of secrets. With online dating, however, at least I wouldn’t necessarily have to use my real name. My family wouldn’t have to know.

  The old-world part of me had hoped for the moment when I’d see a man across a crowded room and know that he was someone special.

  The truth was, Éric wasn’t coming back, and after four years, I still hadn’t had a proper rebound relationship, much less found a life partner.

  When I was young and Grand-mère taught me to make croissants, I remember her telling me to find a man who could respect my mind and the things I could make with my hands.

  I owed it to her to try.

  SEVEN-HOUR LEG OF LAMB

  For the lamb:

  1 4-pound shank-end leg of lamb or a 4-pound piece of shoulder, trimmed

  3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

  Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

  1 bottle dry white wine

  2 bulbs garlic, unpeeled and sliced in half through the widest part

  10 sprigs each fresh rosemary, thyme, and savory

  5 fresh or dried bay leaves

  For the beans:

  2 cups dried white beans, preferably cannellini, soaked overnight in water

  5 cloves garlic, smashed

  3 sprigs fresh thyme and parsley and a bay leaf tied together with kitchen twine

  10 whole cloves

  1 large onion, halved

  Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

  2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

  2 tablespoons crème fraîche

  Preheat oven to 300°F Dry the lamb with paper towels and rub with oil; season with plenty of salt and pepper. Heat a 6-quart dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add lamb and cook, turning occasionally, until browned on all sides, about 12 minutes. Transfer lamb to a plate. Add wine and 2 cups water to the dutch oven; scrape up browned bits from bottom
of pot. Nestle garlic and herbs in a large oval casserole dish; place lamb on top of herbs; add wine mixture from dutch oven. Cover lamb with tinfoil; transfer to oven and roast, basting frequently, for 3½ hours. Uncover, flip lamb (a pair of tongs and a wooden spatula is good for this), and continue to cook, basting frequently, until lamb is very tender, 3 to 3½ more hours. Transfer to a rack and allow to rest for 20 minutes.

  Meanwhile, prepare the beans. About 1½ hours before the lamb is done, drain beans and transfer to a 4-quart saucepan along with 6 cups water, 4 cloves garlic, and the herb bundle. Insert the cloves into the onion and add to the pot. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer until beans are tender, about 1 hour. Remove pot from heat. Season the beans with salt and pepper.

  Discard herbs and strain beans, reserving cooking liquid. Transfer 2 cups beans, ¼ cup cooking liquid, oil, crème fraîche, and one of the garlic cloves to a blender and purée. Stir puréed bean mixture and about 1 cup of the cooking liquid back into pot and cover to keep warm until lamb is cooked. Check seasonings again, adding salt and pepper as necessary.

  Serve the lamb sliced or torn into rough chunks, alongside the beans. Best when eaten in good company.

  Serves 6 to 8.

  There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who love chocolate, and communists.

  —LESLIE MOAK MURRAY

  The conversation over dinner the previous night inspired me to invite Maman to lunch and light shopping the following Tuesday. I knew Maman tended to keep a busy social calendar, but was pleased when she agreed to meet me on Northwest Twenty-Third.

  We were close, but not in the traditional American mother-and-daughter sense. I was aware, growing up, that my mother was different from my classmates’ moms.

  She worked, for one, and not as a nurse or a teacher or a bank teller, but as a pastry chef. In the mornings while she worked—she’d be at work at five—my sisters supervised my exodus to school. In the afternoons, Maman would be home and we’d have adventures. We attended museums, walked through gardens. She took me to nice restaurants, where I was expected to behave in a civilized fashion.