Bread Alone: A Novel

by Judith R. Hendricks

  “Where did that come from?” She sniffs appreciatively.

  “CM’s kitchen.”

  She touches it gently. “You made this? Ooh, it’s still warm.” I pull it back. “Not so fast. This isn’t a gift. It’s a barter. I need chocolate.”

  Diane laughs, rocking back in her chair. “Have we got a deal for you.”

  In less time than it takes to load a bread machine, I’m sitting at the table with them. They’ve ignored my suggestion that they let the bread cool completely before tearing into it and slathering the chunks with sweet butter. I’m eating a piece of Patty’s Cake, an innocent-sounding name for a lethal dose of moist, dense chocolate cake sitting on a pool of espresso-caramel sauce.

  “Okay. Who is Patty and how does she make this?” I lick a smear of sauce off my fork.

  “Patty was the woman who owned the bakery,” Ellen says. “This was the only recipe of hers that we had to have.”

  Diane smiles. “And after we paid through the nose for it, we discovered that it’s embarrassingly simple. You can mix it with a wooden spoon in a saucepan. You don’t even need an electric beater.”

  “I won’t ask for it then. Since you had to buy it.”

  She tears off another chunk of bread. “Good. Because we don’t give it out.”

  “Is this sourdough?” Ellen’s sniffing the interior of the loaf, examining it lovingly.

  “Nope. It’s just bread.”

  “It doesn’t taste like our bread. It’s more”—she gropes for a description—”complex or … developed or something. I don’t know. What’s the secret?”

  I smile sweetly. “It’s embarrassingly simple. But I had to pay for a trip to France to learn how to do it, so I don’t give it out.”

  After they stop laughing, we agree to an exchange of information. Diane goes back to the work area where I can hear the unmistakable sounds of cleanup in progress—pans and metal bowls banging, water running, and women laughing. She returns with a sheet of lined notebook paper, hands it to me.

  “Here’s the cake recipe. You can run across the street to Dan’s Market and make a copy.”

  God, I can’t wait to make this for CM.

  Patty’s Cake with Espresso-Caramel Sauce

  7 (1-ounce) squares unsweetened cooking chocolate

  ¾ cup butter

  1½ cups strong coffee

  ¼ cup bourbon

  2 eggs

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  2 cups cake flour

  1½ cups sugar

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  Grease and flour two 8½ by 4½-inch loaf pans.

  Put the chocolate, butter, and coffee in a heavy saucepan with a 4½-quart capacity. Place over low heat, stirring constantly, till chocolate is melted, then stir vigorously till mixture is smooth and thoroughly blended. Set aside to cool for at least 10 minutes. Beat in bourbon, eggs, and vanilla. Sift dry ingredients together and beat into the chocolate mixture till well blended. Divide batter between prepared pans and bake in a 275°F oven 45 to 55 minutes, or until a wooden skewer inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool in pans for 15 minutes, then turn out onto racks to cool completely. Serve with whipped cream, crème fraîche, or Espresso-Caramel Sauce.

  ESPRESSO-CARAMEL SAUCE

  1 cup sugar

  ? cup water

  ½ cup heavy (whipping) cream

  3 tablespoons espresso

  Whisk sugar into water and pour into heavy-bottomed saucepan—preferably one with a white or light-colored interior, so you can keep an eye on the color change of the caramel. Stir over medium heat until sugar is completely dissolved, about 1 minute. Increase heat to high and bring to a boil. Do not stir, but wash down sides of pan frequently with a clean brush dipped in water.

  Meanwhile, heat cream to a simmer in another pan.

  When sugar begins to caramelize and turn golden around edges of pan, lift pan very carefully and gently swirl mixture to ensure even caramelization. Boil until syrup is a beautiful, deep amber—3 to 4 minutes. Remove from heat and set pan in sink. Slowly pour in hot cream, whisking to combine. Mixture will bubble up and may splatter. You may want to wear glasses to protect your eyes. Stir in espresso and blend until smooth. If mixture starts to harden, return to low heat and whisk until dissolved. While sauce is still warm, strain through fine-mesh strainer. Makes about 1 cup.

  Ellen clears her throat. “About the bread …?”

  “The secret to more interesting bread is to use half the yeast and let it rise twice as long,” I tell them.

  It’s very quiet for a full five seconds while they look at each other.

  “That’s it?” Diane says. “Half the yeast and twice the rising time? That’s all?”

  I feel almost as if I’ve cheated them. “I told you it was simple.”

  “Shit.” Her hand slaps down on the table. “Linda would never do that.”

  “Who’s Linda?”

  Ellen sighs. “Our bread baker. She’s so set in her ways she’s practically calcified.”

  “So get someone else.”

  She waves her hand as if she were shooing away mosquitoes. “It’s not that easy. She came with the place and … I’m just a wimp, I guess. I don’t have the stomach for firing people. It’s not like she doesn’t do the job. Besides, she’s not that far from retirement. It’s easier just to wait her out.”

  “But you learned this in France?” Diane’s eyes are speculative. “Are you a baker?”

  “Well, I did work in a bakery. Sort of. One summer when I was at UCLA, I did a work/study program at a boulangerie in Toulouse.” Two sets of eyebrows go up.

  “What an incredible experience,” Ellen says.

  “It wasn’t like I was a regular baker. At first, I just washed the equipment. But eventually, Jean-Marc, the boulanger, started letting me shape loaves and rolls and croissants. Load and unload the oven. You know—stuff he figured I couldn’t possibly screw up.”

  “Jean-Marc, huh?” Diane gives me a sly smile. “Was he gorgeous?”

  “But of course. He was French.”

  Saturday morning, CM drags me out of bed at seven and down to Pike Place Market. By the time we get there, they’ve started the market day without us. At Starbucks we stand in line for extra-foam, nonfat lattes, then sip them as we stroll through the North Arcade past stalls of handmade jewelry and clothing, paintings and pottery, honey and olives and nuts, flowers and fresh vegetables from local growers.

  We watch the countermen at Pike Place Fish toss their merchandise back and forth through the air, and listen while two guys dressed like lumberjacks in jeans, flannel shirts, and work boots debate the merits of cod versus halibut for fish and chips.

  A woman whose rear end resembles a plaid double-wide trailer hoists herself onto the back of a bronze pig while her husband records the feat on the camcorder.

  “That’s Rachel,” CM says.

  “You know her?”

  “The pig, not the tourist. Rachel, the Market piggy bank.” She looks disgusted. “If I ever get to that stage, will you please shoot me and put me out of my misery?”

  I lick my foamed-milk mustache. “I would, except I wouldn’t want anybody to know that I knew you.”

  With a hand on my shoulder, she propels me outside to the street. Steam rises from the wet cobblestones to mingle with the smell of roasting coffee and truck exhaust, ocean breeze, the scent of flowers, garlic, cumin, frying fish. I inhale deeply, stealing a kind of comfort from the reassuringly earthy smells.

  “Let’s go over to the Corner Market and get some cheese for dinner.”

  My head swivels like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist, in a vain attempt to see and smell the offerings of every tiny ethnic shop—hombow, baklavas, tamales, spicy, red cioppino, chicken satay, wursts, crumpets.

  “We have all this in L.A., you know.”

  “Of course.” CM smiles sweetly. “The trick is, you’d be driving for three days to find it.”

  A
t one corner a familiar perfume reaches out like an invitation. Le Panier. A boulangerie/pâtisserie in the French style. This one’s very high tech—lots of glass, blue-and-white tile, halogen lamps, and shiny stainless steel deck ovens. The windows are full of neatly stacked palmiers and pain au chocolat and napoleons and strawberry tarts.

  “You want something for later?” CM says.

  I shake my head, walk quickly past the open door wondering why that smell brings on a sudden melancholy.

  At a natural-cosmetics shop, she stocks up on cucumber facial and green-apple shower gel. Just off a narrow passageway, we kill an hour laughing at filthy greeting cards and trying on gauzy cotton dresses from India. She tries to rush me past Sur la Table, but it doesn’t work. I dart inside to check out the floor-to-ceiling batterie de cuisine—just like the little shops in Europe, they manage to cram an amazing amount of merchandise into minimal space.

  By eleven-fifteen, we’re casing lunch places. We end up at DuJour, a little self-serve café on First Street, where we carry our trays to a table by the window wall that looks out over the Market rooftops to Elliott Bay.

  “Okay, I give up. Does every place in this town have a view?”

  She takes a piece of sourdough bread and tears it, handing half to me. “You should think about moving up here.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “I mean if you and David …”

  I shake my head. “I’m a California girl.”

  She flicks crumbs off her fingers impatiently. “Just because you were born there doesn’t mean you have to die there.”

  “I’m just not the adventurous type.”

  She nails me with a look. “You used to be,” she says.

  Monday morning, I’m reducing a cappuccino-hazelnut scone to crumbs and working on my second latte when Ellen says, “Can I ask you a silly question? Are you by any chance looking for a job?”

  “A job?”

  She laughs. “Yeah. You know, a repetitive task for which someone gives you money. Here’s the deal. Diane and I really loved that bread you made. Linda’s getting ready to retire. Hopefully, next year. We were sort of thinking you could work with her and let her teach you the technical stuff—I mean the logistics of making bread in quantity are a little different from doing it in your kitchen, as you know—and then when she leaves … You have any interest?”

  Her enthusiasm is almost contagious. “It sounds great,” I say gently. “Except I don’t live here.”

  “You could always move.” Her voice goes up at the end, like a question.

  I avoid her gaze by opening the “Lifestyle” section of the paper, folding it back, positioning it carefully on the table.

  “I’m in marital limbo at the moment,” I tell her without looking up. “I’m going back to L.A. tomorrow.” I left a message on the answering machine last night, giving David my flight number and arrival time. Not that I’m expecting him to meet me. But just in case, I give the gatehouse a quick scan. Feeling sad and self-indulgent, I throw my bag in the backseat of a green-and-white cab.

  Traffic’s heavy for midday, and the air is warm and brown. The driver, a thin-faced guy with yellow skin and dirty brown hair, subjects me to his Horatio Alger story about abusive parents and working his way through junior college. I suppose I should be more sympathetic, but I can’t help suspecting I’m being hit up for a big tip.

  My Mazda sits alone in the driveway like some neglected orphan. No client-file parties today. Having deduced from my lack of response that I’m not a nice, guilt-ridden rich lady, the driver doesn’t bother turning around; he just holds out his hand, palm up, and says, “Twenty-six eighty.”

  I paw through the bill compartment in my wallet. “All I’ve got’s a twenty. Wait here and I’ll get the rest.” I shoulder my bag and start up the walk, only marginally aware of something in the deep shade on the front porch. As I draw under the portico, I see my camera, a portable phone, one of the TVs. My God, I’ve stumbled on to a robbery in progress. Somebody’s in the house bringing our stuff out to load it up. Then I notice the boxes of books and piles of clothes with shoes thrown on top. My jewelry box. My curling iron and makeup, a broken bottle of Bal à Versailles, saturating my slippers at two hundred dollars an ounce. My breath turns to ice in my throat.

  “No.” Then louder, to convince myself, “No way.”

  Pushing the boxes aside, I reach the door. My key fits into the lock but won’t turn. This isn’t happening. My shoes make scuff marks on the shiny black door; I pound on it until my hands are stinging hot—stupid, because he isn’t here. I imagine windows opening up and down the street, all the neighbors watching my eviction. David wouldn’t do this. It’s against the law. You can’t just throw someone out.

  The taxi’s horn reminds me that the guy’s waiting to be paid. Now what? I set down my bag, thankful that I didn’t put it in his trunk, and walk as nonchalantly as possible out to where he sits, drumming his fingers on the outside mirror.

  I give him my most charming smile. “I seem to have grabbed the wrong key, so I can’t get in my house right now. I don’t suppose you take plastic?”

  “No plastic.” His dark eyes narrow.

  “Well, I have twenty bucks. I can give you a check for the rest.”

  He sighs. “Jesus Christ, lady.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t get in. What do you want me to do?”

  He bangs his fist on the steering wheel. “I could call the cops, you know. I can do that. I’ve done it before.”

  Hands on hips. “Go ahead, if you want to sit here and wait for them to show up. Maybe they’ll kick in my front door for six dollars and eighty cents.”

  “Shit. Give me the fucking twenty.” He snatches it out of my hand. Before I can pull out my checkbook, he throws the cab into gear and peels off, leaving part of his tires on the pavement. I walk back up to the porch, still trying to arrive at a different interpretation of the still life sitting there.

  The lamp from the den—the only thing in the house I ever bought without consulting David, and naturally he hated it—sits precariously on one step. It’s a ginger-jar lamp, yellow porcelain with painted flowers. When I saw it in the shop, I thought it would add some life or warmth or at least color to the den.

  Or maybe it was just that I knew he’d hate it.

  I pick it up. It looks fragile, but it’s surprisingly heavy. The heft of it in my hand merges with the sight of my belongings strewn around the porch like trash, and ignites a sudden fury in my brain. I give a roundhouse windup and heave the lamp straight into the front window. The plate glass explodes, falls like a frozen waterfall, and the security system starts making that obnoxious noise. My mouth opens in silent, nervous laughter.

  While I’m loading the rest of my belongings into my car, the armed-response patrol appears at the curb. Another exciting day in Hancock Park. The guy opens the car door and stands with one foot propped on the threshold. “Hi, Mrs. Franklin. We got an alarm on one of your sensors.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s nothing. I accidentally threw a lamp through the window.” I smile at him. He watches me for a few minutes. “Can you give me a hand with this?” He obligingly loads three boxes into the front seat. “Thanks. Those books are heavy.”

  Every thirty seconds the system pauses, resets, and starts squawking again. His gaze shifts from me to the jagged glass of the window. “We … uh … should probably get that sensor turned off. Cops’ll be showing up any minute.”

  “Good idea. The neighbors are probably going nuts.” I get in my car.

  He scratches the back of his neck. “Mrs., uh … Franklin, could you maybe unlock the door?”

  “I’m really sorry … Ted,” I read off his name badge. “I just can’t right now.” I put the car in reverse and ease out with him walking alongside. Several people have appeared in doorways and driveways to check out the uproar at the Franklin homestead.

  I back into the street, and Ted’s arms open wide in a gesture of helplessness. “W
hat should I do?”

  I turn and smile at him. “I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

  Top down, loaded to the gunwales with suitcases, bags, boxes, television, boom box, the odd shoe, tennis racket, curling iron, and telephone, I look straight out of The Beverly Hillbillies. I cruise down the street in the balmy fall afternoon, waving at my former neighbors.

  There’s only one place I can go—to the house in Encino where I grew up and where my mother still lives. Just driving down the winding subdivision street lined with pseudo-Spanish, Hansel and Gretel split-level, and California pagoda-style tract houses makes my stomach clench. It hasn’t rained in months, and the surrounding hills look like brushfire fodder, but the lawns are sprinkler green and neatly edged. The little twigs planted forty years ago in the wake of the bulldozers have turned into trees—spruce and sweet gum, birch, kaffir, melaleuca, jacaranda, Chinese rain trees, palm trees, cactus. That’s southern California. Whatever you want, stick it in the ground. It’ll grow.

  I park in the driveway of my mother’s fake colonial, and sit with my purse in my lap, keys in hand. Finally I get out and walk up the used brick path with the border of purple pansies, past the reproduction gaslight, and try the brass knob. It isn’t locked.

  “Mom?”

  Footsteps. Johanna Kohlmeyer Morrison appears at the top of the stairs. “Wyn, honey, what is it?”

  To say that my mother and I are dissimilar is to wallow in understatement. Fifty-eight years old, petite, with a delicate, refined beauty, she could easily pass for forty-eight. I take after my father’s family of tall, rangy farmers. Whenever we go places together, I always feel like one of us should be on a leash.

  She’s everything I’m not—perfectly groomed, efficient, organized, tactful, reserved to the point of being stoic, and most important, she is that nebulous, hard-to-define entity, a Lady, with a capital L. She always knows the proper dress, behavior, etiquette—fill in the blank with the noun of your choice—for any occasion. And she’s the type of woman who irons underwear.