Best Food Writing 2013 (53 page)

Bacon in the warmer, sausages in the warmer, black pudding in the final stages. The tomatoes are cooking too fast, so I turn them and move them to the slow plate. They'll have to share with the mushrooms. Five minutes until I need to nurse them again.

Time to start the baps. They'll be down before I can fill them, but I can get the chicken close to edible. I choose my desert island knife, a 10-inch Wusthof, an extension of my hand, reassuringly heavy enough to crush and chop, wide enough to scoop into a pan. I start with the tarragon, stripping it from the stalks, and chop it coarsely. I want it well disciplined, there'll be no throat-catching fronds of herbs here. Then a handful of chicken, cutting it down from slices to cubes. I check for skin—He hates that—and any tiny bits of gristle or bone. At least three dollops of the mayonnaise, the tarragon, and some pepper. I collar a stray half lemon and squeeze that in. Stir it up to a yellow and green mulch and taste. Good, but I need more tarragon. It isn't holding its own against the mayonnaise. Perhaps it's Russian rather than French tarragon. The latter is a weaker, more insipid cousin to the Gallic version. But this isn't London, there is no stocked-to-bursting greengrocer around the corner. It's make do or go without. I give up and chop the rest of the tarragon. Damn, I'd been hoping to hold some back for Béarnaise for tomorrow night. I shall have to find some more somewhere, or raid some unsuspecting garden. I give the mixture a stir, taste, add more pepper, a few grains of salt, the last of the lemon. It's better now—sharp yet creamy, brightened with the tarragon, a decent contrast to crusty brown bread.

The floorboards upstairs are creaking. Someone's early. It'll be Him, I should think. The BlackBerry will have sprung to life in the pre-dawn and not ceased since. I open the windows, knowing He'll be down for tea in a minute. I get the teapot warmed, and the cafetière—I knew I'd forgotten something. His footsteps are quiet on the carpeted stairs that lead to the kitchen, but his breathing is familiar. I turn down the radio and check the tomatoes, now soft on both sides, with caramelised tops. There's a slot for them in the warming oven and I cram them in, then taste the mushrooms. They're not yet a deep crisp-edged gold, so I encourage them with another wedge of butter and two minutes more on the AGA.

I load the toaster with four slices of bread, ready to go. The toast racks perch on plates, awaiting their burden.

“Good morning.” He's come in so quietly I missed him. For a furtive second I check the kitchen. Mess under control, windows open, radio low, kettle boiled, teapot warmed.

“Hi.” He is curt to the point of offhand in the mornings. Best to speak when you're spoken to.

He glances at the mushrooms and the fruit on the table. Then picks a few grapes from the fruit bowl on the dresser and crams them into his mouth.

“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 spot 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.

 

 

T
HIS IS
T
OSSING

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.

I
t'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.