Kitchens of the Great Midwest (14 page)

“Sounds good,” Eva said. “But would you recommend the walleye pike?”

Absolutely, the waitress said, noting that it was freshly caught in Mille Lacs Lake.

“Wow, so you know the specific lake the fish is from?”

The waitress nodded.

“That’s cool,” Prager said. “Never heard of that.”

Eva ordered the walleye, with a baked potato and no dressing on the salad.

The waitress asked Prager if he wanted chicken on his Caesar salad for an extra $3.99.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “It’s a moral issue.”

 • • • 

When the waitress left, Eva looked Prager in the eyes, all serious.

“Can I tell you why I agreed to all this?”

“Uh, sure,” Prager said. The question jolted him; she hadn’t even seen his band yet. What else could it be? Was it because he was cute and funny? That’d be nice maybe.

“That thing you said the first day of history class. When you said, ‘I just wanna be in love.’ Did you mean that?”

He’d said it to be funny; he hadn’t really thought whether he meant it or not.

While he was still thinking of how to respond, she leaned in toward him. “Because I thought it was the coolest, most vulnerable, most honest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say in a classroom, ever.”

“I guess I did mean it,” he said.

“Good,” she said, and leaned back in her chair. “You show promise.”

 • • • 

“Do you have a favorite variety of cuisine?” Prager asked, after a time. What sophisticated phrasing, he told himself. If someone was listening to this dinner conversation on the radio, they could seriously be mistaken for adults.

“Nah,” she said. “I’ll eat pretty much everything. I used to really like spicy food, but not so much anymore.”

“Why not?” Prager asked.

“I ate too much one time, and after that I had to give it a break for a while.”

“I love spicy stuff. I put Tabasco sauce on almost everything. I put it on yogurt, even.”

For some reason, she looked at him the way a mom might look at a teenager who had just bragged about being able to dress himself.

“What?” he asked.

“You shouldn’t want to do that,” she said. “You should want to taste the actual flavors of what you’re eating.”

“You have a point,” he said. “I’ll never use Tabasco sauce again.” He’d read that being in an adult relationship means having a willingness to change. Knowing when you’re wrong and owning up to it—that’s the definition of being a man. He was thrilled for the opportunity to mature before her eyes like this.

“OK.” She shrugged.

 • • • 

When the food arrived, the waitress asked if he wanted pepper on his Caesar salad, and held out this long wooden pepper mill thing, which he’d seen before at places once or twice, but never really tried.

“Just a little,” he said. “I want to be able to taste the salad.”

Eva took one bite of her grilled walleye. Prager watched her as she chewed the fish but didn’t swallow, instead moving it around in her mouth. Was this how people who were into food behaved? It was fascinating.

“How is it?” he asked.

“It’s very good. Just a little heavy on the rosemary, maybe.”

Prager hadn’t even remembered seeing rosemary in the description of the dish. “Where’s the rosemary?” he asked, pointing at the pine-colored flecks on the filets. “Is it that green stuff?”

“No, that’s parsley,” she said. “They probably got rid of the rosemary. But if you’ve had it before, you know the taste.” She put a bite on her fork and held it out.

Prager considered reminding her that he was a vegetarian, but with Eva Thorvald about to feed him at the table, from her own fork, he felt he could make an exception one time.

“Yep, absolutely,” he said. He had no idea what rosemary even tasted like.

 • • • 

A few minutes later, the waitress came by with the water pitcher and asked how was everything.

Prager said, “Good, just a shade too much rosemary in her walleye.”

The waitress stared at Prager as if he was talking in code. OK, she said, she’d let the chef know.

“Otherwise, it’s real good,” Eva said as the waitress walked away.

“Want to try some of my salad?” Prager asked.

“No, that’s OK,” she said, slicing her walleye into small bites, spearing one with a fork she dangled from her grip in the style of an old-timey flapper with a cigarette holder. Prager found her effortless elegance almost heart busting. “You didn’t have to volunteer that information. I haven’t had a lot of walleye in my life, but this is probably the best I’ve ever had.”

“Weird that it’s from a specific lake,” was all Prager could think to say.

“I know, right? I wonder how much of it has to do with the lake where the walleye’s from, if that’s such a big deal?”

Neither of them noticed the wiry old Native American guy in white clothes and a gray ponytail standing next to their table until he spoke.

“Pardon me, I’m Jobe Farnum, I’m the head chef here.”

“Hi,” Prager said, his mouth full. He and Eva looked at each other. Were they in trouble? Now Prager felt like an idiot for complaining on her behalf. He’d just ruined the entire date, he knew it.

“It’s a slow night,” the man continued. “So I just wanted to get a look at who’s giving me notes on my grilled walleye.”

Eva looked up at him. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she said. “It’s real good. It’s probably the best fish I ever had.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Jobe said. “I’m gonna ask you this. Normally, the customer who orders this dish pairs it with a sauvignon blanc. Which pairs well with rosemary. So, let’s say I’m curious how this dish can be
better prepared for someone who is unable to partake in the wine pairing. What would you do differently? I’m all ears.”

“Uh, maybe just a tiny bit less rosemary?” Eva said. “I think everything else in here is real good.”

“You perceived the rosemary, which isn’t even on the plate. What else do you think is in this dish?”

“You want me to taste it and tell you what’s in it?”

Prager quit eating and crossed his arms. Now this chef guy was getting real annoying. The conversation had been going flawlessly until he showed up.

“Give it a shot,” Jobe said.

“Oh, boy.” Eva swallowed a bite and looked up at Jobe. “Let’s see. Parsley. Lemon.
Rosemary
. Black pepper. Salt. And I think it’s cooked in butter and something else, some kind of fat or tallow, maybe, I’m not sure.”

“Duck fat. Would’ve been shocked if you got that one. But very good. That was everything.”

“It was? It’s that simple?”

“It doesn’t have to be complicated. This dish won the silver medal at the Taste of Wisconsin last year.”

“Wow, really?”

“It’s mostly dependent on how fresh the ingredients are. Oh, and that said, you did forget one thing.”

This was starting to make Prager want to kick the guy. He caught the waitress’s eye, raised the bread basket (they had given them a whole basket of free bread for no reason!), and requested more free bread.

“Oh, duh, the walleye,” Eva said.

“Do you make walleye at home?”

“We can’t really afford that kinda stuff,” Eva said, averting his gaze.

“How often do you cook at home?”

“Every day, usually twice,” Eva said, looking back up at Jobe. “It’s just me and my dad, and he doesn’t cook, so someone’s got to.”

“And so what do you make at home?”

“I try to do something different every day. I work part-time at a health food store so I get a discount on stuff.”

Prager finally had an in. “She works at Whole Earth,” he said.

Jobe nodded. “What was the last thing you made?”

“Last night I made a vegetarian lasagna with quinoa pasta.”

Prager perked up. “I like quinoa. It’s got a lot of protein.”

Eva took another bite of her walleye. “I’d love to see how you did this sometime, it’s really an amazing piece of fish.”

“If you can come by around three or four on a weekday, sure,” Jobe said. “Just call me and we’ll figure something out.”

“What? You’re kidding.”

“Sure, if you can bring me a few things from Whole Earth. The restaurant will pay you back. “

“Oh my God, sure,” Eva said. “Whatever you want. I’ll use my employee discount.”

It was weird for Prager to see Eva so in awe of somebody.

“I should get back to the kitchen. Nice to meet you,” Jobe said, shaking Prager’s hand. “And very nice to meet you, Miss?”

“Thorvald, Eva Thorvald,” she said.

“Hope to see you soon,” Jobe said, and walked away.

“Wow, it was cool for you to know those ingredients,” Prager said, but Eva wasn’t finished with this moment yet. She was still glowing for at least a minute afterwards.

Prager dug back into his salad. “Just a shade too much lettuce in this,” he said.

 • • • 

At the end of the meal, the waitress asked them if they cared to see the dessert menu, and set it down in front of them anyway.

“Nope, I’m totally full,” Prager said. “Full, full, full.”

“You had too much bread,” Eva said. “Yeah, I’ll order the blackberry sorbet,” she said.

That was a five-dollar dessert. With the walleye, the salad, and the root beer, they were now at $31.92, before tax and tip. He held up his flip phone for her perusal. “Are you sure? It’s 8:26 p.m.,” he said, now grateful for her curfew.

“Oh, we can fudge it a little,” she said. “My dad likes you. He won’t mind.”

 • • • 

The waitress brought the bill over: $33.52.

“I got it,” Prager said. Wasn’t the tip supposed to be like 15 percent? This was gonna be like 5 percent. Which was probably real bad. Or were waitresses just happy to get a tip at all? He’d been watching the people who’d finished eating and they all were leaving cash on their tables.

“Well, thank you,” Eva said, putting her bag back down on the floor. “I actually forgot my wallet anyway.”

Prager wondered if there was still change in the ashtray of his dad’s car. Then he saw the waitress walk down the hall toward the restrooms.

“Let’s skedaddle,” he said, cramming the contents of his wallet under the bill as he stood to pull out Eva’s chair for her.

 • • • 

“Well, what an amazing culinary experience,” Eva said at 8:59 p.m., when Prager’s car parked in front of her apartment.

“Yeah, thanks for coming,” he said. He didn’t want to risk even The Current playing a vastly inappropriate song in this moment like, say, “The Distance” by Cake, or something by Rage Against the Machine or something, so he had his Built to Spill mix CD playing, and the song “Car” was on, the absolute perfect soundtrack for how he had premeditated this moment in his head.

“No,
thank
you,” she said, still sitting in his idling car, not moving.

“No, thank
you
,” he said.

“It was a great night,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said.

She sighed. And then she kissed him. And they kissed for a long-ass time.

On the way home his lips hurt and his hard-on wouldn’t go away and he had to turn the defroster on and roll down the windows as he drove home, they’d fogged the car up so bad.

 • • • 

Prager lay down on top of his bed that night, in his clothes, staring up toward the Radiohead poster tacked to the drop ceiling in his bedroom, and he put on the song “In the Aeroplane over the Sea,” by Neutral Milk Hotel. Ever since he first heard this song, he wanted someone to think of when he heard it, and now he had her, he had the beautiful face he had found in this place, and he turned off the lights and put the song on repeat, a more complete man than he was that morning, lying there in the dark, falling in love with somebody.

 • • • 

“So why didn’t you have sex with her all night long?” Vik Gupta asked him. “If you miss band practice to be with a woman, you should be having sex all night long. In fact, you should be late for school today because you should still be banging her.”

Prager leaned against the wall opposite the Pepsi machine. “The night was almost perfect the way it was.”

“I should be able to hear you from here. You should be having sex so loud right now, I should start to wonder if I’m the one having sex.”

“The only problem was the chef. He came out of the kitchen in the middle of our meal, and totally hit on her.”

“Why, that’s rather gauche of him.”

“Yeah, he was telling her, like, I’ll teach you to cook walleye, like right there in front of me.”

“You should be the one cooking walleye for her, my friend.”

“Well, yeah. But one of their deals is, their walleye is super fresh, like right out of Mille Lacs Lake. Nothing I can just go buy in a store is gonna compete with that.”

“Then I know what you do, Prager. You go straight to that lake.”

 • • • 

Prager had to make the most of his few moments in fifth period before Killer Keeley moved him to the front row. He saw Eva, wearing a plain black V-neck T-shirt and skinny black jeans, and her presence suffocated all of his big plans to say the cute things he’d practiced in the bathroom mirror. He hadn’t even texted her since last night, and even though he’d assembled a perfect image of her in his head, it still paled beneath the force of her face and body in real life. Even as she sat slumped in her desk, writing something in pen on the side of her hand, everything about her seemed fragrant and American and glowed like neon. He walked up to her, unaware of just how much he was smiling. She was smiling too, maybe back at him, maybe because he was.

“Hey,” he said. He looked at what was written on her hand. It was the word “Moonglow.”

“Hey.” She smiled.

There wasn’t much time to act, but in twenty seconds he’d secured a decisive yes for an all-day fishing date that Saturday. He was getting better at this.

 • • • 

Prager waited until Wednesday to ask his dad permission to put a canoe on top of the car and use it for a full Saturday. His dad was in the garage, underneath the Ford, his legs sticking out toward the doorway to the kitchen where Prager was standing. A transistor radio in the garage
was playing “In the Mood for a Melody” by Robert Plant. It was another beautiful September day outside, but the garage door was closed and the air had the warm sweet stink of oil.