The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake: A Novel (20 page)

43
Sunday morning, I walked over to the cafe for work.

It was a fair May morning, air cleaner than usual, the rugged San Fernando Mountains detailed in the distance as if cars had never been invented. I was early; the doors of La Lyonnaise were still closed.

I walked around the brick wall storefront, watching birds hop on the telephone lines, and knocked at the back until Monsieur turned the knob and let me in.

By ten, about seven or so hungry people had gathered outside the cafe, and when the door opened, they all headed inside to take their spots for brunch. Outside, a light wind from the ocean blew the air clean, and this was the air that followed them in, washing through the restaurant. I washed dishes for three hours, my head full of my father and George and hospitals and straps, and as the line of silverware eased I asked the main waiter if I could take a half-hour break for lunch. When he said yes, I left the kitchen for a change and headed over to the wine-tasting counter, where I sat myself on one of the stools between a big man with heavy jowls and a petite dark-haired woman wrapped in a red scarf. Monsieur came over from the back room, wiping his cheeks down with the sheet of his hand.

Mimosa? he said, pulling down a champagne glass.

Sure, said the jowly man.

I'd like to try a food tasting, I said.

Monsieur cocked his head. Late-morning wake-up lines still radiated from his eye corners.

A food tasting? he said.

A glass of Chardonnay, please, said the petite woman in the red scarf. Monsieur lifted another glass off the wall, set it upright.

Could I eat my food here, and tell you what I taste in it? I asked, my voice wavering a little.

Monsieur shrugged. I suppose so, he said. Aren't you our dishwasher?

I am, I said.

Good work, said Monsieur.

Sounds fun, said the man. Can I too?

Monsieur popped the cork out of a bottle of white wine, and poured a shimmering glass for the woman.

A quiche, please, I said.

Quiche, echoed the man. Delicious.

The woman with the red scarf spent a few focused minutes with her nose buried in the rim of the wineglass. Madame wandered out from the back, where the smell of caramelizing onions drifted out to us at the counter, like a greeting of midday and sweetness and industry, and she and Monsieur spent a few minutes talking closely, his hand resting easily on the nape of her neck. A waiter ducked into the kitchen and returned with two small plates, holding pie slices of golden-crusted yellow quiche. Monsieur filled another glass of wine for a table, and then brought out the
New York Times
Sunday crossword and a bitten-up pencil. He perched on his stool, behind the counter, and began reading through the clues.

Next to me, the jowly man grabbed his plate. Outside, cars drove up and down Vermont, ducking into parking spots. I looked down at the quiche, with its crisped brown golden edges.

Picked up my fork.

The man next to me ate his mouthful in a rush.

So--we say what we taste in here? he said.

Sure, I said.

Eggs, he said. I taste eggs.

I laughed. Monsieur kept his eyes on his crossword, which was blank.

Yup, Monsieur said, to the page. True, true. There are definitely eggs in quiche.

And this wine has a hint of roses? said the woman next to me.

I took a bite of my quiche, made with such warmth and balance, and swallowed.

I just want to add that the eggs are from Michigan, I said.

The jowly man pursed his lips. We're not talking about location, he said. He took another bite. Cream, he said.

I pulled my stool in closer, to the counter. Madame came over from the kitchen and stood in the door frame.

Yes, she said. There is cream in quiche.

Actually, I think it's half-and-half, I said.

No, she said, but she blushed a little. Ah, she said. It's you. Monsieur glanced up, from his crossword.

I'm on a break, I said.

She nodded, distracted. Her eyes skated up the side wall.

See, there are two different milks, I said, leaning in, on my stool. One is cream, from Nevada, I think, due to the slightly minty flavor, but then there's regular milk too, from Fresno.

Well, she said. She stepped into the kitchen and I heard her open up the refrigerator, take out a carton.

Monsieur carefully placed four letters into boxes. Quiche Lorraine, he said, to the paper. Named for the Lorraine region of northeastern France, eaten as early as the sixteenth century. German influence.

Ham, said the lady in the red scarf.

I took a sip of water.

Organic pigs, I added. Northern California, I said.

She's making this up, said the jowly man.

Am I right? I said.

Monsieur twirled his pencil, chuckling.

How do you know they're organic? he said.

It's in the aftertaste, I said. Grainier. I'm thinking east of Modesto, I said.

Fresno, said Monsieur, pffing. Same as the milk, he said. There's a farmer we really like. Ben.

The butter is French butter, I said. Not pasteurized. The parsley is from San Diego. The parsley farmer is a jerk.

Ah! said Monsieur, hitting the counter. I don't know why we keep going to him, he said. He is such a jerk.

You can taste that? said the red-scarf woman.

In the way it was picked, I said. He picks it rudely.

Madame stepped back, into the bar area. Nice job with the milk, she said. Did you look in the fridge?

How about nutmeg? said the woman with the red scarf. Madame nodded, and the woman flushed. It's a tricky one, said Madame, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her apron strap. People never expect it.

Monsieur looked at me directly, waiting.

Far, I said. Indonesia? Standard fare.

Dough, said the big man.

Local, I said. I think you made it yourself.

I made it, said Monsieur. Myself. Last night.

Delicious, I said.

Why are they eating at the wine counter? asked Madame.

Sea salt, said the woman with the red scarf.

You're not even eating, said the jowly man.

It's a food tasting, I said. Instead of a wine tasting.

The crust, mused the man. The crust is--

I took another bite. Let the information rise up, slow. Monsieur had stopped working on the crossword, and I could sense him watching me now. Alert. The sharpened feeling of being paid close attention to.

The cook is a little disillusioned, I said.

Mmm, said Madame, leaning against bottles of wine.

The big man next to me wiped his brow with a napkin. Disillusionment is not an ingredient, he said.

But I had her eyes in mine, and I was keeping them.

But the cook loves to mix, I said. Loves the harmony of putting the right ingredients together. Loves to combine.

That's true, said Monsieur, nodding.

The woman in the red scarf stopped sniffing her glass to listen.

There was also a little hurry during the mixing, I said. It's about eight minutes fast? I said.

The man next to me raised his hand. Or chives? he said.

Eight minutes, I said. Were you rushed?

Maybe four, dismissed Madame.

Monsieur looked up at the ceiling, thinking.

While she was making the quiche, she was planning on calling Edith, he said. Our daughter, he said, looking at me. Remember, Marie?

Behind the counter, Madame was rearranging wine bottles. It looked like she was taking one bottle out, and then trading it with another bottle of the same brand.

It tastes about eight minutes too fast, I said.

Edith was in crisis, Monsieur said. She cannot pass Japanese.

Madame put down a bottle. Not eight minutes, she said, to me.

Eight, I said.

She is bad at writing kanji, said Monsieur.

Five minutes, said Madame.

Monsieur shrugged. A very small smile settled on his lower lip.

There is also a tinge of sadness in the cook, I said.

Now he put down his pencil for good, and folded up the crossword.

In us all, he nodded.

I shifted in my seat. Re-rolled my napkin. It was the first time in a long time that I'd gone full out with my impressions. I had wanted to introduce myself, to people I wanted to meet. That was the whole of it.

On my other side, the woman in the red scarf stared at my plate again.

The pastry crust is made of flour, butter, and sugar, she said.

Done! said Madame, stepping forward.

The focus broke, and Madame poured the woman a free half-glass of wine, and the man finished his quiche, and talked to Monsieur with great animation about various kinds of bacon. I stayed in my seat. While Monsieur and the man laughed, Madame stepped a little closer to me.

How did you do that? she said, in a low voice.

I don't know, I said. I just can do it.

She reached her arms over the counter. Someone called to both of them from the kitchen, and they spun off to tend to other customers, but I knew I wasn't done. While I waited, the woman with the red scarf tapped me on the shoulder.

She smiled at me.

Hi, she said.

I told her good job, on guessing the dough without even tasting it.

Now, did you know all the food information in advance? she said. She was fumbling in her purse for something. She had an awake face, eyes shining like a small bird's.

No, I said.

You're quite knowledgeable, said the woman, pushing aside gum wrappers and pens. She blinked up at me. The red scarf brought out something in her cheeks, some good kind of redness.

Thanks, I said. I pushed my napkin around the table. It's just this thing, I said.

The woman said aha! and brought out a business card, sliding it over to me across the counter. On it was her name, and a job description for something to do with the schools.

So you can tell things, in the food? she said. Fixing her eyes on me.

I didn't blink. Yes, I said.

Many things?

Yes, I said. Many.

Why don't you give me a call, then, she said, and her giddy guessing self dropped away, and her eyes settled firmly on mine, and she seemed nice, nicer, suddenly. I might be able to use you, she said.

I picked up her card, held it at all four corners.

I work with teenagers, she said.

She turned, and left the room. She didn't look back, but the card was a little rectangular piece of her. I put it in my pocket.

The bar had cleared by then. The jowly man had left, joining the rest of the daily traffic. Monsieur and Madame were busying themselves at the counter, sorting through orders, putting away glasses. Madame still kept her eyes on the tables, checking, but the feeling of it had changed. The distance of before was now the discomfort and shyness of going on a first date with someone you think you might like.

Monsieur walked to the front of the bar, from the other side. He held out his hand. We shook.

What's your name again?

Rose, I said. Rose Edelstein.

Well, Rose Edelstein, he said, it looks like we should all go grab some coffee.

44
So you want to become a cook? Madame said as we walked to their car, together.

I'm not sure yet, I said.

Am I giving you cooking lessons?

Maybe, I said. I just want to be around while you cook. Is that okay? That's the main thing, I said.

A food critic?

I just want to learn more about it, I said. I didn't go to college.

I don't care about that, she said. How old are you again?

Twenty-two, I said.

Can you chop onions?

I think so, I said.

Well, then, she said, pulling a red net bag of onions from the trunk of her car. Then that's where we'll begin.

45
When people asked my mother where Joseph had gone, she said he was on a journey. It was a word she liked, full of quest and literature and nobility of spirit. Sometimes she said he was in the Andes, learning about ancient cultures. Other times a deep-sea diver, off a coast in Australia, or else a surfer; depending on her mood, he either rode the waves or searched beneath them. She moved his grandparent fund into a high-interest low-activity account at the bank, where the money built upon itself.

She still spent most of her time at the studio, and for a while, her projects became very small and intricate: Wooden marbles, or wooden pillboxes, with embroidered flowers. Refined wooden tripods, on which to place small wooden frames. She befriended a little girl down the street solely for the purpose of making an entire furnished dollhouse, but the girl was a tomboy, and when my mother found her perfect tiny bedroom set smashed by a basketball, she stopped.

Twice a week, I cooked for her. We took out the recipe books together, and she sat and asked about the restaurant and told me about the carpentry innovations while I went through the
Joy of Cooking
systematically. I insisted that she sit, that I didn't need help, that she'd cooked enough for a while. Once again, my salvation looked to any outsider like good and generous daughterliness. For months, we ate only appetizers, and then I moved to soups, and salads, and entrees. I skipped the recipes that sounded too difficult, and my mother picked her favorites and made requests.

She took comfort from what I made. I made it for her. I only ate a little, depending on how much I wanted to bear on any given day. The balances inside were changing, bit by bit, on a daily basis. When her birthday rolled around, I baked her a coconut cake with cream-cheese frosting, and we sat across from each other at the table with big textured slices. Eight, whispered my cake. You still just want to go back to eight, when you didn't know much about anything.

I set a cup of chamomile tea at her place. She thanked me, still beautiful, with fine lines sunning out now from the creases of her eyelids. We didn't talk about Larry anymore and her constant panic over Joseph had faded a little with time, but I could still see the tightening cross her forehead when she remembered that he was not calling, that it was the call time and the phone was not ringing. Where did he go? tugging at the edges of her eyes, in the tremble of her fork, and all I could give her was that cake: half blank, half filling, full of all my own crap, and there, with bands of sunshine reaching across the table, we ate the slices together.

Your best yet, my mother sighed, licking her fork.

We ate two slices each, that afternoon. Drank more tea. To elongate the time, more than anything.

Neither of us mentioned that we had reached the dessert section of the cookbook, after which was only the index.

After the cake, we cleaned up, as usual. Rinsed the bowls. Stuck the spatula in with the silverware. She said maybe she'd make me a lemon chocolate cake next time, but I put a hand on her shoulder gently and said I didn't really like lemon chocolate cake so much anymore.

But you used to! she said.

I used to, I said. A long time ago.

She ran the sponge along the inside of the sink, to clear it of leftover debris. She did not face me, but I could feel the vibration of tears, a kind of pain hive, rustling inside her. As she resettled the knives and forks in their dishwasher cup. As she squeezed the sponge dry. After a few minutes, she looked up, to watch out the kitchen window.

Sometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children.

I stood next to her, as if just listening in. Close. She said it out the window. To the flower boxes, in front of us, full of pansies and daffodils, bowing in at dusk. Where she had directed all her pleas and questions to her missing son, over the last few years. It was a fleeting statement, one I didn't think she'd hold on to; after all, she had birthed us alone, diapered and fed us, helped us with homework, kissed and hugged us, poured her love into us. That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, already moving back into the regular world, where such a thought was ridiculous, nonsensical, but I had heard it, standing there, and it was first thing she'd said in a very long time that I could take in whole.

I leaned over, and kissed her cheek.

From us both, I said.