The Art, and Science, of Cooking

Risotto

Heather Serrano (@Serrano3H)

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This is an excerpt from the author’s Five Days in May, a work in progress. It is set in the Manhattan apartment of Mimi, who the world expects will be engaged to Roger by her fortieth birthday, in less than a week’s time.

At 5:30, Mimi was in her kitchen unpacking her groceries—chicken breasts for piccata, lemons, risotto, garlic, asparagus, wine, and crusty bread—as she listened to Roger’s message.

{“Hi, wondering how my girl is doing today. I have been stuck in another day of meetings, all through lunch with the typical soggy sandwiches. Anyway, hope you made it to Saks and picked out the perfect dress for your big day. Love you.”}

She felt a pang of guilt. Two pangs. He would be out running by now, so there was no need to call. Up until four days ago, she was sure she loved him too…at least enough. But then the handsome disheveled man from West Texas appeared on her stoop.

After a shower, full on shave (because it had been days, and no other reason), and the application of liberal amounts of her expensive lotion, Mimi slipped a white sundress over her head. It was one she found hanging in the back of her closet from her Florida days. Her hair hung loose and curly, and she applied shiny gloss to her lips.

She walked into the kitchen to start pounding chicken and said, “Alexa, turn on classical.” Her phone rang. Perfect timing…

“Hello mother, I just have a minute…”

“The zoo? The Bronx Zoo?”

Crap. “Um, what are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. While the rest of us, mainly Roger, are worried sick about you, you were spotted parading around at the Bronx Zoo today with someone who could only be described as a homeless man in cowboy boots,” Candice scoffed.

She choked back a laugh. “Who ratted me out?”

“Barbara Silverman was there with her daughter and grandchildren. And you were eating pink popcorn? The horror!”

“Does Roger know? Wait, that’s a dumb question. Of course Roger knows.”

There was a long pause.

“Did you ever think of talking to me first?”

*    *    *    *

“That didn’t sound like a friendly conversation,” Andy said, standing at her door. He was holding a six pack in one hand, a bouquet of yellow tulips in the other, and one of his uncle Henry’s paintings against his leg. It was a floral of yellow tulips in a blue vase.

“Oh, just mother on a Wednesday night. Come on in.” She took the flowers. “These are beautiful. And the painting! I do love this one.”

“Well, you said they were your favorite.”

“I did?” she asked, flustered and unsure.

“I don’t know. I just went with it. Listen, if this isn’t a good time…”

“No, c’mon in. I think I just blew up my life, so this is a perfect time as any.”

“What happened?”

“We were outed at the zoo.”

There was music playing as she methodically pounded chicken, squeezed lemon, chopped asparagus and onions, and stirred rice, all while taking generous sips of her white wine. Andy was engrossed, watching her cook. Aside from his mother, he had never watched another woman cook. The feelings he had watching her now made him think he had been missing out on something all these years. Her movements seemed to coincide with the music. When she brought a spoon to her mouth and delicately touched it with her tongue, he picked up his beer bottle and shifted in his chair, willing his desire away. This Roger guy is crazy, he thought.

She didn’t talk much throughout the preparation. He could tell she was in deep thought, constantly checking her phone. But forty-five minutes after she started, she placed a beautiful plate of food in front of him. “This is my famous Chicken Piccata and Risotto with asparagus.”

“Looks terrific. My mama fries all her chicken. This should be a real treat.” He took a bite. “Tastes terrific too.”

“Thanks,” she said, staring straight ahead, no interest in her food, and surprisingly, in his sexy Texan drawl.

“So…um…does your mood have something to do with the zoo?”

“My mother’s friend spotted us.”

“Are caged animals against the law?”

“Not the law, but against my life’s protocol.”

He chuckled. “You are so awesome. I don’t see why you just can’t be yourself around your family or Roger.”

She stood and looked at her phone next to the stove. “I can’t believe I haven’t heard from him.”

“I guess you do care.”

“Of course I care. I should have been honest. Not let it go…this far.” She sat back down and sighed heavily. “What time is your flight tomorrow?”

“I leave at noon. I should be on the road pretty early, huh?”

“I can take you.”

“You have a car?”

“Yes. It’s parked in a lot two blocks away. I only use it for the now rare getaway. We usually take Roger’s….” her voice trailed.

They were quiet again. He’d eaten half of his food. She’d barely touched hers. In their silence, the classical music seemed louder. It was nothing he had ever heard before…and in all likelihood, would never hear again.

“Can I ask where that music is coming from? I don’t see a stereo or anything,” he asked.

“Oh, it’s coming from my…” she lowered her voice lest the device hear her, “Alexa. You know what that is, right?”

“I’ve heard of it. We even have running water back home.” They laughed. “Um, can it play country music?”

“Of course! It can play anything.”

He stood. “Well then, I’d like to ask for a dance.”

She took a sip of wine. “I don’t know. I’m not in the mood for dancing. And I’m not very good at it. What’s that dance you cowboys do?”

“The two step. It’s easy. I’ll lead.” He could tell she was still hesitating, and he gently grabbed her hand and exaggerated his country drawl. “I’m purdy good at it.”

“Alexa, put on Garth Brooks.”

The Onion Tart

Marian L Thorpe (@marianlthorpe)

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‘Kirthan del Candre de Guerdián en Leste wishes an audience with Cenric bé Casille.’ I read the first line of the note and rolled my eyes. Why were the Lestians so pompous? Then I frowned. Why was Benedit de Guerdián’s older brother asking to see me? I’d dealt with Benedit over the importation of spices for more than a decade. Kirthan, if my memory served, concerned himself with trade further east, with Beria and beyond. Was Benedit ill?

I supposed I’d better see him. And not here, at my office at Casille’s docks. No member of the de Guerdián family was to be entertained, even for business, in a ledger-lined room at one end of a warehouse. No more than I would expect to be, were it I who had taken ship for Leste and requested the meeting.

I wrote a reply, sealed it, and handed it to the boy waiting, along with a small coin. Then—“Wait,” I said, and scribbled another note. I handed it over. “Deliver the first to Aldor de Guerdián, and the second to my home,” I instructed. “Do not dawdle, and there will be another coin from the housekeeper.” She, I knew, would not be pleased to be told, so late in the day, that there would be company for the evening meal, and what was served needed to be less plain than our daily fare.

The boy ran off to earn his coins, and I returned to my account books. After a moment, though, I put my pen down. I should have sent a third note, to the Street of the Healers where my sister had her treatment rooms. Without knowing she should return home early enough to prepare for a guest, Luce was likely to appear halfway through the meal in her working tunic and leggings. They could even be stained with fluids I didn’t want to think about.  Kirthan del Candre de Guerdián en Leste would not be impressed.

Messenger boys were not in short supply. I opened the office door and shouted. Three or four ran towards me, elbowing each other and grabbing at tunics in an effort to be the first to arrive. They lined up outside the door, attempting to look responsible and reliable. I picked the oldest. The Street of the Healers was across the city, a fair distance. I didn’t want the boy stopping to rest halfway there.

The note to my sister written and sent, I finished the accounting. Then I took my cloak from its hook on the wall, shrugged into it, and stepped out into the late afternoon. Gulls screamed, men shouted, rigging jingled. The air smelt of fish and salt, of spices and sweat and the sharp odour of a smashed jug of vinegar, and behind that, the faintly foul smell of the water. In high summer, faintly foul changed to frankly fetid.

But it was mid-autumn, and so the harbour was less noisome. With the sun dropping into the west, I was glad of my cloak. I walked away from the sounds and scents of the docks, leaving the broad paving stones of the warehouse yards for the cobbles of the streets that ran slightly uphill into the heart of Casille. Different sounds, and different smells here, some pleasant, some not. At least the wind was blowing southeast, the stench of the tanneries carried out to sea.

When the steward announced Aldor Kirthan de Guerdián some hours later, I was ready, dressed in a fine wool tunic with silk trim, my best leather house shoes on my feet. One ring, set with a ruby, graced my right hand. The steward stepped aside to allow our guest in.

A fire burned on the hearth, and lamps lit the room against the falling dusk. The flames reflected off the polished wood of the chests and panelling, making the room—and the man who had just entered—glow. Kirthan del Candre de Guerdián en Leste looked as if he were made of autumn oak leaves, shades of gold and brown from the short curls of his hair to the tips of his polished boots. His tunic had insets of bronze silk, the sleeves embroidered with what could only be gold thread. Yet there was something untamed about him that the trappings of wealth could not disguise.

I realized I was staring, and then I realized the smile—no, the grin—on his face told me he was aware of his effect. On me, Cenric bé Casille, a man of mature years and a merchant of standing and not insignificant influence. But, oh, he was beautiful. And he was holding out a dish to me, covered in a cloth.

“Thank you for seeing me, Aldor bé Casille. I have brought something for the meal, with your indulgence,” he said.

I found my voice. “You are most welcome, Aldor de Guerdián. But—” I tilted my head to show mild surprise. “Is this a Lestian custom, to bring food to a host’s house? Or perhaps a Berian one you have adopted, as your brother has not followed it in his visits?”

He was still holding the dish out. I took it: to do otherwise would be impolite. Should I remove the cloth?

“Not a custom of either Leste or Beria,” de Guerdián said, his amusement evident. “I have brought a tart so that you can taste the quality of the safran I have come to offer you, how it retains and deepens its flavour after cooking. What better way to convince you it is worth its price, Aldor bé Casille?”

“Safran?” Only the very wealthiest could afford safran, the golden threads harvested from an autumn-flowering bulb in countries beyond the eastern end of the Nivéan Sea. It took, I had been told, hundreds of thousands of flowers to produce even a small amount of the dried spice. “Aldor, I am afraid—”

“That I have been misled as to your ability to invest in such an expensive trade?” That grin again, and a long-fingered hand run through already tousled curls. “Will you hear me out, bé Casille?  And should we sit?”

“Of course,” I said hastily. I had forgotten my manners. What would he think of me? “Wine?”

“Certainly.  My brother has praised your cellar.”

I poured two glasses. De Guerdián held his out, letting the firelight shine through it. “Fine glass.” He sipped. “And the wine does it justice.  Now, Cenric—I may call you that?”

“Please.” You may call me anything you like, I thought, watching a finger caress the bowl of the wine glass.

“I have spent much time in Beria, as you will know. They have recently begun to grow safran, in certain regions where the soil and rainfall and temperatures are to its liking. The harvest is still small. But it struck me that those conditions could also be met on Leste itself, and so two years ago I—” He licked his lips. I put my wine down, before it spilled. “Shall we just say I obtained some bulbs myself, and took them home.”

What he was saying penetrated. “You are growing safran on Leste?”

“I am.” He grinned. “And I am offering you the first harvest, and an opportunity to invest in its production. But shall we taste that tart, before you decide?”

“Why me?” I asked. There were other merchants, some with greater networks.

“My brother,” he answered, “thought we would find certain commonalities. I believe he was right.”

I had no chance to frame an answer: the steward knocked and entered. “A message, Aldor. From your sister. She has been called to attend a patient, and sends her apologies.”

“Thank you,” I said. I didn’t think I minded. “Will you bring us two plates, and forks, and a knife, please?”

He would only be gone a minute. I watched the man sitting across from me. He sat perfectly still, legs crossed at the ankle, but for one finger moving on his wine glass. Neither of us spoke. The fire crackled.

“Is there something you would like me to serve?” my steward asked, returning. I shook my head, dismissing him.

“Shall I?” De Guerdián rose, fluidly, going to the chest where I had placed the tart. He lifted the cloth. The scent of onion—and yes, safran—rose. The pastry was fluted and perfectly browned; the surface of the custard nearly as golden as his skin.

He pushed his sleeves back before he made a cut. My throat tightened. There would be a bracelet—in gold, of course—on one arm. Surely. He was older than I, by a few years. He could not be unattached, although I had heard of no alliance. But the fine bones of his wrists were unadorned.

“Your cook,” I said, trying to regain some equilibrium, “has baked a fine tart.”

He finished cutting the slice, lifting it carefully onto the plate. “Not my cook. I baked this.”

“You?” This elegant, feral man?

He cut a small piece and speared it with the fork. “I must know how the spices I offer behave in various dishes. How the tastes change with cooking, or when mixed with other ingredients. I can watch a cook carefully, or I can do it myself. I prefer”—he moved to crouch beside me, extending the fork to my lips—“not to watch.”

I accepted the morsel of tart onto my tongue, tasting the onion first. Then the earthy sweetness of safran, like a rich honey, took my attention. I closed my eyes to better concentrate on the flavour, letting the custard dissolve. A finger touched my mouth, brushing away crumbs of pastry.

I swallowed, parted my lips. “Kirthan,” I whispered.

“Kirt,” he said. “To my friends.” The fingers moved to my chin, tilting it upward.

He tasted like wine, like the scents of ripe fruit carried on the wild winds of autumn. A long kiss, before he drew back.

“So,” he said, one hand on my knee. “Are you interested, Cenric, in a partnership?”

The recipe for the onion tart is below. It was adapted by my father, medieval cookery being one of his many hobbies, from The Forme of Cury, a cookbook printed in 1378.

2 c onions, sliced
2 Tbsp butter
2 eggs + 2 yolks
1/8 tsp saffron
½ c raisins, plumped in warm water and  drained
¼ c currants
¼ tsp each of ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg
1 c heavy cream
2 tsp sugar
1/8 tsp pepper
½ tsp salt
9-inch pastry shell, baked

Infuse the saffron in the cream. Fry the onions in the butter until golden, set aside. Beat the eggs and the yolks in a bowl. Heat the cream slowly until small bubbles appear; beat in the eggs. Add onions, raisins, currants and spices. Pour into the prepared pie shell and bake at 350o for 25-30 minutes, until set.

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It was dark when I awoke. I had no idea what time it was, but all I heard were the passing buses on Central Park West and the occasional voices moving up or down the block. It was very cold outside, but the window was open just a bit. I once asked someone why it gets so damn warm in New York apartments. He said it is something about this underground steam system that heated most of the older brownstones in Manhattan. The knobs on the radiators didn’t particularly work, so one gets used to leaving the window open a bit even when, like today, it’s about 20 degrees outside. You get used to the noise, too. Of course, I don’t have an air conditioner and with my windows open in the summer and pretty much all year round noise doesn’t bother me.

What may have awakened me, though, was more pleasant and more visceral. Through the gap between my door and the floor came the fragrance of sauteed vegetables with “All Things Considered” on at a low volume. So that’s where she was. After lying back with my eyes closed to savor that familiar aroma, I roused myself and grabbed a robe to go to her.

My kitchen is small, but a good cook can do magical things there. She is a good cook and can do many magical things. And not just in the kitchen. When I reached her, she was leaning over the stove. Her left hand was holding the handle of a pan and her right held a wooden spoon she was using to move the various chopped vegetables around. It was a heavenly smell.

She wore one of my oversized Columbia shirts. When I stopped behind her and encircled her waist with my arms, being careful not to disrupt her cooking, she said without turning her head, “Hello, sleepyhead.”

I gave her a kiss on the right side of her neck.

“You don’t have to cook anything. I thought we could go out to dinner.”

“Why? Then I’d have to get dressed and it’s freezing out and then…I don’t know about the then, but I thought it’d be nice to stay in and see.”

I gave her another peck.

“That smells good,” I said.

“Thanks.” She paused. “You can check,” she said.

“Check what?”

“You know.”

I lowered my right hand to the bottom of my shirt on her body and, well, checked.

Without missing a beat or a turn of her spoon, she said, “Oh, behave.”

Having confirmed that she was, in fact, wearing one of my oversized Columbia shirts and nothing else, she gave me a bump check with her ass and I stepped back.

“Look,” she said as she turned at the stove. “You keep stirring, and let me get dressed.”

“They say the majority of accidents happen in the kitchen,” I told her, and she said, “Which is why I’m getting dressed.”

I took the spoon from her, and she gave me a kiss on the cheek and headed to the bedroom.

Well, I thought, that takes care of my dinner plans. I don’t generally have “dinner plans” as a rule and I didn’t for that night. I’d say I was a go-with-the-flow sort of guy, but it’s really a combination of inertia and a lack of imagination that leads me to microwave my dinner more times than not. Even on most Saturdays I didn’t have particular plans for going out. What can I say? I’m a homebody.

I’d run into her yet again when I was getting some staples at the Korean market on Columbus. It was then in the mid-20s and I was bundled up pretty much but she still recognized me. So we did what we usually did when we ran into each other. We returned to my place and had sex. Summer. Winter. Spring. Fall. The thing is that when we’re done, we both think it’s a mistake. Every time. See, the other thing is that we both always love actually doing it. It’s something unique. If either of us was in a relationship that was even approaching “serious” and we met, we’d do no more than catch up like normal adult friends do. More and more, though, neither of us was in such a relationship. Hell, my last one was, what, three months ago? And the thing about that last, doomed one–that’d be Susan–was that the sex was really…okay. And she couldn’t cook worth a damn.

Now, I’m not saying I’m Gordon Ramsey or anything, but I can throw together something that’s at least decent. Susan couldn’t.

This one, though. She was a master, or mistress, in the kitchen, as was evident right before me in the vegetables I was sautéing.

It wasn’t long before she was back in the pants and shirt, now with one of my wool sweaters on top with its sleeves pulled up to free her hands and no shoes and telling me to get dressed while she finished her cooking.

She found some rice in a cupboard and some two-day-old chicken in the fridge, and by the time I was back, she had the rice cooking in a pot and the chicken mixed in with the vegetables and it was a smell to die for.

“I took the liberty of opening a Cabernet,” she said when she heard me come out of the bedroom. “It’s on the table in the living room. There’s an extra glass.” She nodded in that direction.

I poured myself one. “You need a refill?” I asked, but she said she was good. She asked me to set the table, which I’ll confess to not doing very often, and somehow I found placemats, mismatched silverware, and even a couple of cloth napkins to put on the table.

“It’ll be in about ten minutes. Then we can talk,” I heard. I gave her another kiss on the nape of her neck when I passed behind her to get the plates.

“No,” she said. “Leave them. I put the food on them here. You can be the waiter. For now, go sit down. About five minutes now.”

I sat on the sofa with my phone, but couldn’t resist looking at her. She is gorgeous, no more so than when I study her and she doesn’t realize it. She was in profile, her right arm gently making circles in the pan and now and then dipping a different spoon into the pot to check on the rice. She turned back to the pan and took a spoonful to taste it and I could make out a sotto voce “not half bad.” It was all like some ballet. Not the herky-jerky modern but some smooth, precise, beautiful Balanchine.

Suddenly there was all manner of movement. She was grabbing the pot and pouring the rice into the colander. She had taken a little-used large white bowl from a cupboard and poured the rice into it. A quick bit of water into the empty pot and that was in the sink. She then lifted the pan and slowly poured its contents in before rinsing that out and returning it to the stove.

“Pour me more wine,” she asked midmotion, and I did and topped off my own glass. I could see her very delicately stir her concoction and then dole it out onto the pair of plates.

“Come and get it,” she called to me before removing the dish towel she’d tucked into her jeans as a sort of apron. I lifted the plates and gave her a kiss on the lips as I brought them out and set them on the table.

She surprised me by carrying a candle she’d found in a kitchen drawer that she’d lit and put into a candlestick and brought it to the table and then went to turn off the light.

When we were settled, she lifted her glass with the candle light’s reflection flickering and I did the same and we clinked them. I took a sip, and she took more than a sip.

“This looks very good,” I said as I lifted my fork.

“Thank you,” she said. “Let’s talk.