FEAST

Course 1

“Pfffh.  Whatever.”

The invitation caught me by surprise and, quite frankly, I couldn’t figure out why it had been sent to me.  Anyone who knows me knows that I’m an elliptical galaxy away from being the type who goes in for those chichi dinners.  Give me a burger, fries, and a milkshake, and I’m good.  I only RSVPd because I thought it was a joke and I was curious to see who had gone to such elaborate measures to prank me.

“Thanks for calling,” said a female voice on the other end of the phone.  “We’re really looking forward to seeing you.”

“Yeah, well, not to be rude, but I haven’t really committed, yet.  And how, may I ask, did you get my name and address in the first place?  I’m pretty sure I don’t know—” I glanced down at the invitation, “Chef A.  At least not personally.”

“I understand that in this day and age, it might sound pretty suspicious, but I hope you’ll trust that this is legit.”

“Okaaay, that didn’t really answer my question.”

“I’m sorry.  Dara gave us your information.  I think she wanted it to be a surprise for you.”

I paused, not sure if I should be super intrigued or super steamed at Dara.

“She mentioned that this isn’t normally your thing, but she was hoping you might give it a try,” the voice continued.  “She seemed kind of excited to have the invitation sent to you.”

That was Dara.  Always giving me little nudges in the hope that I would come around to seeing things differently.  “All right,” I responded, “I guess I can do this for Dara’s sake.  Am I supposed to bring anything?”

“Just your appetite.”  I could hear the smile in the voice.

When the day arrived for this mystery dinner, I was surprised to discover that I was actually looking forward to it.  I had spent the month since receiving the invitation pretty much ignoring that piece of papyrus-looking paper stuck to my fridge with a Happy Bunny magnet.  I was reminded of its existence when Dara texted to remind me that the day was coming up soon.

Dinner at Chef A’s in just a couple days. Haha! I’m such a poet. 🤣😅 ~D

Oh, right. Almost forgot.

U will be there, right?  🙏🏼🤗

Yeah. Glad you reminded me, though.

What R friends 4?  😉😋

I wasn’t sure which I found more annoying, her refusal to spend the extra nanosecond to type out an actual word or her insistence on utilizing every available emoji.  But, although I found her texting habits less than grammatically and aesthetically pleasing to my admittedly demanding sensibilities, Dara had been a good and solid friend since we first met in college, and I didn’t want to disappoint her.

We arranged for me to pick her up so we could arrive together.  Another thing to love about Dara—she always remembered how much I hated showing up to social events by myself.  She jumped in my Prius and as I carefully navigated the traffic-laden roads to our destination, Dara chatted amiably about everything and nothing.

Two other cars were already parked outside when we arrived.

“How many people are supposed to be at this thing?”  I inquired as we walked to the front door.  My earlier excitement was beginning to wane with the prospect of having to make polite conversation with a bunch of total strangers.

“I’m not sure.  But it’ll be okay.  I’ll do all the talking and you can do your silent observer thing,” she winked and rang the doorbell before I could respond.

It took just a few seconds for the door to be opened and a woman who looked to be in her late sixties greeted us.  She was wearing a long-sleeved, burgundy cowl sweater with an ankle-length straight black skirt and boots.  Her brown hair, cut into an attractive asymmetrical pixie, had streaks of what at first looked blonde but on closer examination turned out to be more like a whitish gray.

  “Welcome!  Please, come in.  So glad you could make it, Dara.  Hello, my name is Laylah,” she said, looking at me warmly.  I recognized her voice from when I RSVPd.  “The other guests have already arrived and are in the den.  Just follow me.”

I glanced around as we were led to the den.  The house wasn’t overly fancy, but it did have a certain style.  Saltillo tile floors, exposed wooden beams on the ceiling, and almost floor-to-ceiling picture windows faced south and east.  I supposed this was the living area because there was a huge sectional couch, an overstuffed chair along with a recliner, and an enormous flat screen TV on the north wall, surrounded by some of the most gorgeous photos I’d ever seen.  It struck me how well coordinated all the colors in the room were from the tile that had been dyed a deep coffee to the cobalt blue and silver hues in the couch, chair, and recliner.  Even the photos perfectly complimented the color scheme.  The large Persian carpet was a fabulous finishing touch (and must have set the owner of the house back a pretty penny).  Whoever had decorated this house really knew what they were doing.

“Our last two guests have arrived,” announced Laylah when we reached the den.  It was a cozy room that felt like walking into a hug.  The couch and chairs looked like you could get lost in them, and the dark wood paneling on the walls reflected warm light from the fireplace.

There were three other people in the room, two men who I thought must be in their mid- to late thirties standing near the fireplace, and a woman who seemed a little older than Dara and me.  The men had been holding a quiet conversation when we walked in, but they stopped as soon as we entered.  One continued looking at us, the other began staring into the fireplace.  The woman had arranged herself on the couch, one leg tucked properly under the other, her hands laying lightly in her lap.  Her silver hair was arranged in one of those gorgeous up-dos that was meant to look like you spent two seconds on it when in reality it probably took forty-five minutes and two bottles of hairspray.

“Ladies,” Laylah continued, turning to us, “please make yourselves comfortable.  I’ll let you all introduce yourselves.  In the meantime, may I get you something to drink?”

Dara went with water, I asked for a ginger ale.  We stood there for a moment, me feeling increasingly awkward with every passing second.  I was grateful for the distraction from awkwardness when Laylah brought us our drinks.

“If you all will excuse me, I’ll go check on the canapés.”  Laylah turned and walked out, leaving the five of us to stare at each other or various objects in the den.

After Laylah left, I decided that the bubbles in my ginger ale were the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.  Suddenly, the man who had been looking at us sort of shook himself, then crossed the room to where we were standing, extending his hand as he reached us.

“Hi,” he said in a slightly shaky voice.  “I’m Santiago.  It’s nice to meet you.”

Dara readily took the proffered hand and said, “Oh, hi.  It’s nice to meet you, too.  My name is Dara, and this is my friend, Abigail.”

I shook Santiago’s slightly sweaty hand as he motioned with his head towards the other young man.  “That’s my friend, Aholien.”

“Ah-hole-een?”  Dara tried her best to repeat the name.

“People usually call me Lee,” offered Aholien.  “It makes it easier on them.”

“Easier isn’t necessarily better,” I muttered under my breath.  Or at least I thought it was under my breath.

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Aholien said quietly, his eyes briefly darting in my direction before returning to fire.  I decided he either had bionic hearing or he was an excellent lip reader.  The den was on the small side, but still.

“Sorry,” I began, “I didn’t mean to be rude.  I just think sometimes we tend to go too easy on people.”

“You are absolutely right,” chimed in the woman who had been sitting down.  She stood, struggling slightly to lift herself gracefully off the overstuffed couch as she said firmly, “A person’s name is their name and other people should take the trouble to learn it correctly.”

Santiago turned slightly and took a small step towards her, putting his hands out in what I thought looked like a placating gesture.  Before he could say anything, Dara jumped in and walked over to introduce herself.

“Hi, we didn’t mean to ignore you.  I’m Dara.”

“Not to worry, I didn’t feel ignored, I assure you.  It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dara.  My name is Aaliya.”  She shook Dara’s hand and sat down again, motioning for Dara to join her on the couch.  “I’m so eager to see what Chef has in store for us tonight,” she said in that conspiratorial manner some women use when they first meet other women.

“Me, too!  I’ve never been to a formal, multi-course meal before, although it’s been a dream of mine forever,” Dara returned.   “This is the first time I’ve been invited to Chef A’s house for a meal.”

“Did Laylah say something about canapés?” Santiago asked.  He had returned to standing by the fireplace near Aholien, but he was looking at Dara and directed his next question to her.  “What’s a canapé?”

Aaliya responded.  “It’s a type of hors d’oeuvre, typically a small piece of bread or pastry, usually with some kind of savory topping.”  I thought she sounded like a Wikipedia page.

As if on cue, Laylah returned and this time there was a man with her.  He looked to be about the same age as Laylah.  He was just slightly taller than her and he looked like he spent a lot of time in the sun, although as he walked past me, I didn’t notice any of the usual tell-tale signs of too much sun exposure, at least not on his face.  Both he and Laylah were carrying trays.  The man went to serve Santiago and Aholien while Laylah went to the couch and offered the canapés to Dara and Aaliya.  I followed her and sat next to Dara, waiting while Aaliya commented on what was on the tray in front of her without taking anything off of it.

“Is this it?” she asked, somewhat incredulously.

“Yep!” replied Laylah cheerfully.  “Hey, Drew, what are these called?”

The man who was standing with Santiago and Aholien said in a soft, deep voice, “I’m pretty sure I heard Chef A call them ‘The Good Stuff’ or something like that.”

“But there’s nothing on these canapés except butter!” Aaliya exclaimed.

“Exactly.”  Laylah grinned and I couldn’t help but smile along with her.  “What could be better than butter?”

“Well—” Aaliya began.

Laylah looked at me and winked, motioning her head towards the tray.  I didn’t need to be asked twice, as I am a huge fan of all things butter.  I have no problem admitting to being a child of the microwave age, but my one food conceit has always been butter.  No margarine or “buttery spread” has ever passed these lips.  I picked up the small, flat piece of bread spread thickly with what I thought was run of the mill butter, completely unprepared for what met my mouth.  The flatbread was crunchy but it didn’t explode into a thousand pieces when I bit down.  Instead, it just sort of crumbled apart, mixing perfectly with the almost indescribably smooth creaminess of the butter.  The texture of the butter was unlike anything I’d experienced.  I’d had hard butter and whipped butter and melted butter, but this was somewhere in between hard and whipped.  There was a slight tang to it, too, almost like it had been slightly fermented.  I couldn’t tell if the salt came from the bread or the butter or both.  All I knew is that it was the perfect amount and I wanted more of that crunchy, creamy, salty taste sensation.

As I reached for another canapé, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Dara was looking at me and smiling.

“Whatever.”  I stuffed another canapé in my mouth, smiling back at her.

Laylah had set the tray down on the low coffee table and sat down in a chair next to my end of the couch.  Drew came over and sat his tray down next to Laylah’s, then went back to stand near Santiago and Aholien.  We all ate in silence for a few minutes, Laylah and Drew joining us.  Aaliyah finally decided she couldn’t resist the simple hors d’ouevres and I could tell by the look on her face after her first bite that she was experiencing something similar to what I had experienced.

“Where did you get this butter?” I asked Laylah.  “I’ve never had anything like it.  Is it imported?”

“No, but it is handmade,” she replied.  “Old school.”

“You mean handchurned?” Aaliya queried.

“Bag churned,” said Laylah.

“I beg your pardon?” Aaliya looked quite surprised.

“We put the cream in a goatskin bag, tied the bag to a pole, then swung it around until, voila!  Butter.  Old school,” Laylah explained.

“More like ancient school,” Drew offered.

“You say potato...” Laylah flashed Drew another one of her infectious grins.  “Pretty sure my grandmother-in-law made it in a similar way.”

“Oh really?  Was she raised on a farm?” Dara asked, always interested in people’s family history.

“You could say that.  Her husband was a sort of wandering animal herder.”

“Were the two of you close?”

“I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing her back then.  But man, the stories I heard!  She was quite a character.  Strong-willed, never afraid to speak her mind, and oh so beautiful.  I heard she could turn the heads of kings in her day.”  Laylah paused.  “There was a time when I would have given anything to have even a hair follicle of her beauty.”

I glanced at Laylah.  I thought I heard regret in her voice, but when I studied her face a little closer, I realized that what I was hearing was more a settled amusement.  I don’t know that I would have considered her classically beautiful at first glance, but she had a strength and a contentment in her demeanor that I envied.

Drew moved away from the fireplace and stood behind Laylah’s chair, laying his hand on her shoulder.  It wasn’t a romantic gesture, more like an encouragement between good friends who knew each other really well.  She smiled up at him.

“I hope you’ve all enjoyed the bread and butter,” Drew said after a moment.

Everyone either nodded or said they had.  Something suddenly occurred to me.

“How did you know none of us would be gluten intolerant?” I asked.

“Chef A knows Aholien and Dara, and Santiago and Aaliya have dined with us on occasion before, so we were already familiar with their food preferences,” Drew responded.  “Laylah found out from Dara that you had no issues with wheat.  And it was very important to Chef A that the meal begin with bread.”

“Why is that?” I was curious since bread has become a bad word to so many people these days.

“Because of the importance bread has always held.  Of all foods, bread in one form or another has been esteemed across just about every culture, unifying people throughout history.  Did you know that some countries in northern Africa still consider bread to be a divine gift from God?  Egyptians use a word for bread that can be translated ‘life itself,’ and Arabs will pick up any bread fallen to the floor, kiss it, and return it to the table.”

“We can always count on Drew to provide us with a history lesson whenever we come to Chef A’s house,” Aaliya interjected.  She sounded like she was trying to pass the comment off as humorous banter, but I detected a slight hint of irritation in her voice.

“I always find what you say fascinating, Drew,” Aholien offered, glancing briefly at Aaliya.  His tone didn’t betray any irritation with her (like mine would have), he just sounded like he was trying to add to the conversation.   “And I think it’s pretty interesting that bread has come to symbolize eating in general.  We don’t say, ‘let’s partake in fruit together,’ or ‘let’s rend flesh off bones together.’  We say, ‘let’s break bread together.’”

That was something I’d never thought of before.  “Huh,” I said out loud before my brain could stop my mouth.  I wasn’t normally one to comment on things other people said, especially people I didn’t know, unless I thought I had something intelligent to offer.  When I realized that something audible had come out of my mouth, I hastily added, “That’s cool.”  Yeah, real intelligent there.

Aholien flashed a brief smile at me.  “I think so, too.  That’s why I like listening to what Drew has to say.  He always gets me thinking.”  He nodded his appreciation in Drew’s direction.

“Thanks,” Drew returned.  “I’m glad.  I guess I can get carried away with my historical factoids.”

“Nah, your factoids are good for us.  Conversation canapé,” Laylah said with a little flourish of a hand gesture.

Dara giggled.  “Maybe that’s what Chef A should start calling these,” she said as she popped another canapé in her mouth.

“I’ll make the suggestion,” said Drew, grinning.

“I bet he’ll like it,” remarked Dara, licking her fingers.

“And how do you know the chef?” Aaliya asked.  It was an innocent enough question, but there was something about the way she asked it that made my eyes narrow slightly.

“Me?  Um, I’ve been friends with him for, I guess, maybe five years now.  I met him when he came in as a guest chef for a cooking class I was taking through Culinary Virtuosity.  I was so impressed with his style and—”

“I had no idea he taught in person.  I was under the impression that he mostly wrote books,” Aaliya said rather abruptly.

I was a little taken aback by Aaliya’s interruption, but Dara, being Dara, just took it in stride.  She continued, “Oh, well yeah, it was just the one class that night.  I was able to get a hold of his email address and I sent him a question about bechamel sauce.  I didn’t really expect him to reply, but he actually did!  We started exchanging emails and we’ve been writing ever since.”

“Ah,” nodded Aaliya.  “So you only know him through email.”

“Well, yeah, I guess.”  Dara looked at her hands.

I imagined myself picking up a canapé (or maybe two) and “accidentally” dropping it butter side down on her perfectly coiffed hair.  Instead, in my best polite and courteous voice, I asked “Do you know the chef well?”

“Oh yes, well, as Laylah and Drew can tell you,” she paused to smile at them, “I’ve been invited to dinner here many times.  It’s always been such a delight.  I feel so honored that he has continued to think of me.”

Laylah looked at Aaliya and I couldn’t quite read her expression.  “He’s glad you’ve continued to accept his invitations.”

“Laylah, I think maybe it’s time for our guests to—” Drew gestured towards the doorway.

“Right.”  Laylah stood up and indicated that we should do the same.  “I hope your appetites are sufficiently stimulated.  Time to warm them up some more.”