FEAST

Course 7

Dara continued to ask Aaliya questions about her experience in cooking and although she didn’t say anything, Laylah listened intently.  Aaliya’s voice became more animated the longer she talked and she began to use her hands to emphasize certain words.  Drew quietly engaged Santiago and Aholien in conversation.  Santiago spoke very little but the look of complete and utter relief on his face was so transparent that I had to smile.

A light tapping sound distracted my attention from listening to the two conversations going on around me.  At first I thought it was coming from the door between the dining room and kitchen, but I soon realized it was rain.  I looked to the windows and then remembered it was night so I wouldn’t be able to see anything out of them.

Looking at the windows brought my eyes back to the painting which seemed even more grand in scale now that I was seeing it from farther away.  Something I hadn’t observed earlier was that while there was no apparent light source, all the faces were perfectly illuminated.  I scanned the many faces and it dawned on me that each face seemed to reflect the same amount of light as all the others, yet none of them looked unnatural.  I’d taken enough art classes to know that light and shadow were paramount in painting and photography, and if you got the lighting wrong, your piece could end up looking flat at best, ridiculous at worst.  I could tell from where I was sitting that the artist had definitely employed shadow (quite expertly), even on the faces, but no matter which face I looked at, there was no noticeable difference in illumination.

Then I noticed that the ordinary-looking man in the center seemed to be emanating light.  The effect was subtle and I thought for a moment that my eyes were playing tricks on me.  I deliberately focused on another area of the painting for a few seconds.  When I looked back at the man, I still saw that faint something that gave him a glowy effect.  Not a halo around his head or anything like I’d seen in most religious art, more like he was light.  It struck me as oddly appropriate.

I didn’t have any more time to ponder how the artist had achieved that beautiful subtlety because the door swung open and one of the kitchen assistants entered carrying a large, sage green stoneware serving bowl.  He was followed by another who had a stack of plates in her hands which were also stoneware and the same color as the serving bowl.  The first assistant set the steaming serving bowl on the table just to Dara’s left while the second assistant laid the plates in front of us.  They exited the dining room after a kind thank you from Laylah.

At a sign from Drew, Dara scooped whatever was in the serving bowl onto her plate.  I couldn’t tell what it was, but I did see that there were long noodles because she was struggling a little to get them gracefully onto her plate.  Aaliya had much the same difficulty.  When the bowl reached me, I peered into it before I lifted the large spoon.  What met my eyes appeared to be some sort of stew.  I could see chunks of meat wrapped in a thick, rich, brown, savory smelling sauce.  I thought I spotted carrots as well and possibly cabbage.

I was contemplating how best to get the stew and noodles onto my plate without ruining the tablecloth when the assistant who had brought the bowl in suddenly burst through the swinging door.

“My sincere apologies,” he said as he approached me with a serving fork that matched the spoon in the bowl.  “I hope my oversight hasn’t caused any difficulty.”  He bowed slightly at his waist and returned to the kitchen.

I carefully placed a small pile of stew and noodles on my plate with a tiny and, I hoped, barely audible sigh of relief.  I’d been pleased that I had made it this far without any food or eating related mishaps.  After handing the serving bowl to Laylah, I examined the stew a little closer and discovered that I had been correct about the cabbage.  I also noticed little pellets that I identified as more quinoa.

Glancing up from my plate, I saw that the serving bowl had made it around the table to Santiago, who was enthusiastically dishing a rather large portion of the stew onto his plate while commenting on how good it smelled.  I marveled at his seemingly endless appetite.  I’d begun to wish I’d worn a skirt with a very flexible waistband.

Drew was the last to serve himself.  He set the serving bowl in front of him and picked up his fork, prompting the rest of us to do the same.  The first thing I noticed when I stabbed a chunk of meat was the curl of steam rising from it.  Would it be considered gauche to blow on my meat in a situation like this?  Was one simply supposed to hold the bite aloft until it cooled?  I slid my eyes sideways to see what Laylah was doing.  She had wrapped some of the noodles around her fork and her lips were pursed, so I assumed it was acceptable to blow on my food.

Gentle blowing caused the steam to dissipate and after a few puffs, I ate what turned out to be some of the most tender, succulent meat I’d ever put in my mouth.  Smooth as butter, substantial but not chewy, with a stronger flavor than any beef I’d eaten, whatever this meat was, it was a revelation to me.  I swallowed and realized that there had also been a hint of peanutiness in the sauce.

My next bite was noodles and I appreciated their firmness, never having been a fan of squishy pasta.  They reminded me of the noodles that had been served with the chicken course.  Even though the noodles had been coated with a generous portion of the sauce, I could still detect a hint of butter on them that ramped up the flavor that much more for me.

I forked up some quinoa and carrot together and although I thought the quinoa an odd addition to the stew when it already had noodles, I discovered that I really liked the texture that the quinoa added.  It had a different kind of firmness than the noodles, and paired with the soft, sweetness of the carrot it was delectable.

The first several bites were eaten in silence.  I assumed it was because everyone, like me, wanted to keep that crazy good stew moving into their mouths without interruption.  Eventually, remarks began to be made, all of them along the lines of this being one of the best dishes ever to grace a plate.  I continued to eat in contented silence and when I reached the last pellet of quinoa, I wondered what the others would think if I licked my plate.  Somehow, I thought Laylah would approve.

“There’s plenty more,” Drew said as he started the serving bowl around the table again.  Dara took one very small spoonful.  Aaliya passed the bowl to me without taking a second serving.  I debated but remembered that there were still three courses after this, so I passed as well.  Laylah and Aholien declined, passing the bowl to Santiago who looked longingly at its contents.

“I think I better not,” he said with a touch of regret.  He handed the bowl off to Drew, but just before relinquishing his grip, he stopped and added, “Maybe just a few more noodles wouldn’t hurt?”  Drew’s laugh was as rich as the sauce as he let Santiago take the bowl back.  Santiago’s face flushed but he was smiling.  He fished some noodles out of the bowl, as did Drew, and Laylah said, “I would say the Chef’s Medley is a raving success!”

“I’ll say,” Santiago agreed around a mouthful of noodles.

“That was certainly the most tender lamb I remember having in quite a long time,” added Aaliya with a nod.

Ah, so that was lamb, I thought.  My experience with red meat was pretty much limited to cow.  I made a mental note to be sure and check out lamb at the store next time I went shopping.

“I admit to being a bit surprised that Chef didn’t choose to serve a more traditional roast dish,” Aaliya went on.  “A stew of this sort is rather unconventional for this course.”

Laylah smiled a little mischievously.  “He likes to keep people on their toes.”

“The flavors were excellent, just not as complex as I’ve come to expect.”

“They were so rich and deep, though,” Dara interjected.

“Sometimes deep simplicity is vastly superior to shallow complexity,” said Drew in a quiet but undismissable voice.

Aaliya looked as though she wasn’t quite sure what to make of his statement.  For some reason, I immediately thought of the painting.

“It takes a true artist to craft something profound and yet simple without letting it tip over into being simplistic,” Aholien offered.

“Like whoever did that painting,” I said before even thinking about it.

Several things happened at once.  Santiago asked, “What painting?” before being prompted by Aholien to turn around.  Aaliya followed Aholien’s gesture towards the wall where the painting was hanging.  Dara looked at me, surprised by my verbal contribution.  And I saw a wordless exchange between Drew and Laylah that fairly  crackled with intensity.  The smile they shared was at once mysterious and jubilant.

“That’s funny, I’ve never noticed it in here before,” murmured Santiago, still staring at the painting.

“It’s a new work,” Drew said.  “Feel free to take a closer look, if you’d like.”  He stood, as did Laylah, and gestured towards the painting.  Laylah walked to stand next to Drew.

Dara, Aaliya, Santiago, and Aholien rose from their chairs and moved towards the wall where the painting was hanging.  I stood up, also, but I didn’t move to the painting right away since I’d examined it earlier.  I remained just behind the others so I could continue taking in the whole painting.

The stillness in the room seemed oddly appropriate as we all gazed at the painting.  Warmth and comfort radiated from the scene in front of me, and I realized that looking at the painting felt exactly the same as eating the stew.  Everything blurred and I quickly raised my eyes to the ceiling.

Movement caught my eye and I started to turn away until I saw that it was Dara.  She put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a slight squeeze.

“I can’t really explain it, but that’s how I always pictured Chef A looking,” she said, and I knew exactly which figure she was referring to without her having to point him out.  I gave her a weak smile and nodded.  Not for the last time that evening I felt an overwhelming surge of thankfulness for my friend.  She knew me well enough to know that the “Are you okay?” question would elicit no more than a grunt, so she let me focus on something else until I was ready to talk.  “I wonder how the artist managed to make him sort of...glow like that.”

“You noticed that, too?” I asked as I looked back towards the painting.

Dara gave my shoulder a final quick squeeze before dropping her arm and said, “It’s really quite brilliant, that effect.”

I agreed and mentioned my thoughts about the use of light in general in the painting.  As we talked, I noticed that the others were also involved in conversation about the painting, Santiago talking and pointing to various things now and then while Aholien and Aaliya listened.  Drew stood by and smiled, but Laylah looked our way and casually strode over to join us.

Normally, I would have been less than sociable around someone I didn’t know very well if they’d inserted themselves into a conversation I was having with a friend, but Laylah’s presence didn’t feel like an intrusion at all, which greatly surprised me.  I actually smiled at her, which surprised me even more.

“Something else, isn’t it?” she said.

“We were just talking about how impressive the light is,” Dara responded.  “The artist is a real master.”

“She is at that.”

“She?”  Dara and I looked at Laylah.

“A good friend of the chef.”  Laylah noticed us looking at her and added with a sly grin, “Surely you two realize that some women are good at painting?”

We both protested that we hadn’t meant to cast any aspersions on women as painters or artists, and after a moment of thought, I was finally able to put my finger on why I reacted the way I did.

“I guess I just assumed it was by an old master because of the style,” I said, “and the only old masters I know were men.”

“Understandable.”  Laylah looked over at the painting.  “This master is not old and she’s most certainly not a man.  Oh, and to take a page from Drew, you might be interested to learn that women artists, while not exactly well-represented, were a definite presence particularly during the Renaissance and Baroque periods.”  Another smile graced her lips.  “My personal favorite is Sofonisba Anguissola.”

“I had no idea,” Dara said, echoing my thoughts.

“Always happy to share.”  Laylah paused and our eyes were drawn to the painting again.  “What do you like best about it?”

I had to think about that because I wasn’t sure I could put my finger on just one aspect.  There were so many things that drew me to it.  Was it the joy that seemed to exude from each person?  Was it the fact that every face was lit perfectly so that all were equally visible?  Was it the ordinary-looking man who was comfort and compassion and mercy personified?

“Belonging.”  The word came out right in the midst of all my other thoughts and immediately I had to examine the ceiling again.

Dara rescued me.  “Yeah, I think that’s it for me, too.  It looks like home.  Or what I’ve always wished home would look like,” she added.  If I hadn’t been so busy marveling at the lack of dust on the ceiling I would have noticed that instead of looking down, which was her usual reaction to anything having to do with her family, Dara continued staring at the painting.  “You know, something I’m just noticing now is their clothes.  They’re all dressed in different clothes.”

I knew exactly what she meant since I had noticed that as well.  Looking at the painting, I identified three styles of dress right away — Ancient Greek, Elizabethan, and 1800s American — but there were dozens of outfits I didn’t recognize at all.  I felt slightly ashamed that I wasn’t more well-versed in anything outside European fashion, but then I heard Dara say, “I have to admit I feel kind of bad that I don’t recognize a lot of the styles.”

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that,” Laylah said in a gentle but firm voice.  “Sometimes I think people take too much delight in shaming others for what they don’t know.”

Dara gave Laylah a small smile of gratitude.  Then she commented, “The artist sure seemed to know a lot.”

“Her name is Hannah and she was quite motivated to do a lot of research.”

“Why is that?” Dara asked.

Laylah paused for a moment as if trying to decide how much she should share.  “Hannah was left at an orphanage in Japan.  She was what’s known in that country as one of the ‘throw away children,’ and although she was one of the very few who were actually able to be adopted, her adoptive family was...less than ideal.” Laylah’s face hardened and her jaw clenched.  It seemed like a great effort of will for her to continue talking, but when she did, she told us that Hannah had tried to locate anyone she was related to biologically.  When that failed, she felt desperate to find someone or something she could connect to that would give her a sense of foundation, so she started looking into the origins of the Japanese people.  “Only to find that the Asian people are the one ethnic group whose origins seem to be shrouded in mystery,” Laylah concluded.

Dara and I looked at one another.  “I don’t really have to imagine how discouraging that must have been,” I said softly.  Laylah’s expression of compassion almost undid me again, and I quickly added, “You’d think someone would have kept a record or two somewhere along the way.”

“That’s what Hannah thought, too,” said Laylah quietly.  “She kept digging and digging, devouring every bit of information she could find.  Her research took her all over the map and she began to discover connections she never dreamed existed between people groups.”  Laylah looked at the painting.

At that moment, Aaliya’s voice broke through the silence.  I couldn’t make out what she was saying at first, but as her volume rose, I heard, “...and you have no right to say such things!”

Aaliya had squared off with Drew, her body rigid in anger, her hands clenched.  Santiago looked as if he wanted to melt into the floor.  Aholien’s eyes were wide in disbelief and he seemed frozen.  Drew’s face was resolute but I thought I also saw an intense sadness in his eyes.

Laylah walked quickly to Aaliya and we heard her ask what had happened.  Drew made no response but Aaliya said loudly, “Of all the times I have been a guest in this house—a guest—” she emphasized the word heavily, “—I have never been treated with such disrespect!”  Aaliya used her entire body as an arrow aimed at Drew as she continued, “And by you of all people!”

Drew actually took a small step towards Aaliya and said, “I think you know I meant no disrespect to you, Aaliya.”

“I know no such thing!”  Aaliya spat back at him.  “And frankly, I am not sure I have any desire to remain under the same roof as you.”

“Aaliya.”  Laylah’s tone was as resolute as Drew’s expression, yet I sensed an odd sort of invitation in the way she said her name.

Aaliya turned towards Laylah and I realized in an instant that whatever invitation Laylah intended had been rejected.  “You—I should have known you’d take his side.”  That curious Southern dialect started slipping into Aaliya’s voice again.  “Women should stick together and instead you—that’s it.  That’s just fine.”  Aaliya’s face contorted and she burst into tears before she turned and ran from the room.

Laylah gave Drew a sad but resigned look and followed her.   Drew watched Laylah walk out and said quietly, “If you’ll all excuse me—”  He moved slowly towards the door to the kitchen.

I felt rooted to the floor, attempting to process what had just occurred.  Dara and I exchanged a silent glance and I could tell she was trying to figure out what to do next.  Aholien and Santiago had started talking together in low voices.  When I looked in their direction, my eyes couldn’t help but drift to the painting.  I was sure my eyes were deceiving me because the light in the painting seemed to have dimmed.