summer days & summer nights (are long)
New fic. As usual, unbeta'd. I really need to look it over, but any changes will be minor; I wanted to get it posted while I had time.
And, on the subject of getting things posted while I have time--I probably won't have a ton of time for fic after this, or even be around that much. Summers tend to pick up a lot for me, because there's more to do outside of work, and more to do for work, and it's a wonderful, great, grand time, but not one when I can promise fic with any sort of regularity. I'm working on the Eames' POV bit of the endless & impossible 'verse. It will probably be awhile. I also want to write a mountain bike racing AU (don't ask don't tell applies here, by which I mean if you think that sounds bizarre don't ask, because I probably won't be able to tell you why it wouldn't be).
BUT I wanted to leave you with a fun summertime fic, and I've been wanting to do a bakery AU (even though I know bakery AUs have been done well and better in this fandom--I can't really bring myself to care). And I also want the tomatoes to get ripe POST HASTE, so here you go.
Anyway, who cares if I'm going to be around much or what--it's summer! And the warm weather will probably retreat a few times where I am before it's here to stay, but it's warm, and the leaves are green, and the seeds are in the garden and the boats and bicycles are out of storage.
Warnings for: unrealistic staffing, name checking of restaurants I have never been to (thank you Frank Bruni), not much sex and lots of f-bombs, un-beta'd. PRETTY MUCH PAR FOR THE COURSE, HERE. As usual, you can read the notes before or after or not at all, but they are there.
.summer days & summer nights (are long)
c. e. miller, that asshole, gave totem a shit review.
r . 8023 words
The Station, so-called for its location in a renovated train depot, benefits from the design expertise of owner Mallorie Cobb. [...] The chef is Ms. Cobb’s husband, Dominic Cobb, and his kitchen turns out consistently innovative interpretations of classic fare. [...] Although the entrees are strong, the Cobbs’ new pastry chef suffers from Californian delusions about the viability of using seasonal produce. His insistence on only using seasonal fruits and vegetables hobbles the winter dessert menu, which lacks imagination as well as flavour.
-REVIEW: The Station, C. E. Miller, 11/15/1997
Arthur Levine, former pastry chef at the now defunct East Side gastropub The Station, will be striking out on his own for a new, self-funded venture in the River District. A brick oven is currently being installed at a Maple Street location.
-DINING BRIEFS, 03/24/2010
Pastry chef Arthur Levine’s new bakery-pizzeria, Totem, quite literally plays with fire, and things get burned. In this case, the pizza. [...] Mr. Levine’s banana cream pie remains as good, albeit as traditional, as it was in his later years at The Station, and presents a strong defense for his skill with the sweet if not the savory.
-REVIEW: Totem, C. E. Miller, 06/08/2010
The day they get the review, Arthur makes a pastry cream that won’t set, and it’s terrible.
That the pastry cream is terrible is a given, because it won’t set, but what’s worse is the sinking feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach when he takes the conglomeration of eggs and milk and butter off the stove and realizes something’s off, and then when he pours it over the bananas and puts it in the fridge and checks on it, far more than he should, because he knows it’s not going to set but some stupid part of him holds out hope.
Of course it doesn’t set. It’s that kind of fucking day.
Ariadne comes up behind him when he’s standing in front of the fridge with the door open, looking at the pies that won’t set, and puts her head on his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” she says.
“Not really,” he replies, and shuts the fridge door.
Arthur has never had a pastry cream turn on him, not when he was thirteen and made his first banana cream pie, not since. And he saw this one going wrong, and didn’t fix it, and now it’s taunting him, the same way the Herald one of the morning customers left on the table taunted him.
In the end what Arthur does--and this isn’t something he’s proud of, just something he does--is throw two of the bad pies at the kitchen wall. The metal pie pans clatter when they hit, and slide down in a mess of runny pastry cream and bananas, and Ariadne comes in from where she was mopping the dining room floor and just looks at him, somewhere between pity and sorrow, and then after they clean up the kitchen and put wood in the brick oven for overnight Ariadne trails after Arthur when goes upstairs to his apartment, and installs herself on the couch.
“Arthur,” she says.
“It’s a combination of factors,” he tells her, and she looks like she might want to hug him.
“Arthur,” she says again, quite seriously. “I’m going to get you drunk.”
And that’s not the worst idea Arthur’s ever heard, so he tosses her the keys to his car and says, “Have at it.”
“I can trust you alone?” Ariadne asks. “No more pie carnage?”
“No more pie carnage,” he echoes, and lets himself sink into the couch.
It’s not the mediocre review, because everyone knows C. E. Miller gives weak reviews to pretty much anything that’s not molecular gastronomy, fusion, or French, because C. E. Miller, he/she/it, is nothing if not a snob. So it’s not the review.
It’s kind of, mostly the pie.
It’s kind of Bradley, this weekend, who told Arthur he was married to his job, and Arthur fucking loves his job, but Arthur also likes sex, as people do. It’s kind of the way Mal and Dom have everything under control with their fucking catering company, and their gleaming children. Arthur knows they went through hell to get to where they are but he can’t help the jealousy that sometimes seeps up, milk solids atop butter.
It’s kind of that he never got the chance to tell Bradley: food has got to be as central to life as sex, if you think about it, and when you have the opportunity to elevate it it’s a fucking privilege, and maybe it envelopes you, and maybe that’s okay.
Which is why it’s depressing if Arthur isn’t elevating the food, if his pastry cream won’t set and C. E. Miller, what an asshole, claims the pizza was burnt, and even though the food is wrong all Arthur gets out of the deal are guys who say he works too much and run off with twenty-year-olds who don’t know what they want, if they want anything, or how to make Hollandaise sauce without having it go to lumps.
Ariadne comes back. She has yesterday’s stale cake, and a brown bag from the liquor store, and she says she’s going to make trifle with Bailey’s folded into whipped cream and cake soaked in Guinness and then she pours far too much whiskey into a mason jar and hands it to Arthur, besides.
“I hate trifle,” Arthur says, taking a swig from the jar.
“You don’t hate my trifle,” Ariadne replies.
As it turns out, Arthur doesn’t. It’s a soggy mess of liquor and chocolate and cream, but he doesn’t hate it.
Ariadne sleeps on the couch that night, after they’re both finished shouting about men and cheese and fire and the importance of egg yolks. If anything else happens, Arthur doesn’t remember it in the morning.
His alarm is too loud and he doesn’t turn on any lights when he gets out of bed, because they’ll be too bright, and instead he runs into the frames of every door in the place before he makes it downstairs, to the kitchen and the oven, to the bread. He turns on the lights there, blinks off the brightness, checks the temperature on the oven and then starts to shape bâtards, falling into a tight rhythm of wrists and arms and springy dough.
After he finishes the bâtards, Arthur goes upstairs to get Ariadne so she can do the baguettes while he works on the miniature quiches, and she wipes sleepers from her eyes and asks why he didn’t wake her already, and he just shrugs. Arthur likes to be quiet and alone in the mornings, and he doesn’t mind Ariadne, and in fact he needs her, but sometimes it’s nice just to knead bread.
Not that quiches are bad. And the muffins aren’t, either, and Arthur will need to make more banana cream pies to recoup yesterday’s losses, but not now, not yet. Because it’s opening, or very nearly, and Ariadne is fiddling with her fleet of coffee machines, producing a latte for herself and a mug of black coffee for Arthur.
“Another day,” she says, quirking her eyebrow as she passes the cup off to him, and he sips it, unlocks the door and turns over the sign, and they’re open to a steady flow of quiet businessman, carrying newspapers and briefcases.
The sixteen-year-old Cobb child comes in late for her shift, and Arthur tells her off but all he gets for his efforts is a sullen scowl because she knows he can’t fire her as long as she shows up, because she’s a Cobb child and, also, not a terrible person to have as a part-time employee.
“Ariadne,” Pippa says, midway through Arthur’s lecture. “Make him go bake something.”
“Raspberry chocolate chip cookies are low,” Ariadne suggests, and Arthur looks between the two of them.
“Does anyone here remember that I’m the boss?” Arthur grumbles, but goes to the back anyway, because when Pippa’s late and wearing too much eyeliner it means boy troubles, and Ariadne and Pippa have both declared Arthur’s sympathetic ear broken.
He knows Ariadne knows, because she catches his eye before the kitchen door swings shut. He wishes she would let him maintain some illusion of authority, but she’s so devastatingly competent it’s not worth firing her.
Besides, Ariadne would probably start a competing business and grant a scathing interview to C. E. Miller if Arthur did fire her, so he really can’t risk it.
Arthur finishes the cookies, and starts on the pies.
The pastry cream sets, which is a small blessing.
Ariadne comes in to check on him before the lunch rush.
“Don’t mention Josh Bergen to Pippa,” she says, and Arthur frowns.
“Like I know who Josh Bergen is.”
“Mercutio in the spring play. Very hot,” Ariadne says, and Arthur remembers that these things aren’t worth pursuing.
“Should I make the Pippa special?” he asks instead, and Ariadne smiles at him, quick and genuine.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t turn it down.”
The pizza orders start coming in; mostly for their terrible bastardized margherita, but a few people have enough sense to order the daily specials, spicy arugula with garlic and fontina, asparagus with goat cheese and bacon.
“The parents say not to sweat the review,” Pippa says when she stops by the kitchen. “Everyone knows Miller’s full of shit.”
“He’s been restaurant critic for as long as you’ve been alive,” Arthur says.
“Yeah, but I’m like five thousand percent cooler than he is. If Miller’s even a man,” Pippa says. “And I like your pizza, so.”
“Fishing for free food?” Arthur asks, and Pippa grins.
“Of course, boss,” she says.
“I shouldn’t let you talk to Ariadne,” Arthur mutters, but he takes one of the smaller balls of dough and starts piling mushrooms on, anyway.
“Aw,” she says. “The Pippa special. Thanks, Uncy.”
If anything, the review improved business, because when lunch ends the supply of pizza dough is pretty well depleted, and people come in trying to order pizza for dinner, even though Miller’s review mentioned that Totem only serves dinner three nights a week. And complained about it.
Still, no harm, no foul. Pippa manages to sell most of the people they deny pizza on loaves of bread, and after close at six’o’clock Arthur pops open a bottle of San Pellegrino and the three of them make toasts in the kitchen, waiting for Yusuf to come by with tomorrow’s vegetables.
“Mom lets me drink wine, you know,” Pippa says. “So we could’ve had that.”
“We don’t have a liquor license--” Arthur starts.
“Arthur’s pregnant,” Ariadne interjects, and Pippa snorts sparkling water out her nose.
“With Totem’s twin?” she asks when she recovers from her coughing fit. “That’s sure to be a painful birth.”
“He’s got a bun in the oven,” Ariadne says, nodding.
“You’re both terrible,” Arthur says, but he knows he’s grinning, and Pippa reaches up and rubs his hair into peaks.
“No,” she says. “I’m your favorite pretend niece. And Ariadne’s the best.”
“Damn straight,” Ariadne says, and then there’s pounding on the back door, which means Yusuf has arrived.
Yusuf owns a farm outside of town, and supplies produce to several restaurants in the city, every week, twice as week. Early June is strawberries, almost more rhubarb then Arthur can use, spinach and arugula and radishes and the last of the slender, tender asparagus.
“Special, this week,” Yusuf says as he hands off a box of eggs to Ariadne. “My neighbor forages, and I’ve got ramps, and--”
He reaches into a box behind him and pulls out a mushroom, twirling it by its stem.
“Morels,” Arthur breaths, and Yusuf grins.
“Saved them for my favorite customers. Not that it won’t cost you.”
“Fuck, Yusuf,” Arthur says. “You know I’ll pay. They’re hardly even in season anymore.”
“Nope,” Yusuf says. “I’ve got the last of ‘em.”
It’s Ariadne who haggles Yusuf down on the mushrooms, while Pippa gives Arthur significant glances. He’s not sure what the glances are supposed to mean, he just hopes to hell Yusuf won’t pull out and give them to someone else, because the things Arthur could do with morels. He’s thinking sauteed, with onions, and piled on pizza without sauce and with some white, hard cheese. Cheddar, maybe, not too much.
They bring the produce in and put it in the fridge, and Arthur starts mapping out the next morning’s food, and strawberry-rhubarb tartlets and muffins, and housemade ramp butter to sell with the breads, maybe ramp quiches as well.
“Arthur,” Yusuf says, interrupting his reverie. “Farm party? Can you come?”
“What?” he asks.
“Sunday night,” Ariadne says. “Party at Yusuf’s. You can come.”
Arthur blinks at her. Totem closes early on Sunday, but Sunday nights are for sitting on the floor in front of the couch reading books.
“Arthur,” Ariadne says, and it occurs to him he doesn’t really have a choice.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I can come.”
Yusuf offers Ariadne a ride back to her apartment, and Pippa follows Arthur back inside.
“Yusuf and Ariadne,” she says, as soon as the door’s shut.
“Just left?” Arthur asks.
“Yusuf and Ariadne should date,” Pippa continues.
“I’m sure that if they want to, they will,” Arthur says, and then he starts putting chairs up on tables.
“No they won’t,” Pippa says, standing behind him. “They need a push.”
“If you’re going to talk to me about this, you can at least help with the chairs,” Arthur suggests, and when he turns around Pippa’s frowning.
“No thanks. But, seriously, Yusuf and Ariadne.”
“This isn’t high school. People don’t just hook up because they’re in the same clubs.”
“Arthur.” Pippa shakes her head. “You think so little of your only pretend niece.”
“I’m not helping you play matchmaker,” Arthur says, and Pippa pouts.
“Seriously, Pippa, it’s not a game,” Arthur continues.
“I don’t think it’s a game,” she says, and it’s Arthur’s turn to frown.
“Then why do you think they should date?” Arthur asks as he goes to the closet for the mop.
“Why did Yusuf let you have those ‘shrooms for half price?”
“Because Ariadne’s a good haggler?”
“This is Yusuf,” Pippa says flatly.
“And Ariadne,” Arthur counters.
“Which is why they’re a great match,” Pippa says.
“And so you’re going to--”
“Lock them in a room together?”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Arthur says.
“Well, you come up with something.”
“I’m not helping you with this.”
“That’s not an idea,” Pippa says, jutting out her lower lip.
“Go home, Pippa,” Arthur sighs.
“Think about it,” Pippa says, and then she’s slipping out the door. She gives him a wave on her way past the window, and Arthur watches.
Arthur stokes the fire, and then he goes upstairs, sits down on the couch and checks his e-mail for the first time today.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re:, June 9, 2010
Mr. Levine:
For your sake, I hope you were drunk last night (or should I say this morning?).
Who’s Bradley?
And Pizza Hut? That explains everything: you have a terrible palette.
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: [no subject], June 9, 2010
milller--
fuck u, ok? sriously i m fucking great. 7 further, u dont kno shit, about food, or bradley, who can fvck himself. also. because i gave up alot for totm, leik apparntly sex, according to fucking bradley, and i did not do it to sit here and take ur fucking shit.
if u want ur pizza cooked in a gas oven, go to fucking pizza hut/
=al
So last night may not have been Arthur’s finest hour. He stares at the screen, and then he shuts the laptop and goes to the kitchen for a beer.
He has to respond to the e-mail. He can’t ignore the e-mail. It hums around the back of his head like a fly, as he moves from the kitchen to the living room and back again, and then he sits down on the couch and takes the laptop off the coffee table and starts typing, and backspaces, and starts over.
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re:, June 9, 2010
I think it’s obvious who Bradley is, and that I was drunk last night.
If any of this ends up in the paper, I will eviscerate you.
-AL
p.s. Terrible palette? After the rave you gave that Alinea rip-off on 18th, I thought that was you.
Once the e-mail is sent, Arthur refuses to think about it, staunchly.
He calls Ariadne.
“Boss,” she says, when she picks up.
“Did I do anything last night?” he asks. It’s hot and the window’s open and the air blowing in smells like city summer, all hot tarmac and and dampness.
“Get drunk, rant? Install me on your couch?” Ariadne asks.
“Okay,” Arthur says, pacing. The wind picks up and drops the curtains, flimsy white ones.
“Not that I don’t enjoy this conversation, but are you going to ask me to come in early tomorrow or something?”
“No,” Arthur says. “I just--”
“What happened?” Ariadne says, cutting him off with the steady confidence of someone who knows something happened.
“I may have sent a drunk e-mail to C. E. Miller,” Arthur admits, and Ariadne laughs, bright and delighted.
“Pippa wants to set you up with Yusuf,” he adds, and hangs up.
Ariadne calls him back.
“Why?” she asks.
“Why what?” he says. He puts his elbows on the kitchen counter and presses his nose against the window screen, looking down at the alley behind his apartment. There’s a fence, garages, bushes. The herb garden for the bakery, tiny and weedy.
“Why me and Yusuf?” she asks. “Why e-mail C. E. Miller?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur answers. And it’s the honest truth.
“Okay,” she says, and lets him go.
Phoning Ariadne wasn’t Arthur’s most successful attempt at distraction, so he goes downstairs and weeds the herb garden instead, only he gets distracted and pulls up most of the parsley, which is going to be a problem for the tabbouleh but not much else.
He checks his e-mail when he gets back upstairs.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 9, 2010
Mr. Levine:
Apparently, I have a fan, although you don’t seem to have a good understanding of what constitutes newsworthy.
And I’m still unclear on the identity of this Bradley character.
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
Arthur is not going to dignify that with an immediate response. He goes to bed.
Pippa’s off the next day, so Arthur doesn’t have to face the repercussions of telling Ariadne about her matchmaking schemes, and instead has to deal with Nash’s unwashed hair and Ariadne’s questions.
“So did C. E. Miller reply to your e-mail?” comes with his coffee.
“No,” Arthur lies.
“It’s summer,” Ariadne says. They’re both out front, and Ariadne has her elbows on the counter and she’s watching the door, like someone will come in despite the sign that says “open” on their side, the direct opposite on the other.
“Huh,” Arthur says. He feels like he’s somehow being tricked, but he lets it slide because it is summer, and he’s looking forward to Yusuf’s party now for that precise reason, because out at the farm it will smell like leaves and manure and everyone will probably end up swimming in the river in the cow pasture, and it’s probably unsanitary but hell if he doesn’t like it.
“Summer’s just feel like potential, you know?” Ariadne continues. “Like maybe I should let Pippa set me up with Yusuf, because why the hell not?”
“Because if you ruin Totem’s relationship with Yusuf, I will--”
“Don’t bother, Arthur,” Ariadne says. “You know what I mean.”
“You want to climb Yusuf like a tree?” Arthur asks.
“You know what I mean,” she repeats, tone still mild.
Arthur opens the bakery.
That night, he responds to Miller’s e-mail. There’s no reason not to.
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 10, 2010
You’re a restaurant critic. On what planet is anything you write newsworthy?
-AL
He gets a new e-mail immediately, but it’s from his mother, who has apparently lost her recipe for pie crust and wants it from him. There’s something terrible about telling your mother you don’t use her recipe for pie crust anymore, because it wasn’t flaky enough.
Arthur digs up her old recipe and types it out for her without his modifications.
Arthur does not wait on a reply from Miller. Totem served dinner today, and he just lets himself sink into sleep on the couch, flipping through a magazine he’s been using as a coaster since Bradley left, because Arthur definitely doesn’t subscribe to The Economist.
He checks in the morning, though.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 10, 2010
Mr. Levine:
On the planet where it appears in a fucking newspaper.
Bradley?
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Shut up about Bradley. I’m pretty sure my life isn’t your business, since all I know about you is that you have a friend who’s vegan and bitched about our menu. Maybe you should stop bringing vegans to pizza places.
-AL
Pippa’s in the next day, comes in early to help with breakfast, and Ariadne tattles almost immediately.
“Arthur says you’re scheming, yenta,” she says, poking Pippa in the stomach. They’re all setting up the dining room, Ariadne’s putting out the cream and sweeteners for the coffee while Arthur and Pippa tidy tables.
“Arthur!” Pippa squeals.
“It’ll be easier if Ariadne knew,” Arthur offers.
“But then it’s not a set-up, is it? Then it’s just Ariadne and I scheming to get her in Yusuf’s pants.”
“Oh, come on, you knew she’d go along with anything,” Arthur says. “Ariadne goes on blind dates for fun.”
“I like meeting new people,” Ariadne protests.
“It’s not like she ever actually dates anyone,” Pippa says, narrowing her eyes.
“Maybe she’s too busy with work,” Arthur says, and Pippa and Ariadne both give him withering glances.
“That’s you, Arthur,” Ariadne says.
“Well then why don’t you date anyone?” Arthur bites back, and both he and Pippa stare at Ariadne, who’s retreated behind the coffee makers.
“Low, Arthur,” she says.
“No, why don’t you?” Pippa asks.
“Not everything needs to be about dating,” Ariadne offers with a shrug. “Arthur and I made out, and we don’t date.”
“Low, Ariadne,” Arthur says, as Pippa whirls around.
“Uncle Arthur!”
“That was ages ago,” Arthur says. “And a favor, to scare off one of Ariadne’s blind dates, so I think we all know what the problem really is here.”
Ariadne hands them both mugs, black coffee for Arthur, milk for Pippa, and a latte with far too many shots of espresso for Ariadne herself.
“Yeah, well, how often do blind dates work out, anyway?”
“You’re emotionally promiscuous,” Arthur says.
“Fewer STDs, that way,” Ariadne says. “I just like hearing people’s stories.”
“But what about Yusuf?” Pippa presses, and Ariadne shrugs.
“I like Yusuf,” Ariadne says. “He’s alright.”
“This is why you weren’t supposed to tell her,” Pippa hisses, and then it’s opening and Arthur escapes to the kitchen.
“Pies,” he mutters.
He spends half the morning rolling out crusts, and then Pippa shows up.
“You can’t make Ariadne date,” he says before she can get a word in edgewise.
“She and Yusuf would be sweet together,” Pippa counters.
“Ariadne’s hardly sweet.”
“But Yusuf is,” Pippa says. “It would be like strawberry-rhubarb pie.”
Arthur has a weakness for pie metaphors. He scowls at Pippa.
“So Yusuf is strawberries now?” he asks, and Pippa shrugs. “He’s a vicious free-market capitalist.”
“Who sold Ariadne mushrooms at half price,” Pippa says. “Mushrooms he bought from his neighbor. I bet he took a loss.”
“His neighbor is a coot,” Arthur says. “I bet he didn’t.”
“Point being,” Pippa says, holding up one hand. “Ariadne is as much of a handful as you are, and maybe a little sweet, and Yusuf is remarkably laid back, and maybe a little sour. And they are made for each other.”
Her voice raises an octave on the last four words, and Arthur can’t be blamed if he looks skeptical.
“Whatever,” he says, finally. “I think I pay you for something other than this.”
“I knew you’d come around, Uncy,” she says, which was not entirely unanticipated.
Arthur puts a tray of cookies in the oven, and goes upstairs to check his e-mail.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Mr. Levine:
Then why do you keep responding to these?
I don’t actually have a friend who’s vegan; artistic license.
(Can I call you Arthur now, since we’re such good friends?)
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
I don’t give a fuck.
-AL
When Arthur gets downstairs, Ariadne is waiting for him.
“You don’t smell like smoke,” she says. “Or like too much cologne.”
“I had to check my e-mail. “You haven’t won yet.”
“But I’m going to, though,” she says. “Because I’m not weak.”
Arthur snorts and tries to cover it.
“Also, because I’ve only been smoking since I started this job, and you’ve been smoking like a house on fire since you came out of the womb,” she continues.
“You’re mixing your cliches.”
“Only to emphasize my point,” Ariadne says, and Arthur frowns.
“What are you back here for? Other than making false accusations.”
“What were you checking your e-mail for?”
“Miller’s an asshole,” Arthur says, pulling the cookies from the oven and getting out the pizza toppings to prep.
“Who you’re corresponding with,” Ariadne replies, and then she’s gone.
Arthur is still corresponding with Miller. It’s a problem.
They’re just being snide to one another. There is absolutely no reason to continue e-mailing Miller, and Arthur has no explanation, and instead he throws himself into making pizza, when Pippa comes in he delegates her to herb collection.
“Thyme,” he says, nodding towards the pile of mushrooms. “And we’re low on basil.”
The nice thing about having Pippa on as a waitress is that she knows this shit. Nash would’ve brought back the wrong thing, Arthur is willing to bet his life on it.
Arthur likes the smell of herbs and produce on his hands; that’s the glory of the pizzas. He doesn’t let them carry the restaurant because he is a pastry chef somewhere at heart, and he likes the array of doughs too much to dedicate himself to any one. But making pizza is like painting with broad strokes of flavor, and in August it’ll be better yet, when the tomatoes are full and ripe, and eggplants start coming in, and raspberries, which have nothing whatsoever to do with Arthur’s pizzas but are the most perfect fruit in existence.
The reason Arthur kept corresponding with C. E. Miller was that sometimes his words were arias on flavor, and Arthur thought he might understand some of that, might be able to relate to some of Arthur’s feelings, alternately ineffable and ridiculous, about food.
Arthur had kept corresponding with C. E. Miller because he had thought they might be friends, and Arthur had always tried to pull people closer by being especially rude to them.
Arthur considers going out to the dining room and telling Ariadne that they might be exactly the same, but that seems like too much.
Instead he bakes pizza through to dinner. In the evening another waitress comes to help, and Ariadne moves to the kitchen with Arthur, and the two of them together pound through the endless string of orders. And Arthur doesn’t ask Ariadne any questions or tell her any lies.
There’s an e-mail waiting for him when he gets home.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Arthur--
Contrary to popular belief, there’s not a huge volume of restaurant critic groupies, either.
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Now you want to commiserate about not getting laid? Sorry, Miller, but I do have other friends.
-AL
Arthur goes to make a cup of chamomile tea, and then he stares at the screen and waits. Because he doesn’t know what else to do. Because their conversation might be getting relevant.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Arthur--
Then why are you still responding to these?
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Million dollar question. But then again, why are you still responding?
Look, Miller, there is no Bradley story. He thought I worked too much. We broke up. It pretty much sounds the same sober as drunk.
-AL
The heat of the laptop is radiating through Arthur’s knees, and outside a thunderstorm is tumbling through, heavy winds followed by sudden sheets of rain, so Arthur has to go around shutting all the windows. The power flickers out and on, and when it’s back, fully, there’s another e-mail.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Arthur--
Because responding to your e-mails is more interesting than other things I could be doing.
Mine was named Alex. He was an asshole not worth discussing, except his asshole was worth discussing.
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
Arthur looks at that one. So a man then, and gay. Or bisexual. Or a rather kinky woman.
It doesn’t really clear anything up.
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
If we’re sharing sordid sex stories, I’m not in.
(And, seriously, do you have another e-mail address? Or can you turn off the signature? I don’t want to hear sordid sex stories from C. E. Miller / Restaurant Critic / The Daily Herald.)
-AL
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Arthur--
If that was a sordid sex story I feel rather sorry for this Bradley. Don’t pastry chefs do kinky food sex? Frosting and fondant and rutting all over the kitchen?
How about this storm?
-CEM
p.s. Taking a page out of your book.
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
I meant any sex stories at all.
I’m sure the sanitation commission would be all about kitchen sex, only not at all, and we’ve already established that my restaurant comes before my relationships.
So now you’re changing the subject to the weather? Sordid to boring, smooth.
-AL
The lights flicker off again, and Arthur takes that as a reminder that he might go to bed now, or he could, or he should, because tomorrow he’ll be up early, dealing with the oven.
The lights flicker, and water pounds against the south windows. Arthur goes to bed.
There’s no e-mail in the morning, which makes Arthur wonder if Miller lost power, too. He doesn’t think about that thought.
“Yusuf’s coming today,” Pippa says when she bursts in in the midafternoon. “Pay attention, Arthur. This is serious.”
“Serious,” he echoes, raising an eyebrow.
“Pay attention,” she repeats.
And so Arthur does. They’re unloading the truck, and Ariadne is talking to Yusuf, completely unselfconscious even though she has to know that even if Arthur weren’t listening, Pippa is skulking around when she could already have gone home.
Arthur’s not completely sold. He glances at Pippa, who’s frowning.
“Here’s the thing about Ariadne,” he says when they’re alone. “I’m not entirely sure she wants to date anyone.”
“Yusuf likes her,” Pippa hisses.
“Ariadne doesn’t exactly need your help, then,” Arthur says. “Does this have anything to do with Josh Bergen?”
“No,” Pippa says.
“Pippa,” Arthur says, and she frowns. “Look, you’re sixteen. I’m sure there’s some guy out there for you, and you don’t need to set up people to make up for it. Or whatever it is you’re doing.”
“It’s not Josh Bergen. It’s just that everyone I know is single,” she mutters.
“Your parents?” Arthur offers.
“Are my parents. I just want you guys to be happy, you know? And after Bradley--”
“So because I broke up with Bradley, you want Ariadne to hook up with Yusuf?” Arthur asks, and Pippa frowns.
“Not exactly,” she says. “But I don’t know anyone you’d like.”
Arthur lets her slide, though he thinks that maybe he should tell her that life isn’t like a romantic comedy, or even like Jane Austen (which is a satire, damnit, and so). And that even though he likes sex maybe he could do without the relationship, because he does have friends, and coworkers, and bakery regulars. There are always one night stands, though then he’d have to get his ass looking presentable (well; his ass is presentable, always, so maybe he means his face) and haul it out to clubs.
Instead of telling Pippa these things, because she’s still sixteen and maybe he should be talking to her parents about his love life instead of talking to a sixteen-year-old girl about it, Arthur goes upstairs. And checks his e-mail.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 12, 2010
You think I’m smooth? I’m glad you finally acknowledge that we have a flirtation going on here, darling.
Call me Eames.
Arthur wasn’t acknowledging that there was a flirtation going on here. On some level, he hadn’t even realized it, and reading this e-mail makes him want to go downstairs and take back everything he didn’t say to Pippa, because apparently his life is like a crappy romantic comedy, and he doesn’t even want this.
So he stops thinking, and just responds.
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 12, 2010
Mr. Miller:
Didn’t realize this was a flirtation.
Sorry, not really interested in someone who doesn’t respect my food.
-Arthur Levine
And it looks stupid, typed there, but Arthur has to send it, because it’s true. Nothing in his dialogue with Miller--Eames--has convinced Arthur that this guy isn’t an asshole. Who hates his pizza.
And if Bradley, who actually liked Arthur’s food, broke up with him over Totem, than odds are good this guy will be with the chef from that Alinea rip-off on 18th within the week. It’s not worth it.
Arthur doesn’t sleep well that night, and he blames the oppressive heat, but in the morning he checks his e-mail right away and there’s nothing. He doesn’t know what he expected.
Yusuf’s party is that evening, and Arthur drives Ariadne out to the farm, windows rolled down because the air conditioning is broken and the air outside the city tastes green, like all the best things. The Cobb family is there wholesale, James looking uncomfortable and Pippa trying to pretend to be older than sixteen and failing.
Mostly it’s just nice, even if Yusuf’s seen fit to invite twentysomethings Arthur’s never met who must be from the farmer’s market, because Arthur knows most of the people in the restaurant business by sight (except C. E. Miller, but no one knows C. E. Miller by sight). But Yusuf’s house is on a hill with a big front lawn, an old oak with swings, and if the house itself is a dilapidated mess with chickens being reared in the living room, no one has to know.
Arthur gets a beer and installs himself on the edge of the lawn, wedged between the roots of one of the old trees so he’s out of the way. He doesn’t come to Yusuf’s farm parties to socialize so much to get out of town, and it’s nice to lean against the ridged bark and watch the people, some who he recognizes and some who he doesn’t, and when he tires of that he can turn to the side and watch cows chew cud.
There’s a rhythm to these things.
Pippa’s chatting up one of the twentysomethings and Arthur should probably go chase him off, but the sun’s on his forehead and he doesn’t have it in him right now. Besides, when Dom notices Arthur’s sure he’ll do admirably.
Ariadne’s drifting through the crowd in her lazy way, striking up conversations almost at random, only then she catches Yusuf and they disappear around the side of the house.
Pippa might be on to something.
Arthur’s not going to follow them, because it’s not his business, and because the man Yusuf had just finished talking to looks like the month of August. It goes without saying that August is Arthur’s favorite month, because there are raspberries and everything is so fucking ripe, and this man’s lips are thick and pink and when he turns around his ass is like a peach, and Arthur wants nothing so much as to make a raspberry peach tart, and also to push this man down in the hay and taste his lips.
It’s the sort of attraction that startles Arthur because it feels unsafe, like the beginning of some stupid thing akin to e-mailing a restaurant critic, drunk off your ass at one in the morning.
He scoots along the trunk of the tree, until he’s looking at cows instead.
It’s Pippa who joins him, carrying two plates of food.
“I brought you the stuff mom and dad brought for the potluck, because everyone knows it’s the best,” she says, sitting down.
“None of my cookies?” Arthur asks, and Pippa frowns.
“You’ve got to get sick of eating your own food,” she says, handing him a plate.
“So, did Dom chase off all your suitors?” Arthur asks. “Is he ready to tattoo your birthday to your forehead yet?”
“Nah, he got waylaid by some Japanese man who wants him to recreate a certain food from his friend’s childhood,” Pippa replies easily. “I just wanted to hang out with my uncle.”
“Seriously?” Arthur asks, and Pippa’s lips quirk into a grin.
“Mom chased them off,” she says. “And lured some of them away, I think.”
“One of the trials of getting good genes,” Arthur says lightly. “Anyway, I saw Yusuf and Ariadne wander off together.”
“You think?” Pippa says, looking delighted. “I knew you’d be with me on this one.”
Arthur shrugs, and lets Pippa draw her own conclusions.
“But Pippa, I’m serious, sex isn’t everything,” Arthur adds.
“You think I don’t know that?” she asks. “You know I’m going to open a club some day, and it’s going to kick butt, and I’m going to be a brilliant bartender.”
“Yeah?” Arthur asks, even though he’s heard it before.
“Yeah,” she says. “Screw Josh. And Bradley. We don’t need men.”
Arthur taps his beer against her lemonade, and then there’s a voice from behind them, slow and languid and British for no reason Arthur can fathom.
“I’ll drink to that,” says the man with the peach ass, rounding the tree.
Arthur and Pippa both look up at him, and Arthur feels about sixteen years old. Which--it’s been a long time, since he was sixteen. He doesn’t like how it feels, all horniness and uncertainty and shame. He thinks Pippa might be watching him, to check his reactions, but he doesn’t want to know that, because he’s pretty sure anything he does in this situation will make him a terrible example.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Arthur,” says the man, and Arthur is pretty sure what he’s doing right now is simultaneously looming and leering, and he wants the man to stop, because Pippa is here, and he doesn’t want to think about how this person knows his name.
“Is it a pleasure to finally meet me?” Pippa interjects, and the man seems to suddenly be aware that Pippa’s there, even though she’s been there.
“I’m sure it is,” the man says, holding out a hand. “I’m Eames. And you are?”
Arthur has to admit, it was clever of him not to look at Arthur when he dropped the bomb. Pippa is introducing herself, looking charmed, and Arthur is hopelessly trying to rearrange his face, because if this is C. E. Miller than maybe he would’ve made an exception and let him bang him into a wall a couple times.
Probably not, though, because Miller is as full of shit as his reviews are, and his reviews are as full of shit as Yusuf’s truck when he’s transporting manure, his reviews are as full of shit as Yusuf’s chicken barn in winter, his reviews are full of a monumental amount of shit.
“Can I join you?” the man asks now, and Pippa is looking at her plate and talking about how she needs to get more food, even though it’s piled high, and when Eames looks askance Pippa says she also needs more lemonade, and disappears.
Fuck it all if she hasn’t switched her yenta lens to Arthur at the worst possible moment.
“Nice to meet you,” Arthur said stiffly. “Should I tell everyone here your nom de plume, or are you going to leave?”
“Oh, it’s not a psuedonym, darling,” Eames says, sitting down beside Arthur. “Eames is my middle name, mother’s maiden. Just happens to be what I go by.”
“So?” Arthur asks, arching an eyebrow.
“You really aren’t more charming in person, are you?” Eames says, and then he has the gall to laugh, like they’re friends.
“Not really, no,” Arthur says.
“So that was serious, was it?” Eames asks. “No chance, because I gave you a middling review? Because you’re obviously attracted to me.”
It should sound sleazy, but it just sounds frank--Arthur is attracted to Eames.
He looks at Eames, then, and Eames doesn’t look back; just leans against the tree and lets Arthur inspect his profile.
It makes Arthur feel like he’s buying something at market.
“Just a second,” Arthur says, and he goes to get a cookie. They’re chocolate chip raspberry, made with preserves instead of the fruit proper, and Arthur hands it to Eames.
“Are you seriously testing me?” Eames asks, turning it over in his hand. “This is what you’re going to do?”
“Eat it,” Arthur says. “And if you lie about this, I’ll punch you in the balls.”
“You’re not that good looking,” Eames says, and Arthur considers punching him in the balls anyway.
But then Eames eats the cookie, and then Eames moans into the cookie, and Arthur’s pretty sure he’s not faking. Eames is chewing and swallowing and Arthur just watches, and waits, and he hates watching people eat his food but maybe they were flirting with those stupid e-mails.
Arthur gets sick of waiting when the cookie’s about halfway gone, and puts his hand up on Eames’ cheek, quicksilver, and pulls his face over for a kiss.
Eames lips are as velvet as raspberries, and they taste like it, and chocolate, and the cookie, and it’s probably the best way Arthur’s found to taste his own cooking, with Eames’ tongue sweeping through his mouth and the commingled heat of their breath.
“Greedy,” Eames says when they pull apart, and then he pushes the second half of the cookie to Arthur’s lips.
“I can share,” he says, and Arthur takes a bite, feeling at once coy and childish, and then Eames feeds Arthur the rest, his eyes dark and heavy on Arthur’s face, on his mouth, which is nothing like Eames’ mouth, but most people don’t get off on their own mouths, anyway.
When Eames leans in to kiss Arthur, it’s slow and gentle and then quick and hard, and bursting with flavor, and Arthur is hungry for touch, too, now, but Eames is sucking along his jawline and his fingers are in Arthur's hair, tugging.
But they are behind a tree, and everyone else is right there, and Pippa and James are probably right there, and fuck.
Arthur bites Eames’ earlobe, harder maybe then he intended.
“We need to go somewhere else,” he says, and Eames blinks at him like he’s just woken from a long sleep, his eyes hooded.
They go, not quite running but moving in a way Arthur feels certain is completely unsubtle, like a gawky four-legged animal, a colt newly born. When they get around the corner of the house Ariadne’s sitting on the stoop with Yusuf, the pair of them leaning together and talking intently, and when she sees Arthur they make eye contact for a moment, and there’s something on her face that is twinned on Arthur’s, somewhere between shame and pleasure.
“There’s a place in the loft of the big barn,” Yusuf says, hardly looking at them, and as they’re moving up the hill Arthur wonders if there are things to consider here, like whether this is a one-night stand, and whether Eames has condoms and lube, and whether this is a good idea in any shape.
But it feels good, and there’s something to be said for plucking fruit when ripe, not waiting for it to fall to the ground, taking it when it’s ready and there.
Eames is ready and there, and in the loft there’s a heap of blankets for no reason Arthur can fathom, and the barn is a mass of trapped summer heat, but so are they, rutting against one another in a rhythm that’s at first quick and then languid, slow and easy and sweet.
Sometime after they collapse in a tangle of limbs, Arthur has to go, because the oven needs to be stoked and there will be bread in the morning, just like there is every morning.
“Don’t think you’ll get rid of me that easily,” Eames says, and Arthur kind of believes him.
It’s a combination of factors.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 14, 2010
I was going to write Totem a new review, but that seemed like too much metaphorical ass kissing when I could be doing it literally.
-E
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 12, 2010
Come over tonight. I’ll make a pie.
-AL
notes: About ages; Arthur started worked with the Cobbs when he was in his early 20s and Pippa was 3. So now she's 16 and Arthur's in his early to mid thirties. Cool.
The title is from the Bob Dylan song "Summer Days," which always makes me want to jump around and shout (my favorite mondegreen: "she's a long haired woman, she's got roaring in her blood"). Listen to it with The Legendary Shack-Shakers "Shake Your Hips" I DEFY YOU NOT TO JUMP AROUND IN AN EMBARRASSING DANCE-thing. (I am revealing the taste in music that got me nothing but mockery in high school.)
I make fun of hipsters because I secretly (read: not secretly at all) would probably be one if I didn't spend most of my time in the woods.
This fic went through about 3 different concepts (and at least many google docs--the working title for the one that became this was 'symbolic pie') but a consistent thread was (a) Eames being a snob, (b) Arthur liking his job and (c) this quote from the Louise Erdrich novel "The Painted Drum." I'm ashamed to admit I got the quote from tumblr and haven't read the novel (I am becoming a person that I hate).
Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.
Oh, and the city this takes place in is totally made up. Okay. In case that wasn't clear from the fact that it was never named, but apparently has restaurants doing molecular gastronomy? Albeit badly?
And, finally, my favorite recipe for banana cream pie, hardly adapted at all from one of the King Arthur (irony of ironies--WHY DID I NOT MAKE THAT JOKE?) Flour cookbooks, I forget which:
banana cream pie
whisk together in a heatproof bowl:
1/2 c. sugar
2 T. flour
1 T. + 1 t. cornstarch
1/2 t. salt
2 eggs
boil 1 c. milk
pour hot milk into egg mixture, whisking continuously.
return milk + egg mixture to stove and stir until it thickens and boils in the middle.
remove from heat and add 6 T. butter, 1/2 t. vanilla.
slice 2 bananas into a blind-baked crust pastry or cookie crust. pour pastry cream over top. chill.
after chilled, whip 1 c. heavy cream until slightly peaky--add 1 t. vanilla and 1/4 confectioner's sugar and whip it good. spread atop pie.
And, on the subject of getting things posted while I have time--I probably won't have a ton of time for fic after this, or even be around that much. Summers tend to pick up a lot for me, because there's more to do outside of work, and more to do for work, and it's a wonderful, great, grand time, but not one when I can promise fic with any sort of regularity. I'm working on the Eames' POV bit of the endless & impossible 'verse. It will probably be awhile. I also want to write a mountain bike racing AU (don't ask don't tell applies here, by which I mean if you think that sounds bizarre don't ask, because I probably won't be able to tell you why it wouldn't be).
BUT I wanted to leave you with a fun summertime fic, and I've been wanting to do a bakery AU (even though I know bakery AUs have been done well and better in this fandom--I can't really bring myself to care). And I also want the tomatoes to get ripe POST HASTE, so here you go.
Anyway, who cares if I'm going to be around much or what--it's summer! And the warm weather will probably retreat a few times where I am before it's here to stay, but it's warm, and the leaves are green, and the seeds are in the garden and the boats and bicycles are out of storage.
Warnings for: unrealistic staffing, name checking of restaurants I have never been to (thank you Frank Bruni), not much sex and lots of f-bombs, un-beta'd. PRETTY MUCH PAR FOR THE COURSE, HERE. As usual, you can read the notes before or after or not at all, but they are there.
.summer days & summer nights (are long)
c. e. miller, that asshole, gave totem a shit review.
r . 8023 words
The Station, so-called for its location in a renovated train depot, benefits from the design expertise of owner Mallorie Cobb. [...] The chef is Ms. Cobb’s husband, Dominic Cobb, and his kitchen turns out consistently innovative interpretations of classic fare. [...] Although the entrees are strong, the Cobbs’ new pastry chef suffers from Californian delusions about the viability of using seasonal produce. His insistence on only using seasonal fruits and vegetables hobbles the winter dessert menu, which lacks imagination as well as flavour.
-REVIEW: The Station, C. E. Miller, 11/15/1997
Arthur Levine, former pastry chef at the now defunct East Side gastropub The Station, will be striking out on his own for a new, self-funded venture in the River District. A brick oven is currently being installed at a Maple Street location.
-DINING BRIEFS, 03/24/2010
Pastry chef Arthur Levine’s new bakery-pizzeria, Totem, quite literally plays with fire, and things get burned. In this case, the pizza. [...] Mr. Levine’s banana cream pie remains as good, albeit as traditional, as it was in his later years at The Station, and presents a strong defense for his skill with the sweet if not the savory.
-REVIEW: Totem, C. E. Miller, 06/08/2010
The day they get the review, Arthur makes a pastry cream that won’t set, and it’s terrible.
That the pastry cream is terrible is a given, because it won’t set, but what’s worse is the sinking feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach when he takes the conglomeration of eggs and milk and butter off the stove and realizes something’s off, and then when he pours it over the bananas and puts it in the fridge and checks on it, far more than he should, because he knows it’s not going to set but some stupid part of him holds out hope.
Of course it doesn’t set. It’s that kind of fucking day.
Ariadne comes up behind him when he’s standing in front of the fridge with the door open, looking at the pies that won’t set, and puts her head on his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” she says.
“Not really,” he replies, and shuts the fridge door.
Arthur has never had a pastry cream turn on him, not when he was thirteen and made his first banana cream pie, not since. And he saw this one going wrong, and didn’t fix it, and now it’s taunting him, the same way the Herald one of the morning customers left on the table taunted him.
In the end what Arthur does--and this isn’t something he’s proud of, just something he does--is throw two of the bad pies at the kitchen wall. The metal pie pans clatter when they hit, and slide down in a mess of runny pastry cream and bananas, and Ariadne comes in from where she was mopping the dining room floor and just looks at him, somewhere between pity and sorrow, and then after they clean up the kitchen and put wood in the brick oven for overnight Ariadne trails after Arthur when goes upstairs to his apartment, and installs herself on the couch.
“Arthur,” she says.
“It’s a combination of factors,” he tells her, and she looks like she might want to hug him.
“Arthur,” she says again, quite seriously. “I’m going to get you drunk.”
And that’s not the worst idea Arthur’s ever heard, so he tosses her the keys to his car and says, “Have at it.”
“I can trust you alone?” Ariadne asks. “No more pie carnage?”
“No more pie carnage,” he echoes, and lets himself sink into the couch.
It’s not the mediocre review, because everyone knows C. E. Miller gives weak reviews to pretty much anything that’s not molecular gastronomy, fusion, or French, because C. E. Miller, he/she/it, is nothing if not a snob. So it’s not the review.
It’s kind of, mostly the pie.
It’s kind of Bradley, this weekend, who told Arthur he was married to his job, and Arthur fucking loves his job, but Arthur also likes sex, as people do. It’s kind of the way Mal and Dom have everything under control with their fucking catering company, and their gleaming children. Arthur knows they went through hell to get to where they are but he can’t help the jealousy that sometimes seeps up, milk solids atop butter.
It’s kind of that he never got the chance to tell Bradley: food has got to be as central to life as sex, if you think about it, and when you have the opportunity to elevate it it’s a fucking privilege, and maybe it envelopes you, and maybe that’s okay.
Which is why it’s depressing if Arthur isn’t elevating the food, if his pastry cream won’t set and C. E. Miller, what an asshole, claims the pizza was burnt, and even though the food is wrong all Arthur gets out of the deal are guys who say he works too much and run off with twenty-year-olds who don’t know what they want, if they want anything, or how to make Hollandaise sauce without having it go to lumps.
Ariadne comes back. She has yesterday’s stale cake, and a brown bag from the liquor store, and she says she’s going to make trifle with Bailey’s folded into whipped cream and cake soaked in Guinness and then she pours far too much whiskey into a mason jar and hands it to Arthur, besides.
“I hate trifle,” Arthur says, taking a swig from the jar.
“You don’t hate my trifle,” Ariadne replies.
As it turns out, Arthur doesn’t. It’s a soggy mess of liquor and chocolate and cream, but he doesn’t hate it.
Ariadne sleeps on the couch that night, after they’re both finished shouting about men and cheese and fire and the importance of egg yolks. If anything else happens, Arthur doesn’t remember it in the morning.
His alarm is too loud and he doesn’t turn on any lights when he gets out of bed, because they’ll be too bright, and instead he runs into the frames of every door in the place before he makes it downstairs, to the kitchen and the oven, to the bread. He turns on the lights there, blinks off the brightness, checks the temperature on the oven and then starts to shape bâtards, falling into a tight rhythm of wrists and arms and springy dough.
After he finishes the bâtards, Arthur goes upstairs to get Ariadne so she can do the baguettes while he works on the miniature quiches, and she wipes sleepers from her eyes and asks why he didn’t wake her already, and he just shrugs. Arthur likes to be quiet and alone in the mornings, and he doesn’t mind Ariadne, and in fact he needs her, but sometimes it’s nice just to knead bread.
Not that quiches are bad. And the muffins aren’t, either, and Arthur will need to make more banana cream pies to recoup yesterday’s losses, but not now, not yet. Because it’s opening, or very nearly, and Ariadne is fiddling with her fleet of coffee machines, producing a latte for herself and a mug of black coffee for Arthur.
“Another day,” she says, quirking her eyebrow as she passes the cup off to him, and he sips it, unlocks the door and turns over the sign, and they’re open to a steady flow of quiet businessman, carrying newspapers and briefcases.
The sixteen-year-old Cobb child comes in late for her shift, and Arthur tells her off but all he gets for his efforts is a sullen scowl because she knows he can’t fire her as long as she shows up, because she’s a Cobb child and, also, not a terrible person to have as a part-time employee.
“Ariadne,” Pippa says, midway through Arthur’s lecture. “Make him go bake something.”
“Raspberry chocolate chip cookies are low,” Ariadne suggests, and Arthur looks between the two of them.
“Does anyone here remember that I’m the boss?” Arthur grumbles, but goes to the back anyway, because when Pippa’s late and wearing too much eyeliner it means boy troubles, and Ariadne and Pippa have both declared Arthur’s sympathetic ear broken.
He knows Ariadne knows, because she catches his eye before the kitchen door swings shut. He wishes she would let him maintain some illusion of authority, but she’s so devastatingly competent it’s not worth firing her.
Besides, Ariadne would probably start a competing business and grant a scathing interview to C. E. Miller if Arthur did fire her, so he really can’t risk it.
Arthur finishes the cookies, and starts on the pies.
The pastry cream sets, which is a small blessing.
Ariadne comes in to check on him before the lunch rush.
“Don’t mention Josh Bergen to Pippa,” she says, and Arthur frowns.
“Like I know who Josh Bergen is.”
“Mercutio in the spring play. Very hot,” Ariadne says, and Arthur remembers that these things aren’t worth pursuing.
“Should I make the Pippa special?” he asks instead, and Ariadne smiles at him, quick and genuine.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t turn it down.”
The pizza orders start coming in; mostly for their terrible bastardized margherita, but a few people have enough sense to order the daily specials, spicy arugula with garlic and fontina, asparagus with goat cheese and bacon.
“The parents say not to sweat the review,” Pippa says when she stops by the kitchen. “Everyone knows Miller’s full of shit.”
“He’s been restaurant critic for as long as you’ve been alive,” Arthur says.
“Yeah, but I’m like five thousand percent cooler than he is. If Miller’s even a man,” Pippa says. “And I like your pizza, so.”
“Fishing for free food?” Arthur asks, and Pippa grins.
“Of course, boss,” she says.
“I shouldn’t let you talk to Ariadne,” Arthur mutters, but he takes one of the smaller balls of dough and starts piling mushrooms on, anyway.
“Aw,” she says. “The Pippa special. Thanks, Uncy.”
If anything, the review improved business, because when lunch ends the supply of pizza dough is pretty well depleted, and people come in trying to order pizza for dinner, even though Miller’s review mentioned that Totem only serves dinner three nights a week. And complained about it.
Still, no harm, no foul. Pippa manages to sell most of the people they deny pizza on loaves of bread, and after close at six’o’clock Arthur pops open a bottle of San Pellegrino and the three of them make toasts in the kitchen, waiting for Yusuf to come by with tomorrow’s vegetables.
“Mom lets me drink wine, you know,” Pippa says. “So we could’ve had that.”
“We don’t have a liquor license--” Arthur starts.
“Arthur’s pregnant,” Ariadne interjects, and Pippa snorts sparkling water out her nose.
“With Totem’s twin?” she asks when she recovers from her coughing fit. “That’s sure to be a painful birth.”
“He’s got a bun in the oven,” Ariadne says, nodding.
“You’re both terrible,” Arthur says, but he knows he’s grinning, and Pippa reaches up and rubs his hair into peaks.
“No,” she says. “I’m your favorite pretend niece. And Ariadne’s the best.”
“Damn straight,” Ariadne says, and then there’s pounding on the back door, which means Yusuf has arrived.
Yusuf owns a farm outside of town, and supplies produce to several restaurants in the city, every week, twice as week. Early June is strawberries, almost more rhubarb then Arthur can use, spinach and arugula and radishes and the last of the slender, tender asparagus.
“Special, this week,” Yusuf says as he hands off a box of eggs to Ariadne. “My neighbor forages, and I’ve got ramps, and--”
He reaches into a box behind him and pulls out a mushroom, twirling it by its stem.
“Morels,” Arthur breaths, and Yusuf grins.
“Saved them for my favorite customers. Not that it won’t cost you.”
“Fuck, Yusuf,” Arthur says. “You know I’ll pay. They’re hardly even in season anymore.”
“Nope,” Yusuf says. “I’ve got the last of ‘em.”
It’s Ariadne who haggles Yusuf down on the mushrooms, while Pippa gives Arthur significant glances. He’s not sure what the glances are supposed to mean, he just hopes to hell Yusuf won’t pull out and give them to someone else, because the things Arthur could do with morels. He’s thinking sauteed, with onions, and piled on pizza without sauce and with some white, hard cheese. Cheddar, maybe, not too much.
They bring the produce in and put it in the fridge, and Arthur starts mapping out the next morning’s food, and strawberry-rhubarb tartlets and muffins, and housemade ramp butter to sell with the breads, maybe ramp quiches as well.
“Arthur,” Yusuf says, interrupting his reverie. “Farm party? Can you come?”
“What?” he asks.
“Sunday night,” Ariadne says. “Party at Yusuf’s. You can come.”
Arthur blinks at her. Totem closes early on Sunday, but Sunday nights are for sitting on the floor in front of the couch reading books.
“Arthur,” Ariadne says, and it occurs to him he doesn’t really have a choice.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I can come.”
Yusuf offers Ariadne a ride back to her apartment, and Pippa follows Arthur back inside.
“Yusuf and Ariadne,” she says, as soon as the door’s shut.
“Just left?” Arthur asks.
“Yusuf and Ariadne should date,” Pippa continues.
“I’m sure that if they want to, they will,” Arthur says, and then he starts putting chairs up on tables.
“No they won’t,” Pippa says, standing behind him. “They need a push.”
“If you’re going to talk to me about this, you can at least help with the chairs,” Arthur suggests, and when he turns around Pippa’s frowning.
“No thanks. But, seriously, Yusuf and Ariadne.”
“This isn’t high school. People don’t just hook up because they’re in the same clubs.”
“Arthur.” Pippa shakes her head. “You think so little of your only pretend niece.”
“I’m not helping you play matchmaker,” Arthur says, and Pippa pouts.
“Seriously, Pippa, it’s not a game,” Arthur continues.
“I don’t think it’s a game,” she says, and it’s Arthur’s turn to frown.
“Then why do you think they should date?” Arthur asks as he goes to the closet for the mop.
“Why did Yusuf let you have those ‘shrooms for half price?”
“Because Ariadne’s a good haggler?”
“This is Yusuf,” Pippa says flatly.
“And Ariadne,” Arthur counters.
“Which is why they’re a great match,” Pippa says.
“And so you’re going to--”
“Lock them in a room together?”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Arthur says.
“Well, you come up with something.”
“I’m not helping you with this.”
“That’s not an idea,” Pippa says, jutting out her lower lip.
“Go home, Pippa,” Arthur sighs.
“Think about it,” Pippa says, and then she’s slipping out the door. She gives him a wave on her way past the window, and Arthur watches.
Arthur stokes the fire, and then he goes upstairs, sits down on the couch and checks his e-mail for the first time today.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re:, June 9, 2010
Mr. Levine:
For your sake, I hope you were drunk last night (or should I say this morning?).
Who’s Bradley?
And Pizza Hut? That explains everything: you have a terrible palette.
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: [no subject], June 9, 2010
milller--
fuck u, ok? sriously i m fucking great. 7 further, u dont kno shit, about food, or bradley, who can fvck himself. also. because i gave up alot for totm, leik apparntly sex, according to fucking bradley, and i did not do it to sit here and take ur fucking shit.
if u want ur pizza cooked in a gas oven, go to fucking pizza hut/
=al
So last night may not have been Arthur’s finest hour. He stares at the screen, and then he shuts the laptop and goes to the kitchen for a beer.
He has to respond to the e-mail. He can’t ignore the e-mail. It hums around the back of his head like a fly, as he moves from the kitchen to the living room and back again, and then he sits down on the couch and takes the laptop off the coffee table and starts typing, and backspaces, and starts over.
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re:, June 9, 2010
I think it’s obvious who Bradley is, and that I was drunk last night.
If any of this ends up in the paper, I will eviscerate you.
-AL
p.s. Terrible palette? After the rave you gave that Alinea rip-off on 18th, I thought that was you.
Once the e-mail is sent, Arthur refuses to think about it, staunchly.
He calls Ariadne.
“Boss,” she says, when she picks up.
“Did I do anything last night?” he asks. It’s hot and the window’s open and the air blowing in smells like city summer, all hot tarmac and and dampness.
“Get drunk, rant? Install me on your couch?” Ariadne asks.
“Okay,” Arthur says, pacing. The wind picks up and drops the curtains, flimsy white ones.
“Not that I don’t enjoy this conversation, but are you going to ask me to come in early tomorrow or something?”
“No,” Arthur says. “I just--”
“What happened?” Ariadne says, cutting him off with the steady confidence of someone who knows something happened.
“I may have sent a drunk e-mail to C. E. Miller,” Arthur admits, and Ariadne laughs, bright and delighted.
“Pippa wants to set you up with Yusuf,” he adds, and hangs up.
Ariadne calls him back.
“Why?” she asks.
“Why what?” he says. He puts his elbows on the kitchen counter and presses his nose against the window screen, looking down at the alley behind his apartment. There’s a fence, garages, bushes. The herb garden for the bakery, tiny and weedy.
“Why me and Yusuf?” she asks. “Why e-mail C. E. Miller?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur answers. And it’s the honest truth.
“Okay,” she says, and lets him go.
Phoning Ariadne wasn’t Arthur’s most successful attempt at distraction, so he goes downstairs and weeds the herb garden instead, only he gets distracted and pulls up most of the parsley, which is going to be a problem for the tabbouleh but not much else.
He checks his e-mail when he gets back upstairs.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 9, 2010
Mr. Levine:
Apparently, I have a fan, although you don’t seem to have a good understanding of what constitutes newsworthy.
And I’m still unclear on the identity of this Bradley character.
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
Arthur is not going to dignify that with an immediate response. He goes to bed.
Pippa’s off the next day, so Arthur doesn’t have to face the repercussions of telling Ariadne about her matchmaking schemes, and instead has to deal with Nash’s unwashed hair and Ariadne’s questions.
“So did C. E. Miller reply to your e-mail?” comes with his coffee.
“No,” Arthur lies.
“It’s summer,” Ariadne says. They’re both out front, and Ariadne has her elbows on the counter and she’s watching the door, like someone will come in despite the sign that says “open” on their side, the direct opposite on the other.
“Huh,” Arthur says. He feels like he’s somehow being tricked, but he lets it slide because it is summer, and he’s looking forward to Yusuf’s party now for that precise reason, because out at the farm it will smell like leaves and manure and everyone will probably end up swimming in the river in the cow pasture, and it’s probably unsanitary but hell if he doesn’t like it.
“Summer’s just feel like potential, you know?” Ariadne continues. “Like maybe I should let Pippa set me up with Yusuf, because why the hell not?”
“Because if you ruin Totem’s relationship with Yusuf, I will--”
“Don’t bother, Arthur,” Ariadne says. “You know what I mean.”
“You want to climb Yusuf like a tree?” Arthur asks.
“You know what I mean,” she repeats, tone still mild.
Arthur opens the bakery.
That night, he responds to Miller’s e-mail. There’s no reason not to.
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 10, 2010
You’re a restaurant critic. On what planet is anything you write newsworthy?
-AL
He gets a new e-mail immediately, but it’s from his mother, who has apparently lost her recipe for pie crust and wants it from him. There’s something terrible about telling your mother you don’t use her recipe for pie crust anymore, because it wasn’t flaky enough.
Arthur digs up her old recipe and types it out for her without his modifications.
Arthur does not wait on a reply from Miller. Totem served dinner today, and he just lets himself sink into sleep on the couch, flipping through a magazine he’s been using as a coaster since Bradley left, because Arthur definitely doesn’t subscribe to The Economist.
He checks in the morning, though.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 10, 2010
Mr. Levine:
On the planet where it appears in a fucking newspaper.
Bradley?
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Shut up about Bradley. I’m pretty sure my life isn’t your business, since all I know about you is that you have a friend who’s vegan and bitched about our menu. Maybe you should stop bringing vegans to pizza places.
-AL
Pippa’s in the next day, comes in early to help with breakfast, and Ariadne tattles almost immediately.
“Arthur says you’re scheming, yenta,” she says, poking Pippa in the stomach. They’re all setting up the dining room, Ariadne’s putting out the cream and sweeteners for the coffee while Arthur and Pippa tidy tables.
“Arthur!” Pippa squeals.
“It’ll be easier if Ariadne knew,” Arthur offers.
“But then it’s not a set-up, is it? Then it’s just Ariadne and I scheming to get her in Yusuf’s pants.”
“Oh, come on, you knew she’d go along with anything,” Arthur says. “Ariadne goes on blind dates for fun.”
“I like meeting new people,” Ariadne protests.
“It’s not like she ever actually dates anyone,” Pippa says, narrowing her eyes.
“Maybe she’s too busy with work,” Arthur says, and Pippa and Ariadne both give him withering glances.
“That’s you, Arthur,” Ariadne says.
“Well then why don’t you date anyone?” Arthur bites back, and both he and Pippa stare at Ariadne, who’s retreated behind the coffee makers.
“Low, Arthur,” she says.
“No, why don’t you?” Pippa asks.
“Not everything needs to be about dating,” Ariadne offers with a shrug. “Arthur and I made out, and we don’t date.”
“Low, Ariadne,” Arthur says, as Pippa whirls around.
“Uncle Arthur!”
“That was ages ago,” Arthur says. “And a favor, to scare off one of Ariadne’s blind dates, so I think we all know what the problem really is here.”
Ariadne hands them both mugs, black coffee for Arthur, milk for Pippa, and a latte with far too many shots of espresso for Ariadne herself.
“Yeah, well, how often do blind dates work out, anyway?”
“You’re emotionally promiscuous,” Arthur says.
“Fewer STDs, that way,” Ariadne says. “I just like hearing people’s stories.”
“But what about Yusuf?” Pippa presses, and Ariadne shrugs.
“I like Yusuf,” Ariadne says. “He’s alright.”
“This is why you weren’t supposed to tell her,” Pippa hisses, and then it’s opening and Arthur escapes to the kitchen.
“Pies,” he mutters.
He spends half the morning rolling out crusts, and then Pippa shows up.
“You can’t make Ariadne date,” he says before she can get a word in edgewise.
“She and Yusuf would be sweet together,” Pippa counters.
“Ariadne’s hardly sweet.”
“But Yusuf is,” Pippa says. “It would be like strawberry-rhubarb pie.”
Arthur has a weakness for pie metaphors. He scowls at Pippa.
“So Yusuf is strawberries now?” he asks, and Pippa shrugs. “He’s a vicious free-market capitalist.”
“Who sold Ariadne mushrooms at half price,” Pippa says. “Mushrooms he bought from his neighbor. I bet he took a loss.”
“His neighbor is a coot,” Arthur says. “I bet he didn’t.”
“Point being,” Pippa says, holding up one hand. “Ariadne is as much of a handful as you are, and maybe a little sweet, and Yusuf is remarkably laid back, and maybe a little sour. And they are made for each other.”
Her voice raises an octave on the last four words, and Arthur can’t be blamed if he looks skeptical.
“Whatever,” he says, finally. “I think I pay you for something other than this.”
“I knew you’d come around, Uncy,” she says, which was not entirely unanticipated.
Arthur puts a tray of cookies in the oven, and goes upstairs to check his e-mail.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Mr. Levine:
Then why do you keep responding to these?
I don’t actually have a friend who’s vegan; artistic license.
(Can I call you Arthur now, since we’re such good friends?)
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
I don’t give a fuck.
-AL
When Arthur gets downstairs, Ariadne is waiting for him.
“You don’t smell like smoke,” she says. “Or like too much cologne.”
“I had to check my e-mail. “You haven’t won yet.”
“But I’m going to, though,” she says. “Because I’m not weak.”
Arthur snorts and tries to cover it.
“Also, because I’ve only been smoking since I started this job, and you’ve been smoking like a house on fire since you came out of the womb,” she continues.
“You’re mixing your cliches.”
“Only to emphasize my point,” Ariadne says, and Arthur frowns.
“What are you back here for? Other than making false accusations.”
“What were you checking your e-mail for?”
“Miller’s an asshole,” Arthur says, pulling the cookies from the oven and getting out the pizza toppings to prep.
“Who you’re corresponding with,” Ariadne replies, and then she’s gone.
Arthur is still corresponding with Miller. It’s a problem.
They’re just being snide to one another. There is absolutely no reason to continue e-mailing Miller, and Arthur has no explanation, and instead he throws himself into making pizza, when Pippa comes in he delegates her to herb collection.
“Thyme,” he says, nodding towards the pile of mushrooms. “And we’re low on basil.”
The nice thing about having Pippa on as a waitress is that she knows this shit. Nash would’ve brought back the wrong thing, Arthur is willing to bet his life on it.
Arthur likes the smell of herbs and produce on his hands; that’s the glory of the pizzas. He doesn’t let them carry the restaurant because he is a pastry chef somewhere at heart, and he likes the array of doughs too much to dedicate himself to any one. But making pizza is like painting with broad strokes of flavor, and in August it’ll be better yet, when the tomatoes are full and ripe, and eggplants start coming in, and raspberries, which have nothing whatsoever to do with Arthur’s pizzas but are the most perfect fruit in existence.
The reason Arthur kept corresponding with C. E. Miller was that sometimes his words were arias on flavor, and Arthur thought he might understand some of that, might be able to relate to some of Arthur’s feelings, alternately ineffable and ridiculous, about food.
Arthur had kept corresponding with C. E. Miller because he had thought they might be friends, and Arthur had always tried to pull people closer by being especially rude to them.
Arthur considers going out to the dining room and telling Ariadne that they might be exactly the same, but that seems like too much.
Instead he bakes pizza through to dinner. In the evening another waitress comes to help, and Ariadne moves to the kitchen with Arthur, and the two of them together pound through the endless string of orders. And Arthur doesn’t ask Ariadne any questions or tell her any lies.
There’s an e-mail waiting for him when he gets home.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Arthur--
Contrary to popular belief, there’s not a huge volume of restaurant critic groupies, either.
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Now you want to commiserate about not getting laid? Sorry, Miller, but I do have other friends.
-AL
Arthur goes to make a cup of chamomile tea, and then he stares at the screen and waits. Because he doesn’t know what else to do. Because their conversation might be getting relevant.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Arthur--
Then why are you still responding to these?
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Million dollar question. But then again, why are you still responding?
Look, Miller, there is no Bradley story. He thought I worked too much. We broke up. It pretty much sounds the same sober as drunk.
-AL
The heat of the laptop is radiating through Arthur’s knees, and outside a thunderstorm is tumbling through, heavy winds followed by sudden sheets of rain, so Arthur has to go around shutting all the windows. The power flickers out and on, and when it’s back, fully, there’s another e-mail.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Arthur--
Because responding to your e-mails is more interesting than other things I could be doing.
Mine was named Alex. He was an asshole not worth discussing, except his asshole was worth discussing.
C.E. Miller
Restaurant Critic
The Daily Herald
Arthur looks at that one. So a man then, and gay. Or bisexual. Or a rather kinky woman.
It doesn’t really clear anything up.
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
If we’re sharing sordid sex stories, I’m not in.
(And, seriously, do you have another e-mail address? Or can you turn off the signature? I don’t want to hear sordid sex stories from C. E. Miller / Restaurant Critic / The Daily Herald.)
-AL
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
Arthur--
If that was a sordid sex story I feel rather sorry for this Bradley. Don’t pastry chefs do kinky food sex? Frosting and fondant and rutting all over the kitchen?
How about this storm?
-CEM
p.s. Taking a page out of your book.
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 11, 2010
I meant any sex stories at all.
I’m sure the sanitation commission would be all about kitchen sex, only not at all, and we’ve already established that my restaurant comes before my relationships.
So now you’re changing the subject to the weather? Sordid to boring, smooth.
-AL
The lights flicker off again, and Arthur takes that as a reminder that he might go to bed now, or he could, or he should, because tomorrow he’ll be up early, dealing with the oven.
The lights flicker, and water pounds against the south windows. Arthur goes to bed.
There’s no e-mail in the morning, which makes Arthur wonder if Miller lost power, too. He doesn’t think about that thought.
“Yusuf’s coming today,” Pippa says when she bursts in in the midafternoon. “Pay attention, Arthur. This is serious.”
“Serious,” he echoes, raising an eyebrow.
“Pay attention,” she repeats.
And so Arthur does. They’re unloading the truck, and Ariadne is talking to Yusuf, completely unselfconscious even though she has to know that even if Arthur weren’t listening, Pippa is skulking around when she could already have gone home.
Arthur’s not completely sold. He glances at Pippa, who’s frowning.
“Here’s the thing about Ariadne,” he says when they’re alone. “I’m not entirely sure she wants to date anyone.”
“Yusuf likes her,” Pippa hisses.
“Ariadne doesn’t exactly need your help, then,” Arthur says. “Does this have anything to do with Josh Bergen?”
“No,” Pippa says.
“Pippa,” Arthur says, and she frowns. “Look, you’re sixteen. I’m sure there’s some guy out there for you, and you don’t need to set up people to make up for it. Or whatever it is you’re doing.”
“It’s not Josh Bergen. It’s just that everyone I know is single,” she mutters.
“Your parents?” Arthur offers.
“Are my parents. I just want you guys to be happy, you know? And after Bradley--”
“So because I broke up with Bradley, you want Ariadne to hook up with Yusuf?” Arthur asks, and Pippa frowns.
“Not exactly,” she says. “But I don’t know anyone you’d like.”
Arthur lets her slide, though he thinks that maybe he should tell her that life isn’t like a romantic comedy, or even like Jane Austen (which is a satire, damnit, and so). And that even though he likes sex maybe he could do without the relationship, because he does have friends, and coworkers, and bakery regulars. There are always one night stands, though then he’d have to get his ass looking presentable (well; his ass is presentable, always, so maybe he means his face) and haul it out to clubs.
Instead of telling Pippa these things, because she’s still sixteen and maybe he should be talking to her parents about his love life instead of talking to a sixteen-year-old girl about it, Arthur goes upstairs. And checks his e-mail.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 12, 2010
You think I’m smooth? I’m glad you finally acknowledge that we have a flirtation going on here, darling.
Call me Eames.
Arthur wasn’t acknowledging that there was a flirtation going on here. On some level, he hadn’t even realized it, and reading this e-mail makes him want to go downstairs and take back everything he didn’t say to Pippa, because apparently his life is like a crappy romantic comedy, and he doesn’t even want this.
So he stops thinking, and just responds.
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 12, 2010
Mr. Miller:
Didn’t realize this was a flirtation.
Sorry, not really interested in someone who doesn’t respect my food.
-Arthur Levine
And it looks stupid, typed there, but Arthur has to send it, because it’s true. Nothing in his dialogue with Miller--Eames--has convinced Arthur that this guy isn’t an asshole. Who hates his pizza.
And if Bradley, who actually liked Arthur’s food, broke up with him over Totem, than odds are good this guy will be with the chef from that Alinea rip-off on 18th within the week. It’s not worth it.
Arthur doesn’t sleep well that night, and he blames the oppressive heat, but in the morning he checks his e-mail right away and there’s nothing. He doesn’t know what he expected.
Yusuf’s party is that evening, and Arthur drives Ariadne out to the farm, windows rolled down because the air conditioning is broken and the air outside the city tastes green, like all the best things. The Cobb family is there wholesale, James looking uncomfortable and Pippa trying to pretend to be older than sixteen and failing.
Mostly it’s just nice, even if Yusuf’s seen fit to invite twentysomethings Arthur’s never met who must be from the farmer’s market, because Arthur knows most of the people in the restaurant business by sight (except C. E. Miller, but no one knows C. E. Miller by sight). But Yusuf’s house is on a hill with a big front lawn, an old oak with swings, and if the house itself is a dilapidated mess with chickens being reared in the living room, no one has to know.
Arthur gets a beer and installs himself on the edge of the lawn, wedged between the roots of one of the old trees so he’s out of the way. He doesn’t come to Yusuf’s farm parties to socialize so much to get out of town, and it’s nice to lean against the ridged bark and watch the people, some who he recognizes and some who he doesn’t, and when he tires of that he can turn to the side and watch cows chew cud.
There’s a rhythm to these things.
Pippa’s chatting up one of the twentysomethings and Arthur should probably go chase him off, but the sun’s on his forehead and he doesn’t have it in him right now. Besides, when Dom notices Arthur’s sure he’ll do admirably.
Ariadne’s drifting through the crowd in her lazy way, striking up conversations almost at random, only then she catches Yusuf and they disappear around the side of the house.
Pippa might be on to something.
Arthur’s not going to follow them, because it’s not his business, and because the man Yusuf had just finished talking to looks like the month of August. It goes without saying that August is Arthur’s favorite month, because there are raspberries and everything is so fucking ripe, and this man’s lips are thick and pink and when he turns around his ass is like a peach, and Arthur wants nothing so much as to make a raspberry peach tart, and also to push this man down in the hay and taste his lips.
It’s the sort of attraction that startles Arthur because it feels unsafe, like the beginning of some stupid thing akin to e-mailing a restaurant critic, drunk off your ass at one in the morning.
He scoots along the trunk of the tree, until he’s looking at cows instead.
It’s Pippa who joins him, carrying two plates of food.
“I brought you the stuff mom and dad brought for the potluck, because everyone knows it’s the best,” she says, sitting down.
“None of my cookies?” Arthur asks, and Pippa frowns.
“You’ve got to get sick of eating your own food,” she says, handing him a plate.
“So, did Dom chase off all your suitors?” Arthur asks. “Is he ready to tattoo your birthday to your forehead yet?”
“Nah, he got waylaid by some Japanese man who wants him to recreate a certain food from his friend’s childhood,” Pippa replies easily. “I just wanted to hang out with my uncle.”
“Seriously?” Arthur asks, and Pippa’s lips quirk into a grin.
“Mom chased them off,” she says. “And lured some of them away, I think.”
“One of the trials of getting good genes,” Arthur says lightly. “Anyway, I saw Yusuf and Ariadne wander off together.”
“You think?” Pippa says, looking delighted. “I knew you’d be with me on this one.”
Arthur shrugs, and lets Pippa draw her own conclusions.
“But Pippa, I’m serious, sex isn’t everything,” Arthur adds.
“You think I don’t know that?” she asks. “You know I’m going to open a club some day, and it’s going to kick butt, and I’m going to be a brilliant bartender.”
“Yeah?” Arthur asks, even though he’s heard it before.
“Yeah,” she says. “Screw Josh. And Bradley. We don’t need men.”
Arthur taps his beer against her lemonade, and then there’s a voice from behind them, slow and languid and British for no reason Arthur can fathom.
“I’ll drink to that,” says the man with the peach ass, rounding the tree.
Arthur and Pippa both look up at him, and Arthur feels about sixteen years old. Which--it’s been a long time, since he was sixteen. He doesn’t like how it feels, all horniness and uncertainty and shame. He thinks Pippa might be watching him, to check his reactions, but he doesn’t want to know that, because he’s pretty sure anything he does in this situation will make him a terrible example.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Arthur,” says the man, and Arthur is pretty sure what he’s doing right now is simultaneously looming and leering, and he wants the man to stop, because Pippa is here, and he doesn’t want to think about how this person knows his name.
“Is it a pleasure to finally meet me?” Pippa interjects, and the man seems to suddenly be aware that Pippa’s there, even though she’s been there.
“I’m sure it is,” the man says, holding out a hand. “I’m Eames. And you are?”
Arthur has to admit, it was clever of him not to look at Arthur when he dropped the bomb. Pippa is introducing herself, looking charmed, and Arthur is hopelessly trying to rearrange his face, because if this is C. E. Miller than maybe he would’ve made an exception and let him bang him into a wall a couple times.
Probably not, though, because Miller is as full of shit as his reviews are, and his reviews are as full of shit as Yusuf’s truck when he’s transporting manure, his reviews are as full of shit as Yusuf’s chicken barn in winter, his reviews are full of a monumental amount of shit.
“Can I join you?” the man asks now, and Pippa is looking at her plate and talking about how she needs to get more food, even though it’s piled high, and when Eames looks askance Pippa says she also needs more lemonade, and disappears.
Fuck it all if she hasn’t switched her yenta lens to Arthur at the worst possible moment.
“Nice to meet you,” Arthur said stiffly. “Should I tell everyone here your nom de plume, or are you going to leave?”
“Oh, it’s not a psuedonym, darling,” Eames says, sitting down beside Arthur. “Eames is my middle name, mother’s maiden. Just happens to be what I go by.”
“So?” Arthur asks, arching an eyebrow.
“You really aren’t more charming in person, are you?” Eames says, and then he has the gall to laugh, like they’re friends.
“Not really, no,” Arthur says.
“So that was serious, was it?” Eames asks. “No chance, because I gave you a middling review? Because you’re obviously attracted to me.”
It should sound sleazy, but it just sounds frank--Arthur is attracted to Eames.
He looks at Eames, then, and Eames doesn’t look back; just leans against the tree and lets Arthur inspect his profile.
It makes Arthur feel like he’s buying something at market.
“Just a second,” Arthur says, and he goes to get a cookie. They’re chocolate chip raspberry, made with preserves instead of the fruit proper, and Arthur hands it to Eames.
“Are you seriously testing me?” Eames asks, turning it over in his hand. “This is what you’re going to do?”
“Eat it,” Arthur says. “And if you lie about this, I’ll punch you in the balls.”
“You’re not that good looking,” Eames says, and Arthur considers punching him in the balls anyway.
But then Eames eats the cookie, and then Eames moans into the cookie, and Arthur’s pretty sure he’s not faking. Eames is chewing and swallowing and Arthur just watches, and waits, and he hates watching people eat his food but maybe they were flirting with those stupid e-mails.
Arthur gets sick of waiting when the cookie’s about halfway gone, and puts his hand up on Eames’ cheek, quicksilver, and pulls his face over for a kiss.
Eames lips are as velvet as raspberries, and they taste like it, and chocolate, and the cookie, and it’s probably the best way Arthur’s found to taste his own cooking, with Eames’ tongue sweeping through his mouth and the commingled heat of their breath.
“Greedy,” Eames says when they pull apart, and then he pushes the second half of the cookie to Arthur’s lips.
“I can share,” he says, and Arthur takes a bite, feeling at once coy and childish, and then Eames feeds Arthur the rest, his eyes dark and heavy on Arthur’s face, on his mouth, which is nothing like Eames’ mouth, but most people don’t get off on their own mouths, anyway.
When Eames leans in to kiss Arthur, it’s slow and gentle and then quick and hard, and bursting with flavor, and Arthur is hungry for touch, too, now, but Eames is sucking along his jawline and his fingers are in Arthur's hair, tugging.
But they are behind a tree, and everyone else is right there, and Pippa and James are probably right there, and fuck.
Arthur bites Eames’ earlobe, harder maybe then he intended.
“We need to go somewhere else,” he says, and Eames blinks at him like he’s just woken from a long sleep, his eyes hooded.
They go, not quite running but moving in a way Arthur feels certain is completely unsubtle, like a gawky four-legged animal, a colt newly born. When they get around the corner of the house Ariadne’s sitting on the stoop with Yusuf, the pair of them leaning together and talking intently, and when she sees Arthur they make eye contact for a moment, and there’s something on her face that is twinned on Arthur’s, somewhere between shame and pleasure.
“There’s a place in the loft of the big barn,” Yusuf says, hardly looking at them, and as they’re moving up the hill Arthur wonders if there are things to consider here, like whether this is a one-night stand, and whether Eames has condoms and lube, and whether this is a good idea in any shape.
But it feels good, and there’s something to be said for plucking fruit when ripe, not waiting for it to fall to the ground, taking it when it’s ready and there.
Eames is ready and there, and in the loft there’s a heap of blankets for no reason Arthur can fathom, and the barn is a mass of trapped summer heat, but so are they, rutting against one another in a rhythm that’s at first quick and then languid, slow and easy and sweet.
Sometime after they collapse in a tangle of limbs, Arthur has to go, because the oven needs to be stoked and there will be bread in the morning, just like there is every morning.
“Don’t think you’ll get rid of me that easily,” Eames says, and Arthur kind of believes him.
It’s a combination of factors.
From: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
To: arthur@totembakery.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 14, 2010
I was going to write Totem a new review, but that seemed like too much metaphorical ass kissing when I could be doing it literally.
-E
From: arthur@totembakery.com
To: c.e.miller@thedailyherald.com
Subject: Re: re: re:, June 12, 2010
Come over tonight. I’ll make a pie.
-AL
notes: About ages; Arthur started worked with the Cobbs when he was in his early 20s and Pippa was 3. So now she's 16 and Arthur's in his early to mid thirties. Cool.
The title is from the Bob Dylan song "Summer Days," which always makes me want to jump around and shout (my favorite mondegreen: "she's a long haired woman, she's got roaring in her blood"). Listen to it with The Legendary Shack-Shakers "Shake Your Hips" I DEFY YOU NOT TO JUMP AROUND IN AN EMBARRASSING DANCE-thing. (I am revealing the taste in music that got me nothing but mockery in high school.)
I make fun of hipsters because I secretly (read: not secretly at all) would probably be one if I didn't spend most of my time in the woods.
This fic went through about 3 different concepts (and at least many google docs--the working title for the one that became this was 'symbolic pie') but a consistent thread was (a) Eames being a snob, (b) Arthur liking his job and (c) this quote from the Louise Erdrich novel "The Painted Drum." I'm ashamed to admit I got the quote from tumblr and haven't read the novel (I am becoming a person that I hate).
Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.
Oh, and the city this takes place in is totally made up. Okay. In case that wasn't clear from the fact that it was never named, but apparently has restaurants doing molecular gastronomy? Albeit badly?
And, finally, my favorite recipe for banana cream pie, hardly adapted at all from one of the King Arthur (irony of ironies--WHY DID I NOT MAKE THAT JOKE?) Flour cookbooks, I forget which:
banana cream pie
whisk together in a heatproof bowl:
1/2 c. sugar
2 T. flour
1 T. + 1 t. cornstarch
1/2 t. salt
2 eggs
boil 1 c. milk
pour hot milk into egg mixture, whisking continuously.
return milk + egg mixture to stove and stir until it thickens and boils in the middle.
remove from heat and add 6 T. butter, 1/2 t. vanilla.
slice 2 bananas into a blind-baked crust pastry or cookie crust. pour pastry cream over top. chill.
after chilled, whip 1 c. heavy cream until slightly peaky--add 1 t. vanilla and 1/4 confectioner's sugar and whip it good. spread atop pie.