The Hare in the Dish
Jared Cappel
Twenty years as a restaurant critic and I’ve seen it all. Dirt in my risotto. Waitresses with wine-stained lips. Beignets served in a shoe. In this gig, you can’t be one to flinch. I’ve eaten deep fried cicadas with stained silverware and a few wisps of hair as garnish. I’ve swallowed bottom shelf liquor, mislabelled, served in gold-rimmed glasses. And I’ve done it all with a smile, all in the name of haute cuisine.
The critic’s best weapon is not her palette or his pen. It’s anonymity. And for two decades I’ve dined at the city’s finest establishments without fanfare. I write under a nom de plume–Brock O. Lee–a wretched pun chosen by the Globe’s managing editor and mocked by the culinary elite. No chef likes to be called out for a split sauce or tired entrée; the cartoonish moniker only adds to their revulsion.
A 7:30 reservation at L’Histoire kicks off my weekend. The city’s newest restaurant is also its oldest, in a decorative sense. A large earthenware stove heats the bistro. Two grand armoires offset the fireplace, holding the restaurant’s ornate dishes. The furniture is rustic and sparse, marked only by the skilled touches of the carpenter.
My date Bethany is actually my kid sister. She’s wearing a loud cocktail dress and a heavy coating of makeup. For years, she’s begged to join me in action. Most people I invite are excited for a five-star meal in an upscale joint. Bethany, however, is drawn by the subterfuge.
The maître d’ takes my name and offers us a complimentary aperitif. Bethany downs the fruity liqueur in one giant gulp. I feel an inkling to apologize, but I get the feeling she’s only getting started.
The maître d’ is smiling, two menus in hand. “Mr. Lee, your table is ready.”
I choke on the aperitif, coughing into my glass. My pen name. How does he know?
The maître d’ gives me a curious look—he’s enjoying this. He starts my way, and I freeze, but he slips past me to the East Asian couple by the window. He leads them to their table.
I look to my sister, lower my voice. “I’ve been made.”
Bethany’s busy eyeing the maître d’ stand for more of the free liqueur. “Made? Made what? Head writer dude?”
Her vernacular never fails to impress. “Made, as in discovered.” I look around to make sure nobody is listening. “The maître d’ just called me Mr. Lee. As in Brock O. Lee.”
She snatches my cough-stained glass and downs the remainder of my drink. “I think he was talking to that Chinese couple. You know, the people he led to the table.”
“It was the way he looked at me. He knows.” It’s not just the maître d’. I catch the busboy leering; he hurries over to collect our glasses and ducks into the kitchen. Every direction I turn, I feel more eyes upon me. I feel like a rabbit, frozen, in the middle of a field, sensing a wolf, but not knowing which way to run.
Bethany rolls her eyes, unconvinced. “It’s a pretty common name. Bruce Lee. Jet Li. You might want to turn on the TV every now and again.”
The maître d’ returns. “Madame and monsieur, your table awaits. Please follow me.”
Bethany makes a big show of oohing and aahing at every little decorative touch we pass–the embroidered seat-coverings, the floor-length drapery, the sparkling chandelier. She giggles as the maître d’ helps her out of her shawl. This is a game to her.
When the maître d’ excuses himself, I lean in across the table and speak in an exaggerated whisper. “Did you notice? He introduced the other couple as the Lees but we were just madame and monsieur.”
Bethany doesn’t care for my exaggerated French accent. “I’m starting to regret coming here with you. Can you please relax and enjoy the evening? Have a drink. Or four. You need to loosen up.”
The waitress arrives. She’s wearing pleated black pants with a pressed white dress shirt and a folded apron. She pours us each a glass of water out of a long, sleek pitcher. “I’m Marie and I’ll be your server today. Can I start you off with anything to drink?”
Bethany pores through the wine list, as if she can tell the difference between the house wine and a Château Cheval Blanc 1947. She asks what pairs with rabbit, and Marie suggests a pricy Pinot Noir. Bethany declares it the perfect choice. Of course she does. It costs more than she earns in a week, more than most earn in a day.
I manage to contain my laughter until Marie turns the corner. “What pairs with rabbit? Where on Earth did you come up with that?”
“I heard a woman say that today’s special is a rabbit stew. You have to pair your wine with your meal. I thought you of all people would know that.”
This from my sister who pours ketchup on fish.
The window to the kitchen is open and we watch the chefs at work. They move like choreographed dancers, displaying a level of teamwork exceeding what I’d expect from such a new establishment. A large bald man works the pass, calling out orders and placing the final touches on the dishes. He looks up from a bowl of soup and locks eyes with me.
The familiarity in his gaze is unsettling. I struggle to break eye contact, turning towards the door, only to find the maître d’ staring at me too. I can’t take much more of this. I don’t care what Bethany says, I’ve been made. I’m about to say something to her when Marie appears at the foot of our table.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my decades of high dining, it’s the fancier the place, the slower the service. I look over to the Lee table; they’ve yet to receive their water. Marie, meanwhile, has come by twice. She uncorks the wine and pours a small amount for Bethany to sample. Bethany makes exaggerated facial expressions, while determining if the wine is worthy of her palette. She nods approvingly and Marie fills our glasses.
Marie smiles. “One of the finest wines from across the globe. I’ll be back shortly to tell you about today’s special.”
I place my wine down without taking a sip. “Did you hear what she said? Across the globe. Globe. As in the paper I work for.”
“Are we still on this?”
“You’re not getting it, are you? My identity is my livelihood. My identity is my life.”
“And you call me dramatic.”
“A food critic may seem like a glamorous job to you, but I’ve made a lot of enemies over the years. A blistering review from the city’s largest paper can kill a restaurant. People’s livelihoods are at stake.”
Her voice rises with each sip. “So what are you saying? They’re going to poison you?”
I drop my voice to a whisper, hoping she’ll get the hint. “It’s not as farfetched as you may think.”
She reaches across the table for my wine glass and takes an exaggeratedly large mouthful. “Seems poison-free to me.”
Marie returns just as Bethany is placing my wine glass down in front of me. My face turns as red as the Pinot Noir itself. Marie catches the look on my face. “Is everything to your liking?”
“Yes, of course.”
“If you’re not happy with the wine, we can certainly find something more suitable.”
I feel her eyes upon me, but I can’t bring myself to take a sip of the wine to prove its worth. I force a limp smile. “The Pinot is divine, thank you. Why don’t you tell us about today’s special?”
Marie’s face lights up. “You’re in for a treat. Today we have our chef’s own take on Lapin à La Cocotte, a delicious rabbit stew made with lardons, carrots, shallots and garlic.”
Since Bethany chose a wine that pairs with rabbit, we don’t exactly have much of a choice. “That sounds great. Make it two.”
Marie curtseys and heads towards the Lee’s table to pour them their water.
“There!” I point at the Lees. “They’re just getting their water and we’ve already ordered our mains. Do you not find that suspicious?”
“You’re not making any sense. You sound like mom after a weeklong bender. If they knew you were a critic, why would they poison you? That wouldn’t exactly lead to a glowing review.” She pours herself more wine, easily twice what Marie had poured for her initially.
“Maybe they won’t poison me. Maybe they’ll follow me out to my car and take down my license plate. Did you read what the chef at Crisp wrote after I called his fried chicken soggy? He said, and I quote, ‘If I ever find the coward who calls out my food from behind the comfort of his pseudonym, I’ll rip out his tongue and feed it to him.’”
Bethany sets down her wine, her face turning white. “Come on. He didn’t say that.”
“On TV no less. And he’s not the only one to make such a threat. There’s a literal bounty out for my head. This is serious.”
Marie returns with a basket of freshly baked bread. “Compliments of the chef. This will go great with the stew, but we also have some fine oils and vinegars for you to sample.”
Bethany reaches towards the bread then thinks better of it. “You know what. The oils do look tempting, but I think I’ll save this for the stew.”
Marie heads to the Lees’ table to take their drink orders.
Bethany rips off a chunk of bread and studies it in her fingers, as if she’d be able to visually detect the contaminants. “It looks fine to me. I just don’t get why you have to be so critical all the time.”
“That’s my job. It’s literally what I do. I don’t go into a restaurant looking to belittle it, but sometimes I’m left with no choice. Bad food deserves to be called out. The readers have the right to know.”
Bethany takes a large sip of wine. “It’s not just work. You’ve always been this critical. Of me. Of mom. Even as a child.”
“And why is that Bethany?”
She looks down to her wine.
“It’s because the two of you are always screwing up!” For the first time all night, I’ve raised my voice and I catch her off guard. I expect her to look angry but for a moment I spot remorse. And then it hits me. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
She finishes her glass. “First you have to promise you won’t get mad.”
I shout through gritted teeth. “So it was you! I knew they were on to me!”
“Why does it matter? What could really happen? They’re not going to poison you.”
“How can you be so sure? Do you know who the owner of this restaurant is? Do you know what I said about his last business?” She shakes her head no. “I said it was the worst thing to happen to French cuisine since the Golden Arches invaded Paris. I said their restaurant should be finished. L’histoire!”
“What does that mean?”
“History!”
She pours herself another glass of wine. Of course she does. “I still think you’re being paranoid. They’re not going to kill you.”
“Maybe they’ll just jump me in the parking lot. Or plaster my face across every restaurant in town. Do you know what would happen then? I’d be finished. You can’t be a top critic when every restaurant knows who you are.”
“Why don’t you take a sip of your wine and relax? Everything will be fine.”
I choose my words carefully. “Bethany, I’m going to ask you a question, and I’m only going to ask you once. What did you tell the restaurant about me?”
She tries to hold a stoic face, but it crumbles like the French bread in her fingertips. “I told them you’re this bigshot critic and I promised you’d give a good review.”
“Did you tell them my name?”
She looks down at the table.
It’s all I can do not to scream in her face. “Why? What did I ever do to you?”
“They promised me money, okay? I got five hundred dollars out of them.”
“Five hundred dollars? Is that what my career is worth to you? My life?”
She takes a large sip of her wine. “Don’t be so dramatic. Get off your high horse for a second and understand how much five hundred dollars means to someone like me. I screwed up, okay? But they’re not going to kill you. You’re being paranoid.”
Before I can respond, Marie arrives at the table, an entourage at her side. Two busboys present the dishes of stew. The aroma is powerful, the steam from the broth rising up to my face. The rabbit meat is so tender it could be pierced with a spoon. If not for the particular circumstances surrounding this evening, I’d be tempted to dig right in.
Marie directs our attention to a portly bald man beside her. “This is our head chef Pierre Renault. He’s worked at several top restaurants in the city, most recently Crisp.”
I choke on my own saliva. “And to what do we owe this pleasure?”
Pierre waves to both of our dishes. “On this, our opening week, I’m taking the time to introduce myself to everyone who orders the chef’s special, as my way of saying thank you.”
His words run through my head. If I ever find the coward who calls out my food from behind the comfort of his pseudonym, I’ll rip out his tongue and feed it to him.
I need to act quickly. As if on impulse, I point behind them towards the door. “I think the maître d’ may be calling you.”
As Pierre and Marie turn their heads, I switch my plate of stew with Bethany’s. By the time she notices what I’ve done, Pierre and Marie have realized they weren’t summoned and have turned back towards us.
Pierre flashes a smile so fake it appears to be plastic. “Please, take a bite. I’d love to know your thoughts.”
I lift my fork then set it down again. “Ladies first.”
Bethany glares at me, as if she has the right. It’s taken her the whole evening, but she finally seems to grasp the gravity of the situation.
I cross my arms and give her a smile. “Go on now, take a bite.”
She pierces a piece of the rabbit with her fork. She’s shaking. As she brings the meat to her mouth, she jerks her elbow unnaturally, striking her wine glass and knocking it over.
Marie reacts quickly to catch the glass, but not before a few drops of wine spill over the end of the table and onto Bethany’s lap. Pierre calls for the maître d’ who calls for the busboy. Suddenly the eyes of the entire establishment are upon us.
Bethany urges everyone to relax. She lifts a stained napkin from her lap. “Nothing to see here folks. Not a drop on my dress.”
The maître d’ smiles. “Clearly you are a woman of impeccable class.”
I laugh so hard I spray Bethany in the face. I turn white. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”
Bethany dabs at her face with her wine-stained napkin. “Relax. Guys do that to me all the time.”
My jaw drops. Even for Bethany, this is crass. I muster the courage to gaze up at the staff. “Do you think you could give us a moment?”
Pierre’s smile hasn’t changed. “Of course. Enjoy your meal.”
I wait until the staff are out of earshot. “That was some act you just pulled.”
Bethany plays coy. “What do you mean?”
“Pretending to spill your wine so you didn’t have to take a bite of the stew. I know what you did.”
She prods at her food with her fork. “Okay, fine, maybe you had me worried there for a second, but they wouldn’t poison you. It doesn’t make sense. And I’ll prove it.” She shoves an unladylike portion of stew into her mouth. “See!”
She’s eating at record pace, as if the first one done will win a prize. I get the feeling this isn’t just an act; the alcohol is kicking in. She brings her mouth down to the bowl and shovels in a huge forkful. She smacks her lips. “There’s a delightful flavour in this stew. It almost tastes like mint.”
I stare at my bowl, intrigued. “They wouldn’t add mint to a dish like this. However, they might add an herb like tarragon, which could mimic some of the flavour tones you’re detecting.”
“Well I guess you wouldn’t know. Seeing as how you haven’t tasted it.” She has a smug grin on her face. She looks around the restaurant. “What are you going to say if Marie returns and you still have a full plate?”
I hate to say it but she’s right. I spot Marie only two tables over. I’m running out of time.
“Come on now, just try it.” Bethany takes another sip of wine. “You already switched the dishes. Do you really think he’d poison both of us?”
“If he met you? Then sure.”
She leans forward, her dress pressing against the rim of her dish. “I have a secret.” She tries but fails to lower her voice. “I never told them who you are. All of your fears are in your head. As always.” She throws back her head and cackles. “I knew you’d fall for this.”
My heart drops. “Are you serious?”
She’s convulsing with laughter. “I bet mom fifty bucks you wouldn’t take a single bite.”
“Are you telling the truth?”
I don’t know what to believe. I can’t take it anymore. I pick up my fork, ready to stab Bethany, but I pierce the tender meat instead. I bring the rabbit to my nose the way a sommelier would hold a wine glass. Reluctantly, against my better instincts, I take a bite.
The flavours are bold. There’s a warmth to the dish, offset skillfully with the cooling notes of tarragon. This is the sort of dish I could imagine being served in a French country estate one hundred years ago. There’s something so simple yet elevated about Pierre’s take on the humble stew. I rip off a chunk of the bread and use it to sop up the broth.
A familiar flavour lands on the back of my tongue. It’s markedly out of place. I use my fork to pull the offending item from my mouth. A small stem of broccoli. I wave the remnants of the broccoli at Bethany. “Aha! So you did tell him!”
Bethany pours the last of the wine. “What on Earth are you talking about now?”
“It’s broccoli! Don’t you see? My pen name. Pierre knew I’d pick up on the unusual flavour. He’s letting me know that he knows.”
Bethany takes a rather large sip of her wine. She’s beginning to slur her words. “First you think he’s poisoning you. Now you think he’s talking through the food?”
“He and I both know that no real chef would add broccoli to Lapin à La Cocotte. The tarragon may have been unexpected, but the broccoli is insane.”
Her voice drips sarcasm. “Yeah, it’s the broccoli that’s crazy!”
I urge Bethany to keep her voice down. The people at the next table are staring. They come to establishments like this to avoid such outbursts. I’ve become everything I hate.
Marie appears at the foot of the table. She stares at our nearly empty dishes. “So how was everything?”
Bethany gushes. “A-mazing! Tell Pierre we loved it. Especially those hints of mint and broccoli.”
Marie gives Bethany a funny look but says nothing. She’s been patient with us all night but she finally seems to be tiring of our odd behaviour. Her words are emotionless. “Can I get you anything else?”
I speak before Bethany can embarrass us further. “Just the bill.”
Bethany wraps the rest of the bread into her napkin and stuffs it into her purse. Her eyes seem to be daring me to react. When I don’t, she fishes through her purse for a compact and adjusts her makeup in the mirror.
I tip Marie an overly generous 25%. The Globe’s accountants will balk but Marie has earned every last cent putting up with Bethany and her shenanigans.
Marie helps Bethany into her shawl. Bethany lifts her elbow and forces me to link arms with her. We walk together towards the door. Just before we exit, the Lees approach.
Bethany pokes me in the ribs. “Would you look at that? The Lees have just finished their meal.”
The Lees look to Bethany and then to each other, confused as to how she knows their name. They decide not to say anything. The maître d’ opens the door and wishes them a nice night. Bethany thanks the maître d’ for everything and we follow the Lees into the crisp evening air.
Bethany twirls as if in a movie. “What a splendid evening.” She stumbles over a dip in the sidewalk.
Splendid. Not exactly the adjective I’d have used. I try to catch Bethany’s eyes but they’re glazed over. I grab her by the cheeks. “Bethany, I need you to tell me the truth. Did you or did you not tell the restaurant who I am?”
“Why does it matter? You worry too much.” She rips my hands off her face and then burps. “I think I’m going to be sick.” She turns towards the bushes and dry heaves but nothing comes out. She looks up to me. “Maybe they did put something in my food after all.” She’s cackling again.
I feel the eyes of the patrons staring at us through the window, but I refuse to turn their way. I wait until Bethany is done with her performance, then I link arms with her and help her to my car. It’s clear I’m not going to get an honest answer out of her in this condition. Perhaps I never will.
She’s all smiles as I drop her off at our mother’s house. She plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “We have to do this again!”
I’m careful with my words. “We’ll see.”
She stumbles towards the front door. She screams out. “Ma, I told you he’d fall for it. You owe me fifty bucks.” She explodes with laughter.
I put the car in park and run after her. I catch her on the front steps. “Bethany, I won’t be mad, I just need to know. Did you tell them who I am?”
She places a cigarette in her lips and lights it. “You’re the brains in the family. Surely you can figure it out. What do you think? What do you feel?”
I feel a tingling sensation in my stomach. I smell Bethany’s sour breath. I detect the remnants of broccoli on my tongue. I hear Pierre’s words running through my mind. Amidst the contrasting thoughts, the only thing I know for sure is what I tasted.
The rest, as they say, is L’histoire.
Jared Cappel
Twenty years as a restaurant critic and I’ve seen it all. Dirt in my risotto. Waitresses with wine-stained lips. Beignets served in a shoe. In this gig, you can’t be one to flinch. I’ve eaten deep fried cicadas with stained silverware and a few wisps of hair as garnish. I’ve swallowed bottom shelf liquor, mislabelled, served in gold-rimmed glasses. And I’ve done it all with a smile, all in the name of haute cuisine.
The critic’s best weapon is not her palette or his pen. It’s anonymity. And for two decades I’ve dined at the city’s finest establishments without fanfare. I write under a nom de plume–Brock O. Lee–a wretched pun chosen by the Globe’s managing editor and mocked by the culinary elite. No chef likes to be called out for a split sauce or tired entrée; the cartoonish moniker only adds to their revulsion.
A 7:30 reservation at L’Histoire kicks off my weekend. The city’s newest restaurant is also its oldest, in a decorative sense. A large earthenware stove heats the bistro. Two grand armoires offset the fireplace, holding the restaurant’s ornate dishes. The furniture is rustic and sparse, marked only by the skilled touches of the carpenter.
My date Bethany is actually my kid sister. She’s wearing a loud cocktail dress and a heavy coating of makeup. For years, she’s begged to join me in action. Most people I invite are excited for a five-star meal in an upscale joint. Bethany, however, is drawn by the subterfuge.
The maître d’ takes my name and offers us a complimentary aperitif. Bethany downs the fruity liqueur in one giant gulp. I feel an inkling to apologize, but I get the feeling she’s only getting started.
The maître d’ is smiling, two menus in hand. “Mr. Lee, your table is ready.”
I choke on the aperitif, coughing into my glass. My pen name. How does he know?
The maître d’ gives me a curious look—he’s enjoying this. He starts my way, and I freeze, but he slips past me to the East Asian couple by the window. He leads them to their table.
I look to my sister, lower my voice. “I’ve been made.”
Bethany’s busy eyeing the maître d’ stand for more of the free liqueur. “Made? Made what? Head writer dude?”
Her vernacular never fails to impress. “Made, as in discovered.” I look around to make sure nobody is listening. “The maître d’ just called me Mr. Lee. As in Brock O. Lee.”
She snatches my cough-stained glass and downs the remainder of my drink. “I think he was talking to that Chinese couple. You know, the people he led to the table.”
“It was the way he looked at me. He knows.” It’s not just the maître d’. I catch the busboy leering; he hurries over to collect our glasses and ducks into the kitchen. Every direction I turn, I feel more eyes upon me. I feel like a rabbit, frozen, in the middle of a field, sensing a wolf, but not knowing which way to run.
Bethany rolls her eyes, unconvinced. “It’s a pretty common name. Bruce Lee. Jet Li. You might want to turn on the TV every now and again.”
The maître d’ returns. “Madame and monsieur, your table awaits. Please follow me.”
Bethany makes a big show of oohing and aahing at every little decorative touch we pass–the embroidered seat-coverings, the floor-length drapery, the sparkling chandelier. She giggles as the maître d’ helps her out of her shawl. This is a game to her.
When the maître d’ excuses himself, I lean in across the table and speak in an exaggerated whisper. “Did you notice? He introduced the other couple as the Lees but we were just madame and monsieur.”
Bethany doesn’t care for my exaggerated French accent. “I’m starting to regret coming here with you. Can you please relax and enjoy the evening? Have a drink. Or four. You need to loosen up.”
The waitress arrives. She’s wearing pleated black pants with a pressed white dress shirt and a folded apron. She pours us each a glass of water out of a long, sleek pitcher. “I’m Marie and I’ll be your server today. Can I start you off with anything to drink?”
Bethany pores through the wine list, as if she can tell the difference between the house wine and a Château Cheval Blanc 1947. She asks what pairs with rabbit, and Marie suggests a pricy Pinot Noir. Bethany declares it the perfect choice. Of course she does. It costs more than she earns in a week, more than most earn in a day.
I manage to contain my laughter until Marie turns the corner. “What pairs with rabbit? Where on Earth did you come up with that?”
“I heard a woman say that today’s special is a rabbit stew. You have to pair your wine with your meal. I thought you of all people would know that.”
This from my sister who pours ketchup on fish.
The window to the kitchen is open and we watch the chefs at work. They move like choreographed dancers, displaying a level of teamwork exceeding what I’d expect from such a new establishment. A large bald man works the pass, calling out orders and placing the final touches on the dishes. He looks up from a bowl of soup and locks eyes with me.
The familiarity in his gaze is unsettling. I struggle to break eye contact, turning towards the door, only to find the maître d’ staring at me too. I can’t take much more of this. I don’t care what Bethany says, I’ve been made. I’m about to say something to her when Marie appears at the foot of our table.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my decades of high dining, it’s the fancier the place, the slower the service. I look over to the Lee table; they’ve yet to receive their water. Marie, meanwhile, has come by twice. She uncorks the wine and pours a small amount for Bethany to sample. Bethany makes exaggerated facial expressions, while determining if the wine is worthy of her palette. She nods approvingly and Marie fills our glasses.
Marie smiles. “One of the finest wines from across the globe. I’ll be back shortly to tell you about today’s special.”
I place my wine down without taking a sip. “Did you hear what she said? Across the globe. Globe. As in the paper I work for.”
“Are we still on this?”
“You’re not getting it, are you? My identity is my livelihood. My identity is my life.”
“And you call me dramatic.”
“A food critic may seem like a glamorous job to you, but I’ve made a lot of enemies over the years. A blistering review from the city’s largest paper can kill a restaurant. People’s livelihoods are at stake.”
Her voice rises with each sip. “So what are you saying? They’re going to poison you?”
I drop my voice to a whisper, hoping she’ll get the hint. “It’s not as farfetched as you may think.”
She reaches across the table for my wine glass and takes an exaggeratedly large mouthful. “Seems poison-free to me.”
Marie returns just as Bethany is placing my wine glass down in front of me. My face turns as red as the Pinot Noir itself. Marie catches the look on my face. “Is everything to your liking?”
“Yes, of course.”
“If you’re not happy with the wine, we can certainly find something more suitable.”
I feel her eyes upon me, but I can’t bring myself to take a sip of the wine to prove its worth. I force a limp smile. “The Pinot is divine, thank you. Why don’t you tell us about today’s special?”
Marie’s face lights up. “You’re in for a treat. Today we have our chef’s own take on Lapin à La Cocotte, a delicious rabbit stew made with lardons, carrots, shallots and garlic.”
Since Bethany chose a wine that pairs with rabbit, we don’t exactly have much of a choice. “That sounds great. Make it two.”
Marie curtseys and heads towards the Lee’s table to pour them their water.
“There!” I point at the Lees. “They’re just getting their water and we’ve already ordered our mains. Do you not find that suspicious?”
“You’re not making any sense. You sound like mom after a weeklong bender. If they knew you were a critic, why would they poison you? That wouldn’t exactly lead to a glowing review.” She pours herself more wine, easily twice what Marie had poured for her initially.
“Maybe they won’t poison me. Maybe they’ll follow me out to my car and take down my license plate. Did you read what the chef at Crisp wrote after I called his fried chicken soggy? He said, and I quote, ‘If I ever find the coward who calls out my food from behind the comfort of his pseudonym, I’ll rip out his tongue and feed it to him.’”
Bethany sets down her wine, her face turning white. “Come on. He didn’t say that.”
“On TV no less. And he’s not the only one to make such a threat. There’s a literal bounty out for my head. This is serious.”
Marie returns with a basket of freshly baked bread. “Compliments of the chef. This will go great with the stew, but we also have some fine oils and vinegars for you to sample.”
Bethany reaches towards the bread then thinks better of it. “You know what. The oils do look tempting, but I think I’ll save this for the stew.”
Marie heads to the Lees’ table to take their drink orders.
Bethany rips off a chunk of bread and studies it in her fingers, as if she’d be able to visually detect the contaminants. “It looks fine to me. I just don’t get why you have to be so critical all the time.”
“That’s my job. It’s literally what I do. I don’t go into a restaurant looking to belittle it, but sometimes I’m left with no choice. Bad food deserves to be called out. The readers have the right to know.”
Bethany takes a large sip of wine. “It’s not just work. You’ve always been this critical. Of me. Of mom. Even as a child.”
“And why is that Bethany?”
She looks down to her wine.
“It’s because the two of you are always screwing up!” For the first time all night, I’ve raised my voice and I catch her off guard. I expect her to look angry but for a moment I spot remorse. And then it hits me. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
She finishes her glass. “First you have to promise you won’t get mad.”
I shout through gritted teeth. “So it was you! I knew they were on to me!”
“Why does it matter? What could really happen? They’re not going to poison you.”
“How can you be so sure? Do you know who the owner of this restaurant is? Do you know what I said about his last business?” She shakes her head no. “I said it was the worst thing to happen to French cuisine since the Golden Arches invaded Paris. I said their restaurant should be finished. L’histoire!”
“What does that mean?”
“History!”
She pours herself another glass of wine. Of course she does. “I still think you’re being paranoid. They’re not going to kill you.”
“Maybe they’ll just jump me in the parking lot. Or plaster my face across every restaurant in town. Do you know what would happen then? I’d be finished. You can’t be a top critic when every restaurant knows who you are.”
“Why don’t you take a sip of your wine and relax? Everything will be fine.”
I choose my words carefully. “Bethany, I’m going to ask you a question, and I’m only going to ask you once. What did you tell the restaurant about me?”
She tries to hold a stoic face, but it crumbles like the French bread in her fingertips. “I told them you’re this bigshot critic and I promised you’d give a good review.”
“Did you tell them my name?”
She looks down at the table.
It’s all I can do not to scream in her face. “Why? What did I ever do to you?”
“They promised me money, okay? I got five hundred dollars out of them.”
“Five hundred dollars? Is that what my career is worth to you? My life?”
She takes a large sip of her wine. “Don’t be so dramatic. Get off your high horse for a second and understand how much five hundred dollars means to someone like me. I screwed up, okay? But they’re not going to kill you. You’re being paranoid.”
Before I can respond, Marie arrives at the table, an entourage at her side. Two busboys present the dishes of stew. The aroma is powerful, the steam from the broth rising up to my face. The rabbit meat is so tender it could be pierced with a spoon. If not for the particular circumstances surrounding this evening, I’d be tempted to dig right in.
Marie directs our attention to a portly bald man beside her. “This is our head chef Pierre Renault. He’s worked at several top restaurants in the city, most recently Crisp.”
I choke on my own saliva. “And to what do we owe this pleasure?”
Pierre waves to both of our dishes. “On this, our opening week, I’m taking the time to introduce myself to everyone who orders the chef’s special, as my way of saying thank you.”
His words run through my head. If I ever find the coward who calls out my food from behind the comfort of his pseudonym, I’ll rip out his tongue and feed it to him.
I need to act quickly. As if on impulse, I point behind them towards the door. “I think the maître d’ may be calling you.”
As Pierre and Marie turn their heads, I switch my plate of stew with Bethany’s. By the time she notices what I’ve done, Pierre and Marie have realized they weren’t summoned and have turned back towards us.
Pierre flashes a smile so fake it appears to be plastic. “Please, take a bite. I’d love to know your thoughts.”
I lift my fork then set it down again. “Ladies first.”
Bethany glares at me, as if she has the right. It’s taken her the whole evening, but she finally seems to grasp the gravity of the situation.
I cross my arms and give her a smile. “Go on now, take a bite.”
She pierces a piece of the rabbit with her fork. She’s shaking. As she brings the meat to her mouth, she jerks her elbow unnaturally, striking her wine glass and knocking it over.
Marie reacts quickly to catch the glass, but not before a few drops of wine spill over the end of the table and onto Bethany’s lap. Pierre calls for the maître d’ who calls for the busboy. Suddenly the eyes of the entire establishment are upon us.
Bethany urges everyone to relax. She lifts a stained napkin from her lap. “Nothing to see here folks. Not a drop on my dress.”
The maître d’ smiles. “Clearly you are a woman of impeccable class.”
I laugh so hard I spray Bethany in the face. I turn white. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”
Bethany dabs at her face with her wine-stained napkin. “Relax. Guys do that to me all the time.”
My jaw drops. Even for Bethany, this is crass. I muster the courage to gaze up at the staff. “Do you think you could give us a moment?”
Pierre’s smile hasn’t changed. “Of course. Enjoy your meal.”
I wait until the staff are out of earshot. “That was some act you just pulled.”
Bethany plays coy. “What do you mean?”
“Pretending to spill your wine so you didn’t have to take a bite of the stew. I know what you did.”
She prods at her food with her fork. “Okay, fine, maybe you had me worried there for a second, but they wouldn’t poison you. It doesn’t make sense. And I’ll prove it.” She shoves an unladylike portion of stew into her mouth. “See!”
She’s eating at record pace, as if the first one done will win a prize. I get the feeling this isn’t just an act; the alcohol is kicking in. She brings her mouth down to the bowl and shovels in a huge forkful. She smacks her lips. “There’s a delightful flavour in this stew. It almost tastes like mint.”
I stare at my bowl, intrigued. “They wouldn’t add mint to a dish like this. However, they might add an herb like tarragon, which could mimic some of the flavour tones you’re detecting.”
“Well I guess you wouldn’t know. Seeing as how you haven’t tasted it.” She has a smug grin on her face. She looks around the restaurant. “What are you going to say if Marie returns and you still have a full plate?”
I hate to say it but she’s right. I spot Marie only two tables over. I’m running out of time.
“Come on now, just try it.” Bethany takes another sip of wine. “You already switched the dishes. Do you really think he’d poison both of us?”
“If he met you? Then sure.”
She leans forward, her dress pressing against the rim of her dish. “I have a secret.” She tries but fails to lower her voice. “I never told them who you are. All of your fears are in your head. As always.” She throws back her head and cackles. “I knew you’d fall for this.”
My heart drops. “Are you serious?”
She’s convulsing with laughter. “I bet mom fifty bucks you wouldn’t take a single bite.”
“Are you telling the truth?”
I don’t know what to believe. I can’t take it anymore. I pick up my fork, ready to stab Bethany, but I pierce the tender meat instead. I bring the rabbit to my nose the way a sommelier would hold a wine glass. Reluctantly, against my better instincts, I take a bite.
The flavours are bold. There’s a warmth to the dish, offset skillfully with the cooling notes of tarragon. This is the sort of dish I could imagine being served in a French country estate one hundred years ago. There’s something so simple yet elevated about Pierre’s take on the humble stew. I rip off a chunk of the bread and use it to sop up the broth.
A familiar flavour lands on the back of my tongue. It’s markedly out of place. I use my fork to pull the offending item from my mouth. A small stem of broccoli. I wave the remnants of the broccoli at Bethany. “Aha! So you did tell him!”
Bethany pours the last of the wine. “What on Earth are you talking about now?”
“It’s broccoli! Don’t you see? My pen name. Pierre knew I’d pick up on the unusual flavour. He’s letting me know that he knows.”
Bethany takes a rather large sip of her wine. She’s beginning to slur her words. “First you think he’s poisoning you. Now you think he’s talking through the food?”
“He and I both know that no real chef would add broccoli to Lapin à La Cocotte. The tarragon may have been unexpected, but the broccoli is insane.”
Her voice drips sarcasm. “Yeah, it’s the broccoli that’s crazy!”
I urge Bethany to keep her voice down. The people at the next table are staring. They come to establishments like this to avoid such outbursts. I’ve become everything I hate.
Marie appears at the foot of the table. She stares at our nearly empty dishes. “So how was everything?”
Bethany gushes. “A-mazing! Tell Pierre we loved it. Especially those hints of mint and broccoli.”
Marie gives Bethany a funny look but says nothing. She’s been patient with us all night but she finally seems to be tiring of our odd behaviour. Her words are emotionless. “Can I get you anything else?”
I speak before Bethany can embarrass us further. “Just the bill.”
Bethany wraps the rest of the bread into her napkin and stuffs it into her purse. Her eyes seem to be daring me to react. When I don’t, she fishes through her purse for a compact and adjusts her makeup in the mirror.
I tip Marie an overly generous 25%. The Globe’s accountants will balk but Marie has earned every last cent putting up with Bethany and her shenanigans.
Marie helps Bethany into her shawl. Bethany lifts her elbow and forces me to link arms with her. We walk together towards the door. Just before we exit, the Lees approach.
Bethany pokes me in the ribs. “Would you look at that? The Lees have just finished their meal.”
The Lees look to Bethany and then to each other, confused as to how she knows their name. They decide not to say anything. The maître d’ opens the door and wishes them a nice night. Bethany thanks the maître d’ for everything and we follow the Lees into the crisp evening air.
Bethany twirls as if in a movie. “What a splendid evening.” She stumbles over a dip in the sidewalk.
Splendid. Not exactly the adjective I’d have used. I try to catch Bethany’s eyes but they’re glazed over. I grab her by the cheeks. “Bethany, I need you to tell me the truth. Did you or did you not tell the restaurant who I am?”
“Why does it matter? You worry too much.” She rips my hands off her face and then burps. “I think I’m going to be sick.” She turns towards the bushes and dry heaves but nothing comes out. She looks up to me. “Maybe they did put something in my food after all.” She’s cackling again.
I feel the eyes of the patrons staring at us through the window, but I refuse to turn their way. I wait until Bethany is done with her performance, then I link arms with her and help her to my car. It’s clear I’m not going to get an honest answer out of her in this condition. Perhaps I never will.
She’s all smiles as I drop her off at our mother’s house. She plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “We have to do this again!”
I’m careful with my words. “We’ll see.”
She stumbles towards the front door. She screams out. “Ma, I told you he’d fall for it. You owe me fifty bucks.” She explodes with laughter.
I put the car in park and run after her. I catch her on the front steps. “Bethany, I won’t be mad, I just need to know. Did you tell them who I am?”
She places a cigarette in her lips and lights it. “You’re the brains in the family. Surely you can figure it out. What do you think? What do you feel?”
I feel a tingling sensation in my stomach. I smell Bethany’s sour breath. I detect the remnants of broccoli on my tongue. I hear Pierre’s words running through my mind. Amidst the contrasting thoughts, the only thing I know for sure is what I tasted.
The rest, as they say, is L’histoire.
