• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 304 0

and creams, all deserving, deem the French, to share in their occasional bed of rice. All are meddlers and aggressors, and, yet, the French are surprised by the spoilage and ruin that so quickly ensue. Prepared with only water, first as liquid and then steam, rice will keep for days, a lesson I never had to learn. Rice left from dinner becomes breakfast. Rice left from breakfast, though rare, as hunger is sparked by the rising sun, becomes lunch. As Anh Minh would say, "No reason to repeat after me, just open up your mouth and learn." Rice never remains the same. If I leave the pot uncovered, there is a conversion of textures, a layer of chewiness and a crunch, insulating a pocket of softness, hidden inside like an endearing character flaw or a sentimental heart. But if I cover it with a plate right after it cools, if the night air sags with moisture and rain, if there is not enough left to call a meal, then its fate is sealed. A pot of water is added the next day, and the rice is cooked again in its own starchy soup until each kernel expands, splitting itself in half, generously expanding its volume. What begins as a small bowl can now easily fill at least four. The spectacle fools the eyes but rarely the stomach, as the latter is always the more perceptive of the two.

I have learned my lesson well. A clear consommé, braced with laurel leaves and lemons, will begin, and an almond soufflé, spiked with orange-lower water, will end the meal. No, a tart is better. Apricots, maybe, though at this time of the year they would have to be dried. Pears, perhaps, would be best. You did say to keep the menu "simple," especially the dessert. That, in fact, was about all that you said before hiring me. You handed me an envelope of what I assumed was money and two keys from the inside of your desk drawer. You informed me that you would not be here on Sunday morning to let me in and that dinner should begin no later than eight. "Please plan accordingly" then ushered me back onto the stairway. If I had your voice, I would never be so terse. I would never stop talking. Why would I if I had a voice like a warm fire, not at the crackling and popping early stages but at the moment when all becomes quiet and the embers glow, when heat appears to melt the wood? If I had your voice, I would call out your name from the street, let it pound like a heartbeat at your door, offer it to you as a song. I would never cease.

"Simple?" What an odd request, especially of a dessert. What sort of man does not hunger for richness and sweet at the end of a meal? A dessert should never be just a farewell, no matter how simple the sendoff. A dessert, if I may borrow from Bão, should deliver the same message that Serena the Soloist does at the end of all her shows.

While the curtains slowly descend, the action on stage continues nonstop. Serena continues to amaze and to satisfy.

The curtains slowly descend.

Those in attendance are mesmerized and are desperate for more.

The curtains slowly descend.

Suddenly, Serena is no more. But like temptation, she has not bid the audience farewell. Rather, she has alluded to what's in store in the event of an encore.

Those in attendance respond with a resounding request for more.

"Simple?" Maybe, you meant something that could be left unattended. Something that I could leave for you to serve, to apportion at just the right moment. A soufflé is most definitely out of the question. Too temperamental, a lover who dictates his own terms. A tart is better, uncomplicated, in the wrong hands even a bit rough. Like an American boy, I would imagine. I will leave it cooling in the kitchen with a small bowl of crème fraîche alongside. Then, once the duck has been served, I will leave your garret for the night, for a café and a glass or two of something strong, very strong, and you and your someone else will be alone at last. My departure will signal that intimacy has joined the party. Civility has called it a night. You two can now dispense with the forks, knives, and spoons. Your hands will tear at an animal whose joints will