Delphine
See you around seven?
Dorian
Can’t wait.
I put the phone aside to ring up a customer buying a parenting book. I should feel happy, I told myself. Delphine Delacroix would be in my house later. I had a lot to look forward to. My mother used to say it was a choice to be happy. She was right, even if it took a little white-knuckling from time to time.
16
DELPHINE
Able to come earlier than expected, I arrived at Dorian’s a little after six. He’d texted to use the back door that opened into a small, tidy laundry room. Contemplating taking my pumps off, I set my bag on the bench under a coat rack. From the kitchen came the sounds of voices. Annie laughed. Then Dorian’s voice came, lower, patient, talking her through something. I kicked off my heels. Nothing had ever felt as good as the cool tile on my tired feet. I followed the sound to the kitchen doorway and stopped.
Dorian had his back to me, standing at the stove with a wooden spoon. Annie sliced mushrooms on the counter next to him. A pile of sliced onions, green and yellow peppers were stacked on a cutting board.
“So you just brown them on both sides.” Dorian used tongs to move a piece of chicken from the pan to a waiting plate. “Doesn’t have to cook all the way through. Then, we work on the sauce. I’ll tell you my mom’s secret for upping our sauce game if you promise to keep it to yourself.”
“What is it?” Annie asked.
“Chocolate. She said it softened the acidity of the dish. But she would never tell anyone, not even close friends, that she did it.”
“Can I tell Tyler?” Annie asked. “He loves to cook.”
“I suppose that could be negotiated. I can put together a contract.”
She giggled. “Do I need an attorney?”
“Hey, I’m here,” I said, stepping fully into the kitchen.
They both looked up, lighting up at the sight of me.
“Mom, we’re making Dorian’s mom’s famous chicken cacciatore. He’s going to show me how to do the sauce.”
“It already smells delicious,” I said.
Dorian left the stove to give my hand a quick squeeze. “Good to see you.”
“Thanks for having us,” I said.
“Mom, we’re having so much fun. We shopped first, and guess what? Dorian only buys organic vegetables. Just like us. And sauce has to have the right tomatoes.” She held up a can of San Marzano whole peeled tomatoes. “These are grown near Naples, and they’re the best ones in the whole world. We’re going to crush them into the pot.”
“Can I help?” I asked.
“No, we already decided you get to relax,” Annie said.
“I have wine open,” Dorian said. “Please, pour yourself a glass and sit at the counter.”
“If you insist.” I crossed to the counter and poured a little wine into one of the glasses he’d set out.
Dorian returned to the stove, sliding the last piece of browned chicken onto the plate with the others. The skin was golden and crisp at the edges, the pan left behind glossy with olive oil and browned bits.
“See all that?” Dorian said to Annie, tipping the pan slightly so she could look. “That’s where the sauce starts.”
“With the burned stuff?” Annie asked.
“With the almost-burned stuff,” he said. “My mom said there’s an art to getting it just the right amount of crispy. And tonight, my young friend, we have done it perfectly.”
