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"Unadulterated," the cook repeated quietly, to himself, but to Pedro he said: "You know, we're changing our name--after Christmas."
"'After Christmas' is a curious name for a restaurant, Dominic," the homeless man said thoughtfully. "Not everyone celebrates Christmas, you know. The duck is exquisite, by the way--and I love the sausage!" Pedro added.
"No, no--we're not calling the restaurant After Christmas!" the cook cried. "The new name is Kiss of the Wolf." The homeless man stopped eating and stared at the cook. "It wasn't my choice," Dominic told him quickly.
"You have to be kidding," Pedro said. "That is a famous porn film--it's one of the worst porn films I've ever seen, but it's famous. I'm certain that's the title."
"You must be mistaken, Pedro," Dominic said. "Maybe it sounds better in Italian," the cook added meaninglessly.
"It's not an Italian porn film!" the homeless m
an cried. He handed the unfinished cassoulet back to Dominic, the baking dish for the beans sliding across the plate of duck and sausage. (The baking dish briefly burned the cook's thumbs.)
"Kiss of the Wolf can't be a porn film," Dominic said, but Pedro was retreating into the alley, shaking his huge mane of hair, his grizzled beard wagging.
"I'm going to be sick," Pedro said. "I can never forget that film--it was disgusting! It's not about sex with wolves, you know, Dominic--"
"I don't want to know what it's about!" the cook cried. "I'm sure you're wrong about the title!" he called after the homeless man, who was disappearing down the dark alleyway.
"There are some things you can't forget, Dominic!" Pedro called, after the cook could no longer see him. "Dreams of incest, desiring your mother--bad oral sex!" the crazy man shouted, his words whipped by the wind but audible, even over the deep drone of the exhaust fan.
"Pedro didn't like the cassoulet?" Silvestro asked, when the cook brought the full plate and the baking dish back into the kitchen.
"He was bothered by a name," was all Dominic said, but the incident struck the cook as a bad omen for Kiss of the Wolf--even if Pedro had been wrong about the title of the terrible porn film.
As it would turn out, neither the cook nor his writer son could find a porn film called Kiss of the Wolf. Not even Ketchum had seen such a film, and Ketchum claimed to have seen everything--at least everything pornographic that was available for viewing in New Hampshire.
"I think I would have remembered that title, Cookie," the old logger said. "In fact, I'm sure I would have sent it to you. But what happens in it that's so special?" the woodsman asked.
"I don't know what happens in it--I don't want to know!" the cook cried. "I just want to know if it exists!"
"Well, don't get your balls crossed about it," Ketchum said.
"Apparently, it doesn't exist--at least not yet," Danny told his dad. "You know that Pedro is nuts, Pop--you know that, don't you?"
"Of course I know he's nuts, Daniel!" the cook cried. "Poor Pedro was just so convinced--he made it sound plausible."
That Saturday night before the Christmas break--the last night that Patrice would be Patrice--Danny and Ketchum had ordered three bottles of the Barolo Massolino. As the cook had told Arnaud, Ketchum drank most of the wine, but Ketchum had also been counting.
"You may say you have a couple of beers, and one or two glasses of red wine with your dinner, Danny, but you've had four glasses of wine tonight. Even three glasses of wine, on top of two beers, is kind of a lot for a little fella." There was nothing accusatory in Ketchum's tone--he was simply setting the record straight--but Danny was defensive about it.
"I didn't know you were counting for me, Ketchum."
"Don't be like that, Danny," the logger said. "It's just my job to look after you fellas."
Ketchum had complained about Danny's tendency not to lock the house on Cluny Drive after he came home from dinner. But most nights the cook came home later than his son, and Dominic didn't like fumbling around with the door key. The cook preferred to lock the front door after he'd come home, and before he went to bed.
"But wine makes you sleepy, doesn't it, Danny?" the woodsman had asked. "Most nights, I expect, you fall sound asleep in an unlocked house--before your dad is back home."
"Mountains of moose shit--as you would say, Ketchum," Danny had replied.
That was just the way they did things in Toronto, the cook and his son explained to the veteran river driver. Danny and his dad had locked each other out of the house before; it was a nuisance. Now, when they went out, they left the house on Cluny Drive unlocked; when they were both back in the house for the night, the last one to go to bed locked the damn door.
"It's the red wine that troubles me a bit, Danny," Ketchum had told the writer. "With red wine, you fall asleep like a rock--you don't hear anything."
"If I drink only beer, I'm awake all night," Danny told the logger.
"I like the sound of that a little better," was all the woodsman had said.
