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“Flour?” he asked. “Sugar? Vinegar?”
“Pantry. What are you making?”
He didn’t reply, just found the things he needed. Then suddenly he was a rush of neat, precise work with the knife as he chopped, minced, and diced everything in sight, most of which went into a large mixing bowl, followed by the salty fish broth (that he had just brewed on the stove using the anchovies) and a fair amount of egg.
“Mama,” Sofia whispered. “He just put the lettuce and the flour in the same thing.”
“It’s cabbage, babe. But, yeah.” I shrugged. I was as mystified as she was by what was going on.
“Okonomiyaki,” Xavier said as he spooned out some of the concoction onto a hot cast iron pan on another burner. “It’s a sort of pancake with dashi—that’s like the fish broth—flour, egg, veg, whatnot. My mum used to make it for me when I was a boy. Excellent way to use up food.”
The batter hissed in the oil, and suddenly the scents of sizzling flour and fresh vegetables filled the air.
I raised my nose appreciatively. “It smells good.”
Sofia nodded, though she was still watching his process somewhat suspiciously.
“Okonomi means ‘as you like it’ and yaki means ‘grilled.’” Xavier started viciously whisking some sort of ketchup-based sauce into submission. “You get to put what you like on top and hang the rest.”
With a triumphant flourish, he grabbed the cast iron pan and flipped the pancake with a quick jerk of his wrist that made every tendon in his tattooed forearm stand out in high relief.
Then he turned around and winked at Sofia over his shoulder. My heart gave an extra hard thump. Her cheeks reddened as she mouthed “hang the rest” to herself. I was pretty sure my face was equally flushed, though if pressed, I would have sworn up and down it was because of the rising heat in the kitchen, not the look of Xavier with his shirtsleeves rolled up, apron on, moving about my kitchen with the ease of a ballroom dancer.
A few minutes later, he flipped the first pancake onto a small plate and topped it with a drizzle of thinned mayonnaise, the sauce he had made, and freshly chopped green onions, then set it in front of Sofia with a fork and a knife.
She looked at it for a long time, then turned back to me.
“Try it, Sof,” I urged her as I picked up the utensils and cut her a few pieces. “Tell me what you think.”
Tentatively, she speared a piece of the pancake, avoiding the green onions, but keeping a bit of the sauce on it. I didn’t have to look to know Xavier was watching intently.
She touched the tip of her tongue to the slice. Then, gingerly, as if she was sticking a wriggling creature into her mouth, she nibbled a tiny corner off the square. A glance at Xavier revealed a vein pulsing dramatically over his temple, but other than that, he betrayed no sign of impatience. Good luck with that, I wanted to tell him. Try four years of this crap and then tell me how you fare.
It took nearly ten minutes, but eventually, the bite did make it into Sofia’s mouth completely. Then her eyes popped open in delight.
“Oh, Mama!” she cooed. “It’s good! You have to try it!”
I smiled. “Definitely.”
I turned to check on my serving but immediately stopped. For the first time since I’d seen him last December, there in my homely kitchen, watching his daughter eat a bit of his homecooked food, Xavier Parker was smiling. It wasn’t just any smile, either. It was a full-on grin from ear to ear that revealed a deep dimple off to the left side of his mouth, cast his jawline in full relief, and made his blue eyes twinkle like they were each separate stars. It was blinding, shining across the stove, the counter, Sofia, and probably myself.
My mouth dropped. His pleasure was instantaneous and utterly infectious. His gaze traveled to me, and I couldn’t help but grin back. For a long moment we just stood, two grinning idiots, while Sofia squealed like a piglet over her food.
“Xavi, get Mama’s,” she ordered him through a mouthful of okonomiyaki. “She needs some too.”
Xavier looked around at the skillet and jumped like a rabbit.
“Ah! Fuck!” he cried, though now he was laughing as he flipped the second pancake, revealing a slightly scorched bottom, though nothing I would call inedible.
All of us were laughing now, watching this big, generally staid man hop around the kitchen while he cooked, giggling like a hyena, all of us having the best time ever.
“Here, Ces,” he said, finally handing a plate to me before starting on his own pancake. “Bon appétit.”
I accepted it gratefully. Sofia was right. It was good. A hell of a lot better than canned sauce and boxed pasta.
“I had all of this in the fridge?” I asked through a bite.
Xavier smirked. It wasn’t quite the grin he had given Sofia, but that dimple was still present. “I had to make some last-minute substitutions, but it should taste all right.”
