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“Casey?” Uncle Walt called, his voice cheerful as ever. “I’ve brought the wine.”
Crap. He bundled Beef Waterloo back in the oven, curdled soup behind the cleaning supplies under the sink, salad bowl on top of the fridge. If only this place had more hiding places—aka storage. But what Casey’s Chelsea apartment lacked in space and amenities it made up for in location and convenience. He shoved the soufflé dish into the fridge—managing to slop half the brown-tinged water onto the shelf—just as Uncle Walt appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Although they hadn’t been identical, Uncle Walt had the same silver-shot brown hair as his twin, the same gray eyes, the same pointed chin that Casey shared with both of them. But unlike Donald, Walt wore a perpetual smile, and instead of chef’s whites, he favored suits like tonight’s charcoal gray number, tailored to camouflage a middle softened by years of enthusiastic consumption of his brother’s cooking.
Casey closed the fridge and plastered his back against the door. “Hi, Uncle.”
“Something smells…” Uncle Walt’s smile faded as he took a tentative sniff. “Did something burn?”
Uncle Walt was always careful to avoid assigning blame to Casey personally, unlike Donald, who was as quick with a spatula to Casey’s backside as he was with a cutting remark, even if Casey was only making a peanut butter sandwich. With Uncle Walt, though, it was as though the food and the oven and the stove were sentient entities with their own agendas, who were responsible for the latest carnage rather than Casey himself.
It was kind of Uncle Walt to make the effort, but his there are no bad cooks, only unfortunate circumstances attitude was a little divorced from reality, at least where Casey was concerned.
“A few things.” Make that all the things, and seriously? Casey could never quite figure out how something could be both burned and raw at the same time.
Uncle Walt gazed at the dirty pans and utensils still littering the kitchen, and whereas Donald would have been furious, Uncle Walt just looked sad as he set the wine bottle on the counter. “Oh, Casey.”
“How about this? Let’s head over to La Trattoria Rosa for some pasta. We’ll have a nice dinner and some conversation, and I’ll clean up when I get home.”
Uncle Walt shook his head and shrugged out of his Burberry raincoat. “Nonsense. I’ll help tidy up and then you can whip up something from what you have on hand, just like your father used to do.” He ducked out of the kitchen and returned without the coat. “I have faith in you, my boy.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“What?”
Casey took a deep breath. “It’s time to face the truth, Uncle Walt. I’m not a chef. I’ll never be a chef. I’m barely even a cook.”
“Don’t be so down on yourself,” he said heartily. “You just need more practice. Once you’ve mastered one of your father’s signature dishes, you’ll have the confidence to tackle the rest of them and they’ll fall like dominos.”
“Oh, they’ll fall, all right, but maybe not the way you think.” Casey linked elbows with Uncle Walt and led him into the living room to the love seat that was the largest sofa that would fit in the space. He sat down beside him. “How many menus does this make?”
Walt’s brows drew together and he turned away, his throat working. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do. Every week, you’ve presented me with a menu from Chez Donatien, along with Dad’s recipes. Have I ever succeeded in turning out anything remotely edible?”
“You’ve made valiant efforts, my boy. I’m sure with more practice—”
“Uncle, have you ever looked at one of Dad’s recipes? The technical challenges on The Great British Bake Off have more detail.”
“But—”
“I think it’s time to admit that if you don’t want Chez Donatien to close the day after it reopens, you need a different person running the kitchen. What about Dad’s sous chef, Charity? She was with him for nearly twenty years.”
Walt screwed up his face. “She’s a competent craftsperson, but she’s not an artist. Not the creative genius your father was.”
“But I’m not either.” Casey took one of his uncle’s hands in both of his. “Furthermore, I’m not a competent craftsperson. Not even close.”
“You could be, Casey. I know you could.”
“Uncle Walt. I flunked out of two culinary schools, and a third one rejected me so fast I think they must have had a special email rule set up just for me. I’m not cut out for this. Call Charity and beg her to come back. It’s your only hope.”
“Nonsense. You were practically raised in the kitchen of your father’s many restaurants. It’s in your blood.”
Maybe that’s why I hate being in kitchens now. “Uncle Walt. Listen to me, please. I hate to cook.”
Uncle Walt laughed, the deep, rolling chuckle that had accompanied every announcement Casey had ever made, from the time he was four and wanted to be a ballet dancer, to his eight-year-old firefighter ambition, to his intention to get an art history degree. “The only reason you hate it is because you haven’t mastered your father’s signature dishes.”
“Exactly. Not only do I hate to cook, but I’m bad at it.” Or maybe I’m bad at it because I hate it. Was he wrestling with some kind of passive-aggressive relationship with cooking? Casey sighed. It wasn’t totally outside the realm of possibility.
