Old Black Magic by Ace Atkins

Author:Ace Atkins [Atkins, Ace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2018-05-02T00:00:00+00:00

31

BY THE TIME PEARL and I returned to the Navy Yards, it was late. I poured her some fresh water and chow and set about to cook dinner. The night before, I’d prepped a beef tenderloin from Stillman’s Farm with kosher salt and left it in the refrigerator. The tenderloin wouldn’t take long. It was meant to be very pink in the center, not more than a hundred and fifty degrees inside. I set the oven to 425° and set out to make the sauce. The meat, rubbed by the hands of the Gods and blessed by holy men, would take care of itself.

I pulled out a large pan and melted a half-stick of butter over medium-low. I added in some chopped shallots with fresh rosemary, cracked pepper, and little cognac. I let everything cook down and added in a little cooking sherry and let the mix simmer. As I worked, I opened up a bottle of Bordeaux and set it aside. Then I cracked open a Sam Adams to hydrate me while I made a summer salad with mixed greens, pears, walnuts, and goat cheese. Besides the sauce, hydration was key to the cooking.

Pearl had finished scarfing up her dinner and returned to the big leather sofa to rest. She’d had quite a day. I turned on the Sox game and let her watch the sixth inning.

I set the table for one and pulled out the roast. I placed it toward the center of my cooking island to let it rest without fear of Pearl. The sauce was nearly done and I turned down the heat.

I mixed a dressing of olive oil, vinegar, and lemon juice in a coffee mug and then checked on the roast. A few minutes left.

From my kitchen, I could see the sun setting across the moored boats. A large fishing boat was sliding up toward the dock, two men on the bow. One jumped off and the other tossed him the line, tying up for the evening. There was a little bit of wind and the boats rocked softly but strongly tethered to the docks.

I drank some wine. I watched the Sox. The room smelled pleasantly of roast and the sweetness of the sauce.

I ate dinner, did the dishes, and finished the ball game.

After walking Pearl for the evening, I returned to my kitchen table and poured a third glass of wine. I’d checked out a book from the library on El Greco but over the last few days had little chance to look beyond the cover. As Pearl snuffled and snored, legs sticking straight up at the ceiling, I looked through the big, bold images of Christ, the Virgin Mary, many Saints and noble Spaniards. St. Francis and the stigmata. The view of his beloved Toledo on the hill. I found out he was born in 1541 in Crete and died in 1614 in Spain. In between, he lived and trained in Venice and Rome, in post-Byzantine art and something called mannerism. Being

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