The Inn at Lake Devine by Elinor Lipman

Author:Elinor Lipman [Lipman, Elinor]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Family Life, Jewish
ISBN: 9780307814210
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 1998-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The first thing I did was talk them out of Chez Hilda as a name for their establishment. And next thing I knew, I was auditioning for the post of head chef as if I really wanted it. Earlier, between the hours of four and seven P.M., I had staged a small rebellion, shopping for ingredients that had no chic. It would serve my mother right: She clearly didn’t understand that restaurants were not created equal, and I was not so pathetic a candidate that I needed her crude employment services. So I bought chuck and cheap Burgundy and the lettuce and cellophane-wrapped tomatoes of a prosaic salad. I made a stew, which my mother billed as Beef Bourguignon à la Natalie, and mashed potatoes—all of which unwittingly hit the nail on its head.

Mrs. Simone may have been dreaming of haute cuisine and pale pink linens, but Mr. Simone loved diner food. “You understand what I’m trying to do,” he said, a solemn oath, looking up from his first bite of my Grape-Nut custard pudding.

“Have some more,” my mother said.

“These old standbys? I just made what I thought you’d like.”

“We’re in the market for a chef,” he announced.

“I can’t believe it,” said my mother. “Eddie, did you hear that? Natalie! Show him the letter from your cooking teacher.”

Mr. Simone, eyes closed, licked the front and back of his spoon. Finally he asked what else I could do, dessert-wise, in this genre.

“What genre?” I asked.

“Home cooking, but top-notch.”

My mother rose and said pointedly to my father, “Let’s do the dishes and let the professionals talk.” She commanded Mrs. Simone to sit and to have another helping.

“Desserts,” Mr. Simone prompted.

I thought of my childhood and the UMass dining commons. “Fig squares. Brownies à la mode. Chocolate icebox cookie cake.”

“With real whipped cream between the cookies?”

“Of course. And Boston cream pie.”

He said happily, “Who makes that anymore?”

By that point, I was enjoying my own acting ability. “Apple pie, cherry pie, chocolate cream pie.” I thought of the revolving pie display at the now defunct luncheonette near my father’s store. “Lemon meringue pie, strawberry-rhubarb pie, grasshopper pie, blueberry pie … lattice tops on the fruit pies—”

“Oh my,” he breathed.

I remembered the custard family. “And there’s rice, coconut, Grape-Nuts, of course, and bread puddings—”

“With raisins?”

I gave him a sly look that said Raisin is my middle name.

He was not a restaurateur. Anyone with Betty Crocker on her shelf could have passed this test. I said both grandly and modestly, “This is supposed to be pleasure, not business. We’ve put you on the spot.”

He said, “You know, hon, I’m a pretty good judge of character. She strikes me as the kind of person we’re looking for.” He asked if I had a résumé.

I told him what was on it: UMass, B.S. in biology, cum laude. Les Trois Etoiles under Chef Pierre Tardieu; Star Market; Ten Tables.

My father piped up from the kitchen sink, “Ask me. Natty worked for me more summers than I can count. And she was always my best worker.

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