“I like noodles,” she’d said, and while that was true, she had also been mooning over an Italian-American boy in physics class. That was the thing about her parents and their friends: they were more Indian than the Indians back home, constantly watchful for fear that moving to America would leech away their children’s understanding of who they were. Raj had developed similar fears.
Though it wasn’t as if Priya didn’t cook for the family. She made
phulkas
for Raj’s lunch and
pakoras
to go with Sunday Night Football, American-style.(Funny, that, how being such a fan of the Giants did not impact Raj culturally. He had explained as much to her and the children.) And she had a special fondness for home-style sweets, nibbling on raisiny
bundi ladoo
and wiping her hands discreetly on a napkin so as not to make the keyboard sticky. It wasn’t as though she resented all the cooking, entirely, because she often quite enjoyed the sizzle of the vegetables and the scent of curry around her. What bothered her most of all was that no one stopped to admire what she’d made. They just fell upon the dishes like hungry wolves, even Raj. How nice it must be to be Gus, she thought, able to watch an old tape and admire what you’ve made. She’d suggested they get out the camcorderduring Diwali last year to capture the platters of
cholafali
, deep-fried
ghooghra
,
khandvi
rolls sprinkled with coconut and little balls of
churma na ladoo
that had taken such care to make, but everyone had laughed as though she’d made a funny joke, and she’d pretended to go along with it.
Cooking was a curious thing, really, how there was nothing to show after it was all eaten up. This is great, someone might say as they chewed, but in the end all that was left was the memory. It wasn’t as though you could save up a portion of your best curried lentil spread and put it on display, a sign taped to the bowl saying “Priya made this.” Not like when she’d been designing mechanical systems at her job back before she’d had kids.
Even a recipe didn’t come out exactly the same each time you made it and so wasn’t perfect proof of your cooking ability. If that had been the case, then anyone able to read a cookbook could produce a Michelin-star-quality meal. No, making good food took creativity, technique, flair. And love.
Priya loved her family, loved Raj and Bina and Chitt and Kiran. Yes, she did. Oh, she knew she was supposed to feel this constant hum of happiness—she’d read the books, seen the programs—but it was just very, very hard. She felt very tired. And plump. In recent years, Priya had started running to fat, which collected around her middle and seemed impossible to dislodge.
“I like your tummy,” Raj said, pinching her rolls. If there was one good thing about marrying a man your parents had selected straight from India, it was that he still thought being chubby was a good thing. He didn’t nag her when she curled up with a bowl of crunchy
tum tum
and ate every speck. He was really, much of the time, quite nice. It was just Priya. She simply felt bogged down.
If I got to meet Gus, she told herself, then it would all turn around. How would it not?
When Gus had declared the next episode would feature brunch, she had not thought out the rather simple fact that the show ran on Sunday
nights
. And there’d been some concern from upstairs, Porter had indicated, that the show was adrift.
“After two episodes?” Gus had not been convinced.
“TV is changing into a completely different world,” said Porter. “Sitcoms disappear after one episode if the numbers aren’t there.”
“I thought our numbers were good?”
“They’re way better, but we haven’t been re-upped yet,” he said.
“Well, it would help if Alan wasn’t making us all play chicken and would air us week after week,” said Gus. “I’m surprised anyone keeps tuning in.”
“Our demos are great, actually: lots of frat boys with an empty Sunday who want to watch Carmen, lots of twentysomethings caught up in the drama of SaTroy, plus the diehard Gus fans,” he said.
“I assume those are the old ladies?”
Porter laughed. “You’ve got your own following with the frat boys, I can assure you. Something about HotOlderMamas-dot-com?”
“Oh, don’t even tell me that,” Gus said, though in truth she was quite curious and made a mental note to check it out later. Then Carmen and Oliver had shown up—riding together in the elevator this time around— and the group of four had brainstormed everything from frittatas to congee.
“I’ve got it,” said Oliver. “Why not make the show more thematic? As in, ‘You’ve spent all day in bed—say, with your cute girlfriend—and now you’re going to treat her to a little breakfast in bed, even though it’s nighttime.’ ”
Carmen giggled. “I like it!”
“Typically my theme isn’t sex,” Gus said. “Though I’m not opposed. Just not quite onboard.”
“But think about this whole SaTroy thing going on,” said Porter. “It’s perfect,Oliver. Make pancakes, but call them ‘sexy pancakes,’ or whatever.”
“I was really thinking more along the lines of little breakfast bites,” said Gus. “You know, breakfast as appies.”
“Great idea,” said Porter. “But let’s go with the sex. Er, romance. Soften it up and say it’s all about romance.”
They’d agreed to no more surprise ingredients, either, though Gus wasn’t entirely reassured, and settled on a menu of pancakes with fruit compote and fresh whipped cream, Spanish omelet, and a wonderful blood-orange mimosa. It pleased her to have an episode that was going to be all about the classics, and she’d felt a renewed sense of enthusiasm. She was even resigned to Porter’s contest, and agreed to announce the randomly chosen winner on the air: Priya Patel of New Jersey.
The truth was that Gus enjoyed being on the air, and tonight’s show was no exception.
“Places, everyone, places,” she shouted, as though directing a high school musical. Troy had arrived wearing a blue T-shirt emblazoned with “Farm-Freshfor schools!” on the front and back; Aimee was in black on black; Carmenwas in a V-necked blouse that was just a little too low-cut, as always; and Oliver wore a navy chef’s coat. (Just how many cooking outfits did this man own? she wondered.) Gus, for her part, wore a long tunic-style cardigan over a fitted tee and a pair of dark-washed jeans.
Gus never dressed down on the air but, after a visit to the Web site Porter had told her about, she’d been rather flattered by a plea to “see Gus’s ass.” It had frankly been rather a long time since anyone had made such a request. So while she was, of course, wearing a rather substantial sweater, it was still the thought that counted. She did feel hot. And it was fun.
So far the show was their most successful, helped along by the fact that Sabrina was conspicuously absent. Hannah, just like last time, was perched on an equipment box behind the crew. A popping sound grabbed Gus’s attention.
“Bring out more potato chips, Oliver,” Carmen shouted, as she ripped into a bag and began crunching. “Just one for me,” she told the camera. “The rest are for my twist on a wonderful tradition in my country, the Spanish omelet, or what we call
tortilla de patatas
. Okay, one more.” Carmen pointed at her full mouth and Gus took up her cue.
“Okay, avoid a flavored potato chip—no barbecue,” she said. “Just a good, plain chip, such as kettle-cooked. You’ll want to crush them down,” she was saying, as a bang made her jump. She threw a world-weary look to the camera.
“Open the bag first,” she said, before gesturing to Troy, who had exploded a bag of chips on the counter.
“Oops,” he said, in a fake whisper. “Sorry.”
“Then mix the eggs and the chips together,” Carmen said, cutting in, but not in an unfriendly way as she usually did.
“Let them soak for several minutes,” said Gus. “And then ask the big bald man in your kitchen to heat up some oil in a sauté pan.”
“We’ll start cooking during the break, and you can see how it’s all comingtogether when we’re back,” said Carmen. “You won’t want to miss a minuteof our sexy Sunday night brunch.”
“Perfect, you guys!” yelled Porter. “It’s great to see you working together.”
Most of the next segments were filled with only minor issues, and were far less chaotic than the previous episodes of
Eat Drink and Be
.
Aimee accidentally poured salt into the simple fruit sauce instead of sugar within the first fifteen minutes of the program, and then managed to do the same thing again immediately and ruin a second batch.
“Don’t worry about it,” Oliver told her. “We’ve all sweetened with salt from time to time.”
“This tastes disgusting,” she said, after dipping in her spoon.
“Normally we don’t say that part on air, dear,” Gus said, grinning at the camera. “See why I love to cook for my family and not
with
my family?” She walked around the island as though coming closer to the viewer. “But we’re going to make the lightest, fluffiest pancakes, and if we don’t have any fruit syrup today, then we’ll just use good old maple syrup.”
“Go for Grade A dark amber,” said Oliver. “It’s rich and velvety.”
“And very, very good for dipping apples in,” Troy said, pointing to his FarmFresh shirt.
Gus handed Carmen some eggs. “Separate those out,” she told her, “because when I make pancakes, I always fluff the whites separately. Then I fold them in when the batter is mixed . . .”
“And that’s how you keep them high and light,” said Carmen. “Very nice, Gus.”
“While we get those on the griddle, and sip our blood-orange mimosas, we’re going to get ready for a special treat,” said Gus. “Just because it’s breakfastdoesn’t mean we can’t have dessert.” She saw Porter motioning to her. “And I mean a
sexy
dessert.”
Behind the cameras, Porter put a friendly arm around Hannah. He simplywanted to share a bit of good. “This is it, kiddo,” he said. “We’re finally getting it right.”
Hannah, who hated to be squished, hugged, or generally touched, pretendedshe had to tie her shoe and squirmed away.
“Everyone ready for an espresso sundae?” asked Oliver.
“I put the kettle on a while ago,” said Aimee. Although Gus had her own espresso maker—and she assumed most viewers had coffeemakers—she also wanted to show them how to make the simple dessert in a matter of minutesusing instant packets. The kettle was Aimee’s second big responsibilityof the night, and after mucking up the fruit sauce, she aimed to get it right. Her mother’s plan was to serve one delicate scoop of vanilla gelato in a wineglass, then drizzle it with piping hot espresso that had been lightly sweetened. With sugar this time.
Aimee, Oliver, Carmen, and Troy crowded around the island, watching Gus scoop out the gelato as though they’d never had ice cream before. There were only four minutes left in the show, just enough time to finish and spoon up, and the entire cast could barely fit in the shot. The cameraman panned out, enough to get everyone in the scene, but the rest of the kitchen was blocked from view. Porter nodded to let him know it was fine, wrinkling his nose at a strange smell as he did so.
“I love ice cream and fruit!” Troy shouted, catching Porter’s attention. It was energizing to see the typically subdued guy so riled up. He knew Troy’s growing fan base would love it; his goal was to get clips of
Eat Drink and Be
posted to YouTube.
“But today we’re having it with espresso,” Gus reminded everyone. “So let’s get our instant mix and some boiling water from the kettle—” She turned to the counter and realized the kettle hadn’t been plugged in.
“Aimee, I thought you started the kettle?” Gus said, a rising panic in her throat. How would they finish out the dish? How could she make another mistake?
“I did,” said Aimee, clearly annoyed.
“Shouldn’t it have whistled by now?”
The other members of the group began turning around, looking for the kettle. Carmen was the first to spot it.
“Oh my God, she put it on the stove,” she screamed, everyone moving at once. “And it’s on fire!”
Flames and sparks were coming up from the white plastic; Aimee had put an electric kettle on the Aga stove. The cameraman, now that the group was jumping around, could finally get a full view of the kitchen. He’d wonderedif he’d gone a little out of focus. Now he could tell that the room was filling with smoke.
“We’re burning up!” screamed Carmen. She grabbed a box of baking soda from the cabinet and threw it on the flames, causing them to flare higher, redder. Oliver, dish towel in hand, pulled her back and ended up settingthe cloth on fire.
“Drop it, drop it!” Troy pushed Oliver’s hand down to make him release the towel and began jumping on it with his feet.
It had been about fifteen seconds since Gus had asked for the kettle, and now her kitchen was filled with yelling and commotion and camera people pushing their way in to get a close-up.
“We’re still live,” Porter yelled, hoping to be heard over the din. “We’re still on the air.”
And then, without a thought other than protecting her friend, Hannah—who had written an article on kitchen fires not more than two years ago—ran into the melee and reached under Gus’s sink to find the fire extinguisher she’d put there herself after turning in the piece.
The kettle was beginning to melt and the flames were high enough to scorch the ceiling.
“Stand back,” shouted the thin woman in a red hoodie as she sprayed the Aga with white goo. “Get out of the way.”
She let off a second surge from the extinguisher for good measure, a camerain her face as she did so. Hannah gave a blow of air out her mouth, trying to calm down.
“We almost burned down,” Carmen cried. “Thank you, Hannah.”
Hannah had an instant of happiness—she loved to be a help—before her dawning awareness of the cameras all around the kitchen. “I didn’t recognizeyou until now,” Troy said. “I was such a huge fan.”
Her eye caught Gus’s and they knew: Hannah Joy Levine, the disgraced former tennis star who’d been kicked out of the sport fifteen years ago for throwing matches, had just been rediscovered in Gus Simpson’s kitchen. Damn.