Chapter 13. Sage
I’ve finally figured out the whole heart skips a beat expression. It doesn’t miss a beat, it actually starts skipping like Dorothy down the yellow brick road, possibly on Red Bull. Mine is still thrashing around in my chest and trying to reset its rhythm the morning after kissing Fisher, and I am desperate to find purchase again.
I managed to play it cool on our way home from the library, shyly bidding him farewell when we pulled into the driveway. I’ve opened up and typed a weird thank-you text about ninety-seven times, but have wrangled myself away from hitting Send. Every time I think about it, I groan aloud and throw an arm over my eyes.
Reckless, that kiss. I’d been naively trying to behave as if I had the wherewithal to keep my composure and then nearly came undone on the spot. He was so warm, solid, firm, big. His mouth tasted sweet and minty and made me self-conscious about my own, but not inhibited enough to drown out everything else. I got too lost to the feel of him, the sounds of him. Thinking of that small, raspy hitch he made against my lips makes something clench tight in me again.
No. No, I was too quickly overwhelmed and needed to focus on something else, which is why I reached for the history material. I couldn’t risk fawning over him like he probably assumed I would, either. Not when he might’ve only been trying to return a favor.
It’s still the dark hours of morning, but sleep is a lost cause at this point. I pace around the house, secretly hoping to rouse at least one of the animals early. No such luck, though. What’s the point of these companions if they can’t support me with some companionship in my time of need? I reach for my phone and send a silent wish to the internet gods for the perfect algorithm to trap me with a doom scroll distraction, but, because technology has apparently become so advanced that it has mastered the ability to sync with my innermost psyche, the videos I come across all consist of things that send my thoughts cartwheeling back into unsafe territory—à la thirst traps and cooking videos. Sometimes a combination of the two.
It’s when I swipe out that another tempting thought hits me, and I’m thumbing over to Google before I can talk myself out of it. If someone has a Michelin star, I imagine they have an online presence of some kind. I hover over the Enter key after I’ve typed in his name and pause, walking over to the kitchen to make myself consider it for a beat. I could tell that Fisher was hesitant to be open with me, almost defensively private or evasive about certain pieces of his information. This isn’t me lurking around the trees and stealing glances across the property lines, and it’s not me asking him directly, either. This is intentional snooping.
Then again, any woman would google a man before spending time with him, which is what I will presumably be doing if I help him with menu feedback and if I work up the nerve to ask him to do the festival with me. Most would argue this is prudent with him in proximity, regardless. It feels a little late, given our previous interactions, but I suppose it might be better late than never?
I dive for the chair in the sunroom and hit Enter.
Results are all positive, at first. An article online that accompanies a younger picture of him. His hair was a bit shorter here, but just as unruly, even with a bandanna tied around the top of his head to keep it out of his face. He’s bent over and arranging something on a plate with an expression on his face that I think is meant to look doting or concentrated but only appears posed to me.
I come across a list of awards. Another article praising him for being one of the youngest chefs in the country to obtain a star at twenty-three. A James Beard Award, too. Some food critic blogs that are exuberant with their acclaim, followed by some that are more ambivalent and reserved, then a few that are downright hateful. The hateful ones read like they’re trying to shame anyone who enjoyed his food into reconsidering or like they’re accusing those people of lying. I find myself getting offended on his behalf and even more on the behalf of these other people who lauded him. So what if he made the same things for a few years in a row. Is that not the norm? Maybe that’s what his patrons were coming back for. Maybe those dishes were someone’s favorite and they would’ve been devastated to have them taken off the menu. Maybe he didn’t have that kind of creative control. It’s the restaurant that actually gets the star, after all. Maybe it’s the ownership’s decision on those things.
I come to another headline titled MARROW LOSES TWO STARS, AND ONLY ONE OF THEM IS MICHELIN. It details how their Michelin star was revoked earlier this year and the head chef subsequently fired. I frown at that. He didn’t divulge that he was fired, but I suppose he didn’t lie about it, either, and it’s not exactly a fun icebreaker to share. There are very few details about why the restaurant lost the star to begin with, only a few remarks and quotes from anonymous customers stating that the price did not reflect the quality and that the service was not enthusiastic enough. Toward the end of the piece, the author speculates that they did not personally find Marrow deserving of the loss but that maybe Fisher had set too high a standard from the jump, that he’d shown all this promise and was “gifted” this renown for being something new and exciting in the culinary scene, and then proceeded to stop doing new or exciting things. A flash of indignance heats beneath my skin at the term gifted, as if it wasn’t deserved or earned. She repeats again, though, that this wasn’t grounds for rescinding the star in her opinion, that she thinks it’s a shame he was fired, but she also invites everyone else’s thoughts in the comments after watching the linked video at the bottom of the page. I scroll all the way down and spot it: Michelin-Starred Chef Has Public Meltdown on Critic.
I hold my breath and click. I’m taken to a grainy video, clearly taken from a phone in a dimly lit restaurant from a few tables’ distance away. Fisher is seated at his own table, a lone candle illuminating the hard planes of his face as he stares down at some sort of dessert. He’s got a fork held tightly in one hand, the muscles in his jaw clenching irritably. Another man stands at the edge of his table, shrugging and talking animatedly with his hands, cocking his head at him like a bird observing a worm. None of their dialogue is audible until Fisher abruptly stands and shoves the pie in the other guy’s face, and even then it’s mostly just the gasps and muttering from around the room that get picked up.
“You don’t know me, and you don’t get to act like you do,” Fisher says, stabbing a finger into the man’s pie-smothered face. “You’re not just fucking with my livelihood but a lot of other people who work harder than you ever have sitting on your ass smacking your grubby fingers on some keys.” He makes to walk away, but turns back and says, “And you interrupted my dessert.”
I can’t imagine the guy didn’t say something to initiate the whole exchange, but I blow out a frustrated breath nonetheless. “He started it” seems like an unjustifiable response, and without the rest of the audio, the video could too easily be interpreted as a harmless, affable critic running into a chef in a public setting, interacting respectfully, and then being accosted.
I end up searching out the critic’s blog, and quickly come to the review linked to the entire incident.
Ten years ago I had the distinct pleasure of dining at the Michelin-starred Deelane, Chef Fisher Lange’s maiden voyage as chef de cuisine. I’d heard whispers of a new revelatory chef, someone who’d cut his teeth in some of the greatest restaurants in the world and was widely being hailed as the latest best and brightest. I set out with wary expectations, with the admittedly negative intention of proving the “hype” wrong.
Instead, I was pleasantly surprised. Floored, even. Every single bite was a delight. Brave, edgy… dare I say sexy? Fisher Lange’s food was the perfect mixture of comforting and bold. Our boy wasn’t serving the same schlock that everyone in town was. No, instead of drowning everything in truffles—the big “movement” of the moment, if you can dub it that—Chef served up a spicy pumpkingnocchi—the likes of which still frequent my dreams. Instead of some basic-bitchy-bisque, Lange was ladling a cauliflower pot de crème that was well ahead of its time.
But even shooting stars must burn out, I’m afraid.
I’ll admit, I enjoyed the opening of Chef Lange’s current restaurant, Marrow, nearly seven years ago, backed by the renowned Visconti family. Everything was technically sound; his dishes were curated and cooked to perfection. I like to think that my very enthusiastic support perhaps even played a role in he (and Marrow) getting the Michelin star here.
I’m devastated to report, though, that nearly seven years later, while the points on technical skill remain and the menu is all but the same, my enjoyment wasnot.
Now I’d like to make something clear. Upon seeing the menu this time, I did not preemptively make up my mind to be disappointed. After all, when something is wonderful,of coursewe want to experience it again, right? I decided that I’d stick around, that I’d see if anything exciting had been added to the old. Additionally, I myself said in my first piece on him that his food tasted “like something you recognize but know you’ve never experienced before. Like déjà vu, reimagined.”
Theonlything I experienced at Marrow most recently was bitter disappointment. This is not that beautiful, brave chef of old, ladies and gents.
My biggest issue? Every dish wassafe. Not even a new spin on the old. I understand that food’s purpose is, at its core, to sustain and please. But at the price one pays for a meal at Marrow, you’ve crossed over the realm of mere sustenance and into one of art on a higher plane.
“What happened to bravery?!”I cried.“What happened to individuality?!”I grieved. Just… WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?!
I can only speculate that the rumors of Lange’s iciness and lack of personality are less based on his chilly demeanor and more in reference to actual ice and its utter f*cking blandness.
2.5 stars
UPDATED: {Upon publication of this piece, I found out that Marrow will have lost one of its Michelin stars.
Color me SHOCKED.}
I close out the windows on the phone and set it aside, feelings expanding like water ripples through my chest. Of course Fisher has been struggling. On top of grieving a sister, he’s also lost the thing he defined himself by, if all the awards and previous praise from earlier in his career are indicative of anything.
It’s still early in the morning, but Sable’s left her bed and joined me downstairs, so I take this as a sign that I can begin the day. I feed her first, then fill up Legs’s dry food bowl on the porch, assuming he’s off on his morning hunt. When I start the trek to the barn, I’m stopped in my tracks at a sight in the distance to my right.
Fisher is attempting to make his way across the meadow with a ladle in one hand, a bowl in the other, and a small cylinder container held tightly to his side. He has to pirouette to avoid a leaping Legoless, who immediately tries to launch himself at his leg again. Every maneuver sends various liquids sloshing and flying through the air. He has to pick up his heels in quick succession as Legs continuously tries to get him. Jesus, that cat is a menace.
“Living out your Sound of Music fantasies?!” I yell out after he does another spin.
“Can you call this damn cat?!” he hollers back.
“He’s a cat! He doesn’t respond to my commands!” As far as he’s concerned, we are here to serve his every whim.
When Fisher’s only a handful of yards away, Legoless finally lets up, darting off in another direction to find a different prey. Fisher looks down at himself, splattered in debris, and barely suppresses some sort of rage. I begin to applaud.
“Bravo!” I brightly cheer. “That was beautiful!”
“Fucking hell,” he growls, but a snort loosens his tight expression into something only slightly overserious. “Wanted you to try some of this for me,” he states.
“If you’d called, I would have come,” I say with a laugh.
“I couldn’t find my phone and was already to the fence before I thought of it,” he explains. “This first.” He puts the ladle out my way. I look down to find some bright orange liquid remaining, a few tiny persistent chives floating on top. I lean over and take a large slurp.
“Shit,” I say in awe, fingertips to my mouth. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it’s not the flavors I’m tasting. Mildly sweet with a spice redolent of some kind of pepper.
“My soup idea for the restaurant,” he explains eagerly. “Carrot jalape?o. Something slightly different but not stuffy. Good year-round. Goes with summer flavors, and the spice is nice for colder months, too.”
“Delicious” is all I can say. It’s phenomenal, but it’s surprisingly hard to come up with the words. And he seems to be all business at the moment, so I try to match that energy rather than telling him I’d drink this from a dirty boot just to get more of it.
“Here.” He offers up the bowl next. A white ball of cheese lies in the middle, with a colorful medley of other bits chopped up around it. “Burrata from a local farm with green apples, honey, basil from you, and prosciutto, that I’d pair with a basic garlic crostini.”
I take the spoon that’s still miraculously in the bowl and scoop a bit of it into my mouth. My eyes roll back in my head. He’s behaving as if these things are simple, but I’ve never tasted anything like them. Still, they are comprehendible and people will understand them on a menu and won’t be intimidated by them. “Fu-uck” is the reply I come up with for that delight. Imagining it with a crusty slice of bread makes me hum a little moan. I peer up to find Fisher looking… smug? No, I think that’s just a touch of pride I see. Pride, tinged with relief. Like he’s a little proud and a lot relieved to find that he could still come up with the right kinds of things.
“Last item—for today, at least,” he says. “You can’t have a restaurant on the ocean and not have some seafood, so I’ve got steamed mussels in a spicy broth.” His tone is almost defensive, like he thinks I’ll argue with him on the point.
“I didn’t say no seafood, Fisher. I just knew that caviar and sashimi-grade fish would not sell around here,” I say. “I don’t want you to think I was trying to insult you or act like I think I know the only way. I have no qualms about being the expert here; you are.” I feel it’s important to say, given all I know about him now.
His brows pinch in before he replies. “I know. But you are the expert on Spunes, and you are the target customer base.” He looks at the things in his hands before his stare finds me again. “I want to make sure you like everything.”
I feel shy under his expression, the memories that were slow to surface in the aftermath of his dance battle across the field roaring to life in my mind. I can still feel the spot where his stubble was rough against my chin yesterday. I clear my throat reflexively and grab the tub, pulling out a mussel with my fingers before I take a hearty sip of broth.
I need a vat of it. “Mmm, perfect,” I declare.
He dips his head in a quick nod, then hands me the bowl with the burrata to go with the mussels tub in my other hand. “Have both as a thank-you,” he says. “I’ll bring by the soup, too, in a bit.”
I’m not shy about accepting gifts of the edible variety, so I pull both things close and reply with a hearty “Thank you” before another thought occurs to me. “Hold on, it’s like six A.M. What are you doing up making all of this?” I laugh.
“Not sure. Maybe too much excitement yesterday,” he says with a shrug.
I can’t stop myself from fishing. “Ah yes, the history of Spunes keeps me up at night, too.”
One side of his mouth kicks up, his newly freed hand shoving into the pocket of his black sweats. His white shirt has to be ruined, with all the spots littered across it now. Even disheveled and dirty with a ladle in his hand, he makes me want to twirl my hair and giggle like a moron.
“That’s my favorite one so far,” he says. He points using his chin somewhere near my chest before he turns and starts back toward his place.
I look down at my robe and groan. It’s covered in canoes, with an emblem on one side over the chest, two paddles crossed over each other, and text that states, HAPPIEST WHEN WET.
After I get the goods put away in the house and knock out the initial chores for the day, it’s not even 7:00 A.M. and I’m still brimming with some sort of nervous-excited anxiety. Whether it’s from yesterday’s events, this morning’s interaction, or a combination of it all, I decide I need to do something physical, something to channel and funnel all this surplus energy through, and since I’ve got no other plans for the day, I settle on paddle boarding. Silas and Ellis have been too busy this fire season to help me haul my little canoe down to our section of the estuary yet, and I’m not foolish enough to lug that load by myself down the cliff trail. The paddleboard will still be cumbersome, but not unmanageable for me on my own.
I shimmy, squeeze, and jump my way into my wet suit and head out into the brisk twilight air, board and paddle balanced on my head.
It’s one of those magical mornings where the water seems bluer, the mossy grass along the banks appears greener. A mist hovers over everything with a hush, waiting for dawn to welcome the day. It makes me think of the book of advice my mom made for me before she died. It’s filled with her favorite famous mottos and pieces of guidance that she felt rang true in her life and wanted to pass along to me in her absence. One thing I always come back to is a note that says, “Whenever you think too little of the world, try to remember that somewhere, something, or someone is always waiting to be known.” I think it might be derivative of some more renowned line, but I love her version most. It’s one of those things that simultaneously brings me a sense of peace and keeps me curious.
When I paddle past a pair of otters, I practically squeal with joy, but then I catch myself reflexively looking around like I’m searching for someone to corroborate my excitement, and the blip of embarrassment this gives me turns the joy bitter. Like eating something too sweet that leaves a filmy aftertaste in your mouth.
I search around with a confused frown, trying to decipher why that just happened and why I find it so bothersome.
I think I blame Fisher. I think I blame him for why alone suddenly feels more like lonely, and why the contrast of being on my own against having someone around is so stark all of a sudden. Having someone asking me for my opinions, and simply having a partner in the extraneous—like nonsense errands, or a kiss intended to make me feel powerful but instead made me feel too easy to overpower—had been nice. I think I forgot how nice that could be.
It’s such a small thing that I did, that quick reflexive turn. Logically, I know I need to let it go. But there’s also a low, sinister voice in my head that tells me this is dangerous and significant and should not be taken lightly. That a few days with someone by my side should not fundamentally create an auto-response like that.
I also think this must be why I didn’t jump at his offer and ask him to partner with me for the festival right away. It’s as if my subconscious had my best interests at heart by being hesitant to reach for more connection with him, knowing it would be temporary.
But I also keep replaying his compliment, the look on his face this morning when he had me try his food, and the fun I’d had with him. I even found his grumbling over my library lecture charming, because if anyone knows when a student isn’t paying attention, it’s me. He was engaged the entire time. And just like when he’d suggested a collaboration on the Starhopper menu and kissed me in the library, I recognize that the man made that open-ended offer of his own accord, too.
By the time I get back, it’s warm enough that I know it’ll be uncomfortably hot if I put off the garden chores until later, so I do my best to shake off this strangely eclipsed mood and head over that way now.
My bucket slips from my hand, and a gasp leaves my lips when I take in the sight before me.
“No,” I whisper in horror. “No, no, no.” I roar out a garbled scream when I watch one of my dahlia stems flop over into a pile of her other downed sisters. Another starts to tremble, and all I can do is helplessly watch what should’ve gone on to be a blush Break Out Dinnerplate bloom the size of my head as it crashes in slow motion, dropping to the ground like a fallen soldier.
And this is when I see it. Its hideous furry head and demonic black eyes. Gopher.