Chapter 8
Nora is fussy, Matt says, so he bails on coming in to town with me to cancel my reservation at the Sandcastle Hotel. It’s fine with me. I think … we don’t exactly want to be one-on-one. We just want to want to.
Me, because I’m afraid to be caught in a conversation where I have to address anything or talk about Babe.
Him because … well, probably a lot of reasons.
We’ve gone years in the same city without seeing each other, so either he didn’t want to see me, or he’s probably hurt that I didn’t.
Either way, I’m sure I’m not his favorite person right now.
And the last thing I want is some sort of reluctant kindness out of pity.
Town’s not a far walk, but I’m bone-tired from working long shifts all week. I stand in the front hallway, considering what to do, when my eyes catch on Babe’s keys. I hesitate for a long moment before taking them off their hook.
There’s something about people’s keys that is, to me, as potent a memory trigger as any scent. The jingle of them is so specific to everyone, and impossible to recreate.
My father’s keys sounded like a knife on a whetstone when he picked them up.
Sammie’s had a high jingle like a glass bell, but a flat note from the plastic photo key chain she had on it, the one from the little photo booth at Funland in town. Matt, the heavy sound of the fob for his inherited BMW—the one thing his parents ever gave him, and it had come with strings.
Austin’s had the low, sure tone that came from the brass oval and its three simple keys.
And Babe’s were a Christmassy jingle. She always had the house keys of countless friends.
Still had the key to her childhood home.
Still had the key to my childhood home. It wasn’t exactly a custodian-level collection, but it was enough to make someone say, wow, you have a lot of keys. She was romantic about it. Nostalgic.
I pick them up and the sound tickles the inside of my ear in an uncomfortable way. The sound, like the stain on the tablecloth, outlasted her.
I go to the garage, where I see the ancient golf cart, turquoise with a white roof.
Then I see the outside freezer. The one that seals tight for a full minute after you open it to preserve the cold air.
Another thing that outlasted her.
I squint at the door and magnets holding a piece of paper on there.
I climb over the many hurdles of the garage and see that it’s what I thought it was.
A New York Times article that was printed out with low ink. The headline is: “The Last Good Chef in Manhattan.”
I’m not sure if it’s pride or embarrassment that grinds in my chest, or some blend of both as I remove it and look down at the grainy picture of me.
I’m in the now-iconic blue crewneck sweatshirt with its chic, arched red font that reads BACCARAT.
We only made five hundred of those sweatshirts, and it’s one of those quiet luxury items that became synonymous with being in the know.
Women were pairing it with diamond tennis necklaces and expensive blowouts, men were rolling the sleeves up and perching themselves at bars hoping to be noticed for how cool they were.
I read through the article now, even though I have practically memorized it.
When Bennett was announced as Martinez’s successor at Baccarat, loyal patrons of the restaurant met the news with a guarded skepticism.
Martinez, whose pedigree includes stints at Noma and Alinea, had crafted a menu with the unmistakable confidence of a chef who’d not only seen it all but reimagined it on her own terms. Her presence was so deeply woven into the fabric of the kitchen that the thought of anyone stepping into her role raised a pressing question: Would it be a fresh perspective—or a pale echo?
Against the odds, Bennett delivers—and then some.
I skip a few paragraphs.
In an era where gestures of social conscience often blur the line between sincerity and spectacle, Bennett’s donations to SATE—Serving Adolescents Through Eating—might have, at first glance, read as another well-intentioned initiative packaged for optics.
The name alone could suggest an outstretched hand from on high.
But dig a little deeper—learn about Bennett’s formative time working alongside José Andrés, or that her early contributions to the program were made anonymously—and the narrative shifts.
What emerges is not performance, but purpose.
And the last line.
At Baccarat, dinner costs more than rent. Chef Bennett makes you feel like it’s worth it.
It isn’t. No meal is. That’s the big secret.
The article was practically a love letter. Everyone at Baccarat was elated to work at Manhattan’s current favorite restaurant. Gloved hands patted me on the back for a week, though I could tell some people didn’t think I was deserving of such praise.
It’s not that I wasn’t grateful. Of course I was. Hard work paying off feels good. It’s just that something about the article had felt hollow. It hadn’t felt real. It hadn’t felt joyful. If anything, it added further pressure and stress. The article made people see me.
And that meant that now, they were watching.
These days, every spotlight seems destined to grow so hot, it eventually scorches whoever stands beneath it. Burning them alive while the hordes watch with far, far more interest than they did when the praise glowed merely warm. Like a greedy audience in the Colosseum, hungry for blood.
I put the paper back, then remove it again and place it on top of the freezer, not wanting it to be seen by anyone else, and open the freezer door.
I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I find it.
Sourdough starter. Pomodoro. Pesto. Curry, red and green. Bolognese. Five kinds of stock.
Countless containers, neatly labeled. All in her loopy handwriting.
All on green tape with Sharpie. A woman born of the restaurants she worked in.
My freezer looks almost identical. My cabinets and fridge too.
Only my labels indicate things like lacto-fermented white nectarine juice, pickled Castelfranco, koji butter, charred-shallot glaze, prik tum, dashi cubes, black-garlic base.
And there, wedged on the top shelf, a single key lime MoonPie.
Looking now at all the food my mother left behind, I finally cry.