Chapter 12 #2
“Oh,” I say, slightly disappointed. “So it’s like the end of Ratatouille. When the food critic, Anton Ego, takes one bite of ratatouille and he, like, travels back in time to his childhood in the French countryside and totally starts sobbing?”
“Exactly,” says Tyler. “Probably the best example of a Proustian memory in the history of movies.”
I beam. His knowledge of Proust is pretty impressive, but his appreciation of Pixar means we can keep talking.
“What’s your ratatouille?” asks Tyler. “A food that immediately makes you think of an important memory?”
I don’t even have to think for my answer. “Spam and eggs and soy sauce.”
Tyler looks up from his steak and French fries. “Why?”
“My dad was a really good cook. He made all sorts of amazing Korean dishes—kimchi jjigae, galbi jjim, pajeon, even a Korean-style beef bourguignon that he invented—it was about a million times better than what we had on the plane coming here … But when there wasn’t a lot of time to cook, or he just wanted to fix me a snack, he’d put a scoop of rice in a bowl with some chopped-up Spam, drizzle a little soy sauce, drop in a little sesame oil, and top it all off with a runny egg.
” I smile, remembering the delicious taste.
“It was something he made for himself when he was growing up in Korea, when there wasn’t money for anything else.
When he was a kid, his family couldn’t always afford the egg, so he was glad that we could always afford an egg.
He said the taste reminded him of a painful but beautiful time, and made him feel at home.
Now I make it for myself when I need to remember Dad the most, and it makes me feel like I’m home, too. ”
I’m not mad at myself for oversharing this time. It feels good to talk about Dad. Tyler’s listening to me intently. He’s put down his fork and knife.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” he says.
“That’s all right,” I say, taking another bite of my croque monsieur. I feel a small pang of sadness, and also gratitude to Tyler for acknowledging my loss. It’s not awkward, though. It just … is.
“And here I am talking about how much my dad, who’s still alive, sucks so bad,” Tyler says guiltily.
I shrug. “You’re allowed to think your dad sucks,” I say.
Tyler smiles. “Thanks for understanding. Because my dad really sucks.”
“What’s your ratatouille?” I ask him. “Or your madeleine—if you have one?”
“I do have one,” he says. “It’s a little random …”
“More random than Spam and rice and runny eggs?”
“It depends.” He focuses hard on sawing through his steak. “I used to have a nanny when I was growing up named Roseline.”
I remember! I want to yell at him. How could you think I wouldn’t remember Roseline?!
But instead, I listen.
“She used to make these grilled cheese sandwiches that her grandmother would make for her. She’d try to use French bread and French cheese when she could, but otherwise she’d use normal white bread and whatever cheese we had in the house, and load them up with tons and tons of grape jelly.”
“Huh,” I say thoughtfully. “I’m trying to imagine what that would taste like. Salty and sweet are always a good combo.”
Tyler hooks his gaze into mine, suddenly intense.
“Whenever I’d have friends over, she’d make those sandwiches for us.
They were good, surprisingly. I still make them for myself sometimes, and I remember the era of my life when I was happiest. Before I moved to New York and got a little wild.
Back when I was free to be a kid … the good old days. ”
I get the sense, once again, that Tyler might be testing me—that he does remember our entire friendship, but for some twisted reason, he doesn’t want to be the first to admit it.
But I legitimately don’t remember Roseline making grilled-cheese-and-grape-jelly sandwiches for us. I guess Tyler had more friends who came over to play than I realized. He was more special to me than I was to him.
Story of my life.
By the time the waiter comes back with our madeleines and a pot of tea, Tyler and I have inhaled our second dinners.
“You gentlemen sure did enjoy your main courses,” observes the server with a judgmental edge to his voice. Gotta love that Parisian attitude.
The first thing that strikes me about the madeleines, which I’ve never tasted before, is that they’re adorable-looking—buttery yellow, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and shaped like dainty little shells from the ocean.
Without thinking, I hold two of them up to my chest. “Look, I’m the Little Mermaid,” I crack.
Tyler busts out laughing. “That’s so stupid.”
“And yet you’re amused,” I say.
“What can I say? I’m an easy audience.”
He’s about to take a bite of his first madeleine, but I tap his forearm. “Hey, not yet! You need to dip it into the lime-blossom tea first. You know, for the whole Proust effect.”
“Of course. How could I forget?” says Tyler, grinning.
After dipping our madeleines into the tea, we cheers them against each other.
“Santé!” Tyler says. “Cheers!”
I take a bite. The velvety sweetness of the tea-soaked cookie crumbles in my mouth. The edges are slightly crisp, the inside airy and moist and buttery, only slightly sweet, with a tinge of lemony tartness and a subtle aroma of flowers from the tea.
“These are amazing,” says Tyler through a full mouth—his handsome-dude chewing is off the charts.
“They’re not just good,” I concur. “They’re perfection. But,” I say, taking another bite, making sure the crumbs hit every part of my tongue, “are they cakes or cookies?”
“Hmm. Very tough question. Existential.” Tyler looks up as he ponders this seriously. “I’d say they have the texture of cakes, but you eat them in cookie situations. Does that make sense?”
“That makes total sense,” I say. “Cakes that play the part of a cookie.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Like a tomato—at heart a fruit, but undercover as a vegetable.”
I laugh, surprised at how easy our banter is; it’s almost like he never left Sandy Springs and came back and pretended not to know me.
“So no chain reaction of memories coming back to you?” I ask.
“Nope, aside from reminding me that I like how these taste. You?”
“Nope. But if I ever have madeleines again, I’ll probably remember this moment.”
I almost wish I didn’t say those words out loud, because they sound so cringey and real. Tyler meets my gaze and for a second my breath stops.
Without warning, Tyler leans across the table, touching a finger to my chin. “You missed a crumb.”
I feel an electric charge zing throughout my body. My heart starts racing and my cheeks flush.
“Thanks,” I say, brushing off the crumb.
“I’ll remember this, too,” Tyler says, looking at me intensely.
I feel my stomach leap.
Wait.
What’s happening here?