Chapter 4
four
Hops
The journalist Patrick Shanfield has a reputation that precedes him.
He's written about the regional food and drink scene, he's been in the brewery once before, two years ago, a brief visit that generated three sentences in a roundup piece.
He's staying at Silver Lodge, which means he crossed paths with Sage, which means she knows he's in town before he comes to find me.
She comes in that Thursday morning and something is different. She's been coming in most mornings for the last week, sitting in the tasting room with the festival beer and her notebook, and there's been a looseness to her lately. She’s getting comfortable.
This morning the looseness is gone. She's carrying herself the way she did in the first week: contained, efficient, closed.
"Patrick Shanfield is in Silver Ridge," she says.
She's standing at the tasting room door, not coming in.
"He covered the kitchen incident in Vancouver.
" She says it looking at a point past my shoulder.
"He wrote that it was my fault. The piece got picked up.
It's how most people in the industry first heard about it. "
I know enough to be quiet. So this is The Incident; the reason she burnt out.
"What happened," she takes a breath, "was not my fault.
A prep cook made a mistake with a hot holding unit.
A diner got sick. Nobody was seriously hurt.
But the kitchen's executive chef was well-regarded, well-connected.
It was easier to say the sous chef dropped the ball.
I didn't contradict it publicly because I was already burning out and I just." She stops. "I just left."
I'm looking at her. She’s looking at the floor.
"Shanfield is re-running the piece," she says. "An old food scandal, new venue, local-girl-gone-to-ground angle. I heard from Mara this morning. It'll publish before the festival ends."
"You didn't make anyone sick," I say.
"No."
"So tell the truth."
She looks at me, finally, directly. "The executive chef is a James Beard finalist. His restaurant has been in Canada's 100 Best for four consecutive years. I'm a burnout with no current kitchen, tasting beer in a small-town brewery in the interior of BC." A pause. "Who do you think people believe?"
"People who know you," I say.
"Nobody in the industry knows me here."
"I know you here." I get up from the table. "And this is my town."
She looks at me. Eight months of doing everything alone and you can see it in how she receives an offer. "I'm not asking you to fix this."
"I know." I come to the door. "I'm offering because I want to. Not the same thing." I look at her. "Do you have documentation? Anything?"
"There were prep logs. Kitchen logs. A health inspector report that contradicts the original piece." She pauses. "I kept copies. I don't know why. I wasn't planning to do anything with them."
"You were planning to do something with them," I say. "You just didn't know what yet."
She looks at me.
"Can I call some people?" I ask. "I know the person who writes about food for the regional paper. I know the food editor at the valley arts magazine. People who work this beat locally — if the real story hits before Shanfield's piece does, the piece doesn't have the oxygen it needs."
"You can't guarantee that."
"No," I agree. "But I can make a few calls this afternoon and we'll see how far the truth travels before the other thing does."
She goes very still. Holding something back.
"I'll think about it," she says.
"Okay." I don't push. I've been behind a bar for four years and the most useful thing I know is when not to push.
She turns toward the pub and then stops. "The festival entry," she says. "If the piece runs while we're…if it goes badly…"
"It's our entry," I say. "That doesn't change."
She leaves.
I wait until her car is gone and then I call Smith at the regional paper, who answers on the second ring because Smith always answers on the second ring, and I start the conversation that I should have started as soon as I heard Shanfield was in town.
The truth travels fast when you give it a vehicle.
By the next day, Smith has spoken to the health inspector whose report directly contradicts Shanfield's original account.
A contact of Smith's at a Vancouver food publication has three sources in the kitchen community willing to speak to what actually happened.
Mara, Sage's journalist friend, has a piece drafted.
I don't tell Sage any of this yet.
She came into the brewery that afternoon and she was quiet, distracted.I put a glass of the festival beer in front of her and we sat in the tasting room.
I let her be quiet because sometimes people need to be quiet and have the beer be good and have the company be easy, and that's something I can provide.
What I can't provide, it turns out, is the right response to what happens next.
I come out of the production side at five o'clock to find Bev standing at the interior window with an expression that means something is happening in the pub that requires attention.
Sage is at the bar. Patrick Shanfield is beside her, speaking in a low voice, his phone on the bar between them. I catch the last few words: just want your side of the story before I publish.
Her face is blanked completely. The expression she gets when she's managing something very large with all the energy she has.
I come behind the bar.
"Hops," she says. Her voice is perfectly level. "Patrick Shanfield."
"I know who he is," I say. I look at Shanfield. "This is my bar. Is she interested in talking to you?"
Shanfield doesn't miss a beat; journalists rarely do. "Just having a conversation."
"She doesn't look like she's having a conversation," I say pleasantly. "She looks like she'd like you to take your phone off my bar."
Shanfield picks up the phone. He's not rattled — he's been doing this a long time. "Mr. Sullivan. You're aware of Ms. Wild's history in Vancouver's food scene?"
"I'm aware of your piece," I say. "I'm also aware of the health inspector's report from that evening, which doesn't support your account of events. Smith Reyes will have a piece up tomorrow morning. You might want to read it before yours is published."
A pause. Shanfield looks at Sage. Sage is looking at me.
"That's a strong claim," Shanfield says.
"It's a factual claim," I say. "You want another beer, or are we done?"
He finishes what's in his glass. He leaves.
Sage is still looking at me.
"You called people," she says.
"Yesterday afternoon."
"Without asking me."
I think about this. "I asked if I could call people. You said you'd think about it."
"And I came back here the next day and you'd already—"
"You came back," I say. "I took that as a yes."
She picks up her jacket from the stool. Her hands are not quite still. "That was not yours to handle."
"I know," I say. "I'm sorry. I should have told you what I'd done."
"I was packing my bag when you called." She looks at me. "I was at Silver Lodge this morning with my bag on the bed and I was putting things in it."
The bar is quiet. Bev has taken herself to the far end, which is Bev's version of discretion.
"But you came here instead," I say.
She stops. "Yes."
"Why?"
She looks at me for a long time. I wait. She's working through something and she needs the space to do it.
"I don't know what I am here," she says finally. "I don't know if I'm a chef without a kitchen or a tourist who stayed too long or what you think I—"
She stops.
"You're the person who made me understand my own beer," I say.
She looks at me and walks out the door.
I don't follow. I have to let her go and figure this out on her own. I pour a beer and wait.