Chapter 16
DELPHINE
Able to come earlier than expected, I arrived at Dorian’s a little after six.
He’d texted to use the back door that opened into a small, tidy laundry room.
Contemplating taking my pumps off, I set my bag on the bench under a coat rack.
From the kitchen came the sounds of voices.
Annie laughed. Then Dorian’s voice came, lower, patient, talking her through something.
I kicked off my heels. Nothing had ever felt as good as the cool tile on my tired feet.
I followed the sound to the kitchen doorway and stopped.
Dorian had his back to me, standing at the stove with a wooden spoon. Annie sliced mushrooms on the counter next to him. A pile of sliced onions, green and yellow peppers were stacked on a cutting board.
“So you just brown them on both sides.” Dorian used tongs to move a piece of chicken from the pan to a waiting plate. “Doesn’t have to cook all the way through. Then, we work on the sauce. I’ll tell you my mom’s secret for upping our sauce game if you promise to keep it to yourself.”
“What is it?” Annie asked.
“Chocolate. She said it softened the acidity of the dish. But she would never tell anyone, not even close friends, that she did it.”
“Can I tell Tyler?” Annie asked. “He loves to cook.”
“I suppose that could be negotiated. I can put together a contract.”
She giggled. “Do I need an attorney?”
“Hey, I’m here,” I said, stepping fully into the kitchen.
They both looked up, lighting up at the sight of me.
“Mom, we’re making Dorian’s mom’s famous chicken cacciatore. He’s going to show me how to do the sauce.”
“It already smells delicious,” I said.
Dorian left the stove to give my hand a quick squeeze. “Good to see you.”
“Thanks for having us,” I said.
“Mom, we’re having so much fun. We shopped first, and guess what?
Dorian only buys organic vegetables. Just like us.
And sauce has to have the right tomatoes.
” She held up a can of San Marzano whole peeled tomatoes.
“These are grown near Naples, and they’re the best ones in the whole world.
We’re going to crush them into the pot.”
“Can I help?” I asked.
“No, we already decided you get to relax,” Annie said.
“I have wine open,” Dorian said. “Please, pour yourself a glass and sit at the counter.”
“If you insist.” I crossed to the counter and poured a little wine into one of the glasses he’d set out.
Dorian returned to the stove, sliding the last piece of browned chicken onto the plate with the others. The skin was golden and crisp at the edges, the pan left behind glossy with olive oil and browned bits.
“See all that?” Dorian said to Annie, tipping the pan slightly so she could look. “That’s where the sauce starts.”
“With the burned stuff?” Annie asked.
“With the almost-burned stuff,” he said. “My mom said there’s an art to getting it just the right amount of crispy. And tonight, my young friend, we have done it perfectly.”
Dorian gestured toward her piles of the sliced onions and peppers. “Go ahead and add those. But be careful not to do it too fast or the oil could pop and burn you.”
Annie did as he told her. The vegetables hit the pan with a sharp, satisfying hiss. Steam rose at once, fragrant and hot, carrying the sweetness of onion and pepper into the room. Dorian gave her the wooden spoon and stepped back just enough to let her take his place.
“Now stir, but don’t fuss with them too much. Let the onions soften. You want them to turn translucent. The peppers should relax, but not disappear. Mom said a little structure in sauce is good.”
I took a sip of wine, taking in the domestic scene. They were adorable together. Annie seemed to hang on his every word.
“Now the mushrooms?” Annie asked.
“Yes, that’s right.” He passed them to her. “They’ll look like too many, but mushrooms shrink.”
Annie dumped them in, and he showed her how to sprinkle salt over the pan.
“Not too much,” he said. “Just enough to encourage them to give up their juices.”
The mushrooms softened and darkened, shrinking into the onions and peppers. Dorian leaned one hip against the counter beside the stove, arms folded, watching Annie cook instead of taking over.
“Okay, garlic next. Do this part fast. Garlic is delicious, but it turns bitter if you ignore it.”
“Like a good woman,” I said.
“Exactly.” Dorian gave me a look, amused and warm, before turning back to Annie. “Thirty seconds. Stir constantly.”
Annie added the garlic, and immediately the scent bloomed, deep and savory.
“That smells like heaven,” I said.
“Now we dump in the tomato paste.” Dorian dropped a dark red mound into the pan. “Let it cook for a minute or two—until it darkens. That takes away the raw taste.”
Annie pressed it into the vegetables with the back of the spoon. “Like this?”
“Exactly. See how the color’s changing? Brick red. That’s what you want.”
There was something hypnotic about his voice when he explained things. Low, calm, precise, without being condescending.
He poured wine into a measuring cup and handed it to Annie.
“Time to deglaze the pan,” he said.
“Deglazing? Is it hard?” Annie asked.
Dorian smiled. “No, it just means we add the wine in and scrape up everything stuck to the bottom.”
The added ingredient surged and steamed. Dorian showed her how to scrape the bottom with the spoon. The sharp scent of alcohol rose first, then mellowed into something rounder and richer.
“You always let the wine cook down a little,” he said. “Otherwise it tastes too much like alcohol.”
“Is it time for the tomatoes now?” Annie asked.
“Let’s do it.” Dorian opened the can of San Marzano tomatoes and poured them into a wide bowl. They slid out whole and red and luscious, surrounded by thick juice.
“My mother insisted these had to be crushed by hand,” Dorian said.
“Why?” Annie asked.
“Hand-crushed tomatoes give you a richer, looser, more rustic sauce with better texture.”
“Oh, okay. Cool,” Annie said.
“Stop when it looks like something between sauce and stew,” Dorian said.
He washed his hands at the sink, then nodded for Annie to do the same. Together, they reached into the bowl and crushed the tomatoes between their fingers. Annie made a face at first, then laughed as one burst and spattered the counter.
My chest ached at the sight of them working together as if they’d been doing it for years. I had a sudden memory of Jon making pancakes on a Sunday morning. Annie had been perched on a stool, her hair in pigtails, asking Daddy to make one that looked like a bunny.
“Why is it called cacciatore?” Annie asked. “Is that a person?”
“Not a person,” Dorian said. “A style. Cacciatore means hunter.”
“So this is hunter’s chicken?” Annie asked.
“Basically. The idea was that hunters came home with whatever they’d managed to get—rabbit, bird, sometimes chicken later on—and someone cooked it with what was around. Wine. Garlic. Herbs. Mushrooms if they’d found any. Tomatoes, depending on the region and the century.”
Annie glanced at the can on the counter. “Depending on the century?”
“Tomatoes weren’t always part of Italian cooking. Which sounds impossible, but it’s true.”
“How do you know all this?” Annie asked.
“I’m old. And I own a bookstore. You can learn about anything if you can find the right book.”
Annie laughed. “You’re not old. You’re prematurely gray.”
“It’s very attractive,” I blurted out.
“Yeah?” Dorian asked, glancing at me, his eyes glittering under the pendant lights.
“Yeah,” I said, leaving it at that, as heat flooded my cheeks.
“So the oldest versions were probably simpler,” Dorian said, continuing the cooking lesson.
“Meat, herbs, wine. Maybe vinegar. Maybe olives. The red sauce version is the one most of us think of now, especially here. But in Italy, everyone’s grandmother has a different version, and all of them are convinced the others make it wrong. ”
Annie leaned closer to the pan. “Did your mom think hers was the real one?”
“For sure. She got it from her grandmother, who had come directly from Italy.”
“I didn’t know you were Italian,” I said. “How’d you get those blue eyes?”
“Apparently from my dad,” Dorian said. “He was of German descent.”
“And you never knew him?” Annie asked.
“No, he died when I was a baby,” Dorian said. “Car accident.”
“And your mom never remarried?” Annie asked.
“No, she never did.” Dorian added the crushed tomatoes to the pan, then oregano, thyme, a bay leaf, and a pinch of red pepper flakes. “Not too much heat. Just enough to give it a little zest.”
“Do you know why she never married again?” Annie asked.
“She said she never met anyone she liked enough to contemplate growing old with them,” Dorian said.
“Do you think that’s true?” Annie asked. “Or was she just afraid?”
“I’m not sure. I never thought to ask her,” Dorian said. “Unlike you and your friends, I was too self-centered as a teen to think about what she might have wanted. Or wished for.”
“I am still at a loss as to what possessed you five to put us on the app,” I said.
“You know why,” Annie said, her voice with a slight edge to it. “And we were right.”
I decided to let it go.
Dorian turned the heat down, then nestled the browned chicken back into the sauce, skin side up. “Now we let it simmer. Low heat and slow. You can’t rush this part.”
“Because the chicken has to cook through?” Annie asked.
“That. And the sauce becomes better with time. Like fine wine,” Dorian said. “And your mom.”
I looked down into my wineglass, smiling despite myself.
Dorian covered the pan halfway with a lid, leaving a crescent of steam to escape. Then he pointed at the small square of dark chocolate on a saucer near the stove. “We can’t forget to add this at the end. My mother swore by it.”
“I knew your mom,” Annie said to Dorian. “Did you know that?”
“From the store?” Dorian asked.
“Yeah. She used to do story hour for kids,” Annie said. “Mom always took me. I loved it.”
“She loved kids,” Dorian said softly. “And children’s books were one of her passions.”