his words. “When I first got there, I felt like a horse on a dance floor. I didn’t belong in the big city—had never dreamed of going there. The only reason I went there was to find my biological mother.”
He turned to look at Dean and their knees touched. The little bit of contact gave Mason the courage to go on. He’d never been good at talking about feelings and personal things with anyone but Dean. In New York, he’d acted rather than talked. “I was lucky to get a job as a busboy at an Italian restaurant in Manhattan. The owner had a tendency to lose interest in the business once in a while. I think maybe Pierre—he was the sous-chef and practically ran the place—felt sorry for the country boy who was gonna get eaten by the big bad city if no one saved him. He was good to me, though. Took me under his wing when he didn’t have to.”
“Working there got you interested in cooking?” Dean asked.
“Not the way you probably think. I hadn’t given cooking or advancing beyond busboy any thought before I was asked to fill in as waiter one night. Then before I knew it, I was a waiter. I didn’t question it, I just went with the flow, feeling as if I wasn’t really in control of my life, but not knowing how to change it. It was around that time that Pierre began to take a different interest in me, if you know what I mean. I was lonely, he was nice… I don’t know. It seemed right at the time.
“I started hanging out in the restaurant in the mornings when it was closed and Pierre was testing new recipes. He’d come up with the most amazing things. He was from France originally, and he called himself an Italian convert… said French cuisine was too pretentious. He’d ask me to taste what he cooked and give my opinion. I did, and he told me I had an excellent palate. He taught me how to cook, and it didn’t take long before I realized that I was good at it. Really good at it. And it was exhilarating.
“I started out doing the prep. You know, chopping vegetables, making stock—all that kind of stuff that’s done before the restaurant opens. But it didn’t take long before I was cooking alongside chefs who had diplomas from fancy culinary schools that I’d never even heard of. My mind couldn’t catch up, so I just kept my head down and went with it.”
“Wow.” Dean shook his head slowly. “Shit, Mase. To do all that without going to school for it….”
“I took some flak for it initially, but most of them shut up when they tasted my cooking. I was just lucky that Pierre saw something in me that I didn’t even know was there.”
“Were you happy with him?”
The question startled Mason because he’d never really thought about it. “You know, in many ways, everything that happened in New York just happened. Not because I chose it. I was just carried along like the paper ships I used to throw into the creek as a kid and watch disappear out of sight as they were taken away by the current. I wasn’t happy in New York, and I wasn’t unhappy either. I just was. And Pierre…. I’m grateful that he discovered something in me that I didn’t know was there, but in the end I still wasn’t good enough for him. So, I guess the real answer to your question is no. I wasn’t happy with him.”
Mason had been dormant in New York, he realized. He’d been waiting for the chance to go home.
T HE FOLLOWING morning, Mason began to seriously question Dean’s sanity. At breakfast, Dean asked if Mason would mind watching Wyatt and then proceeded to share his plan to go shopping.
“Today?” Mason asked, feeling like he should check Dean’s forehead for a fever.
“Today’s as good a day as any,” Dean replied, unbothered. “I’ll drop off that first batch of beer at the store so Karen and Pete can get them on the shelves.”
“You do know that the whole country will be shopping today, right?” Mason asked.
“I’m sure it won’t be that bad. Media’s always exaggerating
He turned to look at Dean and their knees touched. The little bit of contact gave Mason the courage to go on. He’d never been good at talking about feelings and personal things with anyone but Dean. In New York, he’d acted rather than talked. “I was lucky to get a job as a busboy at an Italian restaurant in Manhattan. The owner had a tendency to lose interest in the business once in a while. I think maybe Pierre—he was the sous-chef and practically ran the place—felt sorry for the country boy who was gonna get eaten by the big bad city if no one saved him. He was good to me, though. Took me under his wing when he didn’t have to.”
“Working there got you interested in cooking?” Dean asked.
“Not the way you probably think. I hadn’t given cooking or advancing beyond busboy any thought before I was asked to fill in as waiter one night. Then before I knew it, I was a waiter. I didn’t question it, I just went with the flow, feeling as if I wasn’t really in control of my life, but not knowing how to change it. It was around that time that Pierre began to take a different interest in me, if you know what I mean. I was lonely, he was nice… I don’t know. It seemed right at the time.
“I started hanging out in the restaurant in the mornings when it was closed and Pierre was testing new recipes. He’d come up with the most amazing things. He was from France originally, and he called himself an Italian convert… said French cuisine was too pretentious. He’d ask me to taste what he cooked and give my opinion. I did, and he told me I had an excellent palate. He taught me how to cook, and it didn’t take long before I realized that I was good at it. Really good at it. And it was exhilarating.
“I started out doing the prep. You know, chopping vegetables, making stock—all that kind of stuff that’s done before the restaurant opens. But it didn’t take long before I was cooking alongside chefs who had diplomas from fancy culinary schools that I’d never even heard of. My mind couldn’t catch up, so I just kept my head down and went with it.”
“Wow.” Dean shook his head slowly. “Shit, Mase. To do all that without going to school for it….”
“I took some flak for it initially, but most of them shut up when they tasted my cooking. I was just lucky that Pierre saw something in me that I didn’t even know was there.”
“Were you happy with him?”
The question startled Mason because he’d never really thought about it. “You know, in many ways, everything that happened in New York just happened. Not because I chose it. I was just carried along like the paper ships I used to throw into the creek as a kid and watch disappear out of sight as they were taken away by the current. I wasn’t happy in New York, and I wasn’t unhappy either. I just was. And Pierre…. I’m grateful that he discovered something in me that I didn’t know was there, but in the end I still wasn’t good enough for him. So, I guess the real answer to your question is no. I wasn’t happy with him.”
Mason had been dormant in New York, he realized. He’d been waiting for the chance to go home.
T HE FOLLOWING morning, Mason began to seriously question Dean’s sanity. At breakfast, Dean asked if Mason would mind watching Wyatt and then proceeded to share his plan to go shopping.
“Today?” Mason asked, feeling like he should check Dean’s forehead for a fever.
“Today’s as good a day as any,” Dean replied, unbothered. “I’ll drop off that first batch of beer at the store so Karen and Pete can get them on the shelves.”
“You do know that the whole country will be shopping today, right?” Mason asked.
“I’m sure it won’t be that bad. Media’s always exaggerating
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