Free Bread and Butter by Michelle Wildgen Page A

accompanied the pear were caramelized and sparkling with coarse dark sugar. He took a bite of pear and mascarpone and a bite of tuile and chewed, still nodding. Leo took one more bite. “That’s actually really good. I hate a mushy pear, but this is just right.”
    They moved on to the sour cherry cake, which was moist and fragrant with almond and some herbal note that quieted both of them . T hey sat, tasting and thinking, for several seconds, until Leo said, “Hyssop.”
    They finished all the cake, two of the ice creams, half the pear, and only a couple of the chocolate quills. Leo left a big tip and they waved to Donnie and Barbara, who were swooping down on another table with a great platter of prosciutto. Outside, Britt said, “Well?”
    “I thought it was mostly pretty nice,” Leo said. “Couple missteps.” He shrugged. “I’ll file it away for now. Where you headed? Are you still seeing the brunette? Maria?”
    “Maren. Kind of. I was supposed to see her tonight but I rescheduled, and now I’m not really missing it. I think we’re at that stage after three or four months where it feels a little depressing to state the obvious. Now it’s just hanging over me. You headed home?” Leo still lived in the house he’d shared with Frances.
    “Yeah, it’s late.” Leo glanced at his watch. “We’ve been gone two hours, which means Camille and Harry are probably about a third of the way through that banquet you inflicted on them. You should stop back and see if they’re awake.”

CHAPTER 4
    S UNDAY MORNING, BRITT DRANK AN ESPRESSO at one end of his massive barn door table, then ran six miles . T hen he did a quick scan through Craigslist to see what was being sold on the cheap.
    He’d reached the point at which he could discern in seconds whether there was anything of worth. His eye skipped over curlicues and egg-and-dart detailing but might pause over painted wood . T his was how he’d found out where to have peeling old radiators sandblasted and freshly painted to look like new. It was where he’d unearthed a massive Wolf range—he wasn’t much of a cook, but it had been sold cheaply and he believed in the real estate value of a serious stove—as well as a Stickley chair and his beloved barn door. People had no idea what could be done on the cheap, and Britt prided himself on the fact that no one looking through his apartment or his restaurant would suspect he knew, either.
    This was one of the vexations of the restaurant, and the reason Britt obsessed about his suits, treating each with as much care as if it were a royal corgi. He and Leo courted clientele who thought little of dropping hundreds of dollars on a meal, or who expensed ridiculous dinners for a gaggle of doctors in order to stuff them with steak and wine and give them free pens and logo pads . A nd Britt moved among them with a modicum of power, because he had the ability to make them seem more important and respected than they might actually be. But his income, though good, as was that of his busiest servers, was nowhere near that of his clients, and nowhere near what he took great care to project . T he false parity was crucial, but it was a strain at times, and one felt by the entire staff . T hey were there, servers and cooks alike, because they knew what good wine was, what excellent food could be, and had sought out ways to obtain it despite the limits of time, education, and income . T hey were working at Winesap not only for tips and paychecks and even career integrity, but to get wine, fish, cheese, or the occasional white truffle at cost, to be paid to taste the lobster prep, and to dine out under the restaurant’s aegis and reap its benefits.
    When any of their staff, be it backwaiter or prep cook, traveled or went to a big-name restaurant, Britt, Leo, or Thea would phone ahead and call in favors, owner to owner, chef to chef, to ensure that they were known as fellow industry people and treated accordingly: esoteric extra