Free Bread and Butter by Michelle Wildgen Page B

courses, obscure wines, and bits of culinary info to which the average diner, however wealthy, was not privy. “They’re massaged and fed beer each day,” confided a server at one astronomically priced place where Britt had eaten the previous year. She had placed the last plate of wagyu beef—scarlet meat threaded with ivory fat, ringed with a rich browned crust—before him and glanced around, lowering her voice. “But also, to ensure they aren’t stressed by the slaughter, they’re periodically thwapped with the flat of a sword . T hey get so used to it that when the time comes, they’re totally unfazed . A nd the meat, of course, stays as tender as…well, as this. Of course I can only say this to you—you’ll appreciate it.” It wasn’t just about freebies, though that helped . T his was the reward for working when everyone else was relaxing, for treating the petulant and ignorant with grace, for learning to give the appearance of toadying to the kind of ass who needed it while retaining one’s self-respect through the occasional subtle retort.
    There was nothing of note online today, and he didn’t need much of anything. Restless, he went out to a coffee shop to read the paper and get a snack, but the place was full and the pastry was wrapped in plastic . A s he left, on impulse he turned into the bakery down the street, bought six sfogliatelle, and drove to his parents’ house.
    When Britt arrived, he was relieved to see Harry’s truck at the curb; for all Britt knew, Harry might be young and energetic enough to have muscled his way through that meal and spent the night with Camille anyway. But inside he found Harry at the stove, flipping pancakes . T heir parents were standing in the kitchen in matching khaki pants and plaid vests, hands on hips, watching him work. For a moment after Britt walked in they seemed unable to disengage entirely, watching Harry peek at the crust on a golden cornmeal cake before being satisfied it could be turned . T heir father observed until the pancake was safely flipped before he turned his attention to Britt.
    “Ahh . A surprise!” He inhaled at the edges of the box. “I almost don’t want to know.”
    “Sweetheart.” His mother kissed Britt’s cheek, smelling faintly of hand cream. Her hair had been the same ruffled auburn cap since they were children, though her cheeks were now downy and tender as overripe fruit. His father had taken his pocketknife from his khakis and was slicing through the red-and-white string that tied the bakery box.
    “How was Hot Springs?” Harry asked.
    “Good. Pretty good. A couple missteps, I guess, but some great spots too.”
    “Good to know,” Harry said. “Leo leave his card on her windshield?”
    “Of course not.” Britt laughed, slightly offended.
    “Doesn’t mean she won’t hear you were in and wander through Winesap some evening,” Harry observed.
    “True. Hector’s off harvesting cacao, so we’d better find someone.”
    “Oh,
Hector
,” said their mother. “He did such intriguing things with fruit.”
    Harry slid the last of the pancakes onto a plate. He held up a plate in Britt’s direction. “No, thanks,” Britt said. “You go ahead.”
    Harry laughed. “I’m not eating. Are you kidding?”
    Embarrassed, Britt picked up a corn cake and tore off a bite. Now that massive meal seemed so childish.
    Their parents seated themselves at the table and busily spooned some sort of preserve onto their pancakes. The sfogliatelle were arranged prettily in a circle on a white plate. “It’s very carby in here,” Britt said. “I should have brought you lean protein. Some tofu.” His mother waved this away, pouring coffee from a carafe into his father’s cup and then her own.
    “I’m going to see if anything’s left in the trees,” Harry said. “You coming?” Britt nodded, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for the previous night’s excess. Harry had barely met his eyes so far. Maybe he was angry,