Bread and Butter - Couverture rigide

Wildgen, Michelle

Couverture rigide

ISBN 10 : 0385537433 ISBN 13 : 9780385537438

Editeur : Doubleday, 2014

A propos du livre

Extrait

Bread and Butter

Prologue

Every few months, in the grips of their parents’ civic and vicarious ethnic pride, Leo, Britt, and Harry went on a forced excursion to the last Italian market in town. Most people in Linden would make a day of it and drive ninety minutes east into Philadelphia, to hit 9th Street or Reading Terminal, but Leo’s parents were diehards. As long as Moretti’s was open, they would insist it was the best.
Inside a butcher’s case, denuded rabbits curled pink and trusting in white bins, while the sheep’s heads appeared chagrined and surprised by the depth of their eyeballs, the narrow clamp of their own teeth. The display of calves’ brains and kidneys, livers and tripe, repulsed Britt, struck Leo as regrettable but unavoidable, and entranced Harry, who was six. He stood with his hands on the glass, chewed-looking mittens dangling from his sleeves.
Britt and Leo, who were twelve and thirteen, were supposed to be watching their brother but were primarily lurking several feet away near the bulk section, peering over patrons’ shoulders at the hooves and teeth.
Their father appeared beside them, holding a pink slice of prosciutto, which he did not offer. These Saturdays sometimes left their parents flushed and high-spirited in a slightly confrontational way.
“We’re not even Italian,” Britt pointed out.
“Since when are you purists?” their father asked. “Would you be happier if we were in a haggis store?”
“I was happy playing basketball,” Leo said wanly. But the store was an invigorating riot of noise and meaty fragrance, and he found it difficult not to join in the hollering and sampling as his parents did with such mortifying enthusiasm.
“It smells like death in here,” Britt said. “Death and spices.”
“That’s fennel seed,” their father said.
Eventually their parents completed their tasting and shopping and returned, each holding a large brown paper bag.
“Where’s Harry?” their mother asked. She craned her neck, peering through the crowd. Her red hair was coming out of its ponytail. “Boys? Where’d Harry go?”
“He was here,” said Britt, and he and his brother both looked down to where Harry had been. The last they had seen of him, Harry was storming off into the sea of bodies, miffed that Leo and Britt refused to emote over the case of organ meat. They had not followed.
“Well, look,” their father said. Their parents began working their way through the crowd.
The street was gray and quiet, cars rumbling past Leo on the pitted streets. What a terrible place for Harry to be wandering around, his vividness like a target. Why did their parents bring them here? Leo jogged up the block and around the corner, fruitlessly, before returning to the store, where he stood in the mass of people, sweating, his heart pounding, realizing that he had ruined his family.
And then the crowd shifted and Leo glimpsed them all: a cluster of ginger-colored heads back by the meat counter, his father’s darker head in its Eagles cap. Harry was holding something wrapped in white paper. His parents’ faces were a volatile blend of anger and relief.
As they left the store Leo glanced at Britt, who rolled his eyes in a way that conveyed complicity and gladness, the latter something Britt was clearly embarrassed to feel.
Harry refused to hold either parent’s hand and was clutching his white package. Leo took in the oblivious bounce of Harry’s shoulders, the round curve of his cheek, and the cowlick on one side of his forehead. He probably hadn’t even gotten scolded. Leo took one lengthy stride, long enough to catch the heel of Harry’s shoe, a punk-ass little gesture that almost made him feel better.
“Thanks for scaring everybody,” Britt said.
“I was talking to the meat guy,” Harry said. “He has all the good stuff.”
“It’s a lamb’s tongue, by the way,” said Britt, nodding at the white package. “He got a lamb’s tongue.”
“To eat?” Leo said to his parents. “You bought him a lamb’s tongue?”
Their mother set her bag down on the sidewalk, pulled a stocking cap out of her pocket, and tugged[LD2]  it down over Harry’s head. Then she straightened up and said, “We didn’t buy it for him.” Her eyelids lowered just slightly, slyly, because Harry hated to be laughed at, and she added, “He used his allowance.”
Part 1

Chapter 1

Leo had imagined a cavernous space filled with sunlight and flaking pillars, but as he explored his brother’s future restaurant, he feared he had overestimated Harry’s ambition.
Britt trailed behind them as Leo followed Harry into the long, narrow room. Harry’s shaggy red hair and his blue-and-green shirt were the only spots of color in the dusky room as he gestured, all lanky arms and skinny wrists, toward where he planned to put the bar, the tables, and the server station. Harry’s forearms and wrists bore short faded purplish scars from hot pans and oven edges and errant knife blades, just like the arms on the cooks in Leo’s restaurant.
Leo glanced behind him; Britt was not paying attention but was swiping at the screen of his phone and swearing under his breath about the linen service. Periodically Britt swatted his blazer, making Leo realize that he too was smeared with pale washes of dust at a knee, an elbow, and a shoulder, but he merely whacked perfunctorily at his clothes. This was why Britt ran the dining room while Leo ran the back of the house. Britt could sense a flaw from yards away—a spotty wineglass or a tablecloth scattered with pollen dropped from a centerpiece—and correct it almost without realizing he’d done so.
“What’s the name?” Leo asked. His restaurant was called Winesap, the name a nod to the apple variety that grew in their parents’ backyard.
“71 King. Same as the address,” Harry said. He pointed up at fat ducts grown minty with age. “That’s copper piping. And I think this wall is, like, three feet thick.” He demonstrated the wall’s soundness with a flick of his hand against the brick, a gesture that looked as if it hurt. But Harry shook it off and looked back over his shoulder. “You don’t like the name?”
Leo chewed the inside of his lip. “It doesn’t say a lot,” he said gently. “It might be hard for people to picture what they’ll get here just from the name.”
“I guess it doesn’t really fit,” Harry admitted, looking thoughtful. “Although what does Winesap convey, exactly?”
“Well, for a while, not much,” Leo admitted. “Heirloom apple varieties didn’t evoke much in an old mill town. But now that we have more Philadelphia transplants I think it says farmers’ markets and rarity and quality.”
“Plus it’s just a great word,” said Britt. “Maybe it lets people forget for a second that they even got priced out of the suburbs.”
“And anyway, now it evokes you, right? See, that’s the thing,” Harry said. “I’m hoping that soon this address will say something, something totally different from what it does now. I’m trying to get ahead of the curve. Or to set the curve. Call it what you will.” He looked behind Leo. “Britt. 71 King. What’s it say to you?”
Britt looked up from his phone. Whereas Harry’s long, lean face was softened by his red beard and Leo bore a coarser nose and darker, down-turned eyes, Britt’s face was elegant and spare, high-cheekboned and fine-lipped. “I picture a pit bull,” he said apologetically. “Like a fighting dog named King.”
Leo winced. Now that Britt had said it, he couldn’t picture anything else.
Harry sighed.
“Listen,” said Britt, “you haven’t made any huge announcements, you haven’t paid for any signs. You can still think about it.”
“Okay,” Harry said, but he’d lost a little of his spring as he continued the tour.
It was September now, and Harry had been back in Pennsylvania since April. He’d allowed only bits and pieces about his nascent restaurant to emerge during the basketball games the three played a couple of times a month, until the build-out began and Harry was too busy to play. He’d been secretive and cheerful on these Sunday mornings in the park, reluctant to lay bare the details until the whole thing came together. Leo had the feeling that Harry both hoped to surprise them and somewhat dreaded the opinions of two brothers who’d already logged ten years—more in Leo’s case—in the restaurant business. Harry was still quite new to it.
Leo had worked hard not to pry. He understood how fragile these early ideas could feel, how easily you could get off track if you got input too soon. Instead he had contented himself with coaxing along his own creakily returning jump shot. Britt, who in their teens had painstakingly honed a swooping outside shot until it seemed effortless, tended to lope easily around the court, more concerned with form than points, while Harry had never lost the wiry zeal that could have carried him into an athletic scholarship instead of an academic one. Neither of his brothers would ever admit this. What they said aloud was that Harry could have gone as far as second string on an emerging semipro team in Iceland.
Now they finally got to see the restaurant space and to see Harry, who’d been out of communication for several weeks. To Leo, the entire space seemed more like a hallway than a dining room, and the farther into the building they went, the darker and more forbidding it became. The ceiling seemed to descend as they walked. The west wall was brick, the east wall flaking plaster, and the wall facing the street was three-quarters glass. At the back of the rectangular space was a thick steel door painted a military green.
“That was carpeted,” Harry said, glancing down at the floor.
“That’s maple,” said Britt. “Refinish it.”
Harry looked to Leo, who shrugged. “It’s probably maple,” he said.
Britt said, “What was this space before, anyway? A bar? Apartments? If you found carpet in here, you’ve got to assume that food and crumbs were ground into it for a while before you tore it out. Could mean mice.”
Leo watched Harry gaze doubtfully at the floor for as long as he could stand it, then clapped Harry on the back. “I’ll give you the number of the exterminator we use, Hare,” he heard himself say heartily. “This is an easy decision, trust me.” Around his youngest brother he became bluff and jocular, issuing definitive statements he only occasionally believed in. Somehow he never affected the same persona with Britt; they were too close in age, had grown up playing on too many of the same baseball teams and going to the same parties.
Harry nodded. “You may be right.” It was clear he was deciding which way to go—to allocate money to a potentially mythical rodent problem, to laugh it off, or to argue. He settled for shaking his head, and then took a sip from Britt’s coffee, which had been left on top of a stepladder, and considered the mouthful. Then he said, “See, this is why I need partners, Leo. You guys know all this stuff already.”
“And I’ll tell you for free,” Leo said, deliberately keeping his tone light, “you don’t need me.”
“When this place gets huge, you’re going to wish you were in on it,” Harry said, almost matching the playful tone. “Besides, how’s it going to look if I open a restaurant without you? People will think we’re feuding. They’ll think you have no faith in me.”
“I do have faith in you,” Leo said. “You just jumped in really fast. You’ve set yourself a real climb.” This was as far as Leo would go in expressing his fears. Leo himself had worked for years in the restaurant business before he’d finally gathered financing and opened his own place. He hadn’t put together a few years in the food industry in between graduate degrees and other endeavors and then decided to start a business.
“I think it seems faster than it is,” Harry said, unperturbed. “Besides, an industry needs new blood. Britt didn’t have any experience when he started working with you.”
“I had spite,” said Britt. “That’ll carry you further than you’d think. I got to quit a job I hated and I was upset with Frances for walking out on Leo.”
Leo was circling the room, only half listening to his brothers. It made him realize how long it had been since Harry had come home.
Their parents still lived in the house where all three had grown up, a three-bedroom white Colonial with red trim perched on a sloping hillside. His father used the steep side yard as a terraced garden, green beans, tomatoes, squash, carrots, onions, and herbs all fenced in with grapevines. At the top of the yard were the two eponymous apple trees. The neighborhood was a tightly packed grid of older houses kept in careful though elderly repair, beginning to age out and turn over once again, and there would come a day when the next wave would mean renovation instead of mere upkeep. But for now their father patrolled his yard and garden and made wine in his basement. Their mother hauled out a giant wooden jack-o’-lantern sign in the fall and red and green Christmas lights in December.
They’d been older parents for their generation. Their father had retired years earlier from engineering and their mother from being the principal of a local junior high school, but well into their seventies they remained bustling and flustered, talking at one another about different topics at once and lamenting their lack of free time. The house alone seemed to require all their attention. Every time Leo spoke to his father, he was on his way to the hardware store for some minuscule item: a hinge, a flange, a yard of weather stripping.
Leo and Britt were eleven months apart, a lingering intimation of their parents’ sexuality that never ceased to cause both men some embarrassment, and perhaps because of the closeness in age their parents were forever conflating their two older sons, forgetting that Britt had not put in years of restaurant work in high school and college, thinking that Leo was alert to sales on good suits. Only Harry, six years younger than Britt and seven younger than Leo, seemed entirely distinct to them. They kept careful track of his many endeavors, enumerating his degrees, years later still talking about the goat he had served them when he was working on a farm in upstate New York. (“Gin!” their father would exclaim. “He added gin to give it a piney flavor. Who thinks of such a thing?”)
Leo noted how the sun poured into the restaurant space behind Britt and pooled on the brick before them. Britt’s closely clipped reddish blond hair was alight with it; the lines around his eyes had taken on a powdery fineness. The room was tight, but the space was not all wrong. Harry would be able to fit three rows of tables if he turned them diagonally to allow servers to swivel through. There was little room for a bar, much less the great zinc J that was currently propped up against the east wall awaiting its moment, and what Leo assumed would be the kitchen, back behind that mossy-looking door, was too cramped for more than two cooks or three at the very most, who would be elbow to elbow, knife handles knocking over each other’s prep dishes. Yet the dining room was not appalling. The length offset the width—you had the feeling of journeying deep into the old building toward a cache of ’66 Bordeaux and a scattering of dusty jewels—and the wood floors would look good refinished. There would be patched corners and spaces between some of the floorboards—try getting crumbs out of there—but it would feel welcomingly worn and intimate. Th...

Revue de presse

"Bread and Butter, a novel about three brothers in the restaurant business. . . reward[s] industry insiders and food obsessives. . . The restaurant industry, with its relentless push for reinvention and obsession with the new, is brutal. But so is getting old, Wildgen’s novel will remind you. . . Wildgen, whose previous books include Food and Booze: A Tin House Literary Feast, has obviously spent a lot of time in kitchens. . . The pages start flying when Stray ramps up business. Which candidate will make the most impressive egg dish during the chef auditions? (That would be Jenelle with her eggs en cocotte with Gruyère, spinach and spiced tomato.) Will the malted cone-cups slip out of their pastry cream? Is the newsworthy, but potentially off-putting lamb’s neck going to be a hit in a town where only a dozen people might be able to pronounce grüner veltliner? Three words for you: Food Nerds Unite."
—The New York Times Book Review
 
“In her new novel, Michelle Wildgen . . . gets the details of the restaurant biz and the dynamtics of those who are part of it just right. . . . As she did in You’re Not You, her compulsively readable literary debut, Wildgen couples vivid description with crisp prose, putting the reader right in the scene—and right at the table. She articulates how working closely with someone professionally creates an odd and not always welcome degree of intimacy, laying bare each person’s ‘unknown and unknowable depths.’ There is romance, including sex with the staff—absolutely verboten, bad for business, but almost impossible to resist. The real romance, though, is one of family and food. . . . Purely delicious.”
—The Miami Herald

"Restaurateur brothers torn between nostalgia and novelty are the focus of Tin House executive editor Michelle Wildgen’s new novel, Bread and Butter . . . filled with tasty insider details, from the tyranny of molten chocolate cake to the politics of dining at the bar."
—Vogue
 
"Staff meals also provide a backdrop for Michelle Wildgen's Bread and Butter, a novel about three warring chefs who happen to be siblings."
—Conde Nast Traveler

"A story of family feuds and foie gras. . . This story of sibling rivalry is peppered with lots of restaurant-insider detail. And each brother’s romantic woes spice things up."
—The New York Post

"This author has a knack for solid, striking characterizations. . . The food descriptions are consistently, almost overwhelmingly, stunning."
—Kansas City Star

"It’s that behind-the-scenes drama that Wildgen channels in Bread and Butter as she mixes tempers, ambition and libidos into a savory read."
—Wisconsin State Journal

"Brothers Britt and Leo run a tight ship at Winesap, the highest-end eatery in their Philly-adjacent town. But then their brilliant, charming baby brother, Harry, one-ups them with a sneak attack by opening a hip, avant-garde hole-in-the-wall nearby, whipping up a family rivalry that soon boils over. Journalist Wildgen glazes Bread & Butter with delicious behind-the-scenes details that foodies will appreciate. The family drama she serves up... goes down like comfort food.”
—Entertainment Weekly   

"Wildgen’s depictions of food hew closer to Proust’s than Stein’s in that they are indulgent and languorous. And she’s as skilled at the mechanics of whipping up a well-crafted story as she is describing how to make a béarnaise. . . Food is the true currency of Bread and Butter. Food is an art, a language of affection, of consolation, a way of life. . . And the food! If nothing else (and there is plenty else), the novel revels in its cuisine. Sentences are peppered with exquisite dishes throughout and take detailed note of the textures and presentation and garnishes, allowing reader gorge. . . Bread and Butter is a tremendous feast of a novel."
– The Millions 

“Wildly entertaining. . . Wildgen serves up romantic intrigue. . . along with a generous dollop of satire as sharp as a prep knife. The result is a novel that’s as much about the complex dance of family dynamics as it is about the mysterious world behind the kitchen door – and a divinely delicious read, to boot.”
– O Magazine

“It’s clear that Wildgen reveled in this opportunity to immerse a story in a world that’s entirely centered around cooking and dining. Bread and Butter shows a writer at the top of her craft addressing a subject for which her passion and curiosity is palpable. And her thematic material — the strength of familial bonds in the face of stress and strain — is a perfect fit to her setting, where despite broken dishwashers, no-show staff members, and cuts and burns, something delicious almost always comes out of the kitchen.”
– The Capital Times

"Wildgen is no stranger to culinary expertise: she's the editor of Food & Booze: A Tin House Literary Feast (she is also the executive editor of Portland's Tin House Magazine). In Bread and Butter she's given us a lively novel with an engaging narrative of the restaurant biz . . . High-end restaurants are complex microcosms and with her wonderfully descriptive style and an obvious understanding of the restaurant business, Wildgen uses these settings, sometimes volatile (think middle of a dinner rush when the chef is missing), sometimes relaxing (in the morning before the staff arrives for dinner prep) to explore the intimacy and fragility of families, the complicated relationships among people who work closely together, and the difficult task of serving customers like ourselves. After reading Bread and Butter it's almost certain that your next restaurant experience will likely not be perceived as it was before."
— The Oregonian 

"Filled with tasty insider details, from the tyranny of molten chocolate cake to the politics of dining at the bar."
– Spring's Best Books - Vogue

“Four stars for Bread and Butter, Michelle Wildgen's saucy tale of three foodie brothers at each other's throats.”
– Elissa Schappell, Vanity Fair

"Michelle Wildgen is a writer of impeccable tastes. . . In her third novel, Bread and Butter, Wildgen follows three brothers running two very different restaurants: Leo and Britt’s smartly-polished Winesap, and younger brother Harry’s envelope-pushing startup, Stray. It’s a novel filled not only with the intricate stuff of cooking of the highest order, but of sibling rivalry and affections, as temperamental as any soufflé." 
– Emma Komlos-Hrobsky, The Inquisitive Eater

“Brothers Leo and Britt are co-owners of Winesap, a popular restaurant in their small, economically depressed hometown on the outskirts of Philadelphia. They have always considered their younger sibling, Harry, a bit of a dilettante. While they’ve been chained to a hot stove, Harry has flitted in and out of academia and flirted with one career after another. So imagine their surprise when Harry announces that he’s opening a restaurant of his own, virtually right down the street . . . As the brothers test this recipe for potential disaster, they  . . .  learn the true meaning of family, friendship, and the secret to a killer soufflé . . . [Wildgen] whip[s] up a debut delicacy that’s as complex as a rich cassoulet and as comforting as good ol’ mac-and-cheese. “
—Carol Haggas, Booklist     
         
“In Wildgen’s latest, three foodie brothers find themselves in a stew . . . [a] family drama set against the backdrop of an insider’s take on big-ticket dining . . . Wildgen plates one dazzling dish after another on nearly every page.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“Wildgen dazzles with her prose, which is sprinkled with keen observations and supported by her food-writing knowledge. . . [A] trenchant examination of sibling rivalry and fine cuisine. Not for foodies only.”
—Publishers Weekly
 
“Bread and Butter is a beautifully composed novel, brimming with intelligence and tenderness and charm. Michelle Wildgen writes about food with such authority that I felt I was in the hands of the rarest of master chefs, one who can cook up an astonishing meal and craft searing sentences at the same time.”
—Lauren Groff, author of Arcadia
 
“Michelle Wildgen's captivating story of sibling rivalry puts a whole new spin on family dinner. Bread and Butter has the complete meal, soup to nuts: a stirring love story, an engrossing drama. Wildgen is one of the finest prose stylists out there—a wonderfully satisfying read.”
—Jennifer Gilmore, author of The Mothers
 
“Michelle Wildgen’s Bread and Butter is a marvel of culinary and literary delights. Not since the great M.F.K. Fisher has a writer taken such care to explore the intimate and sensual relationships between food, love and family. In Bread and Butter, three talented brothers vie for culinary greatness while risking their own fragile bonds. Wildgen tantalizes us with the extravagant pleasures and simple comforts of fine dining. But it's not all sweet breads and foie gras. Wildgen takes us deep inside the outrageous challenges of running a restaurant and the dangers of doing business with family. This is a deeply satisfying story of hunger and appetite, desire and fulfillment. Bread and Butter is a novel to be savored.”
—Amber Dermont, author of The Starboard Sea
 

Détails de l'édition

• Éditeur: Doubleday
• Date d'édition: 2014
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN 10: 0385537433
• ISBN 13: 9780385537438
• Reliure: Relié
• Nombre de pages: 313
• Coordonnées du fabricant: Buchpark GmbH; https://www.buchpark.de; ; Krügerweg 1; Trebbin; Brandenburg; 14959; Allemagne