Page 39 of Keeping It Professional

She moaned. “Giant bread bowls…”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s aGodyes. I love bread. And goulash. I was just thinking I need something hot.”

We piled in my car as she’d taken the bus, and ten minutes later, we were grabbing a table — the last table open at the Hungarian Spoon. It was crammed in a corner, and wobbly to boot, with a ragged fake plant leaning up on one side. The candle on our table was fake and dead, and the dim sconce above us kept blinking out. The next table over was packed in so close, when the man there leaned back, his chair bumped on Sophie’s.

“Sorry,” I said. “We can?—”

“This place smells amazing.” Sophie took a deep whiff, and her eyes fluttered shut. “How have I never been here before?”

“You don’t mind the ambience?”

Sophie glanced around like she hadn’t noticed. “I mean, it’s kind of cheesy, but we’re here for the food.” She reached for her menu, then pushed it away. “You know what? Screw that. I knowwhat I want. The huge goulash bowl, then whatever’s good for dessert.”

Our waiter slouched over. “What do you want?”

“Two goulash bowls, then the apricot cake.”

He scowled and marched off like our order offended him, but I knew in five minutes, he’d be back with our food. The waiters were rude here, but they were fast, and the way Sophie was drooping, she’d appreciate that.

“You know how people say they could eat a horse?” She cast a longing look at the kitchen window. “I wouldn’t have to bethathungry to say yes to horse. I’m so hungry I’d eat, like… a grasshopper taco. What do you call those? Chapulines?”

I laughed. “I think it’s a horse because horses are big. Not because horse meat’s a weird thing to eat.”

“Fine. Then, a horse with a side of grasshoppers.”

My stomach growled loudly. I grabbed a bread roll. Sophie took one too, and smeared it with butter.

“It’s still warm,” she said. “The butter. It’s melting.” She took a big bite and nearly melted, herself.

“Good?

“Mm…” She covered her mouth, still full of bread. “So good I could live on this. Fluffyandcrisp.”

Our food came out and we dove in like pigs, and we didn’t speak again till we’d inhaled half our meals. When I surfaced at last and looked up at Sophie, she was dipping a strip of bread in her goulash. Our eyes met, and she smiled like she’d just had great sex, slow, heavy-lidded, and rich as sweet cream.

“Yelp should have a sixth star just for this place.”

“That good?”

“So good I’m not even tired anymore.” She took a bite and sighed with delight. “It’s like a miracle in a bread bowl. We could give this to patients on their deathbeds, and they’d keep going another ten years.”

I laughed. “I’ll be self-conscious now, when I cook you dinner. I’m a pretty good cook, but not raise-the-dead good.”

“You cook, though, that’s good.” Sophie sipped her water. “I have to admit, I’m still learning there. I can do spaghetti, and a decent fried egg, but other than that, I’m lost in the kitchen.”

“I’ll teach you,” I said.

“Yeah? Who taught you?”

I leaned back. The fake plant caught on my sleeve. I pushed it away and sat straight again. “I taught myself after Nick passed away. Dad was never home much after that, and Mom didn’t cook. She’d order pizza, or she’d nuke something. If I wanted real food, I had to get it myself.”

Sophie’s smile faded. “My mom was the opposite. She couldn’t stop cooking. We got out of the shelters and she’d bake and bake, then she’d make these huge dinners, and pie for dessert. It was like she was making up for us going without.”

I reached over the table so our fingers brushed. “Does she still do that?”

“Not as much. But any excuse she can think of to feed you, a birthday, a new job, a day ending in ‘-day’…” Her smile was sad, distant. She shook her head. “It’s great, but at the same time, Ican’t help but feel bad. Like, I’d still love her without all the food. I’m not sure she knows that. I tell her, but…”

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