Page 16 of Geordie

When I had rushed through the rooms trying to let out the stench of two-day-old spoiled chicken, I had a quick look around his apartment. The whole place is a shrine to masculinity: sexy dark grays and blues with touches of steel and wood. It’s somewhere you’d imagine a rich single guy would live.

I dump the bowl of chopped onions into a pan of hot, melted butter. They give a satisfying sizzle when they hit the fat. “Like this?” I look at him innocently, like this is the first time I’ve ever cooked an onion.

“Cook them until they’re soft, but not brown, then add the mince.”

“Do you cook?” I ask, moving the onions around the pan. I add a pinch of salt to sweat them.

“I know how to grill a steak,” he stares into his glass. “As for real cooking, this is the only dish I know how to make.”

There’s a sadness about him. Maybe it’s from the stress of recovery, but why would someone who looks like him, and has gobs of money, be alone?

When the onion has softened enough. I reach for the bowl of ground beef and dump it into the same pan. “Did your mother teach you this recipe?” mashing meat and onion together.

He takes another sip of his whiskey and runs a hand over his bandaged ankle, wincing. “A cook taught this to me at boarding school. I asked her one day if she would teach me and she did. I think of her when I make this dish.”

“For someone who doesn’t cook, your kitchen is kitted out as if you did.”

“You can blame the decorator. I told him the kitchen should have everything I might need. That includes a set of pots and pans I don’t use, and other appliances, like that large expresso machine in the corner which looks nice, but I’ve never learned to use, partly because I don’t drink expresso.

“Your mother is not a cook?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t recall anyone saying that she did any cooking. I lost my mother went I was a wee child. My granda raised me with my two cousins. My granny died before I was born.”

How could I be so insensitive? If I’d done a little more research, I would have known. I keep fucking up with him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“There’s no reason to be sorry, lass. It was a long time ago.”

The sizzling beef takes my attention back to the pan. I dump in chopped carrots and celery, grateful I’m doing something during this awkwardness.

He adjusts in his seat, swearing a little under his breath at his leg. “You know about me; why don’t you tell me about your family?”

The vegetables have softened enough to dump in flour to make a quick rue. It will soak up the excess fat and make a gravy once I add the beef broth. I look up briefly to answer. “My mother raised me. My father wasn’t around.” I swirl the wooden spoon a few more times to make sure the mixture is incorporated, then pour in the beef broth. As I do this, I can feel Geordie watching me. I neglected to ask his opinion, but, this is my profession. I glance over at him. “My parents were dating when Mom got pregnant. He wasn’t interested in fatherhood, so my mother raised me alone. He did consent to have his name on my birth certificate. I guess he figured that was the extent of his parental duty. My mother lives in Oregon with her husband.”

He takes this in, saying nothing. Either he’s a deep thinker or doesn’t think much of my past.

I chatter on just to keep the conversation going. “I’ve always been interested in food. When I was a kid, I’d stand on the stool next to my mother while she cooked. Later, I took over the cooking duties.

“When I announced my intention to go to culinary school, she did what mothers do and worried. Mom convinced me to go to college, and if I still wanted to pursue a culinary career, that would only be about eighteen more months of schooling. She sagely pointed out, if I didn’t like it, I would have my degree to do something else.”

“It must have taken a lot of convincing from your mom to turn away from your ambitions for so long. Did she also choose your major?”

I smile at the memory of those long, sometimes heated discussions with my mother about my education. I turn off the flame and drain the boiling pot of potatoes. With masher in hand, I go to work to produce a creamy pulp with the addition of butter, salt, and a splash of cream. “No, she didn’t decide my major. She wouldn’t do that.” I glance over my shoulder at my audience. “There’re only two things that I have a genuine passion for in this world. One is cooking, and the other is electrical engineering.”

Geordie’s eyes pop wide with surprise. It’s the look I get when I talk about my college major. I guess no one sees me as an engineer.

I turn back to my work. Geordie should stay away from Vegas; he’d be a horrible poker player.

I drop a lid on the pot, then rest against the counter, recalling a time when I was getting ready to go to college, leaving my mom and home behind. “I was lucky. I was smart enough to get a scholarship and to be able to study one of my passions for four years and the second for almost two.”

He regains his composure, but he looks like he has a lot more questions; the unexpected does that. I bet my stock has risen in his mind.

“Where did you train for your cooking?” he asks with interest, but with a little awe too.

Food is a great way to get people talking. Everyone has to eat.

“I’m Cordon Bleu trained. Started in Mexico, did a few months in their Australia facility, and ended up in Paris. I love the program and if I didn’t have the passion to open my own restaurant, I might have tried for a spot on their staff.” I point the masher with potato clinging to the zig zag base. “How about you? What are your ambitions?”

“What can I say?” he says with the look of an imp in his eyes. “I’m living the dream, as you Americans say. I initially wanted to work in the whiskey business as a blender. It’s a difficult position to get even if your name is MacTavish. When the opportunity came to go to America, the job of winemaker was a logical choice. I had to learn about wine and the agriculture, which I will admit I’m shite at. Blending is my talent. I had to have some training in wine, but many of the blending of whiskey and wine are similar products.”

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