Julia Glass - The Whole World Over

Contents

For Dennis

Black as the Devil, heavy as sin, sweet as young love, is the way an Englishman has described the ceremonial cakes of his country; solid, romantic, and frequently good, but with quite a different kind of goodness from our own more casual sort.

Louis P. De Gouy
The Gold Cook Book

Do you know where I found him?

You know where he was?

He was eating a cake in the tub!

Yes he was!

The hot water was on

And the cold water, too.

And I said to the cat,

What a bad thing to do!

But I like to eat cake

In a tub, laughed the cat.

You should try it some time,

Laughed the cat as he sat.

Dr. Seuss
The Cat in the Hat Comes Back

ONE

THE CALL CAME ON THE TWENTY-NINTH OF FEBRUARY : the one day in four years when, according to antiquated custom, women may openly choose their partners without shame. As Greenie checked her e-mail at work that morning, a small pink box popped up on the screen: Carpe diem, ladies! Scotland, according to her cheery, avuncular service provider, passed a law in 1288 that if a man refused a womans proposal on this day, he must pay a fine: anything from a kiss to money that would buy her a silk dress or a fancy pair of gloves.

If I werent hitched already, thought Greenie, I would gladly take rejection in exchange for a lovely silk dress. Oh for the quiet, sumptuous ease of a silk dress; oh for the weather in which to wear it!

Yet again it was sleeting. Greenie felt as if it had been sleeting for a week. The sidewalks of Bank Street, tricky enough in their skewed antiquity, were now glazed with ice, so that walking George to school had become a chore of matronly scolding and pleading: Walk, honey. Please walk. What did I say, did I say WALK? Like most four-year-old boys, George left his house like a pebble from a slingshot, careening off parked cars, brownstone gates, fences placed to protect young trees (apparently not just from urinating dogs), and pedestrians prickly from too little coffee or too much workaday dread.

Greenie was just shaking off the ill effects of what she called VD whisplash: VD as in Valentines Day, an occasion that filled her with necessary inspiration as January waned, yet left her in its wakeif business was goodvowing she would never, ever again bake anything shaped like a heart or a cherub or put so much as a drop of carmine dye in a bowl of buttercream icing.

As if to confirm her fleeting disenchantment with all that stood for romantic love, she and Alan had had another of the fruitless, bitter face-offs Greenie could never seem to avoidand which, in their small apartment, she feared would awaken and worry George. This one had kept her up till two in the morning. She hadnt bothered to go to bed, since Tuesday was one of the days on which she rose before dawn to bake brioche, scones, cinnamon rolls, andTuesdays onlya coffee cake rich with cardamom, orange zest, and grated gingerroot: a cunningly savory sweet that left her work kitchen smelling like a fine Indian restaurant, a brief invigorating change from the happily married scents of butter, vanilla, and sugar (the fragrance, to Greenie, of ordinary life).

Dead on her feet by ten in the morning, she had forgotten the telephone message shed played back the evening before: Greenie dear, I believe youll be getting a call from a VIP tomorrow; I wont say who and I wont say why, but I want it on the record that it was I who told him what a genius you are. Though Ive just now realized that he may spirit you away! Idiot me, what was I thinking! So call me, you have to promise youll call me the minute you hear from the guy. Bya! Pure Walter: irritating, affectionate, magnanimous, coy. Vee Aye Pee, he intoned breathlessly, as if she were about to get a call from the Pope. More likely some upstate apple grower whod tasted her pie and was trolling for recipes to include in one of those springbound charity cookbooks that made their way quickly to yard sales and thrift shops. Or maybe this: the Director of Cheesecake from Juniors had tasted hersa thousandfold superior to theirsand wanted to give her a better-paid but deadly monotonous job in some big seedy kitchen down in Brooklyn. What, in Walters cozy world, constituted a VIP?

Walter was the owner and gadabout host (not the chef; he couldnt have washed a head of lettuce to save his life) of a retro-American tavern that served high-cholesterol, high-on-the-food-chain meals with patriarchal hubris. Aptly if immodestly named, Walters Place felt like a living room turned pub. On the ground floor of a brownstone down the street from Greenies apartment, it featured two fireplaces, blue-checked tablecloths, a fashionably weary velvet sofa, and (Board of Health be damned) a roving bulldog named The Bruce. (As in Robert the Bruce? Greenie had wondered but never asked; more likely the dog was named after some fetching young porn star, object of Walters cheerfully futile longing. Hed never been too explicit about such longings, but he made allusions.) Greenie wasnt wild about the Eisenhower-era foods with which Walter indulged his customersindulgence, she felt, was the province of dessertbut she had been pleased when she won the account. Over the past few years, she had come to think of Walter as an ally rather than a client.

Except for the coconut cake (filled with Meyer lemon curd and glazed with brown sugar), most of the desserts she made for Walter were not her best or most original, but they were exemplars of their kind: portly, solid-citizen desserts, puddings of rice, bread, and noodlessweets that the Pilgrims and other humble immigrants who had scraped together their prototypes would have bartered in a Mayflower minute for Greenies blood-orange mousse, pear ice cream, or tiny white-chocolate clairs. Walter had also commissioned a deep-dish apple pie, a strawberry marble cheesecake, and a layer cake he asked her to create exclusively for him. Everybody expects one of those, you know, death-by-chocolate things on a menu like mine, but what I want is massacre by chocolate, execution by chocolatefiring squad by chocolate! he told her.

So that very night, after tucking George in bed, Greenie had returned to the kitchen where she made her living, in a basement two blocks from her home, and stayed up till morning to birth a four-layer cake so dense and muscular that even Walter, who could have benched a Shetland pony, dared not lift it with a single hand. It was the sort of dessert that appalled Greenie on principle, but it also embodied a kind of berprosperity, a transgressive joy, flaunting the potential heft of butter, that Protean substance as wondrous and essential to a pastry chef as fire had been to early man.

Walter christened the cake Apocalypse Now; Greenie held her tongue. By itself, this creation doubled the amount of cocoa she ordered from her supplier every month. After it was on his menu for a week, Walter bet her a lobster dinner that before the year was out, Gourmet would request the recipe, putting both of them on a wider culinary map. If that came to pass, Greenie would surrender to the vagaries of fleeting fame, but right now the business ran as smoothly as she could have hoped. She had a diligent assistant and an intern who shopped, cleaned, made deliveries, and showed up on time. The amount of work they all shared felt just right to Greenie; she could not have taken an order for one more tiny clair without enlarging the enterprise to a degree where she feared she would begin to lose control. Alan said that what she really feared was honestly growing up, taking her lifelong ambition and molding it into a Business with a capital B. Greenie resented his condescension; if Business with a capital B was the goal of growing up, what was he doing as a private psychotherapist working out of a backdoor bedroom that should have belonged to George, who slept in an alcove off their living room meant for a dining room table? Which brought up the subject of George: was Alan unhappy that Greenies work, on its present scale, allowed her to spend more time with their son than a Business with a capital B would have done?