As expected, my article on the snobbery of food critics and how they hurt the mom-and-pop establishments in the city had garnered the most comments. Some were dismissive, along the lines of “No one really pays attention to what they say,” while others agreed and jumped on the bandwagon: “These overpaid idiots make me gag,” or “Who the hell do they think they are, being so pretentious?” And my favorite: “Not like they could ever cook. Easy to criticize when they wouldn’t dare get in front of the stove.”
Food critics rarely worked in restaurants. They might start out in college, working for their university publication, and then, after graduation, they’d hope to get a job at a local paper and move up the ladder. I’d lucked out by not only having my father in the food-service business working for a catering company to teach me what he knew, but finding my niche—writing about real people and quality food at decent prices—at the right time.
The doorbell rang, and when I approached the half-glass front door, I spotted my mother’s dark head through the sheer curtain and opened the door.
“Hi, Mom.” I bent to kiss her cheek. “What’s going on?”
“Not much, honey. Do you have coffee? I brought the cinnamon buns you love.” To prove her point, she held up a brown bag from which delicious smells wafted toward me. I breathed in deep.
“Yum. Sure, come on in. I was looking through the blog. Did Mike tell you I’m helping out tonight since your boy Rain is sick?”
She bustled into my kitchen and set the bag of pastries on the island. Without missing a beat, she poured herself a cup of coffee, pulled up one of the chairs, and sat.
“Leave that poor kid alone. He’s all by himself in the city. Val is taking him a pot of my chicken soup and checking on him.” She took a sip and reached into the bag for a pastry. “I can bring you some if you’d like.”
My father’s sudden death five years earlier had brought our close-knit family even closer. I’d turned thirty and planned to move into my own place. Mike and Val had bought a house, and Val was pregnant. With my mother devastated, I put off the apartment search, and here I was, still in the first-floor apartment of her house. That gave her a certain familiarity, where she popped in with home-cooked meals or treats. I didn’t have the heart to talk to her about privacy, and now with Pete gone, it didn’t seem to matter.
“No, it’s okay. I was thinking of getting back into cooking myself. It’s been ages since I used my skills.”
She pursed her lips in thought. “Well, I think that’s a good idea. You’ve been shut up in this house too long, no doubt thinking of that no-good jerk.”
Ignoring her commentary on Pete, I left her sitting at the island and crossed the kitchen to open the refrigerator and stare at the contents. When I’d decided to stay here, my priority had been to renovate, and I created my dream kitchen. A six-burner professional range, farmhouse sink, plus any and all gadgets I could afford. It was the one place I found peace after Pete walked out on me.
“Would you like me to make some lunch? A nice Chicken Paillard and roasted tomatoes.”
“Sounds yummy. How can I help?”
“By sitting and letting me do all the work.” I busied myself with pounding the chicken filets and grilling them. While that was cooking, I made a fresh salad with ingredients from the vegetable garden in the backyard.
I plated the food, and we sat and ate. My mother took several bites, pronounced it delicious, and set her fork and knife down.
“I was serious. You need to find someone. It’s not good for a young man to be alone all the time.”
“I’m good. Really. It’s not like I’m a hermit.” My cheeks heated. “I go out.”
“But nothing serious?”
“No. And maybe that’s what I need right now. I spent two years with the same man. I want to see what’s out there. Play the field a little.”
She cut a piece of chicken, chewed, and swallowed before answering, “I think that’s a good idea. You already know who isn’t right for you. Someone who doesn’t appreciate you. You need a sweet person with a kind heart. A family man. And you should enjoy yourself. You’re good-looking, successful, and a wonderful person. Anyone would be lucky to be your boyfriend.”
When I knew I wanted to come out to my parents, I’d waited for the perfect moment. I’d already told Mike and he hugged me and said he loved me. It meant the world but didn’t help when, bolstered by Mike’s unwavering love and support, I told my best friend Anthony Carrazo. We’d known each other since we were three and our mother’s met in the playground. He gave me a weird look and my heart sank, figuring our friendship would never be the same. When he began to avoid me in the hallways at school, I knew I was right.
The night I planned to tell them, I first thought about running away, but I’d never been a chickenshit. I waited until we’d finished dinner and my father had his glass of Scotch.
“Mom, Dad. Can I talk to you?”
They sat in their favorite chairs and waited with expectant faces for me to continue.
I shifted in my seat. “I have to tell you…I just wanted to tell you…uh…I’m…gay.”
My mother glanced over at my father, who’d set his glass down. “I’m glad you told us, Salvatore. You look scared. Are you worried about how we’ll feel?”
I nodded, my throat so tight, I couldn’t speak.
“Oh, sweetheart.” My mother left her seat to hug my shaking body. “We created you, so how could we not love every part of you?”
“I don’t want you to ever be disappointed in me.”
