Snip

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I reread the ending over lunch and made some minor edits. I like it. I really do.

Next, I printed out a hard copy of the full manuscript so that I can get down to business editing. Halfway through the print job I picked up a random page, read it, and started giggling. This is either a very good sign, or else it means I’m one of those pathetic losers who laughs at his own jokes.

Anyway.

Here’s what I was laughing at — below the cut:

(Note of explanation: Brad is a surgical intern, but he has done some serious cooking in the past for his friend Sean. Sean still has high hopes for Brad’s culinary career.)

One ring. Two rings. Not a good time to call, Brad. What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Brad?

“What?” the voice said.

“It’s Brad.”

“Yeah, I got caller ID, remember? I’m busy.”

Brad heard Missy’s voice in the background and snips of Sean’s muffled reply.

So Sean was busy.

Oh.

“I’m sorry,” Brad said.

“Hey, wait. Did you reconsider? I’ll float you a loan for the tuition. Zero interest. I’ll find a flat for you –”

“It’s not that. Besides, New York is too expensive.”

“California School of Culinary Arts, then.”

“Look, that’s not why I called.” He paused, chewing his lip. “I have a girlfriend.”

Muffled again, but Brad could hear the words: “Says he has a girlfriend,” and Missy’s reply: “Hallelujah. Now get back here.”

“I know you’re busy,” said Brad. “But I need some veal shanks.”

“Osso buco, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“She that good?”

“Shit, yeah. She’s crown rack of lamb good. She’s bisteeya good. Made with pigeon.”

“You ever have it with pigeon?”

“No, but –”

“Then stick to chicken or duck. This girl, is she black truffles good?”

“Better.”

“Azerbaijani caviar good?”

“Foie gras good.”

“Foie gras is overrated.”

“Yeah,” said Brad, “but your customers still pay top dollar for it.”

“Nine-tenths of my customers don’t know jack from shit. But what’s the matter, Brad? Santa Maria doesn’t have a decent butcher?”

“Matter of fact, we don’t. And besides, no one gets shanks like you do.”

“Make it with oxtails.”

He heard Missy’s low moan in the background and something that sounded like, “You don’t get back here, you’ll be making it with oxtails.”

“It wouldn’t be the same,” said Brad.

“She knows food, this one?”

“Not really.”

“Then she’ll go ape shit for the oxtails, trust me.”

“I’ll know the difference. Please, Sean, overnight me a few frozen shanks. I’ll pay you back.”

“Listen to yourself. I’ll know the difference. Who’s this dinner for, you or her?”

***

It goes on a while longer, but that’s all you get today 😉

D.

, September 5, 2006. Category: Writer's Life.

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3 Comments

  1. Gabriele says:
    September 6, 2006 at 9:03 am

    Lol, I’m so not a gourmet. I find caviar salty, foie gras just ewwww and once oysters, never oysters again. I’m quite happy with a nice rumpsteak (a bit on the bloody side), horseradish butter and bratkartoffeln. Or some venison ragout with fresh mushrooms and handmade spätzle the way only the owner of my favourite restaurant in the Harz can make them.

  2. Walnut says:
    September 6, 2006 at 10:00 am

    Okay . . . so Brad would totally strike out with you, I guess 😉

  3. Gabriele says:
    September 6, 2006 at 10:54 am

    LOl, I would like it if a man who can cook (don’t want to eat burnt stuff 🙂 ) makes the effort to do the job himself, but only after he knows enough about me to know what I like and then cook that, not fancy stuff to show himself off. 😉