Neil lost himself in his art. He cooked with a silent ferocity that turned his always fabulous food into fiery works of art. For the next two days everything Neil cooked seemed to be on fire. He served flaming steak Diane, blazing baked Alaska, burning Lobster Fra Diavolo. His choice of spices was equally hot and a steady stream of curries, chilies, and spicy Asian soups flowed from his hands to the waiting diners.
Neil was cooking, but he didn’t speak, or even yell. Neil would call out instructions to Gary and occasionally nod to show he’d received an order from the twins. But that was it. He’d even stopped his habit of walking through the dining room to fish for compliments.
At night he would retreat back into his office and lock the door. Only a faint blue electric light gave any indication he was in there.
Isabella tried to lure him out, to go to a movie, to shop for spices, to smell new scents . . . but he would just shake his head and go back to work. Neil’s parents had checked in but continued to face delays in their attempt to get home. Neil assured them he was working hard and that he was checking in with Angel. He lied about the Angel part.
Isabella decided she needed to call in the heavy artillery. The night before Larry’s memorial, she went to visit Angel.
“You have to do something,” Isabella said to Angel, as they stood in his living room. Jones eyed the various drying herbs with suspicion. “If he goes on like this, he will . . . how do you say, be consumare.”
“Burn himself out, yes, I agree,” Angel said.
“Then you’ll go talk to him tonight? I’m worried that after the memorial tomorrow he will get worse, not better.”
Angel considered. “He doesn’t want to talk. He is not ready. We just have to be here when he needs us. But we cannot force him to that moment. He is stubborn.”
“Like all the chefs I have ever met,” Jones added, casting a sideways glance at the various bylaw infraction notices Angel kept tacked up next to his stove. Sean Nakamura was constantly giving him tickets for running an urban farm in his apartment building. Every once in a while, Angel would use a ticket to light the charcoal grill he kept on his balcony.
Angel gave a deep sigh. “Neil feels powerless, as we all do when we grow up. Food is what he can control, what we chefs can always control, even when our lives are crumbling. I will leave him to that, even though it hurts us to see him go through this pain. But he will speak to us when he is ready.”
Isabella stood up quickly. “Then we agree.”
“Agree on what, exactly?” Angel said, not moving from his chair.
“We agree that Neil needs us near him. You are going to him now and you are going to speak to him now. Then he’ll realize that he needs to snap out of his shock now.”
“I’m not sure that’s exactly what I was saying. Tomorrow might be bett—”
“You either stand up now or Jones can personally escort you to our car.” Isabella crossed her arms and tapped her foot.
Jones stood up and cracked his knuckles. The sound frightened a flock of sparrows four blocks away.
Angel stood up. He allowed himself a tiny smile. Isabella was a force of nature. Larry’s death had affected all of them, but Isabella never lost her will, what the Italians call her forte volonta. He hoped Neil recognized how great his friend really was.
Thirty minutes later Angel walked quietly through the back door of Chez Flambé.
Neil was hunched over the kitchen counter, furiously chopping up some poblano chili peppers. Angel stopped and smelled. Neil was making chicken in a rich mole sauce and Angel knew why. It was a meal Larry had devoured like candy on their recent trip to Mexico City.
“It smells wonderful,” Angel said, walking up to the counter next to Neil.
Neil just nodded and slid the peppers into a large skillet, along with cumin, garlic, tomatillos, and other spices.
“I do wonder if it might be a touch spicy.” To Angel’s surprise, Neil didn’t scowl or frown or throw anything. He stopped chopping, took a deep breath through his nose . . . and shook his head. Then he turned his attention to cutting some onions.
“Hey, Angel! How goes the battle, old man?” Gary yelled, walking into the kitchen carrying a large basket of fresh coriander, lettuce, and radicchio. “You here to lend a hand?”
“Larry—I mean, Gary, please stop. . . .” Neil whipped his head around and glared at Gary who immediately stopped talking. Neil pointed to the sink with his knife, making a stabbing motion in the air.
“That’s unsettling,” Gary said sheepishly.
“I think he wants you to rinse the herbs,” Angel said. “Silently.”
Gary smiled and waved at Angel, then he turned on the tap and began rinsing, humming along to some tune in his head.
Neil turned back to the onions. Angel knew Neil wasn’t angry with Gary for talking. He was angry that Gary sounded so much like Larry. As long as Gary stayed quiet and cooked, Neil was able to keep it together. Angel, not for the first time in his life or the last, felt sad for his troubled young protégé.
“Neil, I just want you to know that we are all here when you are ready to talk,” Angel said softly. Then he did the only thing he could think of to help: He grabbed a handful of garlic cloves and began peeling off their delicate skin.
Neil didn’t say a word. He began cutting the lemongrass, the cool steel of his knife resting gently but safely against his knuckles, slicing the grass into delicate disks.
Maybe Neil’s parents had had the secret all along—lose yourself in work. The world was too painful, too complicated, too dangerous. Keep family and friends far away—the closer you let them get, the more pain you could suffer. You could have disappointment in a career, but never the type of pain Neil was dealing with now.
Neil had a horrible thought. There were billions of things happening in the world, right now, every second . . . any one of which could leap from the dark and destroy a life. He couldn’t stop them. He didn’t even know what they were, what was going on a million miles away, but they were heading invisibly for him as he worked away in his kitchen . . . just like Larry didn’t know about the freak storm that was brewing off the Japanese coast the day he went on a boating trip.
Neil pushed the thought out of his mind by grabbing a chicken breast and his meat tenderizer. He pounded and pounded until the meat was flattened, then he pounded some more.