Chapter Seven

The onions were brown-braised in beef stock, the mushrooms sauteed in butter.

Alia set them aside, took the casserole from the oven, removed the top and, slipping one oven mitt off, used a fork to test a piece of beef. Browned on the outside, it flaked easily, yet was still moist.

“Hmmmm . . .” She resisted the urge to taste it. She knew it would be good, but wanted to wait until the vegetables were added and the sauce was ready.

Alia set a sieve above a saucepan—a blue Le Crueset, tan-white on the inside, that she almost never used, because she was afraid to scratch or mar it. Car payments and steep Georgetown rent left little money for luxuries, especially on a government assistant’s salary, so the saucepan was an extravagance: the best piece of cookware in her collection. Using the mitts, she poured the boeuf bourguignon into the sieve and then set the casserole aside to cool. After a couple of minutes, only beef and bacon were left in the sieve. She washed the casserole out with hot water and returned the meat to it, then topped it with the onions and the mushrooms.

Already, it smelled wonderful.

The sauce settled in the saucepan enough for most of the fat to rise to the top. Alia skimmed that off, put the saucepan on the stove, and brought it up to a simmer. She studied the cookbook for a moment and then dipped a spoon into it. It coated the spoon like oil on a dipstick, and she smiled. Tasting it with her eyes closed, she opened her eyes, added a pinch of salt, tasted again, and then poured the warm sauce slowly over the meat and onions and mushrooms, the saucepan heavy in her mitted hands.

She covered the casserole and looked at the clock on the stove: five forty-one and Blake said he would be over at six. She got out her stainless-steel stockpot, filled it halfway with water, and put it over high heat.

Fifteen minutes later, the noodles from the stockpot were resting in a sieve and she was bringing the casserole up to a simmer on the stovetop.

There was a knock at the door.

Alia quickly basted the meat and vegetables, wiped her hands on her white chef’s apron, took the apron off, and checked her reflection in the stainless-steel edging of the stovetop. She couldn’t see much, shrugged, and answered the door.

Blake was wearing what he always wore on weekends: a plaid shirt, a slightly faded pair of Levis, and running shoes.

“Hey, stranger.” Alia kissed him on the cheek.

He looked past her to the little dining room table, set with real china, the candles burning.

“Whoa. I’m underdressed.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m wearing jeans, too. Sit. Want wine?”

“Thanks, but I was outside all day. It’d give me a headache. Have tea?”

Alia nodded and got a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge. It was sweet, a taste she’d acquired over the past year: the cost of dating a Virginia country boy.

“Can you pour? I have to baste this one more time.”

“Sure.” Blake poured the tea into stemmed water glasses, went back into the kitchen to help, and then backed out as Alia came walking through carrying the steaming casserole.

“Smells great. What is it?”

“Boeuf bourguignon.” Alia pushed the accent, trying to make it sound as French as possible.

“I’m definitely underdressed.”

“You’re definitely saying grace. Now, before it gets cold.”

Blake did as he was asked after taking his seat. Beaming, Alia spooned the beef, vegetables, and sauce over hot egg noodles and handed the plate to Blake. He took it and sat it in front of him.

“No,” Alia protested. “Try it.”

“You don’t have a plate yet.”

“This is my first foray into Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Humor me.”

Blake picked up his fork and tried a taste.

“Well?”

Black cocked his head, looked up at the ceiling. “Got any . . . Tabasco?”

Alia sagged.

“I’m kidding!” Blake took another taste. “This is . . . amazing. Really. Nicely done, All.”

“You’re not just saying that because I spent all afternoon cooking it?”

“Well, I would.” Blake paused with his fork halfway to his mouth and just inhaled. “But . . . wow. Try it yourself. I’ll bet they aren’t having this good a dinner at the White House tonight.”

Alia tried to keep a straight face, then beamed. She put some noodles on her plate and moved the casserole nearer. “How was your day?”

“Interesting.” Blake paused and lowered his fork. “What do you know about the twelfth Imam?”

The serving spoon clattered against the ceramic casserole and Alia set it down. She could feel the color draining from her face.

“Oh, Blake . . .” Her voice was barely a whisper. “They’re sending you to Iran.”