The next afternoon when I showed up for work, JP gave me a funny smile and then hurried out of the kitchen without saying anything. I was putting on my apron when I noticed the envelope sitting in the middle of my workspace. It was thick and official-looking, with an embossed gold seal on the upper corner. Atwater Culinary Institute, it said in letters that curved around a stylized knife and chef ’s hat.
I shoved it in my backpack and waited until I got home to look at it. I flipped through glossy photos of an old brick building on a busy city street; bowls full of fresh produce; groups of students who didn’t look much older than me wearing kitchen whites and standing around counters full of food and utensils, listening intently to instructors. It looked incredible.
Now that I had the application, it was finally time to talk to my parents about culinary school. I knew Denise was right. I had to prove to them that this was the right decision for me. When I told Mom the next morning that I wanted to prepare a special meal for the family, she got all excited and offered to pay for the groceries. JP helped me plan a menu and a couple of nights later, on my night off, I got Mom and Alma to give me a hand in the kitchen.
“Have you enjoyed working for Denise?” Mom asked as I showed her how to peel garlic.
“Yeah, she’s cool. She can get kind of grumpy when she’s stressed, but she’s still a great boss, and JP is awesome—he’s taught me a lot.”
“Well, it must be innate, because you sure didn’t get that from your old mom.”
“No kidding,” said Alma. Mom flicked a garlic peel at her.
“I like cooking,” I said. “I feel like I’m good at it.”
“So tell me,” Mom said, “are Denise and JP an item?”
I laughed. I’d wondered the same thing, but now that I knew Denise was gay, it was funny for me to even think about her as straight.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. It’s just—I don’t think Denise thinks about JP that way.”
“You mean she’s gay?”
I was surprised to hear her say it in such an offhand way.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Gay?” said Alma. “You mean as in homosexual? Like Elton John? In Deep Cove?”
“What’s wrong with that?” I said.
“Nothing,” said Alma. “It’s just, I didn’t think gay people lived in places like Deep Cove.”
“Alma, honey,” said Mom, “gay people live everywhere. They’re just regular people like you and me.”
Alma didn’t say anything. She just stood there staring down at the carrots she was supposed to be peeling, thinking something through.
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised about Denise,” my mom said. “A few of us suspected that was why she left town so quickly, back in the day. Good for her. It couldn’t have been easy for her around here.”
I didn’t say anything, and I tried to act calm, but my heart was pounding against my rib cage. Did she know something? Did she suspect?
Thankfully, she saved me from having to respond. “How does this look?” she asked, showing me a pile of garlic that she’d minced.
“Looks good. Can you chop up a couple more cloves?” I glanced up and saw that Alma was now staring at me intently, chewing furiously on her lower lip. I quickly turned away and started rubbing the steaks with garlic and olive oil. It had never occurred to me that Alma might be the one to put it all together. I realized that I wasn’t worried either way. Alma wasn’t a bigmouth, and besides, there was no way she could know anything for sure.
Finally dinner was ready. My family sat patiently at the table while I served up mashed potatoes with goat cheese, roasted asparagus, and the steaks, pan-fried with a brandy peppercorn sauce. When I put the plates in front of them, they oohed and aahed. I waited as Dad poured the wine, including a splash for me, and we all toasted. When Dad cut into his steak, he said, “Man oh man, this looks like a great meal.” He ate a few bites and then leaned back and looked at me. “That’s probably one of the best steaks I’ve ever eaten.”
I’d wanted to impress them, and from the way all three of them polished off their meals, I thought I had succeeded. When the main course was done, I brought out the pièce de résistance—a strawberry tart that JP had helped me make in the restaurant the day before.
After dinner, Mom made coffee and we sat around the table, relaxed and full.
“I’ve got to say,” Dad said, leaning back in his chair again, “you’ve turned into quite the chef, Dan. Way to go.”
“Thanks,” I said. I took a deep breath. “What would you guys think if I wanted to do this for a living? I mean, be a chef. I really love it, and I think I’m good at it, and there’s a really good school that I might be able to get into if I apply in the fall. JP says that there are lots of jobs, and you’ll never be out of work if you’re a chef and maybe someday I could be my own boss and have my own restaurant.”
There was a long pause as my parents regarded each other across the table. I had no idea what they were thinking.
“What school?” my mom finally asked. I’d been waiting for this, and pulled the brochure from my backpack. I watched nervously as Mom looked over it and then passed it to Dad.
“Montreal?” Mom asked as Dad quietly flipped through the brochure.
“JP told me that they accept only twenty new students every year, and it’s hard to get admitted straight from high school, but he thinks I can do it. He says I’m good enough, and if I fly up for the audition—”
“There’s an audition?” my dad asked incredulously.
“Yeah, well, kind of. You have to go to the school and run through some exercises, and then they do an interview with you. They make you demonstrate techniques and stuff like that. JP told me I can stay with him if I get an interview. In Montreal.”
“Okay, hang on. First of all, I haven’t even met this JP guy, and now you’re telling me you want to fly up to Montreal and stay with this—this cook, and apply to go to cooking school?”
I hadn’t expected a quick approval. I’d figured I’d have to warm them up to it, but I hadn’t expected this either. I could tell by his tone of voice that my dad didn’t like the idea one bit. I was grateful when my mom cut in.
“Joe, hang on a minute. Let’s at least find out a bit more about this. Danny, we’re just a little bit surprised. This has never come up before.”
“That’s because I’ve never wanted to do anything this much before! I’ve never wanted to do anything before! But I’m good at it. I could be great at it.”
“I’m not busting my ass in the middle of goddamned northern Alberta for eight months a year so you can cook filet mignon for rich assholes in some city in Quebec.” Dad’s face was flushed, and one of his hands was gripping the edge of the table.
“I thought you liked the filet mignon!”
“I did like it, it was great! Best steak I’ve ever eaten, and hopefully you’ll cook us more of them someday. But I’ll be damned if you’re going to take my money and spend it on some fruity-tootie school in Montreal!”
Alma snorted. “Fruity-tootie? Really?” she asked.
“Okay, what do you want me to do?” I asked.
“I want you to become a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher. Something that takes brains—something I wasn’t smart enough to do!”
“Yeah, because it’s all about you. Don’t blame me because you lost your stupid job out west!”
“ ‘Gentlemen,’ ” said Alma, “ ‘you can’t fight in here. This is the war room!’ ”
Mom glared at her and said, “Now is not the time, Alma.”
My dad took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, he was obviously trying to control his anger. “Danny, do you think I like those jobs? Do you have any idea why I have to take those contracts in Alberta?”
“Because the bottling plant shut down.”
“That’s part of it, but the main thing is that I didn’t have anything else to fall back on. I barely finished high school. But your mother and I have sacrificed a lot to raise you guys here.”
“You didn’t have to raise us here! This is what you guys wanted! Do you think I like it here in this shithole?”
I was standing now, and yelling. He didn’t know the first thing about my life, but he was trying to tell me how to live. It was total bullshit.
“Trust me, Danny,” he said, “you might think the rest of the world is a lot better than Deep Cove, but it’s not. At least here you know where you come from.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty shocking that a work camp in northern Alberta doesn’t live up to your standards. Thanks for the advice.”
“Hey!” Mom said. “You are both completely overreacting here!”
Dad didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he stood up and looked down at all three of us. “You don’t think I feel like a failure already?” he said quietly. “You don’t think I wish I could go back and do everything all over again? I don’t need you to tell me how unqualified I am to give you advice. Do what you want. I could care less.”
He turned and walked out of the house, slamming the door behind him. After a moment, my mom got up and followed him.
“Good thing I didn’t tell them I want to be an actress,” said Alma, helping herself to another slice of strawberry tart.