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“That one you actually read correctly.”
“What is it?”
“Usually parsley, garlic, lemon zest.”
His brow furrows. “Why don’t they say that?”
“Because then they couldn’t charge sixteen dollars for cauliflower.”
Kell laughs, and I do too. He keeps going. Ham and shrimp are easy. He knows chicken, potatoes, mushrooms, and onions. Risotto takes him two tries. Bouillabaisse stops him completely.
“Bow…”
“Bouillabaisse.”
He studies the word for another second. “Those letters aren’t doing that.”
I laugh again. “No argument.”
“What is it?”
“Seafood stew.”
“Then why don’t they write seafood stew?”
“Because this restaurant is committed to making you work for your dinner.”
He smiles and returns to the menu. I should be enjoying this. Ten minutes ago, I was. Then a thought slips in before I can stop it.
I’m reading a menu to a grown man. The ugliness of it hits almost as soon as the words form. Kell isn’t stupid. He isn’t helpless. He’s learning, and he’s learning fast.
He can’t read bouillabaisse. That’s all.
The server returns before I can do anything useful with the thought. Kell closes the menu and tells her he wants the steak.
“The filet?” she asks.
He opens the menu again, finds the line he wants, and taps it. “This one.”
“The ribeye. How would you like it cooked?”
Kell pauses. “What does that mean?”
The server answers without hesitation. “Rare, medium rare, medium, medium well, or well done.”
He turns to me. “What do you get?”
“Medium rare.”
“Why?”
“Because I like it that way.”
Kell nods and tells the server he’ll try medium rare. When she asks about sides, he has her explain two of them before choosing the potatoes. Then he asks what broccolini is.
“It’s similar to broccoli,” she says.
“Why not call it broccoli?”
