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“I wanted to help,” I said, hefting the appliance onto Ethan’s concrete countertop.
“This place is beautiful. It’s the best kitchen I’ve ever seen in anybody’s house. I can’t believe he doesn’t use it,” she said.
“You’ve met Ethan, right? Does he seem like he cooks big meals or hosts dinner parties?”
“I don’t know him that well,” she said and seemed a little shy about it.
“You’ll get to know him pretty quickly. He’s great at his job, but if it’s not architecture or his family, he doesn’t have much to say.”
“That’s demonstrably false,” Ethan’s voice came from the living room. “I have a lot to say about the Knicks.”
“That goes without saying,” I acknowledged.
“I thought you and Leo were going to work on the farmhouse this weekend?” She asked.
“We’ll head out in the morning. We usually try to have dinner together on Fridays if we can.”
“That’s really nice that you guys are so close.”
Madison put her eggs and butter in the refrigerator and turned to help me set out the Indian food. Noah gravitated toward the peppery scent of the meal. He set the table, and Ethan came in, talking on his phone. Soon the four of us gathered around the table and passed the containers, loading our plates. Noah tucked into the spicy vindaloo while Ethan piled his plate with chana masala and dal makhani. I watched Madison choose a samosa and then add a little taste of every dish to her plate.
“So good,” she muttered and tore off a piece of naan to go with it.
I ate my butter chicken and marveled at Noah’s ability to eat the scorching vindaloo and still carry on a conversation like a normal person.
“I still think you were a dragon in a past life. Only way to explain the fact that your esophagus hasn’t melted yet. You have some residual flame-retardant lining in your gullet or something,” Ethan remarked.
“Are you a vegetarian?” Madison asked him.
“Not at all. Why?” he asked.
“I just saw that you were eating the chickpeas and stuff instead of the lamb or chicken.”
“You’re observant,” he remarked. “I just like the chickpeas.”
“I don’t scare that easily. When I was in cooking school, we used to eat whatever was on sale at the taco truck after classes let out. If you’ve survived on discount day-old Mexican cooked in a literal van, you don’t have to worry about the after-effects of some perfectly good Indian food,” she said.
“Van food?” Ethan said dubiously.
She nodded, “I also worked at the convenience store near my old apartment and at the end of the shift we got to take home any of the hot wings that didn’t sell.”
“It’s a wonder you’re alive,” Noah said. “Leftover hot wings? Clearance sale parking lot tacos?”
“Hey, those wings stayed hot under the lamp for ten hours at a time. They were just as good when at the end of a shift as they were fresh,” she protested.
“That,” I remarked, “is not the flex you think it is. Since that just means they were awful to start with.”
“I’m starting to suspect that none of you ever had to hustle to survive.” She shook her head at us with a half-smile.
“You’re right about that,” I said. “I did shift work some during my apprenticeship, but none of us ever went hungry.”
“I didn’t starve. But I ate a lot of free leftovers.”
“You’re a true survivor, Madison,” Ethan said. “Now I’ll clear this away and you can teach the lot of us to make muffins.”
“Oh no, I can do it myself. You’ve been so nice letting me use your kitchen. I’ve already preheated both ovens. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind. I know the top one is a convection oven. I’m not sure about the one on the bottom. Before you arrived, I took the back issues of Architectural Digest out of it.”
