Page 28 of Pity Play

“You mean it’s fancier than coleslaw?” He sounds offended on coleslaw’s behalf, which is ridiculous.

“Sometimes we serve it with fried green tomatoes,” I tell him.

His eyebrows raise in surprise. “How do you make those fancy?”

“You don’t. I make them with cornmeal, buttermilk, garlic and onion powder, just like you used to.”

I can tell there’s something he wants to ask me, but he doesn’t. So, I add, “Remember how we ate those into the fall that one year? You even packed them in my school lunch.”

He tries to shrug, but his suspended arm keeps him from succeeding. “What else are you supposed to do with a whole batch of tomatoes that don’t ripen before the weather turns?”

I smile at the memories we’re sharing. “From what I recall, you can make salsa and chutney, too.”

He cringes. “That chutney wasn’t the best, was it? Your mother pretended to accidentally knock the box off the root cellar shelf and break the jars.”

In the spirit of our newly found camaraderie, I confess, “I helped her pour them down the garbage disposal.”

My dad surprises me by releasing a loud bark of laughter. “I figured it was something like that. What about the salsa? You guys liked that well enough?”

“It was some of the best you ever made,” I tell him honestly.

We sit silently for a couple of minutes, each of us seeming to relish the peace. Then my dad surprises me by saying, “I looked up that restaurant of yours on the internet.”

I hold my breath waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, I ask, “What do you think?”

“I think it’s pretentious.” So much for a ceasefire.

I’m not sure how to respond to him without sounding like I’m looking for a fight. “It fits the location and the clientele,” I tell him.

“Everyone in Chicago can’t be stuck up.”

“I’m not stuck up, Dad. Which I’m sure you’d figure out for yourself if you’d ever bothered to visit me and let me cook for you.” That clearly wasn’t the right thing to say, but I have no idea what this man has against expensive restaurants.

“I know how you cook,” he says. “Which is why I wanted you to come work with me.”

That’s probably as close to a compliment as he’s going to give to me. “When I was in finance, you never complained about me not working at the diner.”

“That’s because you were in finance. It’s what you went to school for.”

“I also went to culinary school, Dad.” My blood is nearly boiling at this point and it’s all I can do not to get up and walk out on him.

“I taught you how to cook, Luke.Idid that, not some fancy school.”

It appears the crux of my dad’s beef with me is that he thinks I hold myself above him, which is not the case. I just wanted to learn how to cook other things. “You did a great job, too, Dad. Such a good job that I wanted to learn more.”

He lies there quietly, like he’s deciding if this is a compliment or the gravest of insults. But instead of letting me off the hook and being gracious, he says, “Well then, you’d better get back to Chicago so you can domore.”

“My life isn’t all about my restaurant, Dad. I have a family, too.”

“You wouldn’t know that by how often we see you,” he mutters.

His constant complaints are wearing thin. He cooks, and I cook. He taught me a lot, so you’d think he’d be proud, but he’s so stuck on thinking that I look down on him he can’t see that my career choice is a tribute to him. “The funny thing about roads, Dad, is that they go both ways.” Standing up, I add, “You haven’t come to see me either.”

“I have a restaurant to run, Luke. I can’t just take off and lollygag around Chicago.”

“Who’s running your restaurant while you’re in the hospital?” I’m sorely tempted to tell him it’s me, but I know that won’t go well. Also, I promised my mom.

“I suppose Jim is.”

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