Page 25 of Summer Reading

“He had that disposition when he was a kitten,” I said.

“You’re not wrong,” she agreed. “Either way, I have to feed him first.”

“All right, meet us at the inn,” I said. A library user was coming toward the desk, so I started to back away so she could get back to work. “Black pants, white shirt. Tell Ben.”

“Fancy,” Em said. She put her hand to her throat, posing like a model from the forties. “You got it.”

Glancing at the clock, I realized I had better get home and start planning what I was serving. I was going to need every minute before Friday to make sure this went smoothly. I now had two major cooking commitments on my calendar. I felt a thrum in my chest. I wasn’t sure if it was fear or excitement. I decided I would call it excitement until it became excitement. I just hoped that worked.

Chapter Seven

One thing I knew, from a lifetime of working around my unique way of seeing things, was that preparation was key, so I spent all week working on my menu. Stuart had said he wanted me to focus on small plates and bar bites, but what did I want those items to be?

I decided this happy hour needed to be different. Not the standard fare of potato skins and sliders. Rather, I wanted it to be so distinctive and delicious that people would talk about it all week. I wanted the foodies on the island to hear the buzz and realize they had missed out and demand my return next week. Pretty high aspirations for a single happy hour, I know. But the beauty of my neurodivergent brain is that sometimes I can picture the forest better than the individual trees, and this vision guides me toward my goals.

I didn’t know where to start with my menu, so I hit the West Tisbury Farmer’s Market to look for some inspiration. Held in the Martha’s Vineyard Agricultural Hall, rain or shine, spring through fall, this farmer’smarket had been founded in 1934 in response to the Depression. My vovó hadn’t even been born yet, but she often told me stories about my relatives, farmers and fishermen, trying to survive those lean years.

The farmer’s market was revived in the seventies, and twenty years later, when I was a kid, Vovó brought me every Saturday. Some of my best memories were of wandering through the stalls and booths with her, watching her haggle over a few pounds of fish or a big old melon.

My throat got tight and I paused beside a booth full of honey and wildflowers. I missed my vovó with an intensity that almost took me out. She had been such a constant in my life as a kid. I knew she would have thought I was crazy to quit a paying job when I didn’t have another one lined up, but I also knew she was my biggest champion and she would have told me I could do anything I set my mind to. Whenever I had struggled to master a recipe she was teaching me, she always told me to trust myself and keep trying. I could really use her confidence in me right now.

It was then that inspiration struck. I’d been looking to cook exotic fare for the Tangled Vine’s happy hour, thinking it had to be some crazy food trend so that I could get noticed, but it didn’t have to be that. It just had to be something different that was also delicious. A memory of Vovó popped into my head. She was standing by the stove in our summer house and shewas making kale soup. She tested it, made a face, and said, “Mais sal.” I remember laughing at the time because she never measured anything, she always cooked to taste—her taste.

And that’s what I was going to do. I decided right then and there in the middle of the market that I was going full Portuguese. I dragged the memories of all the dishes Vovó had taught over the years out of my brain. My menu would consist of peixinhos da horta, or batter-drenched fried green beans—yes, it’s a classic and, little-known fact, the Portuguese are believed to have invented tempura. I’d also make bolinhos de bacalhau, which are small round cod and mashed potato fritters, and torresmos, a recipe for marinated pork that had been known to make grown men weep it was so good.

I grabbed pork ribs from the Grey Barn stand and potatoes and green beans from the Milkweed Farm booth, then I zipped over to the Menemsha Fish Market to pick up some fresh cod. I spent the next two days doing practice runs at the house, which caused Tyler to complain about the fish smell. Whatever. It felt so frigging good to be a chef again. I was giddy.

•••

The Tangled Vine Inn was nestled on the outskirts of town. It sat prominently on East Chop Drive surrounded by garden beds of thick hydrangea that burst into colors from white to powder blue to vibrant magenta. Theylooked artlessly arranged as if they’d naturally sprung up around the stone walls, but of course the lush lawn that swept out from the side of the inn made it clear that the grounds were scrupulously maintained.

Happy hour was to be held on the enormous stone terrace at the back of the inn. There were small high-top tables, a DJ playing yacht rock in the corner by a small dance floor, and paper lanterns strung around the perimeter that would light up as soon as the sun went down. I was surprised to find I was nervous. I’d cooked for hundreds of events in my time as a chef, but this one felt more personal since my younger brother was here. I could admit it, at least to myself, that I wanted him to be impressed with me. Also, I’d spent all of our grocery money on the food, so it really was do-or-die time.

Stuart and I had discussed my ideas for catering the happy hour, and we went with three dedicated food stations that Tyler, Ben, and Em would host. Meanwhile, I would run back and forth to the kitchen, which I shared with the regular chef, Mark Chambers, who was not at all territorial, thank goodness, and quite happy to have me fill in for happy hour so he didn’t have to do it.

As I set up the stations, I could smell the brine on the incoming tide, and it triggered a lifetime of summers spent on the island. For the first time since I’d arrived, I felt like I was home. It hit me then that I’dmissed summers on the Vineyard. I’d missed them a lot, and it felt good to be back. I just wished my dad was here to see me crushing it, because I absolutely was. I suffered a lot of insecurity about myself but never about my cooking.

Stuart popped in to say hello while I worked in the inn’s kitchen all afternoon, prepping for the evening. He acted suitably dazzled by the appetizers I was preparing. I didn’t know if his enthusiasm was just because he’d been friends with my parents back in the day or not, so I insisted he try a little bit of everything. He cleaned his plate sopping up the leavings with a bolo lêvedo, similar to an English muffin but better, dozens of which I’d baked that morning and planned to set, freshly warmed, in big baskets at every food station. He sighed—actually sighed—when he was finished, and then he gave me a chef’s kiss.

“Sam, you are a culinary genius,” he said. “And I’m not just saying that because my mother was Portuguese.”

I bowed my head. “Thank you.” And in that moment, I could feel the devastation from being passed over at the Comstock easing just a smidge. Maybe I was going to be all right.

I ducked out and picked up Tyler at the library. Ben followed us back to the house, where he parked his motorcycle. I drove the three of us to the inn, and Em met us there. All three of my helpers were wearingblack pants and white shirts per my request. Despite my prep work, we ran around like crazed contestants onChoppedjust before happy hour was about to start, getting each food station fully stocked.

Given how swiftly the patio filled up, I was relieved to have Em and Ben there, too. If it had been just Tyler and me, we would have been overrun.

“How are you holding up, Chef?” Ben asked from behind his station.

“Fine. Why? Do I look nervous?”

“Not at all.”

“Liar,” I said. “I’m petrified. It shows, doesn’t it?”

He studied me for a second, and I felt as if he was looking past the pleated hat and white coat into the woman who had found her identity in the culinary arts, when it seemed like she wasn’t good at anything at all.

“Not a bit,” he said. His gaze held mine, and it was warm and full of admiration. “You look as if you were born to do this.”

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