Shepherd's Diner

Patsy Hayes remembered when it first happened, she was sure of it, down to the specific date and time. She was getting older and increasingly forgetful, but the others had to concede that she was right on this point. The deliveries had begun late last winter, just as the bitter nights were lengthening, giving way to sunny mornings that drew tender, green shoots from the soil. “It was March 3^rd, I know it was,” she said, distinctly remembering that it was her niece’s half-birthday. “First thing I saw when I went outside to do my morning watering. So, March 3^rd, 7 a.m., that was the first time.”

She had found a basket just outside her front door, and, having no reason to suspect malintent, she brought it in to investigate. There was no note, just an unremarkable tea towel covering the contents. Savoring the thrill of anticipation, she peeked to reveal a carefully-assembled pile of buns that rose high above the brim of the basket. Immediately, the air was fragrant with cardamom. Each bun was a perfect, round pillow, glossy and smooth except for where dark raisins studded its surface. An egg wash made the deep golden brown tops shine. She took one in her hand and automatically raised it to her nose, closing her eyes and breathing in the yeasty goodness. She could tell by the feel, by the way the dough gave in her hand, that it was expertly made. She had planned to have some girlfriends over that day, and she was sure one of them had sent the delivery in preparation for their get-together. But that afternoon, as they indulged in the bounty, no one took credit for the mysterious package.

Several days later, Johnny Peters, the retired owner of the only gas station in town, discovered a box at his home. He hadn’t confirmed its arrival until 10 in the morning, when he returned from walking his corgi, Samson, out around Baldwin Park. His parcel contained a mix of oat and blueberry scones, sprinkled with sugar and still warm. He hadn’t done anything special to deserve it, he didn’t think, but he sure appreciated the gesture. He shared the scones with his former workers, and everyone agreed that their taste – the combination of texture and flavor, moist without being gummy, crumbly but not dry, the balance of sweetness and soda that make scones unique – was unparalleled.

Two packages in two weeks, with no one taking credit. Talk grew in the small town, and as spring extended to summer, which lazily turned to fall, two dozen more deliveries occurred. Never with any discernible pattern, just spread out and irregular. In all that time, no one had any idea who was responsible. After a while, people noticed that the gifts tended to align with needs in the community; they had to be coming from someone who knew their business, at least in broad strokes. Always a tasty, home-cooked dish, a delectable array of baked goods. Always to a different person, always enough to share.

***

Tyler proceeded from table to table, wiping them down and picking up dirty dishes, greeting customers as he did so. He’d worked at Shepherd’s, the town’s mom-and-pop diner, for over a year. Naturally, it was a hotbed for news and gossip, as most of the townspeople came through at some point during the week. At seventeen, Tyler’s frame was in a peak growing phase, stretching now to 6 feet; his jeans and t-shirt hung off him like a scarecrow’s. He put equal effort into school and work, studying and saving, trying to keep alive aspirations that he could leave the town if he ever needed to. Not that it was bad, nothing worse than any other small town, he figured. But he knew there was more to see in the world, and he wanted to keep his options open.

From his job as a busser, dishwasher, and all-purpose worker at Shepherd’s, he was up to date on the local gossip. And for a long time, he was caught up in the whirlwind excitement of the mystery deliveries. He’d even gotten to sample some of the food, as people brought extras by the diner from time to time; he had to admit that everything was truly excellent. But now he observed it all with mild amusement, because he had a pretty good idea of who was responsible.

About a year ago, a man named Mr. Otis had come to town. He began doing odd jobs here and there, and he was eventually hired as a janitor and handyman, splitting duties between the high school and Shep’s. Tyler knew why no one had suspected him. Mr. Otis lived by himself and kept to himself, and even though the town was usually buzzing at any new arrival, his unassuming nature made him easy to overlook; they preferred flash, drama. Even his appearance was inconspicuous – average build, early sixties, nothing notable or remarkable. Tyler only knew about him because of work and school. Mr. Otis assimilated easily and soon was simply part of the fabric of the town, an old janitor who no one thought much about.

Tyler and Mr. Otis were both in the back room of Shep’s one fall day, Tyler on a late break in his shift and Mr. Otis enjoying an early one. They’d been friendly enough and had gotten along from the start, but they hadn’t talked a lot, even though they had been coworkers for several months. Feeling adventurous, Tyler initiated a conversation.

“Mr. Otis, can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

As the query formed on Tyler’s lips, he felt a surge of doubt – this was ludicrous, this old janitor couldn’t be secretly delivering homemade baked goods all over town. Still, he’d begun to ask it, so he continued before his nerve broke. “Are you sending those packages around to folks?”

For a moment Mr. Otis’ expression was inscrutable, and Tyler was stricken with fear that he had grievously upset or embarrassed him. But then Mr. Otis smiled slyly, winked at him, and said, “What gave me away?”

 Tyler burst out laughing. “I knew it! This is amazing.” Mr. Otis looked expectant, waiting for an answer, but he had a gleam in his eye as Tyler explained his reasoning.

“Well, I figured you’d be able to pick up on some gossip just by being around Shep’s, like I do, right? Like, whoever is doing it has to be up on things. But then a couple of months ago I saw you, and your clothes were, like, covered with flour, and I swear one time you came in smelling like a bakery. And then, yeah, beyond that it’s a process of elimination.” Tyler smiled. “Call it intuition, or maybe just a lucky guess.”

Mr. Otis wasn’t upset at being found out, if anything there was some relief in his eyes, certainly a good amount of bemusement. He’d always liked the kid, and this was a pleasant surprise.

“Don’t worry, Mr. O. I won’t tell anyone your secret,” Tyler said. “I kind of can’t believe they haven’t figured it out yet, but I won’t be the one to tell them.”

Mr. Otis smiled and extended a hand toward Tyler; they shook on it.

“Seriously, though. I’ve never tasted anything like what you’ve made,” Tyler said. “Never seen how such a small thing can make people feel so good.” He stopped, realizing how that might sound. “I’m sorry, not that what you’re doing is a small thing, I’m sure it’s a ton of work – ” Mr. Otis raised his hand gently to stop the apology.

“I know what you mean. And thank you, son. I appreciate it.”

“How did you learn to cook like this?”

Mr. Otis looked thoughtful; for a moment he gazed into a different dimension, letting his mind race across scores of memories over the years. “My wife, mostly,” was all he said.

Some more time passed before Tyler could screw up the courage to ask, “Do you need any help?”

***

The first time Tyler went out to his home, Mr. Otis decided they would make a pair of pies – apple and pecan – to deliver to the Conner family. Tyler didn’t ask why the Conners, but Mr. Conner had shared last week that the youngest child had a bad ear infection; the whole town knew about it. Pies were simple, perhaps a bit mundane, but apples abounded and were right in season. Mr. Otis figured it would be a good initiation for Tyler.

Tyler didn’t ask too many questions as they went, at least not about anything other than the baking techniques he was trying to absorb. He observed how Mr. Otis handled himself in the kitchen. There was a tenderness, a joy, in the way he did simple things like slip the core out of an apple wedge with an expert turn of the knife. His very being thrummed with excitement as he explained to Tyler why cutting in cold butter was necessary for a flaky crust; he sifted the mixture through his fingers to gauge its consistency, guiding Tyler to do the same, determining its readiness based on years of feel and practice. Mr. Otis was a natural teacher. He had Tyler make the crust for the second pie, offering exhortations as Tyler rolled the dough, crimped and pinched the edges just so with his fingers, decorated the top with sculpted leaves.

As the pies baked, Mr. Otis and Tyler sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and a coke, respectively. Their attentions more focused since the main work was over, they were freer now to talk.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Mr. Otis said, “and just answer it, don’t think. Say the first thing that comes to your mind, okay?”

Tyler nodded.

“What’s your favorite thing to eat?”

Tyler thought for a moment. “I mean, I eat a lot of pizza.”

Mr. Otis smiled, “Sure, who doesn’t.”

“But I think maybe my favorite thing is spaghetti and meatballs, especially how my mom makes it.”

“Great. Classic. And what do you like about it? About how she makes it in particular?”

Tyler paused again. He had never thought about this before. Immediately he was filled with memories of countless meals with his mom at their table, laughing and teasing each other; as a kid he used to messily slurp a single noodle in his lips to her feigned shock and horror. He tried to remember the taste and why he loved it, though these were intermixed with the other memories, too. “I like how hearty it is, how much it fills me up. And it’s salty and tangy but not too much of either. The meatballs are tender, somehow, and we have a method for how we like to cut them up so we get a perfect bite each time.” He stopped, having said more than he thought he could. He looked at Mr. Otis. “It just reminds me of home, I guess.”   

“That’s a great answer.” Mr. Otis smiled, considering it. “Okay, similar thing. It’s going to feel like the same question, and if it’s the same answer, that’s okay. Ready?” Tyler held his breath. “What’s the best thing you ever ate?”

Tyler’s mind began searching the past. Each culinary memory evoked some specific time and place, and the people he’d shared it with. He’d had a perfect steak once to celebrate his mom’s promotion, and he’d made numerous trips with friends to get clam chowder and cod fish and chips from his favorite place in Rockaway. He thought of a beautiful three-layer chocolate cake his grandmother had made for his birthday one year, rich and deep in flavor, the quintessential ideal of what chocolate cake should be. But then it hit him, and instantly he knew the correct answer.

He had liked a girl once, freshman year of high school; she had just been in town for a year before her dad’s work took her away. In the end, time went too quickly, and she was leaving before they could build the kind of bond that would make keeping in touch worth it. But one night, toward the end of her stay, she had invited him over to meet her family. He had forgotten about that meal until just now.

“And, you know, they were aiming to pull out all the stops, I guess,” Tyler said, describing the scene to Mr. Otis. “So, they made me beef bourguignon.”

Mr. Otis nodded. “Ah,” he said. “Say no more.”

“It’s just,” Tyler paused, thinking, tasting the wine-infused richness, the tender meat. “I didn’t know anything could taste like that, you know?” He laughed. “Now look, I’m not fancy, I haven’t been to many places; I can barely pronounce it. But even I know that was something special.” He let himself dwell on the memory, sad and sweet. He wondered what the girl was doing now, where she had ended up.

They were silent for a while, thinking fondly of beef bourguignon, their senses alive as if they had been at that table that night. Mr. Otis sighed contentedly at a memory that wasn’t even his.

“How about you, Mr. O.? For either question?”

He didn’t hesitate. “For me, it’s the same answer both times. But I’ll tell you what, kiddo. Rather than describe it, I’ll make it for you next time. Deal?”

***

Mr. Otis was as good as his word, and when Tyler visited a few days later, he entered a house that was perfumed by shallots sautéing in butter.

“I know you want to see the process, but I started a bit early.”

He let Tyler observe, but it was clear that Mr. Otis thought of this not as a lesson for Tyler, but as a gift for him. He had Tyler sit at the table where he could watch the action. Mr. Otis had made it enough times that he could talk easily as he prepared the meal, even during multiple steps of dicing, chopping, folding, assembling.

“Anne, my wife, was always a wonderful cook. She had lived a much more interesting life than I had; her parents had worked abroad, she had been to Europe, something that was unthinkable to me at the time. She made this for me early on in our marriage, on our first anniversary, and it became an instant favorite.”

He went on. “It’s simple, you know, not a complicated dish. I’ve spent years trying to perfect it, trying to make it like she did. And sometimes I come pretty close.”

Tyler helped to set the table, and soon they sat facing each other. Between them was a magnificent quiche, browned and bubbly on top, edges the shade of a wheat field. Mr. Otis served up a piece on each plate; a lightly dressed green salad, a sliced baguette, pinot gris, and Perrier completed the meal.

“Here, my friend, is my wife’s Quiche Lorraine. I always called it Quiche Anne.” And they toasted. “Bon appétit.”

With the first bite, Tyler’s eyes widened. Having seen the quiche being made, he expected the salty bacon, the biting gruyere, the smoothing shallot. But the texture was a revelation. It was silky but firm, perfectly cooked; the components floating, suspended in the savory custard. For several minutes they ate in silence. Mr. Otis felt like it was a reasonably solid rendition – not his best, not his wife’s, but not too far off.

Tyler looked at Mr. Otis finally, and his expression said it all. It filled Mr. Otis with joy that he couldn’t express, so he didn’t try. It meant his wife’s passion was living on, was enriching others, was having a lasting impact. He had honored her memory. He simply nodded at Tyler, lifted his glass again, and let his heart feel full.

“That’s what’s amazing about food, right?” Mr. Otis said when their plates were empty. “It’s rarely just the food. It’s the people, the setting. Who you share it with. She’s always with me when I make this dish.”

Tyler nodded. “If that’s how you feel about it, why leave the deliveries anonymously? Aren’t you contradicting yourself?”

“It’s a good point.” Mr. Otis paused. “I think initially I wanted to do something nice. I needed an outlet, and I didn’t have anyone to cook for. But I worried that they wouldn’t be inclined to take something from me, from someone new. I was afraid they would think I’d want something. I mean, I guess I do want something, I want to share my food. But I don’t want money for it, or favors, or anything else. And then it just grew, and it’s been fun keeping up the secret.”

He hesitated, looking reflective. “I guess this,” and he gestured in a way that encompassed the two of them, the meal and the table and all it represented – the budding friendship, the food and fellowship, the promise of mentorship, of more cooking together – “this was probably my ultimate goal, my best-case scenario, even if I didn’t realize it when I started.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Tyler smiled and served himself another slice of quiche. “Lucky me.”

After dinner, they cleaned up the kitchen and started anew. They worked into the night and early morning on brioche loaves that were challenging yet rewarding; Tyler crashed on the couch after the last items came out of the oven. He rose early and said goodbye to his friend, who he would see at Shep’s later that day.

One of these times, Tyler knew, as Mr. Otis did, the game would be up, the mystery would be solved. But until then, Tyler had every intention of continuing the fun; maybe by working together they could keep it going a bit longer. So, he bundled the beautiful bread they had made, secured the basket on his bike, and set off to make someone’s day.