A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) by Hillary Manton Lodge

grandmother’s recipes in a table I inherited. How does a Saturday brunch menu sound—or instructions for a crepe party?
    We could include a recipe for savory crepes, which are usually made from buckwheat. With the popularity of whole grains of late, might be a nice spin.
    I hit Send and hoped that my suggestions would appeal to Marti. E-mail taken care of, I made myself a cup of MarketSpice tea in the test kitchen. I watched the tea steep—the water growing darker and darker—not realizing until the last moment that I really couldn’t wait to be home, working on the restaurant that wasn’t.
    I spent the next few hours working as quickly and efficiently as possible. Once I’d accomplished all I’d set out to do, I shut down my computer, said my good-byes, and headed to the grocery store—my day was far from over.

    “It’s really great of you to do this, Etta,” Nico said as he folded the cloth napkins into elaborate fan shapes and nestled them inside the wineglasses.
    “One meeting,” I answered, tightening my apron around my waist. “One meeting with Frank Burrows. That’s all I’m committing to.”
    “You should have let me cook.”
    “You’re not the only one who went to culinary school. Besides, I needed to test the recipes before handing in the piece to Marti.”
    “I never thought I’d say this, but there’s too much food here. Are you sure you weren’t stress cooking?”
    “Me?” I arranged my features into their best imitation of serenity. “I’m not stressed. Not stressed at all. No stress here.”
    “That’s good.”
    Perception has never been Nico’s strong suit.
    For the meeting, I’d laid out a wide variety of fillings and sauces on the table, with the sauces in my antique chafing dishes to stay warm. And it was true—there was a lot of food. I’d provided prosciutto, roasted red peppers, toasted walnuts, fig preserves, and a cheese sauce made with fontina. The savory ingredients were intended for the brown-butter buckwheat crepes.
    For dessert, I’d provided sweet crepes made with my grandmother’s recipe. Antique china bowls containing Nutella, sweetened mascarpone, lemon curd, and sliced fresh fruit fought for space on the table.
    The crepe I was most proud of, though, was my stracciatella crepe. In a nod to the gelato flavor, I’d attacked the chocolate bar with my trusty Micro-plane zester and incorporated it as a last ingredient in my chilled crepe batter.
    Nico reached for one of the stracciatella crepes and tore off a corner. “These are really good. Texture’s perfect. Just the right amount of chocolate. You haven’t lost your touch, you know.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I’m actually a little mad I didn’t come up with them myself.”
    I shrugged. “You probably would have at some point.”
    “You should have been a chef. You’re more creative than I am.”
    A dozen responses soared through my head. “It’s not for me,” I answered simply enough.
    “Do you think you’d be able to leave the newspaper?”
    “I don’t know yet,” I said, filling the crystal pitcher with ice water. “We’ll see.”
    A knock sounded at the door. Nico stood up straighter. “You’ll keep an open mind?”
    “If you make me say ‘I’m thinking about it’ one more time, I’m going to go medieval on your copper cookware.”
    Nico winked at me but said nothing as he moved to open the door.
    I untied my apron and smoothed my bangs, pasting a smile onto my face as Frank Burrows came into view.
    “Juliette D’Alisa!” his voice boomed when he saw me. “Great to see you. How’s Marti these days?”
    “Well fed, as always,” I answered, shaking his hand. “She’s a great lady.”
    “That she is. Tough, but good. Did I see you last month at the winemaker’s dinner with Jim Haberman?”
    “I was there, so you must have. That was a wonderful night—I still think about those pinot truffles they served for dessert.”
    “Well, this,” he said, eyes wide over the spread on