more and more frequently was that there were two sets of stairs leading up to their living space. One set of rickety wooden steps snaked up the back of the building, while another ran right through the center hall that divided the tearoom. Eric, Fernando, and she lived together in what they referred to as the Huge Apartment. The door at the top of the stairs opened directly into the kitchen. Suzanna stepped inside and smiled. She loved this room, and every time she walked into it, her spirits immediately lifted.
The room was oddly shaped, something it had in common with all the rooms in the tea shop/bookstore/apartment compound. The kitchen was a perfect square, which made it look massive, but a large percentage of the square footage had been wasted floor space until Eric had built a large workstation, now center stage on the black-and-white-tiled floor.
Fernando was at the stove, and Suzanna braced herself for a complaint. Fernando had redesigned the kitchen at the Bun about two years ago, and had been campaigning ever since to redo the upstairs kitchen as well. But Suzanna loved the kitchen just the way it was. If the vintage stove was finicky, so be it. If Fernando was cooking something that needed precise heat, he could always work in the Bun kitchen.
“I’m starving,” Suzanna said, relieved to find it wasn’t her turn to make dinner. “What are we having?”
“Salad, peanut soup, and fresh bread.”
Suzanna felt her throat constrict. She and Eric tended toward the shepherd’s pies and angel-hair-with-tomatoes-and-garlic-variety dinners. Suzanna had often wondered why Fernando refused to cook normal dinners like everybody else.
“Oh?” Suzanna said. “That sounds. . . peanuts, huh?”
“I know! I found the recipe online. It’s an African dish. Slaves apparently brought it to the American South. They still serve it all over Virginia, according to the article I read. Try it,” Fernando said, nodding toward the pot.
Suzanna often relied on bread to cut the weirdness of many of Fernando’s creations, but when she eyed the bread maker, it was still ticking away. She clearly was going to have to go cold turkey on this one. She grabbed a spoon and tentatively tried the soup. She often chided herself for not being more adventurous—after all, she owned a restaurant—but she usually gave herself a pass on this particular flaw. She had other things to worry about.
“Wow!” she said. “This is good.”
“I know! I’m thinking about putting it on the menu.”
Suzanna’s whole mood shifted. She thought the tea shop customers would really enjoy this new treat and it would get him off her back about the swing. Win–win!
“I’ll call it ‘Slave Soup,’” he said.
Suzanna’s good humor tanked.
“You can’t put ‘Slave Soup’ on the menu.”
“Sure I can . . . I’m part Cherokee.”
“Sure he can,” Eric echoed, coming in to join the conversation. “It could be a post-racial-era statement.”
Fernando snorted.
Suzanna stared at the boys. Were they joking?
It was obvious that none of them harbored any prejudices. After all, they were two men (one gay) and a woman, living together with not a hint of sexual tension—unless you counted Suzanna’s tamped-down feelings for Eric, which she didn’t. And Eric, who was firmly heterosexual, didn’t even have a type. He dated casually, as far as Suzanna could tell, and the women he went out with were all over the map—tall, short, curvy, thin, and of every race and religion. He could have been the poster boy for Benetton. Even so, the boys made politically incorrect jokes that she never would have dared to utter.
Eric took a quick look at the stove and countertop. Determining that they would need soup bowls, bread plates, and flatware, he started to set the table, which was tucked into a corner of the room. The table was built into one of the walls and sat three, not the conventional four. When they had first seen the apartment, they had all happily taken
The room was oddly shaped, something it had in common with all the rooms in the tea shop/bookstore/apartment compound. The kitchen was a perfect square, which made it look massive, but a large percentage of the square footage had been wasted floor space until Eric had built a large workstation, now center stage on the black-and-white-tiled floor.
Fernando was at the stove, and Suzanna braced herself for a complaint. Fernando had redesigned the kitchen at the Bun about two years ago, and had been campaigning ever since to redo the upstairs kitchen as well. But Suzanna loved the kitchen just the way it was. If the vintage stove was finicky, so be it. If Fernando was cooking something that needed precise heat, he could always work in the Bun kitchen.
“I’m starving,” Suzanna said, relieved to find it wasn’t her turn to make dinner. “What are we having?”
“Salad, peanut soup, and fresh bread.”
Suzanna felt her throat constrict. She and Eric tended toward the shepherd’s pies and angel-hair-with-tomatoes-and-garlic-variety dinners. Suzanna had often wondered why Fernando refused to cook normal dinners like everybody else.
“Oh?” Suzanna said. “That sounds. . . peanuts, huh?”
“I know! I found the recipe online. It’s an African dish. Slaves apparently brought it to the American South. They still serve it all over Virginia, according to the article I read. Try it,” Fernando said, nodding toward the pot.
Suzanna often relied on bread to cut the weirdness of many of Fernando’s creations, but when she eyed the bread maker, it was still ticking away. She clearly was going to have to go cold turkey on this one. She grabbed a spoon and tentatively tried the soup. She often chided herself for not being more adventurous—after all, she owned a restaurant—but she usually gave herself a pass on this particular flaw. She had other things to worry about.
“Wow!” she said. “This is good.”
“I know! I’m thinking about putting it on the menu.”
Suzanna’s whole mood shifted. She thought the tea shop customers would really enjoy this new treat and it would get him off her back about the swing. Win–win!
“I’ll call it ‘Slave Soup,’” he said.
Suzanna’s good humor tanked.
“You can’t put ‘Slave Soup’ on the menu.”
“Sure I can . . . I’m part Cherokee.”
“Sure he can,” Eric echoed, coming in to join the conversation. “It could be a post-racial-era statement.”
Fernando snorted.
Suzanna stared at the boys. Were they joking?
It was obvious that none of them harbored any prejudices. After all, they were two men (one gay) and a woman, living together with not a hint of sexual tension—unless you counted Suzanna’s tamped-down feelings for Eric, which she didn’t. And Eric, who was firmly heterosexual, didn’t even have a type. He dated casually, as far as Suzanna could tell, and the women he went out with were all over the map—tall, short, curvy, thin, and of every race and religion. He could have been the poster boy for Benetton. Even so, the boys made politically incorrect jokes that she never would have dared to utter.
Eric took a quick look at the stove and countertop. Determining that they would need soup bowls, bread plates, and flatware, he started to set the table, which was tucked into a corner of the room. The table was built into one of the walls and sat three, not the conventional four. When they had first seen the apartment, they had all happily taken
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