Beef Stew in Red Wine (II)
TThe cubes of beef sizzled in the oil and butter. I loved the sound. Chopping the onions elicited tears. I blinked and squinted my eyes. The irritant began to sting. I chopped as quickly as I could. Grandma used to soak the half cut onions in ice water before she sliced them. Nothing seemed to help prevent my tears though. Not even lemon water. Once the meat browned I added the onions and garlic. As if by magic--by a wave of a wand--the fragrant aroma filled the kitchen in glorious waves. I closed my eyes briefly and inhaled. Whenever it would snow Grandma made stew. The smell reminded me of times we sat by the fire with our bowls in our hands, watching some television movie.
I stirred the pot for a bit and then sprinkled a tablespoon of flour. Once that got mixed in well, I opened the bottle of red wine and poured.
The next day at work I handed Chandra a basket. In it was the stew, a dozen of chocolate cookies from the corner bakery and a DVD of While You Were Sleeping and The First Wives Club.
Besides Jason I didn’t tell anyone about Rainier. It wasn’t difficult. My parents never asked about him.
“We’re redoing the project.” Amanda entered my office. “Beatrice didn’t like the proof.”
“Excuse me?”
Amanda sat.
“What is it that she didn’t like?”
Amanda shook her head. “She said it wasn’t outside the box enough. It looked the same as everyone else’s. She wanted something different.”
“When we had the planning meeting, that was the look she wanted us to give her. My team and I did what she asked us to do.”
“She said she didn’t like the brand that was created for her. It wouldn’t make her stand out among the crowd. She said she wants something that identifies her and who she is.”
“And she told us what she wanted in the planning meeting.”
“I’m not saying it’s your fault. I’m just telling you we’re redoing the project.”
“Why are you telling me? I’ve completed the project.”
“You’re redoing the project.”
“I have other projects that now need my attention. Hers is going to have to wait.”
“We’re submitting a new layout to publishing this Friday.”
“That’s insane! Today is Tuesday.”
“We have a teleconference with her at two this afternoon, which means you’ve got Wednesday and Thursday to redo the shoot.”
I ate lunch at my desk, working on rearranging my schedule to squeeze in this reshoot. Tony sat across from me, dipping his fries into a mound of ketchup.
“I hate this,” I said. “How can Beatrice demand a reshoot in less than a week?”
“It’s an editor’s war. They’re predicting she’ll be the next Paula Dean. Everyone is scrambling to get her contract.”
“She can’t even cook. At least not good. Not that good. My grandmother cooked better than her. Way better.”
“I hear you’re pretty good.”
“I cook to eat.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
“My grandmother lived to cook.”
“What about Beatrice?”
“She cooks to make money.”
“How come you’re still working here?”
“What? What kind of question is that?”
“I mean you could be independent if you wanted to.”
“Be my own boss?”
“Yeah. Choose your own projects. Get to say no if you wanted.”
“Hmmm.”
“You could do it, you know.”
The crew and I went back to Beatrice’s house on Wednesday morning. We planned for a long day. The house smelled of cinnamon rolls. It didn’t take long to figure out though that Beatrice didn’t know what she wanted. She knew very well what she didn’t like, but she couldn’t tell me what she liked. This time she had me rig a monitor to my camera so that she could see every shot instantly. I hated it. Neither did I appreciate her suggestions. Half of the morning passed and we made no progress. There was no way the reshoot could wrap up by tomorrow. I had an upcoming shoot with Nina for her bread book that I was quite looking forward to. I would rather be working with her than being here. Pretty soon Beatrice’s voice turned plain annoying. She began to whine, and when the crew didn’t jump fast enough to make adjustments according to her suggestions, she was affronted.
“I don’t appreciate you all not giving this your all.” She said.
Tony nearly swallowed his gum.
I was no longer smiling nor accommodating.
“I’m calling Amanda.”
Tony’s eyes bulged. I placed a hand on his arm.
When Beatrice handed me the phone, I took it and stepped out of the room.
“What the heck is going on?”
“Are you serious, Amanda? This is a waste of our time and the company’s money.”
“It’s a waste of the company’s money if you don’t get the shots like she wants.”
“She doesn’t know what the hell she wants. There is no pleasing her.”
“Just do what she wants.”
“She doesn’t even like the results of what she tells us to do.”
Amanda sighed. “Just get it done.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Yes, I am serious. Get it done. And do it the way she wants.”
I stared at the phone dumbfounded.
“We’re doing it the way she wants,” I told Tony.
Beatrice got in the driver’s seat and I bit my lips shut. The pictures were crappy. There was no eloquent way to describe how awful and amateurish they looked. She could have taken the pictures herself. What did she need us there for?
“Control, baby,” Tony whispered. “It’s quite addicting getting to boss people around.”
On Friday afternoon we sent the revised layout to Guy. Within a couple hours he called me.
“Is this a prank?”
“Hello Guy.”
“What is this?”
“It’s not a joke.”
“This is awful. It’s bad.”
“Did you notice that my name is not on there?”
“Beatrice?”
“Yes, she gets the credit. I certainly don’t want them.”
“There is no way this is going to sell.”
“Hmmm. You should tell that to Beatrice. And to Amanda.”
When Grandma got frustrated she liked to go into her garden and attack the weeds. She would stay out there for hours until even the stray grass blade would be plucked. When Grandma got angry she didn’t talk. She clammed up, like me.
I would watch how she handled her knives, how they made a staccato chop-chop sound when she diced onions, carrots and celery.
As if by magic--by a wave of a wand--the fragrant aroma filled the kitchen in glorious waves.
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