A Manner of Grace

It was a strange contrast, fine dining in the log home of a former Anchorage homesteader. I could see the bones of a typical 1950s settler’s house, built one room at a time over the years as money became available. Still, this was not a one-room cabin heated with a woodstove anymore. This log home was built in a trendy Hillside neighborhood, on five acres boasting birch trees and manicured lawns. Its most impressive upgrades were the stainless steel gas Viking stove that generated 1,500 BTUs on each of the four burners, enough heat to cook a moose. The Sub-Zero refrigerator was big enough to hold a musk ox.

Our host and chef Jim invited my wife Jody and me to dinner along with the president and vice president of the company we worked for, and their wives. I felt out of my league, they with their starched shirts, creased trousers, and penny loafers. I, the public affairs officer dressed in JC Penney’s shirts off the rack, Eddie Bauer pants, and trail shoes. I would have fit in better as a server than a diner.

In addition to being my boss, Jim and I were friends in food, too. I spent time sitting across his desk talking bread baking and how not to ruin a salmon. That shared fondness for food was how my wife and I made the list. Besides, he adored my wife and she had more street cred than me as an executive in the Anchorage mayor’s office.

The table was set with enormous chargers, which I at first thought were the plates we’d eat off. Each one was surrounded by silverware, salad forks, fish forks, spoons, and who knows what else. Three wine glasses sat in front of our places along with personal tiny salt and pepper shakers.

Once we were all seated, we talked about the rumor of the state selling the Alaska Railroad to a Lower 48 billionaire. A bad idea, everyone concluded, because they’d liquidate the railroad real estate, which was the main source of railroad revenue. Besides, the railroad was a state icon. The public wouldn’t stand for it.

The first course appeared: neat porcelain cups filled with mushroom bisque, a soup spoon balanced on the saucer. A single sliced mushroom floated on top so there was no mistaking what kind of bisque it was. It took on that gray tinge that mushrooms lend to every cream soup they touch.

At the arrival of the mushroom bisque, we had a situation. My wife calls mushrooms FMs (f@$*ing mushrooms). She does not like the texture, or the taste. No matter how small you chop, slice, or dice a mushroom, she can locate and isolate it. Frantic looks. White knuckled fingers gripping the spoon. I didn’t know what to do. At first, I thought she should suck it up and suck the soup down. It wasn’t a large bowl, just a cup. But her revulsion of mushrooms was deeper than the resolve to eat it.

On the sly, Bob, the president, assessed the situation. He must have sensed the small movements. Eye contact. Raised eyebrows. Tacit signals. I imagine that’s how he became the president, by sensing a problem and knowing how to solve it. In this case, solving it discreetly.

As the subject of railroad politics was bantered about, he surreptitiously scooted his empty cup of bisque toward Jody and slid her full cup to his place. He ate it with all the grace you’d expect. With no extra movements, no one saw a thing. Jody’s face relaxed. Bob was now her friend for life, a true gentleman.

We moved on to the next course as if nothing happened, a salad served on chilled plates. The main course featured beef tenderloin, rare and served with a demi-glace. I don’t remember much of the rest although there must have been a potato and vegetable in there somewhere. Dessert remains a complete mystery.

What is memorable is the mushroom situation, and if Bob was as good at reading our distress with the bisque, I’m sure he could read the gratitude in our eyes.

This essay originally appeared in Issue 33, Fall 2024