We bent from the waist at a 90-degree angle to hug her. She stood on tiptoe to hug us back. Keep your friends close, her credo runs, but your dinner guests closer. Tonight Grandma would demonstrate the difference between culinary conquest and epicurean omnipotence.
“Dinner isn’t quite ready,” she said, “but let me bring you some appetizers to munch on.” In four trips, she carried out a loaf of French bread and a round of Brie, a large bowl of Japanese vegetable chips and two small bowls of nuts, three plates of sushi, and a mushroom and green pepper pizza, which, of course, she had made from scratch. We did what we could. Then we did what bears before hibernation could.
“It’s delicious,” we told Grandma, which it was. “Thank you.” Left to ourselves after she returned to the kitchen, we rallied our defenses for the main assault. “If she gives you more, take it,” I told Josh. “But never ask.”
“But what if I like it?” he asked. “Of course you’ll like it,” I said. “That’s how she gets you.” “Never ask for seconds,” he said solemnly. “Right,” I said. “Never ask.”
Dinner was served a little after eight. Josh and I each received a plate laden with broiled lobster tails, mussels in white wine, farfalle with smoked salmon, mushrooms stuffed with chicken liver and bread crumbs, ratatouille, and a salad of arugula and sliced beets.
For two hours, bravely, we swallowed. Then, again, more slowly this time, our mouths by now unused to anything other than chewing, we said, “Thank you.” Grandma did not say, “You’re welcome.” Grandma said, “Are you still hungry?” Incredulous, we had no time to confer before answering with the three words in the English language she does not understand: “No thank you.”
“Well,” she asked blithely, “what would you like for dessert?” We stared. She continued. “I made apple pie and a pear tart, and you can top them with chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, pistachio, or green tea ice cream. I also have lemon and peach sorbets.”
“Really …” said Josh. “… Nothing,” I insisted.
“Hmm.” Grandma frowned ever so slightly. I tensed in anticipation. She could have made us split a six-foot meatball sandwich then and there, such was her authority and the quality of her cooking. Instead, she said, “Some tea, then?”
“Tea would be wonderful,” Josh and I blurted in unison. We saw our only way out, and we seized it. No more food was not an option with Grandma, but another bite was impossible in our condition. Tea was the perfect compromise. “Just tea.”
“Just tea,” Grandma repeated, and she scurried off to the kitchen to put on a pot of water. Fifteen minutes passed. No Grandma, no tea. Not that we, exhausted by our exertions, noticed. Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. Even in our groggy state, Josh and I sensed something was amiss.
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