Imagine a small stone house on a quiet circular street winding down to the shore of Long Island Sound. A rusty combination lock guards the boathouse between street and shore. Inside, dusty life jackets, deflated rafts, and a cracked Ping-Pong table wait for the neighborhood to turn young again, as it was when the current residents were in their thirties and forties instead of their seventies and eighties, and their children splashed and sailed every day of the summer instead of making a twice-yearly pilgrimage by rental car from JFK and LaGuardia.
It would make a pleasant after-dinner stroll by foot, cane, walker, or wheelchair, the couple-hundred-yard amble to the water and back from the Japanese rock garden that occupies the stone house’s front yard. But there are no after-dinner strolls, because there is no after dinner.
A sprightly figure, perhaps five feet tall and 100 pounds, paces the first floor, casting stooped shadows from the glow of paper lanterns in the kitchen and dining room. Once we are seated around the long wooden dining table, we are no longer sovereign citizens, “created equal,” of the United States of America, but vassals in a feudal kingdom ruled by an octogenarian empress.
“Sylvia, come in and sit down,” Uncle Phil begs. He is the baby of the family, a child of 79. They’ve been having this conversation for decades. But it’s no use. The only people she takes orders from are her grandchildren, and we say nothing. True, she might choose to indulge Phil’s request and enter briefly. Under no circumstances, however, will she sit down.
“Just one more minute,” says Grandma. “Let me finish up the appetizers.” Phil sinks back in his seat, silenced for what will be at least another hour. The empress has spoken.
Her rule is a curious one, based not on the command that others serve her, but that she serve them. Yet this makes her no less mighty than Alexander the Great or Napoleon, conquerors who captured vast areas of human settlement. She holds sway over her subjects’ time.
My last breakfast at Grandma’s was poached quail eggs on a toasted English muffin topped with melted cheese made from the milk of almonds. My last dessert was hastily fried bananas. She scuttled back and forth between kitchen and dining room, adding secondary ingredients—a dash of cinnamon here, a pinch of brown sugar there—as I ate. While extremely pleasing to the palate, this obstinate attention to detail can frustrate those who like their palate pleased within three hours of putting napkin to lap. At dinner, quantity joins quality to administer the coup de grâce. Grandma simply keeps cooking until sated guests leave, or, almost as often, fall asleep.
Josh and I arrived at her invitation one spring evening around six. We were young, healthy men-about-town, with strong handshakes and easy smiles for all who greeted us. Our minds were sharp, our spirits high. We were confident we could handle Grandma’s food without sacrificing our freedom. We were fools.
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.
“What’s she doing?” asked Josh. “I don’t know,” I said. We were becoming worried—for ourselves.
“Grandma?” I called. “Coming!” she lied.
Forty minutes passed, then 45, then 50. At last, a full hour after Grandma left for the kitchen, we heard the squeak of the food cart’s wheels. Thirty seconds later, Grandma shuffled back to the table. From the top shelf of the food cart, as promised, she removed an elegant china teapot and three matching cups. From the bottom shelf, she removed three roasted Cornish game hens. I now refer to this tactical maneuver as The Cornish Game Hen Gambit.
“What … what’s that?” stuttered Josh. “Roasted Cornish game hens,” replied Grandma. “They’re delicious,” she added proudly. “But, but, but …” I protested, “we’re stuffed. I thought we were just going to have tea.” “Well, you can’t just have tea by itself,” said Grandma. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders disdainfully, as if I had suggested a BLT, hold the bacon, tomato, and toast. Josh and I were too stunned to argue. Slowly but surely—and, to be sure, savoring every painful, succulent bite—we ate our game hens.
Then we ate the tart. And the pie. And a scoop each of the vanilla and green tea ice creams. “Thank you,” we said a final time, gloriously defeated in body and mind. Grandma had won. Grandma always won. We rose from the table and bowed in deference to the monarch, a natural gesture given that we could no longer stand upright. In defeat, at least, we had found peace.
“Let me know when you’re getting up tomorrow morning,” said Grandma. “I’ll have breakfast ready.”