A better-behaved Charles, a Charles on a probation of our design, started taking meals with us twice a week, due mostly to geography and happenstance. The first move in that direction was his, engineered the night of a raging blizzard. The phone rang in late afternoon and Margot answered. We heard her say, “Nothing? Not even a can of soup? That’s hard to believe.” Then, “What about delivery?” And finally, “Okay. But you’ll take it to go.”The switch from a sandwich handoff to a meal plan began with a turkey, allegedly won by Charles in a raffle at the local D’Agostino’s. He called upstairs and said he had a fourteen-pound, grass-fed, free-range bird—dressed, trussed, and oven ready, except that he didn’t have an oven. It was ours if we wanted it.As it was roasting and caramelizing aromatically, and as I peeled potatoes and Anthony simmered fresh cranberries, we acknowledged that the decent thing to do was to share our feast with its donor. Margot, not thrilled, grumbled, “As long as he doesn’t think that all he has to do is supply the main course and it’s instant guest of honor.”“It’s okay with Margot?”
What do You think about The View From Penthouse B?
