The Spring Menu
It’s a beautiful restaurant.
It’s in a small, shingled house on the side of a dirt road, surrounded by vegetable gardens and beehives and
an outdoor fir epit—an outdoor fir epit where those lucky enough to procure a reservation sit and drink
predinner cocktails.
The only way you would know it’s a two-star Michelin restaurant, and not someone’s home, is the small
wooden sign on the edge of the front walkway. EST.
2012
I sit at the bar and order dinner. Four courses are sent out. They’re perfect. My favorite dish is apparently
new to the menu. It’s a twice-cooked flatbread with fried tomatoes and crisped anchovies and spicy greens.
Which, in a way, is the fanciest lettuce and tomato sandwich I’ve ever been lucky enough to have. In another
way, it’s something else completely.
The point is this: my favorite dish, as always, is his. After dessert, I ask if I can speak to the chef. I say I’d
like to pay my compliments in person.
“He doesn’t really like to do that,” the waiter says. “Would you tell him that I know him?” I say. “I’m a
regular at Sheet Music. Tell him if he wants me to leave I will.”
The kitchen is stunning. It’s Nordic in design with Dekton countertops on the workstations, a pitched low-
slung roof.
Jack is standing by the far windows, rinsing his hands in an enormous farm sink. He is in his chef’s whites
and a baseball cap. He’s grown a beard. I hate it. I almost can’t breathe seeing him in person.
The waiter calls out to him. He looks up. And when he sees that I’m the person standing there, he takes a
st ep forward. Then, rethinking it, a st ep back.
“It’s you,” he says. “It’s me.” He nods a thank-you to the waiter, who walks away and leaves us alone by
the sink, by those large windows. There is a foot of space between us. It may as well be a mile. It may as well
not exist.
“Dinner was excellent,” I say. “Long way to come for a meal,” he says. “I’ve actually been spending some
time at Windbreak, which made it a little easier.”
“Windbreak?” I nod. “I’m working on a couple of projects in Santa Barbara and in Ventura... And I’m
fixing up a house nearby. For my brother actually.”
“How’s that been going?” he asks. It’s been going well, I can honestly say. Sam is doing well. He’s
interviewing for a scouting job with the San Francisco Giants. He’s planning on flying back to New York to
see Tommy’s babies, who are due any day now. We both are planning on it.
“Good,” I say. “And you know... better than being home without you.” He offers a small smile. It’s small,
but it’s there. Then he bites his lip, the smile disappearing.
He looks at me, waiting to hear what I’ve come here to say. I had an eight- hour drive to decide where I
want to start.
Eight hours, four courses, Jack in front of me again. I’m just wondering, I want to say. I’m wondering if
you’ll forgive me. I’m wondering if you even think there is anything to be forgiven. I wonder if you want to
come to Windbreak and see if you want to live there with me for a while. We could open Sheet Music West
down by the beach. Stay for as long as you like. Or, you know, stay for as long as we both shall live.
Before I say any of that, he must know I want to say all of it. Because he looks at me with those eyes, open
again, willing to listen. It’s who he is. It’s who we are to each other. And I know if this doesn’t work, if he
doesn’t want to try again— if it’s his turn to not know exactly how to bridge the distance—it will still be like
that between us. Ten years from now or twenty. He’ll still be the person I get to
be certain of before I remember why. He’ll still be the person I recognize before I even know who I see.
So I ke ep it simple. “I was just wondering if, after work tonight, you’d like to go and get some ice cream.”
He lets out a small laugh. Then he wipes his hands on the towel at his waist. And he moves toward me.
His voice is low and thick and gentle. “We might have to drive for a while,” he says. “To find anything
open...”
“I don’t mind a drive.” He puts his hand on my cheek, his face against my face. “No?” he says. I shake my
head no. His skin against my skin, his forehead against my forehead. I’ll hold us there for as long as I can. For
as long as the earth and the sun and the sky conspire to let me, longer than that, if I ever figure out how.
“Then that sounds nice,” he says. “That sounds perfect.”