Peter Benchley - Jaws

“Of course they will,” Brody said as he stood up. “Who doesn’t?”

“Oh, and the tire-bouchin is on the counter next to the red.”

“The what?”

Daisy Wicker said, “It’s tire-bouchon . The cork-screw.”

Brody took vengeful pleasure in seeing Ellen blush, for it relieved him of some of his own embarrassment. He found the corkscrew and went to work on the two bottles of red wine. He pulled one cork cleanly, but the other crumbled as he was withdrawing it, and pieces slipped into the bottle. He took the bottle of white out of the refrigerator, and as he uncorked it he tangled his tongue trying to pronounce the name of the wine: Montrachet. He arrived at what seemed to him an acceptable pronunciation, wiped the bottle dry with a dishtowel, and took it into the dining room.

Ellen was seated at the end of the table nearest the kitchen. Hooper was at her left, Meadows at her right. Next to Meadows, Daisy Wicker, then an empty space for Brody at the far end of the table, and, opposite Daisy, Dorothy Meadows.

Brody put his left hand behind his back and, standing over Ellen’s right shoulder, poured her a glass of wine. “A glass of Mount Ratchet,” he said. “Very good year, 1970. I remember it well.”

“Enough,” said Ellen, tipping the mouth of the bottle up. “Don’t fill the glass all the way.”

“Sorry,” said Brody, and he filled Meadows’ glass next.

When he had finished pouring the wine, Brody sat down. He looked at the soup in front of him. Then he glanced furtively around the table and saw that the others were actually eating it: it wasn’t a joke. So he took a spoonful. It was cold, and it didn’t taste anything like soup, but it wasn’t bad.

“I love gazpacho,” said Daisy, “but it’s such a pain to make that I don’t have it very often.”

“Mmmm,” said Brody, spooning another mouthful of soup.

“Do you have it very often?”

“No,” he said. “Not too often.”

“Have you ever tried a G and G?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

“You ought to try one. Of course, you might not enjoy it since it’s breaking the law.”

“You mean eating this thing is breaking the law? How? What is it?”

“Grass and gazpacho. Instead of herbs, you sprinkle a little grass over the top. Then you smoke a little, eat a little, smoke a little, eat a little. It’s really wild.”

It was a moment before Brody realized what she was saying, and even when he understood, he didn’t answer right away. He tipped his soup bowl toward himself, scooped out the last little bit of soup, drained his wine glass in one draft, and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He looked at Daisy, who was smiling sweetly at him, and at Ellen, who was smiling at something Hooper was saying.

“It really is,” said Daisy.

Brody decided to be low-keyed — avuncular and nonetheless annoyed, but low-keyed, so as not to upset Ellen. “You know,” he said, “I don’t find…”

“I bet Matt’s tried one.”

“Maybe he has. I don’t see what that…”

Daisy raised her voice and said, “Matt, excuse me.” The conversation at the other end of the table stopped. “I was just curious. Have you ever tried a G and G? By the way, Mrs. Brody, this is terrific gazpacho.”

“Thank you,” said Ellen. “But what’s a G and G?”

“I tried one once,” said Hooper. “But I was never really into that.”

“You must tell me,” Ellen said. “What is it?”

“Matt’ll tell you,” said Daisy, and just as Brody turned to say something to her, she leaned over to Meadows and said, “Tell me more about the water table.”

Brody stood up and began to clear away the soup bowls. As he walked into the kitchen, he felt a slight rush of nausea and dizziness, and his forehead was sweating. But by the time he put the bowls into the sink, the feeling had passed.

Ellen followed him into the kitchen and tied an apron around her waist. “I’ll need some help carving,” she said.

“Okeydoke,” said Brody, and he searched through a drawer for a carving knife and fork. “What did you think of that?”

“Of what?”

“That G and G business. Did Hooper tell you what it is?”

“Yes. That was pretty funny, wasn’t it? I must say, it sounds tasty.”

“How would you know?”

“You never know what we ladies do when we get together over at the hospital. Here, carve.” With a two-tine serving fork, she hefted the lamb onto the carving board. “Slices about three quarters of an inch thick, if you can, the way you’d slice a steak.”

That Wicker bitch was right about one thing, Brody thought as he slashed the meat: I sure as shit feel alienated right now. A slab of meat fell away, and Brody said, “Hey, I thought you said this was lamb.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t even done. Look at that.” He held up the piece he had sliced. It was pink and, toward the middle, almost red.

“That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Not if it’s lamb, it isn’t. Lamb’s supposed to be cooked through, well done.”

“Martin, believe me. It’s all right to cook a butterfly lamb sort of medium. I promise you.”

Brody raised his voice. “I’m not gonna eat raw lamb!”

“Ssshhh! For God’s sake. Can’t you keep your voice down?”

Brody said in a hoarse whisper, “Then put the goddam thing back till it’s done.”

“It’s done!” said Ellen. “If you don’t want to eat it, don’t eat it, but that’s the way I’m going to serve it.”

“Then cut it yourself.” Brody dropped the knife and fork on the carving board, picked up the two bottles of red wine, and left the kitchen.

“There’ll be a slight delay,” he said as he approached the table, “while the cook kills our dinner. She tried to serve it as it was, but it bit her on the leg.” He raised a bottle of wine over one of the clean glasses and said, “I wonder why you’re not allowed to serve red wine in the same glass the white wine was.”

“The tastes,” said Meadows, “don’t complement each other.”

“What you’re saying is, it’ll give you gas.” Brody filled the six glasses and sat down. He took a sip of wine, said, “Good,” then took another sip and another. He refilled his glass.

Ellen came in from the kitchen carrying the carving board. She set it on the sideboard next to a stack of plates. She returned to the kitchen and came back, carrying two vegetable dishes. “I hope it’s good,” she said. “I haven’t tried it before.”

“What is it?” asked Dorothy Meadows. “It smells delicious.”

“Butterfly lamb. Marinated.”

“Really? What’s in the marinade?”

“Ginger, soy sauce, a whole bunch of things.” She put a thick slice of lamb, some asparagus and summer squash on each plate, and passed the plates to Meadows, who sent them down and around the table.

When everyone had been served and Ellen had sat down, Hooper raised his glass and said, “A toast to the chef.”

The others raised their glasses, and Brody said, “Good luck.”

Meadows took a bite of meat, chewed it, savored it, and said, “Fantastic. It’s like the tenderest of sirloins, only better. What a splendid flavor.”

“Coming from you, Harry,” said Ellen, “that’s a special compliment.”

“It’s delicious,” said Dorothy. “Will you promise to give me the recipe? Harry will never forgive me if I don’t give this to him at least once a week.”

“He better rob a bank,” said Brody.

“But it is delicious, Martin, don’t you think?”

Brody didn’t answer. He had started to chew a piece of meat when another wave of nausea hit him. Once again sweat popped out on his forehead. He felt detached, as if his body were controlled by someone else. He sensed panic at the loss of motor control. His fork felt heavy, and for a moment he feared it might slip from his fingers and clatter onto the table. He gripped it with his fist and held on. He was sure his tongue wouldn’t behave if he tried to speak. It was the wine. It had to be the wine. With greatly exaggerated precision, he reached forward to push his wine glass away from him. He slid his fingers along the tablecloth to minimize the chances of knocking over the glass. He sat back and took a deep breath. His vision blurred. He tried to focus his eyes on a painting above Ellen’s head, but he was distracted by the image of Ellen talking to Hooper. Every time she spoke she touched Hooper’s arm — lightly, but, Brody thought, intimately, as if they were sharing secrets. He didn’t hear what anyone was saying. The last thing he remembered hearing was, “Don’t you think?” How long ago was that? Who had said it? He didn’t know. He looked at Meadows, who was talking to Daisy. Then he looked at Dorothy and said thickly, “Yes.”