French Country Toast

The French Country Toast recipe that’s been going around for the past few months on social media platforms? Don’t make it. It was my wife, Sarah, that showed me the video. The post was from an account I didn’t recognize. The video itself was a TV show clip. Maybe from a morning talk show or something, I don’t know. It had that awkward TV show feel. The picture and sound were good quality though, and the video was well edited. There was background music and subtitles. I tried to find the post again later, but couldn’t. This was before I knew what to look for, though. I’m certain it’s still out there, on at least one platform or another. At the time, I didn’t care about the origins of the video. I was too busy being annoyed that Sarah was holding her phone up in front of my face. “I thought we were going to make dinner,” I said, trying to grab the phone. “No, look,” she replied, holding it out of reach. “This is the recipe I was telling you about.” I gave up and watched the video. I’d already refused to make the recipe three times earlier in the day. I guess I knew this was Sarah’s way of getting me to agree, because that’s just who she is. I watched the video, and I refused again. I told her it was a little too weird for me. She told me I’m being a picky eater. It went back and forth for a while, Sarah eventually getting mad when I still refused to make the toast. I’d been a chef for many years before opening my own restaurant. The last four years have been my busiest by far, and they’ve been the most rewarding so far. Sarah is definitely the reason for that. She’s a marketing genius. There’s only one problem with being a successful restaurateur, though: It doesn’t end once you leave the restaurant. Even at home, people will assume that you’re a good cook. Especially if you’re married to one. I’m not a good cook. That’s probably why I was able to make it in a professional kitchen. As a line cook, the rules are pretty cut and dry. Follow the procedures and use your best judgment. As a home cook, there’s a lot more room for experimentation and improvisation, and I suck at both. I’d spent the whole day at work. The last thing I wanted to do was cook dinner. But Sarah went ahead and decided on this weird recipe she’d found online. And then she had the gall to tell me I was being a picky eater for not wanting to make it. “I don’t want to try it,” I said. “Well, that’s too bad. This is what we’re making.” In retrospect, I should have made the damn toast. The next day, I got to work early. The restaurant was closed, and my staff hadn’t shown up yet. There was a guy standing on the sidewalk out front, though. A man, probably in his early thirties, wearing a long duster coat. He was smoking a cigarette, and every now and then he’d glance in the direction of the door. “Can I help you?” I asked. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.” “Are you here for something?” “What’s that?” he asked. “Why are you here?” “I’m looking for Sarah.” “Sarah who?” “Your wife.” “How do you know me?” “I saw your restaurant. It made me think of her.” “Where did you meet her?” “I didn’t meet her. I saw her post.” “What post?” I asked. “The one with the recipe. For French Country Toast.” I was starting to get annoyed. “Listen…what’s your name?” “My name is Anthony.” “Listen Anthony. I don’t know what your intent is or how you got here, but my wife and I are going to have to ask you to leave.” “Absolutely,” he said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just curious about the recipe, is all.” I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “What about it?” “Well, did you make it?” “We made it last night,” I said. “How was it?” “It was really good,” I replied. “Yeah?” he asked. “Yeah. You ever have it?” “No. I haven’t.” “Well, it’s good. You should give it a shot.” “Will you give me the recipe?” “You didn’t see it in her post?” “No. I just saw her talking about making it.” “That’s weird.” “Yeah. Did you write it down?” “No. I just watched the video.” “Well, can you tell me what it said?” “Yeah. Let me think about it for a second,” I said. While I was thinking, a car pulled up to the restaurant. It was my sous, come to open up the kitchen. We chatted for a second as he got changed. “I’m gonna be right back,” I said to Anthony. “You understand?” Anthony nodded. He took another hit from his cigarette, and then he put it out on the sidewalk. “Alright, so the recipe,” I said, when I returned. “I think it was pretty simple. I remember there being a lot of steps though, and none of the ingredients list on the screen very long.” Anthony nodded. “I remember butter and salt.” “That’s all?” “That’s all I can remember.” “Did they say how to prepare it?” “I can’t really remember all of it. There was something about the butter. It’s supposed to be at room temperature, I think.” Anthony wrote the information down in a small notebook. He thanked me and walked away. I didn’t see or hear from Anthony again for a few weeks. Until I got the strange phone call. “Hello?” “Yeah, is this…Uh…” The voice on the other end paused. “I don’t know your last name.” “Who is this?” “My name is Anthony. We talked outside your restaurant about the recipe.” “Oh yeah. What’s up?” “And you said you didn’t write it down.” “Right.” “Well, me and some other people have been trying to figure out the recipe from memory.” “Oh yeah?” There was a pause. “Yeah. I was wondering if you remembered anything else about the recipe.” I thought for a second. “There was some-times.” “That’s all?” “Yeah. I’m sorry.” “Well, it was nice talking to you.” “Yeah, no problem.” I hung up the phone. Then it immediately rang again. “Hello?” I said. “You know, I think I was wrong. That wasn’t all.” It was Anthony, again. “Oh yeah? What else was there?” “I just wanted to know if you’d ever heard of a woman named Layla.” “No,” I replied. “What about the Red Church?” “No.” There was a long pause, and then the line went dead. I didn’t hear from Anthony again for a couple of weeks, and I’d almost forgotten about the whole interaction. Almost. I was at home, making dinner, when Sarah walked into the kitchen. “Hey,” I said. “How was your day?” “It was good. How was yours?” “It was alright. One of our vendors was about to screw us over, but then he didn’t. You know how it is.” She laughed. I kept stirring the soup. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.” I turned to her. “Sarah, can I ask you something?” “Of course,” she replied. “What’s Layla?” “What’s Layla what?” “Just Layla.” “I don’t know. Who’s Layla?” “I don’t know. I was just asked about her.” “Well, maybe it’s a person,” she said. “That’s probably what it is.” I turned back to the stove, and that’s when I smelled it. Smoked sausage. I looked down at the pot and realized there was no sausage in it. I turned around to Sarah, and I saw her holding a plate of French Country Toast in front of her face. There was steam rising from the toast. She took a bite, and a piece of sausage fell onto her shirt. “I thought we were making tomato soup,” I said. “I thought we were making French Country Toast,” she replied. I was about to ask her if she was okay when someone knocked at the door. “I’ll get it,” she said, before I could. I kept cooking. I figured it was probably our neighbor or something. I heard Sarah opening the door. There was a murmur of conversation, and then she called out to me. “Honey, can you come here for a second?” I removed the pot from the burner before going to the door. Sarah was standing in the doorway, covering her mouth. Anthony stood in the doorway. He didn’t look good. He was dirty, and his eyes were huge. He looked like he was having some kind of panic attack, or something. He was gasping for air. “Hey,” I said. “What’s up?” “I need to talk to you guys,” he said. He was hiccupping. “Okay. Why don’t you come on in?” Sarah moved out of the way, and he stepped inside. He sat on the couch in the living room. We sat across from him, on a loveseat. For a while, he just sat there, catching his breath. We didn’t say anything until he was ready to talk. Finally, he started. “I just need to get this off my chest,” he said. “I feel like I’m going crazy.” “Okay,” I said. “Go ahead.” He took a deep breath. “I was just curious about the recipe at first. I’d seen posts from a bunch of different accounts. Word

French Country Toast

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