JENN BOUCHARD

Dreams

PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2024: VOL. 39.

Butter and olive oil sizzled in my ears. The aroma of lemon and capers filled my nostrils. And all I could see was the face of a handsome man in his late twenties with a bit of facial scruff and kind blue eyes smiling back at me. I opened my mouth to taste the chicken piccata from the end of the fork that he held out in front of him and promptly bolted upright in bed. I was wide awake, and I still hadn’t tried the chicken piccata.

It was the third night in a row that I had had this exact dream. It made no sense. It had been ten years since I had shared a flight from Boston to Chicago with a food critic named Charlie. Why was I thinking of him now?

“I really think you should consider talking to my shrink,” said my best friend Cami as we picked up our coffees from the counter and found a table to sit down later that afternoon. “She’s good.”

“You hate your shrink,” I retorted, taking a sip from my cappuccino. It was warm and should have felt comforting, but I kept craving something more.

Cami threw her head back and laughed. “I hate everyone. Except for you. Which is probably why I’m sitting here listening to this story and not somewhere else on a date with the guy I went out with last week. He still hasn’t texted me back. I’d take a dream about a hot guy serving me chicken at this point. Is he a chef or did I miss that part of the story?”

I shook my head. “He’s a food critic from a paper in western Massachusetts. At least, he was ten years ago. He was flying to Seattle to check out this chicken piccata that was getting a ton of national attention at the time. I was going to Chicago for Danielle Markson’s wedding. Remember that one? You were there.” I glanced off toward the bakery case, where a staff member was depositing a tray of delicious-looking croissants. All this talk of food was making my stomach rumble. “Anyway, we got off the plane, had a sort of awkward hug, and never saw each other again. And I started dating Danielle’s brother after the wedding, remember?”

Cami grimaced. “You should have gone to Seattle with him. Danielle Markson got divorced six months later. Hasn’t she been married two times since then?”

I nodded. “She seems to enjoy getting married more than being married. And her brother turned out to be a world-class jerk.” I swirled the coffee in my cup, watching the frothed milk form patterns. “All I know is that I wake up from these dreams absolutely starving and with all of my senses activated. Like my nerves are tingling, and I am more antsy than I have felt in months. What does this mean?” I rested my head in my hands, as it started feeling heavy. Too much dreaming made for restless sleep.

Cami leaned in. “Have you ever considered the possibility that you’re just, perhaps, in need of male companionship? It’s been a while, Becca.”

I groaned. “I asked myself that yesterday.” I noticed someone at the next table eating one of the delectable croissants. I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Hold on.”

“Or maybe you’re just hungry,” Cami said once I returned to the table and began digging into the buttery, flaky pastry.

“Famished,” I said between bites. “I’m sorry. Did you want one?” Cami shook her head. “But yes, I am so hungry. And I keep thinking about both him and the food. Chicken piccata. The one thing he was traveling to investigate. And here’s the other issue. I don’t even know if I like chicken piccata. I’m not sure if I’ve ever had it.”

“It’s delicious. You’ll love it,” said Cami. “Do you even remember his name? You only spent two hours with him on a plane ten years ago.”

“Charlie. I mean, Charles was on his boarding pass, just like my pass said Rebecca. But Charlie Banksley,” I said softly, my mind drifting off to a United Airlines flight from a decade ago. 

“Time to find him,” said Cami. “Or at least get yourself some chicken piccata.”

*

The previous few months had been bad. My live-in boyfriend of two years met someone in his cycling class that he decided was the one and moved out. I lost my job in a corporate restructure and ended up taking one that I hated but was afraid to leave. And despite my newly awakened desire for good food, I wasn’t eating anything particularly inspiring. The cycling ex-boyfriend had done the cooking. Random takeout and frozen Trader Joe’s meals had taken his place, and I wasn’t feeling motivated to do much about it. Until now.

I flipped open my laptop as soon as I got back to my apartment in Somerville, still ravenous despite consuming the cappuccino and huge croissant. I took a big breath and decided to find chicken piccata first. After all, if I wanted to get in touch with Charlie after so much time, it would be a solid starting point. I typed “best chicken piccata in Boston area” into the search bar. I would look up Charlie next.

I didn’t have to. Within seconds, I discovered that the very best chicken piccata in the Boston area–according to food critics, bloggers, and everyday people who liked to eat–was made in a diminutive, charming, and fairly new Italian restaurant in the North Shore town of Manchester-by-the-Sea by an up-and-coming chef and former food journalist named Charlie Banksley.

I gasped and backed away from the computer, staring at the smiling picture of Charlie looking back at me. I hadn’t seen him in ten years, but with the addition of a few wrinkles near his eyes and some graying in his beard and temples, he looked the same.

I panicked over my next steps. Part of me wanted to jump into my car and head straight to the North Shore. And then what would I do? Sit down and order chicken? Should I reach out ahead of time? What would I even say?

I heated up some uninspiring leftovers for dinner and turned on the TV. Chicken was on sale at Star Market. I changed the channel. There was an ad for an upcoming Dining Playbook TV episode. “The hottest place in the Boston area isn’t in the city,” said the host. “Join us next Sunday when we spend the afternoon with Charlie Banksley and try the chicken piccata that everyone’s talking about.” I shut off the TV and walked into my bedroom, crashing on the bed. Sleep was calling, and although I worried I would have the same dream for the fourth time, I couldn’t fight my exhaustion from the situation any longer.

*

“What’s the best airplane cocktail?” I asked as the flight attendant and her cart made their way down the aisle toward us.

“I always go for bourbon and ginger ale,” Charlie answered. “Soothing and hard to mess up,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “May I buy you one?”

I felt drawn in by his kind and calm manner. “Sure. Thank you. I’d like that.” I caught a glimpse at my watch. We only had an hour left in the flight. I wished it wasn’t stopping in Chicago and I could continue on to Seattle with him. The last sixty minutes had been captivating. We talked about our jobs and what it was like to live on either end of Massachusetts but most of all, we talked about things we enjoyed eating and drinking.

“I can’t believe you’re traveling across the country to try a chicken dish,” I said, taking a sip of the bubbly beverage. “This is good.”

“Told you,” he said, lightly elbowing me. I felt tingles spread like electricity through my arm. “Not just any chicken dish. This chicken piccata has been featured in Bon Appétit, the New York Times, all the major food blogs, you name it. The owner of my paper is a big foodie and also has deep pockets for things he cares about. It’s so much fun, and I’m incredibly lucky I get to do this kind of thing.” He took a thoughtful sip. “Want to skip the wedding and come with me?” he asked. He was smiling, but he wasn’t joking.

“I, um, just met you,” I squeaked out. He was very attractive. So much of me wanted to follow him to his gate as soon as we landed and see if there were any seats left. I had never been to Seattle, and the thought of spending more time with Charlie was exciting. But could I really ditch the wedding and go eat chicken piccata with a guy I had only known for part of a short flight?

Charlie covered his eyes with his right hand and smiled bashfully. “I’m sorry. That was so forward. I just, I don’t know. I feel like I’ve known you for more than an hour and a half, you know? And this chicken is supposed to be so good. It seems like a shame not to experience it with someone else. But I get it. Your friends are expecting you in Chicago. You’ll have a fun weekend.”

The plane started dropping in elevation as we began our inevitable descent. I couldn’t believe how conflicted I was, but  part of me did not want to say goodbye to him. “Maybe I’ll catch you on my way back. When are you flying home?”

Charlie shook his head. “I’m taking the nonstop flight on the return.”

The plane continued to descend, and now much quicker. I bolted upright in my bed. I tasted the fizzy combination of bourbon and ginger ale on my tongue, and I was alone in my room in the dark, ten years older.

*

The snow was crushing outside. I was dressed for the weather, and the plows had come by multiple times, and my car was luckily underneath the cover of a carport, the absolute best feature of my small apartment building. Was driving up to Manchester-by-the-Sea absolutely stupid? Part of me said yes, but some signs were too blatant to ignore. I couldn’t get Charlie’s face out of my mind nor the aromatics of lemon and capers out of my olfactory system. 

A plow truck barreled down my street again, and I picked up my cellphone. Maybe the restaurant wasn’t even open. I decided to call to see if someone answered. If they did, my question was answered. I looked up the number and clicked on it. A cheerful male voice answered, “Banksley Tavern,” and I swore it was Charlie. I hung up. We had never exchanged numbers, but I hoped to God my name wouldn’t show up somehow on his caller ID. Was that possible? I would be mortified.

My mouth tasted like sour lemon, and I knew I couldn’t ignore the situation anymore. I threw on my coat and donned my winter hat. I was heading to the coast.

The drive was slushy, but having lived in New England my whole life, I had certainly driven in worse. I forced myself to take my time despite my racing heartbeat and growling stomach. I was going to see Charlie. And figure out if I liked chicken piccata. Pushing all doubts and reservations out of my mind, I exited the highway.

I located the storefront in the small Manchester-by-the-Sea downtown. It was simple and cozy looking, with a black sign and white lettering that read “Banksley Tavern.” Charlie’s restaurant. In ten years’ time, he had gone from writing about chicken piccata for a small newspaper to making and serving his own. I felt a swell of pride for someone I barely knew. I parked on the side of the road in what I hoped was an actual spot, but it was tough to tell with the rising snow levels. Grateful for my tall waterproof boots, I sloshed through the slop and made my way across the street. My coat got soaked despite how short of a walk it was, and I tried to ignore how waterlogged I must have appeared as I opened the door. 

I was immediately hit by a waft of butter, olive oil, lemon, and capers. The same aroma that had filled my dreams for several nights. The tavern was packed. It was small, with a tiny bar area and just a few stools, all occupied. People were waiting for tables, standing anywhere they could. What was I thinking, showing up like this? I probably needed a reservation. You can’t just arrive at a place with this much buzz expecting a seat on a Tuesday night, even during a snowstorm. I stood behind the small crowd, thinking that I should probably leave and try another time. Or never.

The group in front of me began walking with the hostess to a table that had opened, leaving me exposed to the whole restaurant. Standing across the room from me was Charlie, and he was looking in my direction. He was wearing an apron and was holding a bottle of wine that must have been intended for the couple seated next to him. I quickly pulled off my wool hat and smoothed my wet hair, which was probably a lost cause. I’m sure I looked like a wreck.

“You found me,” he said, loudly enough for me to hear over the din in the room. His face broke out into a huge smile.

“I heard about the chicken,” I said. “I mean, you told me about it before, but not this chicken. Seattle chicken.” I was making no sense to anyone except for him, and I was definitely getting strange looks from customers, but he was the only one who mattered.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, handing off the wine bottle to a nearby waitress, who seemed confused but assisted the waiting party with their selection. He pulled another stool from behind the bar and jammed it into a tiny space on the other side. The other seated patrons scooted down to make room, and I gratefully accepted the seat.

“Bourbon—” he began.

“And ginger,” I replied, finishing his thought. “And the chicken piccata.”

“Absolutely,” he said, holding eye contact with me. “Becca.”

“You remember.”

“I had this dream the other night,” he said with a wink. “And I haven’t been able to shake your name from my mind ever since.”

Jenn Bouchard’s debut novel FIRST COURSE was published in 2021 and has been the recipient of fourteen awards. Her next novel CONSIDERING US will be published on February 6, 2025 with Black Rose Writing. This is her sixth published short story. She is a graduate of Bates College and Tufts University and has been teaching high school social studies for twenty-four years. She lives with her family in the Boston suburbs.