Yesterday: The Feast, the Critique, and the Great Brotherly Showdown Over Galina’s Handmade Roast and Her Patiently Worn Apron in a London Flat

Yesterday

“Where are you putting that salad bowl? Youre blocking the cold cuts! And move the glasses, would you? Olivers coming round, and you know he likes plenty of elbow room to gesticulate when hes rabbiting on.”

Victor was fussing over the table like a hyperactive squirrel, nearly sending forks flying everywhere. Grace sighed heavily, wiping her hands on her apron. Shed been on her feet since sunrise, her legs buzzing like shed run a marathon, and her back ached in that reliable spot just below her shoulder blades. But there was no time for self-pity. Today was “star guest” daythe husbands younger brother, Oliver, was dropping in.

“Victor, calm down,” she said, aiming for serene and getting somewhere near controlled exasperation. “The tables perfect. Tell me, did you get the wholemeal bread? Last time Oliver complained because we only had sliced white, and apparently hes watching his waist.”

“Of course I didbought a seeded bloomer from Waitrose, just how he likes it,” Victor darted over to the bread bin. “Grace, what about the meat? Is it definitely cooked? You know hes practically a food critic, always going on about posh restaurants. You cant impress him with a burger.”

Grace pursed her lips. She knew, all right. Oliver, a forty-year-old bachelor who styled himself as a “freelance creative” but mostly relied on odd jobs and handouts from their elderly mum, fancied himself a culinary savant. Every visit felt like an episode of Bake Off, only she was destined to be eliminated in the first round.

“I roasted pork glazed with honey and mustard,” she declared. “Fresh from the market, cost me twenty-five quid a kilo. If he doesnt like it this time, Im throwing in the towel.”

“No need to get dramatic,” Victor winced. “He hasnt been here in months, hes missed us. Wants a proper family do. Just try, yeah? Hes going through a rough patch, searching for himself.”

“Hes searching for cash, not enlightenment,” Grace thought, but kept it to herself. Victor idolised his little brother, thought he was an undiscovered genius, and flinched at any critique of Saint Oliver.

The bell rang precisely at seven. Grace whipped off her apron, fiddled with her hair in the hallway mirror, and pasted on her best pretending-to-enjoy-this smile. Victor was already throwing the door open, glowing like a freshly polished teapot.

“Olly! Mate! Finally!”

There stood Oliver, looking annoyingly stylish: hipster coat flung open, scarf doing acrobatics on his shoulder, designer stubble aiming for rugged. He stretched out his arms for a brotherly hug, but only patted Victors back in return.

Grace eyed his hands. Empty. No carrier bag, no cake box, not even a sacrificial supermarket flower. Hed rocked up, after six months, to a table positively groaning with foodbearing absolutely nothing. Not even a token chocolate for the kids, who were safely stashed with Granny tonight.

“Evening, Grace,” he nodded, wandering in and casting a suspicious glance at the hallway. “New wallpaper? Bit NHS waiting room, isnt it? Well, as long as you like it.”

“Hello, Oliver,” she replied with icy politeness. “Wash your hands, please. Herenew slippers.”

“Didnt bring my own, and Im not risking athletes foot in someone elses,” he shrugged. “Ill keep my socks on. Floors clean, I hope?”

Grace felt irritation bubbling up. Shed mopped those floors twice for his precious feet.

“Spotless, Oliver. Now, to the table.”

They settled in the lounge. The table truly said special occasion: crisp white cloth, posh napkins, three types of salad, meat and cheese platters, smoked salmon, homemade pickled mushrooms. In the centre, steam billowed from the roast.

Oliver lounged back, surveying the feast like royalty. Victor bustled about with the cognac, specially purchased for this princely visitbest five-year, not the usual corner shop stuff.

“Lets raise a glass!” Victor beamed, pouring generously.

Oliver took the glass, swirled it, sniffed it, held it to the light.

“Armenian?” he grimaced. “Hmm. Im more of a French brandy man, you know, finer bouquet. This is a bit boozy for my taste. Oh well, beggars cant be choosers.”

Down it went, in one gulp. He immediately jabbed his fork at the meat platter, expertly selecting the priciest cut of ham.

“Help yourself, Oliver,” Grace said, sliding the salad his way. “That ones prawn and avocado, new recipe.”

He picked up a prawn, examined it like a jeweller inspecting a fake gem.

“Frozen prawns, right?” he declared.

“Obviously. We dont exactly live on the coast,” Grace replied. “Bought them from Sainsburys, king-size.”

“Tough as old boots,” Oliver judged, dropping his prawn back in defeat. “Grace, theyre overcooked. Two minutes in boiling water, remember? Theseungodly chewy. And this avocados hard. Crunchy, even.”

Victor, fork poised in mid-air, paused.

“No need to be so picky, Olly, its quite good! Tastes great to me.”

“Victor, taste is acquired,” Oliver intoned. “If you exist solely on substitutes, youll never know true gastronomy. Take last weekI attended a restaurant launch, scallop ceviche, thats texture! Thiswell, is the mayo at least homemade?”

Grace flushed. Mayo was off-the-shelf Hellmanns. Hand-whisking eggs had simply not made the cut this evening.

“Shop-bought,” she said tersely.

“Figures,” Oliver sighed, as though shed just admitted to poisoning everyone. “Vinegar, preservatives, starch. Pure health hazard. Well, lets see the pork. Hopefully not sabotaged.”

Grace silently plated up a generous helping, spooned over the honey-mustard sauce, added roast potatoes with rosemary. The aroma was heaven to a normal person, but Oliver was not normalhe was a “connoisseur”.

He chewed the pork, gazing moodily at the ceiling, while Grace and Victor leaned in, awaiting judgement. Victorhopeful. Gracebeginning to seethe.

“Dry,” Oliver pronounced finally. “And this sauce honey trumps everything. Too sweet. Meat should be meat, Grace, not pudding. And the marinatingthin on the ground. You need twenty-four hours in kiwi or at least some fizzy water.”

“I marinated all night, with spices and mustard,” Grace protested quietly. “Everyone always loves it.”

“Everyone is subjective. Your work mates might approve, bless them, but Im being objective. Its edible, I suppose, if youre starving, but pleasurable? Not at all.”

He pushed away the nearly untouched meat, and stabbed a pickled mushroom.

“These mushrooms at leastBritish? Or Chinese tinned?”

“Homemade,” Grace gritted out. “Picked and preserved ourselves.”

Oliver crammed one in, grimaced.

“Way too much vinegar. Watch your stomach lining. And salt! Someones lovesick, clearlyonly the lovesick over-season. Ha!” He chuckled at his own joke. “Victor, watch the blood pressure, mate, not sustainable.”

Victor giggled nervously, keen to smooth things over.

“Oh, come on, Olly, theyre perfect with a nip of vodka. Pour another!”

They drank. Oliver grew pink, undid his scarf, but refused to shed his coatdisplaying, perhaps, that he wasnt getting too comfy and might flee at any moment.

“Was there no decent caviar?” he griped, dissecting a canapé. “This is the small kind, lots of skins. Picked it up on clearance?”

“Oliver, thats wild salmon roe,” snapped Grace, voice wobbling. “Six quid for one jarespecially bought for you. We never eat it ourselves, we save up.”

“Saving on food is criminal,” Oliver opined, munching another of the “terrible” canapés. “You are what you eat, after all. I wouldnt touch cheap processed meat. Id rather starve. And you lot pack the fridge with discount rubbish, then wonder why youre tired and your skins grey.”

Grace looked at Victor. He sat, eyes glued to his plate, chewing with intense focusas if hoping the storm would pass unnoticed. His silence stung more than Olivers words. Once again, hed gone full ostrich, head in the sand, anything to avoid a showdown with his precious little brother.

“Victor,” Grace asked, “does the pork taste dry to you as well?”

Victor choked a little.

“Um no, darling, its delicious. Really delicious. Olivers just got a more refined palate”

“Oh, refined,” Grace placed her fork down with a clang that mightve woken the neighbours. “So Im a slob and my hands are all thumbs. Everything I cook is poison, is that it?”

“Grace, dont start dramatics,” Oliver sighed. “Im giving you constructive feedback. Growth, you know. Say thank you! Victor gobbles anything and thinks youre the next Delia Smith, so youve let yourself slide. A woman should strive to improve.”

“Thank you?” Grace echoed incredulously. “You want a thank you?”

She stood from the table. The chair screeched in protest.

“Grace, where are you going?” Victor squawked, alarmed. “Weve barely started!”

“Ill be back,” she said, in a tone hinting at dangerous things. “Ill fetch pudding. Oliver loves a bit of sweet.”

She marched into the kitchen, where her homemade Napoleon cake waiteda masterpiece. Twelve delicate layers, creamy custard, a touch of vanilla She eyed the cake. Then the bin.

Her hands shook. Years worth of resentment, usually bottled up, now fizzed over. How many times had this man dined here, eaten, drunk, borrowed fivers and never paid them back? How often had he sneered at her decor, her wardrobe, her parenting? And Victor? Always silent, always the apologistHes sensitive, creative. So she, Grace, was expected to be bulletproof?

She didnt touch the cake. Instead, she gathered a big tray and strode back to the dining room.

“Ahh, dessert?” Oliver perked up, stretching his neck. “Please tell me not a supermarket Swiss roll?”

Grace methodically packed up the plates. The pork. The rubber prawn salad. The cold cuts.

“Wait, what are you?” Oliver spluttered as his sandwich vanished. “I havent finished!”

“Why would you eat this?” Grace asked breezily, holding his gaze. “Its all inedible, by your review. Dry meat, poisonous mayo, chewy prawns, subpar caviar. I cant let my star guest be harmed. Im not cruel.”

Victor leapt up in protest.

“Grace! Enough! Put it back! Apologise, now!”

She plonked the tray on the kitchen counter and turned to Victor. Her eyes glintednot with tears, but icy resolve.

“So Im the embarrassment? But when you sat nodding while he trashed me, were you not embarrassed? Are you a man or a doormat, Victor? Hes scarfed ten quids worth of caviar in five minutes and called it rubbish. Have you ever bought me caviar, just because? Of course not. All best things, for guests. And the guest wipes his feet on us.”

“Hes my brother! Blood!”

“Im your wife! Ten years Ive cleaned, cooked, washed your socks. Last night I was up after my shift until 2 a.m. at the ovenfor what? To hear my hands are useless? If you dont stop blaming me, Ill wear this Napoleon cake as a hat. Im not joking.”

Victor shrank back. Hed never seen Grace like this. Shed always surrendered, always been “convenient”. Nowshe was a fury with a rolling pin.

Oliver poked his head into the kitchen, looking more lost than lordly.

“Well then,” he drawled. “Never experienced hospitality quite like this. I come pouring out my heart, and get chastised about a slice of bread.”

“You bring us your heart?” Grace snorted. “Wheres that on display? In your empty hands? Have you ever once brought anything into this home? Even a box of tea? You come to scoff and criticise.”

“Im just skint! Temporary hardship!”

“Your hardships lasted twenty years. But youve got a new coat and posh scarf. You go to fancy launches, but borrowing a fiver from your brother and forgetting to repaythats sacred.”

“Shut up, Grace!” Victor shouted. “Stop counting other peoples money!”

“Theyre not other peoplestheyre ours! Family money we sacrifice for this so-called gourmet!”

Oliver melodramatically clutched his chest.

“Well, thats it. Im done. I wouldnt stay here another minute. Victor, I never thought youd marry such a harpy. Never setting foot here again.”

He stormed to the hallway. Victor chased after.

“Olly, dont go! Shes just hormonal, or frazzled from work! Shell calm down!”

“No, mate,” Olivers voice dripped drama as he laced his shoesover his socks. “I cant forgive this disgrace. Dont call me till she apologises.”

The door slammed.

Victor stood staring at it as if it was the last portal to happiness in the world, then shuffled back to the kitchen, where Grace was Tupperwaring meat with military precision.

“Happy now?” he mumbled. “Youve driven a wedge between me and my brother.”

“Ive rid us of a freeloader,” she replied, never looking back. “Sit down. Eat. The porks still warm. Or is it too dry for you as well?”

Victor slouched at the table, head in hands.

“But he was a guest”

“A guest behaves like a guest, not a health inspector. Listen to me, Victor. I will neverneverlay on a spread for him again. If you want to see him, go to his place. Or a pub, on your coin. My money, my hard graft, wont be wasted on him.”

“Youve got cold,” he murmured.

“No, just fair. Eat up. Or should I clear away?”

Victor eyed the pork. His stomach rumbled traitorously. Despite the chaos, the scent tempted fiercely. He tentatively grabbed his fork. Cut a piece. Sampled it.

The pork was meltingly tender. Saucesweet but with a peppery kick. Simply glorious.

“So?” Grace asked, spotting his blissful chewing.

“Delicious,” he admitted softly. “Really delicious, Grace.”

“Good. Your brothers just a jealous moaner who needs to belittle others to feel big. Get wise, Victor.”

He chewed thoughtfullyrealising, for once, maybe she was right. He remembered Olivers empty hands. His cutting remarks. And how uncomfortable hed felt, always on edge as his brother picked faults.

“And pudding?” Victor ventured. “Can we eat the cake?”

Grace smiled, genuinely, for once that evening.

“Well have the cake. And teawith thyme, just how you like it.”

She fetched the Napoleon cake, majestic, sliced it thickly. They sat together, sipping tea, savouring cake, the air lightening at last.

“You know,” Victor reminisced, finishing his second slice, “last month, he didnt even buy Mum a birthday gift. Said his presence was enough.”

“There you are,” Grace nodded. “Youre catching on.”

Victors phone buzzeda message from Oliver: Could have given me a few sandwiches for the road. I left starving. You owe me fifty quid for emotional damages.

Victor read it aloud. Silence hung. Grace raised an eyebrow.

“So, what will you reply?”

Victor gazed at his wife, their soothing kitchen, the heavenly cake. Then the phone. Carefully, he typed: Youre a gourmetgo dine at a restaurant. Were skint. And hit Block contact.

“What did you say?” Grace asked.

“Said were turning in for the night.”

Grace pretended to believe, though shed glimpsed the screen. She bent to hug Victors shoulders.

“Youre learning, Victor. Slow, but you get there.”

That night, they understood something vital. Sometimes, to save a family, you have to eject the extraseven if theyre relatives. And the pork? It was truly out of this world, no matter what any self-styled “expert” saidespecially one who never footed the bill.