Here's to Us

Deacon Thorpe is thirteen years old and still more a boy than a man when his father, Jack, tells Deacon they’re taking a day trip out of the city, just the two of them.

Deacon is intrigued by the idea of a day trip out of the city. They rarely have money for anything other than minute-to-minute survival. Jack works as a line chef at Sardi’s in Times Square, and he gets only three days off per month.

Deacon is even more excited about the phrase “just the two of us.” Jack is the king of Deacon’s world, primarily because he is rarely available. Deacon anticipates time with Jack the way astronomers anticipate a comet or an eclipse.

Jack wakes Deacon at four in the morning. They leave Deacon’s mother and his sister, Stephanie, asleep in the apartment. At Jack’s instruction, Deacon is wearing his swimming trunks, and Jack is wearing a bright-yellow collared shirt that Deacon has never seen before.

Jack plucks at the shirt with a smile of pride. “Bought it specially for today,” he says.

For the trip, Jack has rented an Oldsmobile Cutlass. Deacon didn’t even realize his father knew how to drive. They live in Stuy Town, and if they need to go somewhere-work, school, the park-they take the subway or the bus.

“Now this,” Jack says, “is one classy vehicle.”

His father is suddenly full of surprises.

Deacon naps for much of the drive, waking up only as they cross a bridge that looks as though it has been made from a giant erector set. Elton John is on the radio, singing “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” Jack sings along, “Oh, honey, if I get restless…”

“Where are we?” Deacon asks.

“Cape Cod,” Jack says. Then he sings, “Whoa-ho, I gave you my heart!”

Cape Cod. It has a mythical ring to it, like Shangri-La.

Jack turns down the radio and says, “I want one perfect day with my son. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

By nine o’clock, they are sitting on the top deck of a ferry, drinking coffee. Deacon has never been allowed to drink coffee before; his mother believes it will stunt his growth. Jack doesn’t seem to think twice about ordering a cup for Deacon. He says, “You may want to add some cream and sugar to that, mellow it a little.” But Deacon chooses to take it black, like his father. Some of his Jewish friends at school have had their bar mitzvahs, and that’s how Deacon is viewing this day trip-as a rite of passage, in which he will learn some things about becoming a man.

The ferry delivers Deacon and Jack to a place called Nantucket Island. Jack insists they stand at the railing as soon as land comes into view. They pass a stone jetty where seals are sunbathing. Real seals! These are the first wild animals Deacon has seen outside a zoo. The ferry cruises into a harbor filled with sleek, elegant power yachts and sailboats with tall masts and elaborate rigging. Gulls circle overhead. Deacon sees two church steeples, one a white spire, one a gold dome, and clusters of gray-shingled buildings.

Jack says, “Today we are going to live the life on Nantucket.”

On the wharf, Jack rents another car-an army-drab Willys jeep, which is like nothing Deacon has ever seen in the city. It has no top, no windows, no doors, even. It is basically two seats and a gearshift, four tires and a motor. This is not a classy vehicle-it’s as far from the Cutlass as you can get-but Jack looks happier than Deacon has ever seen him.

“Hop in!” Jack says. “I’ll give you the grand tour.”

They drive over cobblestone streets, past a general store called Hardy’s, which has a charcoal grill and a lawn mower in the plate glass window with a male mannequin wearing a collared shirt just like Jack’s, standing between the two. He’ll cut the grass first, Deacon thinks, then grill up some burgers outside. It’s like a scene from The Brady Bunch.

They pass a pizza parlor, then a restaurant called the Opera House.

Jack points at the restaurant. “My old stomping ground,” he says. “There’s a real British phone booth in the dining room, where I used to kiss my French girlfriend, Claire.”

Deacon feels himself redden. He can’t imagine Jack Thorpe kissing anyone, not even Deacon’s mother.

They drive out a long road that twists and turns. They pass gray-shingled cottages draped with roses, they pass fields with horses grazing alongside split-rail fences. To the left, Deacon catches glimpses of the blue harbor. The sun is starting to get very hot, and Deacon’s stomach rumbles. All he has had to drink so far today is the coffee and there’s been nothing in the way of food.

A lighthouse comes into view. It’s white with a fat, red stripe in the middle. They pass a wide pond; on the other side of the pond, Deacon can see the ocean. Jack takes a left at a sign that says HOICKS HOLLOW.

“Good old Hoicks Hollow Road,” Jack says. “Used to be my home away from home.”

“It did?” Deacon says.

“Funny name for a road, isn’t it?” Jack says.

Deacon doesn’t know how to respond.

“Funnier than East Twenty-Eighth Street, anyway,” Jack says.

They wind around until they reach a place called the Sankaty Head Beach Club. PRIVATE, the sign says. The air smells deliciously of French fries, and Deacon wants to believe they will eat lunch here, but the word “private” makes him ill at ease. The Thorpes aren’t a family that belongs anywhere private. Not at all. Deacon figures that in another thirty seconds or so they will be told they are trespassing and will be asked to leave.

But surprisingly, Jack Thorpe is not only welcomed at the door, he is celebrated-by a heavyset, red-faced man wearing a name tag that says Ray Jay Jr., Manager.

“Jack Thorpe!” Ray Jay Jr. says. “God, you’re a sight for sore eyes. How long has it been?”

“Too long,” Jack says. He introduces Deacon to Ray Jay Jr. “I told Deacon I just want one perfect day with my son. That’s not too much to ask, is it? How about some lunch, for old times’ sake?”

“You got it, Jack,” Ray Jay Jr. says. He ushers Jack and Deacon into the club. They pass signs that say LADIES’ LOCKERS and GENTLEMEN’S LOCKERS. Through a swinging set of Dutch doors with thick, white paint, they emerge outside. Ray Jay Jr. seats them at a table overlooking the swimming pool, which is an alluring lozenge of deep, turquoise water. Along both sides of the pool are cabanas with chaise longues where beautiful women in bikinis work on their suntans and towheaded children lie on navy and white striped towels. Waiters deliver iced teas with wedges of lemon, beers, and fruity cocktails to the chaise longues. At the far end of the pool is a wooden fence draped with red, white, and blue bunting, probably left over from the bicentennial celebration.

Over the loudspeaker, that song, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” is playing again.

Jack holds an imaginary microphone under his chin as he sings along in falsetto. Then, to Deacon, Jack says, “You can go ahead and jump in. I’ll order for you.”

Deacon understands that this was the reason for the swim trunks; he shucks off his T-shirt. He approaches the edge of the pool. A few kids are splashing around in the shallow end while an older gentleman does freestyle laps. The only other swimming pool Deacon has been to is at the community center on Avenue A, where the water is too warm and stinks of chlorine and is always jam packed with shrieking kids and bullies who dunk Deacon, keeping his head under water long enough for him to panic. By comparison, this pool is cool and serene, like a pool in paradise.

One perfect day with my son. The phrase makes Deacon’s heart soar. For the first time in his life, he feels as if he matters.

Deacon jumps in.

Lunch is a double bacon cheeseburger with French fries, a frosty Coke, and soft-serve ice cream. Ray Jay Jr. checks in to see how their food is and to offer Jack a beer, but Jack declines.

“I have my boy here,” Jack says.

Deacon has never seen his father turn down an offer of a beer, and certainly not a free beer. Jack has an alcohol problem, Deacon’s mother says. She calls it an occupational hazard, because he works in a restaurant, where alcohol is an ever-present temptation. When Jack drinks, bad things happen. He flies into rages for no reason, he throws things and breaks things, he screams profanities at Deacon, Stephanie, and their mother-and then, always, he cries until he passes out. But today, Jack seems to be a different man. In his yellow collared shirt, he fits right in with the members of this private club. The radio plays “Afternoon Delight.”

“You know what this song is about, don’t you?” Jack asks with a wink.

Deacon lowers his eyes to the scattering of salt across his plate. “Yeah,” he says.

Jack slaps him conspiratorially on the back. “Okay then. Gotta make sure you’re up to speed.”

Deacon thinks they might stay at the pool all afternoon, lounging next to the women in bikinis, but Jack says, “We’re off to the beach. Can’t come to Nantucket and not go to the beach.”

They get back into the open jeep with a couple of the navy and white striped towels that Ray Jay Jr. slips them on the way out.

As Jack pulls away he says, “I worked there fifteen years ago. I was the fry boy, and Ray the grill master. I should have done what he did. I should have stayed and lived the life on Nantucket.”

Deacon nods in agreement, although he suspects that if Jack had stayed and lived the life on Nantucket, then he, Deacon, might not exist. This unsettling thought evaporates once Deacon sees the beach. It is a long stretch of golden sand. The ocean is bottle green, with rolling, white-crested waves. Jack and Deacon set out their towels. Jack goes charging into the water, and Deacon follows.

They bodysurf in the waves for well over an hour, then they collapse on their towels and nap in the sun. When they wake up, the light has mellowed, and the water sparkles.

“Here it is,” Jack says. “The golden hour.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Deacon has never experienced a golden hour before, but he has been to church once, with his friend Emilio’s family, and this feels sort of the same, peaceful and holy. In his life in the city, he watches too much TV, and he and Emilio and Hector set off bottle rockets in the alleys behind Stuy Town. Jack walks off down the beach, and Deacon senses that he wants to be alone, so Deacon goes to the water’s edge and finds a perfectly formed clamshell with a swirl of marbleized blue on the inside. He’ll take it home, he decides. He will keep it forever.

He throws rocks into the ocean until Jack returns with a dreamy, faraway look on his face. Deacon wonders if he is thinking about his French girlfriend, Claire.

“What do you say we start heading back?” Jack says. “I have to return the jeep by six.”

Deacon nods, but his heart is heavy. He doesn’t want to leave. The remainder of the day is shadowed by melancholy. They drive back into town, roll the jeep over the cobblestone streets, return it to the rental place. It has cost Jack forty dollars, which seems like a fortune.

On the wharf, Jack buys an order of fried clams, two lobster rolls, and two chocolate milk shakes. Deacon and his father eat their feast on the top deck of the ferry as the sun sets, dappling the water pink and gold. Jack hums some amalgam of “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” and “Afternoon Delight.”

“Now, that was a perfect day with my son,” Jack says. “What do you say we go downstairs so you can get some rest?”

Deacon nearly protests. He wants to stay outside and watch the lights of Nantucket fade until they disappear, but the breeze picks up, and Deacon shivers. He follows his father downstairs, where they secure a section of bench. Jack rolls up the two striped towels-there was never a doubt in Deacon’s mind that Jack would keep them; he’s thrifty that way-and places them on one end of the bench for Deacon as a pillow.

“Thank you,” Deacon whispers.

He tries with all his might to stay awake, but the gentle rocking of the boat is like that of a cradle, and he feels himself succumbing. His eyelids grow heavy and eventually drop like anchors. Deacon knows somehow that more than just one perfect day with his father is ending. It’s as though he can see the future: a week later, Jack will leave his family for good, taking the last scraps of Deacon’s childhood with him. There is nothing either of them can do to stop it.

BUCK

John Buckley had performed some astonishing feats in his thirty years as an agent, but nothing compared to the miracle of assembling Deacon Thorpe’s entire family at the house on Nantucket so that they could spread Deacon’s ashes and discuss the troubling state of his affairs.

Buck realized he should be parsimonious with his self-congratulation. He hadn’t gathered the entire family. Scarlett had stubbornly chosen to remain in Savannah, where she would stay, Buck supposed, until she realized the money was all gone. At some point in the near future, Buck assumed, she would look down, like Wile E. Coyote in the old cartoons, believing himself to be standing on solid ground but seeing nothing below him but thin air. They were sure to hear from her then.

Six weeks had passed, but John Buckley still couldn’t believe that his first-ever client and his best friend, Deacon Thorpe-the most famous chef in America-was dead.

On May 6, a call had come to Buck’s cell phone from an unfamiliar number, and, since Deacon had been incommunicado for nearly forty-eight hours, John Buckley took the call, thinking it might be his friend. He was in a chair at the Colonel’s, the last old-time barbershop in New York City, where cell phones were expressly not allowed.

Buck knew he would never be granted an appointment with Sal Sciosia (the colonel, Battle of Khe Sanh, Vietnam) again if he took the call, but he had no choice.

An unfamiliar number could have meant anything. Most likely: Deacon had gone on another bender, even though he had promised, he had sworn, he had practically pricked his index finger and matched it with Buck’s own in a solemn vow, that he would never again have an episode like the one two weeks earlier. That rager had most likely cost Deacon his marriage. Scarlett had withdrawn Ellery from La Petit Ecole, one of the most prestigious private schools in New York City, and taken her down to Savannah, leaving Deacon contrite and chastened, a new passenger on the wagon.

But people were going to act exactly like themselves. If Buck had learned one thing from thirty years of agenting, it was this. Now this call would either be from the NYPD or from the bartender at McCoy’s, where Deacon had passed out facedown on his tab.

Buck had to answer.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Buckley?” a voice of authority said. “My name is Ed Kapenash. I’m the chief of police in Nantucket, Massachusetts.”

“Nantucket?” Buck said. Deacon owned a huge, ramshackle summer cottage on Nantucket called American Paradise, a name that Buck secretly considered ironic. “Is Deacon there?” His voice conveyed more impatience than he wanted it to, and probably not the full respect due to a chief of police. “Sir?”

“Yours was the number we found on his phone listed under his emergency contact,” the chief said. “I take it you’re a friend…? Of Deacon Thorpe’s?”

“His agent,” Buck said. And then, sighing, he added, “And yes, his best friend. Is he in jail?” Deacon had never gotten into any kind of trouble while on Nantucket, not in all these years-but as far as Deacon was concerned, there was a first time for everything.

“No, Mr. Buckley,” the chief said. “He’s not in jail.”

Buck had walked out of the Colonel’s half-shaven.

His best friend of thirty years was dead.

“Massive coronary,” the chief said. “An island man named JP Clarke found him early this morning and phoned it in. But the M.E. put the time of death about twelve hours earlier-so maybe seven or eight o’clock last night.”

“Had he been drinking?” Buck asked. “Doing drugs?”

“He was slumped over at the table on the back deck with a Diet Coke,” the chief said. “And there were four cigarette butts in the ashtray. No drugs that we found, although the M.E. is going to issue a tox report. You have my condolences. My wife was a big fan of the show. She made that clam dip for every Patriots game.”

Condolences, Buck had thought. That belonged on Deacon’s Stupid Word List. What did it even mean?

“I’ll leave it to you, then, to contact the family?” the chief asked.

Buck closed his eyes and thought: Laurel, Hayes, Belinda, Angie, Scarlett, Ellery.

“Yes,” Buck said.

“And you’ll handle the remains?”

“I’ll handle… yes, I’ll handle everything,” Buck said.

Massive coronary, Buck thought. Diet Coke and four cigarettes. It was the cigarettes that had done it in the end, Buck guessed. He had told Deacon… but now was no time to indulge his inner surgeon general. Deacon was gone. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

“Thank you, Chief,” Buck said. “For letting me know.”

“Well,” the chief said, “unfortunately, that’s my job. My thoughts to the family.”

Buck hung up and watched his arm shoot into the air. A taxi put on its blinker and pulled over. Everything was the same in the world, but then again it was different. Deacon Thorpe was dead.

The death had been devastating enough, but as the executor of Deacon’s estate, Buck was then required to delve into the paperwork that inevitably followed. He started with the obvious: Deacon’s will. He had left the restaurant to his daughter Angie, which made sense, although Harv would continue to run it for the foreseeable future. And Deacon had left his other major asset-the house on Nantucket-to the three women he had been married to, Laurel Thorpe, Belinda Rowe, and Scarlett Oliver, to be owned in thirds, with time split in a fair and just manner, as determined by the executor.

Great, Buck thought.

As Buck sifted through Deacon’s marriage certificates to Laurel, to Belinda, to Scarlett; the divorce agreements from Laurel and from Belinda; the deed to the Nantucket house, which turned out to be encumbered with three mortgages and two liens; the LLC paperwork for Deacon’s four-star restaurant, the Board Room, in midtown Manhattan; the contracts with ABC (ancient, defunct) and the Food Network; and his bank and brokerage statements, he’d been thrown into a tailspin. All Buck could think was, This has to be wrong. He rummaged through every drawer of Deacon’s desk at the restaurant and meticulously checked the apartment on Hudson Street, a task much more easily accomplished without Scarlett around. Every piece of paper Buck found served to make the situation worse. It was like a game of good news, bad news, except this version was called bad news, worse news.

Deacon hadn’t paid any of the three mortgages on the Nantucket house in six months, and he was three months behind on the rent for his apartment on Hudson Street. Where had all of Deacon’s money gone? Buck found a canceled check for a hundred thousand dollars made out to Skinny4Life. Skinny4Life? Buck thought. A hundred large? This sounded like one of Scarlett’s “projects”; there had been the purses made by the cooperative of women in Gambia and, after that, an organic, vegan cosmetic company that absconded with fifty thousand of Deacon’s dollars before going belly-up. Before Scarlett decided she wanted to go into “business,” she had studied photography. Deacon had spent a small fortune sending her to University College downtown-which, Buck had pointed out numerous times, was neither a university nor a college. Deacon had built Scarlett a state-of-the-art darkroom in the apartment and bought her cameras and computers and scanners and printers, the collective price of which could have paid for a Rolls-Royce with a full-time chauffeur. All of the equipment now sat dormant behind a locked door.

Buck found another canceled check, this one for forty thousand dollars and made out to Ellery’s school, along with a check to the co-op board of Hayes’s building in Soho. Buck had wondered how Hayes had been able to afford such a place, and now he knew: Deacon had paid for it. From the looks of things, Deacon had also been cutting a check to Angie every now and again-three thousand dollars here, twelve hundred dollars there-with a memo line that read Buddy fun money. And there was a canceled check for thirty thousand dollars made out to someone named Lyle Phelan, which also went in the question-mark pile.

Even with all that cash out the door, Buck was puzzled. Deacon took only one dollar in salary from the Board Room in order to keep down operating costs, which were, famously, the most outlandish of any restaurant in the country. But the residuals from Deacon’s two TV shows-Day to Night to Day with Deacon and Pitchfork-should have kept him solvent despite all his expenses.

Then Buck came across the wire transfer, dated January 3. A million dollars from Deacon’s brokerage account with Merrill Lynch to… the Board Room, LLC, the company that owned the restaurant. Buck remembered Deacon telling him at Christmastime that he’d had an investor pull out; it had been Scarlett’s uncle, the judge from Savannah. The judge-Buck had met him ten years earlier at the wedding-had gone to the Board Room for dinner, and apparently something had gone awry. Deacon had never told Buck exactly what happened, but the judge had called the very next day, saying he wanted his money back, pronto. And Deacon hadn’t argued.

Deacon had seemed panicked about the funding, but the following week he’d called Buck and said he’d found a new investor who shared Deacon’s vision. This guy is all in, Deacon had said. Vested.

The guy, Buck now knew, had been Deacon.

Buck discovered a life insurance policy worth a quarter of a million dollars, with Scarlett and Ellery named as the beneficiaries. That would probably pay the rent on the Hudson Street apartment and the tuition at Ellery’s school for a couple more years. But Deacon’s beloved Nantucket house was going into foreclosure; the bank would repossess it at the end of the month unless the estate could come up with $436,292.19, the sum total of the amount overdue on the three mortgages, plus the liens. And then, even if someone paid what was owed in arrears, there was still a $14,335 monthly payment to grapple with.

Buck had never seen such a mess!

He had contacted Laurel and Hayes, and Belinda and Angie-and he’d left a detailed message for Scarlett’s mother, Prue, to pass along to Scarlett, who refused to take Buck’s calls. They would gather on Nantucket to spread Deacon’s ashes in Nantucket Sound, and then it would be Buck’s job to inform Deacon’s family that unless someone stepped forward to save the house, the halcyon days of their island summers were coming to an end.

PIRATE TAXI

508-555-3965

“Pirate” Oakley

AHOY, MATES!

Deacon’s Stupid Word List

1. protégé

2. literally

3. half sister (brother)

4. oxymoron

5. repartee

6. nifty

7. syllabus

8. parched

9. brouhaha

10. doggie bag

11. giddy

12. unique

13.

14.

New York Post, Saturday, May 7, 2016

Popular Television Chef Deacon Thorpe Found Dead at Age 53

Nantucket, Massachusetts-Deacon Thorpe, 53, chef-owner of the Board Room, in midtown Manhattan, and host of the popular Food Network program Pitchfork, died of a heart attack at his summer cottage Thursday evening, according to Nantucket police chief Edward Kapenash.

Thorpe arrived on Nantucket Island on a Thursday-morning ferry, officials at the Steamship Authority confirmed. He was found by island resident JP Clarke on Friday morning.

“I stopped by to pick him up,” Mr. Clarke said. “We had plans to go fishing.”

Mr. Clarke said that the front door to the house, named American Paradise, was standing open and that after calling numerous times for Mr. Thorpe, he entered. He found Mr. Thorpe’s body slumped over a picnic table on the back deck. Mr. Clarke called 911. The island’s medical examiner concluded that Thorpe had died of a heart attack sometime the evening before.

Deacon Thorpe graduated from the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York, in 1985. After serving in externships at the Odeon and the Union Square Café in New York City, Thorpe landed the chef de cuisine position at Solo, the landmark restaurant that helped turn the Flatiron District into the dining hotbed it is today. Thorpe worked at Solo from 1986 to 1988. During his tenure, he was offered a half-hour late-night television show on ABC entitled Day to Night to Day with Deacon, which is widely considered to be the forebear of reality TV. Day to Night to Day with Deacon ran for thirty-six episodes, from 1986 to 1989. In 1989, Thorpe left New York for Los Angeles. In 1990, he became the executive chef of the Raindance restaurant chain, overseeing outposts in Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York. While at Raindance, Thorpe developed the recipe for his signature clams casino dip. In 2004, it was named recipe of the year by Gourmet magazine. In an appearance on The Late Show with David Letterman, Thorpe made the dip, and Letterman said, “I literally cannot stop eating this. What’s in it?” To which Thorpe famously replied, “A teaspoon of crack cocaine.” This elicited an angry statement from the Partnership for a Drug-Free America accusing Thorpe of “glamorizing drug use.” Thorpe later apologized. In 2005, Thorpe was tapped to host a show on the Food Network entitled Pitchfork, and in 2007, the show was nominated for a Daytime Emmy for Outstanding Culinary Program. Also in 2007, Thorpe opened his own restaurant, the Board Room, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, which was distinguished in Bon Appétit as being the most expensive restaurant in America. The nine-course menu changes weekly according to what is fresh and available from the twenty-seven local purveyors hand-selected by Chef Thorpe. Over half the courses are cooked over a hardwood fire-Chef Thorpe preferred using majestic hickory from Nova Scotia, which cost him north of five thousand dollars a week. Other signature touches at the Board Room include six-hundred-dollar cashmere throws available for each diner, and a menu of eighteen handcrafted cocktails created by his mixologist, David Disibio, who holds a doctorate in botany. The prix fixe nine-course dinner costs $525 per person, or $650 per person with cocktail and wine pairings. Frequent diners included George Clooney, Derek Jeter, and Bill Clinton.

Deacon Thorpe was nearly as famous for his life away from the stove as he was for his life behind it. He was married to his high school sweetheart, Laurel Thorpe, from 1982 to 1988. The couple has a son, Hayes Thorpe, 34, who works as the hotels editor at Fine Travel magazine. In 1990, Thorpe married Academy Award-winning actress Belinda Rowe; the couple’s daughter, Angela Thorpe, 26, worked for Mr. Thorpe at the Board Room in a position unique to the restaurant called the fire chief. After divorcing Rowe in 2005, Thorpe married Scarlett Oliver, causing a tabloid sensation, as Ms. Oliver had for many years served as Chef Thorpe and Ms. Rowe’s nanny. The couple has a nine-year-old daughter, Ellery Thorpe.

Mr. Thorpe’s agent and longtime friend, John Buckley, issued a statement on Friday afternoon that said, “Everyone who knew Chef Thorpe is shocked and saddened by the news of his death. The country has lost not only a culinary genius but also a cultural icon. The friends and family of Mr. Thorpe ask simply for privacy and respect during their time of mourning.”

Clams Casino Dip with Herb-Butter Baguettes (Courtesy of Deacon Thorpe)

SERVES 4 TO 6

8 slices thick-cut bacon, chopped

1 green bell pepper, diced

1 red bell pepper, diced

1 sweet onion, diced

½ teaspoon smoked paprika

¼ teaspoon freshly cracked black pepper

4 garlic cloves, minced

1 cup of minced or chopped clams (fresh or canned and drained work)

2 blocks cream cheese, 8 ounces each, softened and cubed

8 ounces fontina cheese, freshly grated

4 ounces Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, freshly grated

Preheat the oven to 400ºF. Spray a 9-inch round baking dish at least 3 inches deep with nonstick spray.

Heat a large skillet over medium-low heat and add the bacon. Cook until the bacon is completely crispy and the fat is rendered. Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon and place it on a paper-towel-lined plate to drain excess grease.

Keep the skillet with the bacon grease over medium-low heat and add the peppers and onions. Add in the smoked paprika and black pepper. Stir well to coat and cook until the vegetables are soft and golden, about 6 to 8 minutes. Stir in the garlic and the chopped clams and cook for another 2 minutes. Remove the vegetables and clams with a slotted spoon and add them to a large bowl. Add the cream cheese, grated cheeses, and bacon into the bowl. Use a large spatula to mix, and stir until everything is combined, distributing the cream-cheese cubes as you go. Spoon the mixture into the baking dish. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes or until golden and bubbly. Serve immediately with the herb-butter baguettes.

Herb-Butter Baguettes

1 large ciabatta baguette, sliced into ½-inch rounds

4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

⅓ cup freshly chopped herbs (I used cilantro, basil, thyme, and oregano)

½ teaspoon flaked sea salt

Preheat the oven to 400ºF. Spread the softened butter on the baguettes. Cover the butter with the assorted herbs (use whatever herbs you like!). Bake until the baguettes are warm and golden and toasted, about 10 minutes. Remove from the oven and sprinkle with the flaked salt. Serve immediately.