A Second Bite at the Apple (9 page)

“Yeah, Dad mentioned business was down.”

“Down? Try over. Ford is closing his dealership.”

“What? Since when?”

“Since a few months ago. The dealership in Conshohocken is doing better, so they've decided to make that the primary dealership in the area. He'll be out of work by July.”

“Wow, Mom—I don't know what to say.”

“Neither do I. It's been rough on your father, to say the least. And with Libby's wedding coming up in a few months . . . Well, we thought it might be a good idea for me to get out there again and make a few bucks.”

“Teaching?”

“Not necessarily . . . I haven't been in a classroom in almost thirty years. And anyway, teaching jobs aren't all that easy to come by these days.”

“So, if not teaching, then . . . what?”

“Well, you know I've always loved food and cooking. . . .”

“Are you thinking of starting a catering company? Libby and I always thought you should.”

“No. . . . I was thinking more along the lines of . . . a position at Williams-Sonoma.”

“Aren't they based in San Francisco?”

“Not the corporate end. A position in the store.” She hesitates. “A salesperson.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to sound supportive. “That sounds cool, too. I bet you'll get a good employee discount.”

“That's what everyone keeps saying.” She lets out another sigh. “Oh, who am I kidding? This is humiliating.”

“No, it isn't. Don't say that.”

“Well, it is. Your father and I have lived a comfortable life for so many years, and now, for everything to change so suddenly . . .” She sniffles.

I try my best to comfort her, but all I can think about is what a blow this must be to my parents, especially my dad. His auto dealership has been like his third child, older than both me and Libby and a fixture in the area. The tagline for his business—“No stress, just Strauss”—was everywhere growing up, whether it was in radio ads or on bumper stickers. Business started to slow about ten years ago, but he carried on and managed to dodge the wave of dealership closings following the recession and auto bailout. Still, from everything he's told me, business never got back to where it was during the “good old days,” and I knew that, despite his catchy slogan, there was plenty of stress about sales figures and inventory. But I hadn't realized it was this bad. I hadn't realized three quarters of the Strauss family would soon be unemployed.

“I can talk to Libby about the wedding,” I say. “I'm sure there are a few places she can cut down on expenses.”

“Don't you dare say a word to your sister.”

“Why not?”

“Because your father doesn't want her knowing about any of this until after the wedding. She is so excited and happy, and he wants to make the day special for her.”

“But that's ridiculous. The day can be special without spending a zillion dollars. I'm sure Libby will understand.”

My mom snickers. “Are we talking about the same Libby?”

I can picture her face simply by listening to her voice: her left eyebrow raised, her thin lips pressed together in a wry smile. Her glossy hair is probably styled in its signature shoulder-length cut, the front swept across her narrow forehead and held in place by a hefty dose of hairspray.

“True,” I say. “But maybe I could try to talk her out of some of her more ridiculous requests.”

“Just leave it alone for now. Your father doesn't want his misfortune to ruin her big day.”

“But—”

“Anyway,”
she says, moving swiftly along, “speaking of Libby's wedding, the reason I called in the first place was to update you on her bridal shower. We have a date: Saturday, July 16.”

“I'll mark my calendar. . . .” At this point, July sounds as far away as 2052.

“Libby dropped a few hints that she wants you to put together a few shower games.”

“Games?”

“You know—a Q&A, the toilet paper game, stuff like that.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Look it up online.”

“Can't one of the other bridesmaids do that?”

She blows a gust of air into the receiver. “I'll ask around. But it would mean a lot to Libby if you did
something
special for her shower.”

“I'll work on it.”

“Good,” she says. “One of us in this family deserves a pleasant surprise.”

“That's for sure.”

But as I pull the car onto the highway, the stretches of farmland fading into the distance, I wonder why, as far as my family is concerned, that person has never been me.

The Rick profile is an instant smash. Within hours of my sending out the new-and-improved newsletter the following Tuesday, his stand at the Crystal City market teems with hordes of hungry customers, everyone clamoring for sourdough loaves and oatmeal cookies by the handful. With Julie's permission, I included a link in the newsletter to my blog, where I uploaded an edited video of Rick making his sourdough boule, documenting the process from beginning to end and providing plenty of close-up shots of the bread's airy, custardy crumb and crisp, blistered crust. I don't think it's a coincidence that we sell out of boules in the first hour.

Before we've even made it through the first week of March, traffic on my blog is up 1000 percent, and the comments section explodes with people wondering where they can find Rick's bread and asking what other breads and pastries he sells. Even Libby sends an e-mail, asking if I could ship a loaf of brioche to Philly. Of course she then e-mails back fifteen minutes later telling me to forget it because she has decided to cut out all carbs before the wedding. Which, she reminds me, is in twenty-one weeks, four days, and six hours. Just in case I'd forgotten.

When I get to the Penn Quarter market Thursday afternoon, the first day of its reopening after a two-month hiatus in January and February, Rick is grumbling to himself as he yanks the folded-up tent off the truck. I never enjoy the weekday markets as much as the ones on the weekend, mostly because Heidi works at her real job during the week, leaving me to deal with Rick on my own. Plus, whereas the weekend markets attract a low-key crowd—people out for a stroll on their Saturday or Sunday mornings—the weekday markets draw high-strung professionals on their coffee breaks, people who want their muffin
yesterday,
thank you very much. Given the Penn Quarter market's location, surrounded on all sides by the FBI, the Justice Department, and dozens of nonprofits and swanky law firms, the crowd is particularly intense.

The market sits on a narrow one-block stretch of Eighth Street, which descends at a gradual slope toward Pennsylvania Avenue, coming to a dead end at the tree-lined plaza in front of the US Navy Memorial. The street is blockaded to the north and south by vibrant orange cones, and brightly colored tents line each side, from one end to the other. Rick's truck is parked on the eastern side, in front of an outpost of CVS.

“You trying to kill me?” he gripes as I pull myself onto the back of the truck.

“No,” I say, though I'd be lying if I said the thought had never crossed my mind. “What did I do this time?”

“Thanks to your little profile and video, I'm selling out early at every market, and Julie is up my ass about some pilot project with Green Grocers.”

“And this is a problem how?”

“I can't keep up with demand. And to sell at Green Grocers, I'd need to up my volume by at least 75 percent, but I don't have the manpower.”

“So hire some more people.”

“Oh, really?” He raises his arms and gestures to no one in particular. “Attention, please: Someone give this girl a fucking MBA.”

“I'm just trying to help.”

He lifts his eyes to the sky and sighs. “If I could hire more people, don't you think I would?”

“I guess so. . . .”

“More people means more salaries, which means more money, which means more loans, which means more credit, which I sure as shit don't have.” He sneers as he shakes out one of his red cotton tablecloths. “Unless you want to help me out for free.”

“No, thanks,” I say.

I can't think of anything worse. Between my work for him and Julie, I might as well already be working for free, and my blog sure as hell isn't making me any cash. I don't need to take on yet another unpaid position—particularly not for a guy who will make my life a living hell.

“Then stop setting me up for failure,” he says.

“What about interns from one of the local culinary programs? I know L'Academie de Cuisine is always looking for apprenticeships. Those are all unpaid.”

He frowns. “Maybe.”

“At least that would allow you to get ahead of the demand. And it would get you in the door at Green Grocers, which could help your cash-flow problem.”

“Well, aren't you a regular Warren Buffett,” he says.

Clearly Rick is unaware of my current bank account balance. Also, my guess is Warren Buffett never spent his time writing unpaid blog posts about apples.

“I'll think about it,” he says. “You make a good point.”

He turns and heads back to the truck to grab another crate of rye, and with his faint praise still ringing in my ears, I'm not sure whether to smile or die from shock.

 

Rick's stand is on fire today. Loaves of brioche and sourdough fly across the table, with dozens of tender muffins and fudgy brownies nipping at their heels. I'm not sure why I care so much about seeing Rick succeed, especially given that he is . . . well . . .
Rick,
but I love watching his business thrive. Some of that is down to the fact that I've woven myself into the fabric of the farmers' market and feel as if I'm a part of this growing family. But I also like seeing the direct impact of my writing. When I worked on stories in high school and college, and even at
The Morning Show,
I'd pour my heart and soul into them and never know if anyone read or watched, much less cared. But here, I have tangible evidence, in the form of empty baskets and long lines, that I've reached at least a few people.

Mere moments after the words
Morning Show
enter my mind, I nearly drop a bag of muffins on the ground as I spot Charles Griffin ambling down the market thoroughfare toward the Navy Memorial, as if I've conjured him to this very spot. I haven't seen him since I lost my job almost three months ago.

“Just the gal I was looking for,” he says as he approaches the Wild Yeast tent.

I can't imagine why Charles would be looking for me, unless perhaps he needs to locate a tricycle for a live shot. “How did you know to find me here?”

He smirks. “I have my ways. I'm a reporter after all.”

This is true, though I'm tempted to remind him that our last reporting adventures together involved skis and snowballs. “So what's up? Melanie's toilet humor got you down?”

“Ha, no. Well, yes, but that's not why I'm here.” He considers this for a moment. “Have you noticed she's really into booger jokes?”

“They're sort of her specialty.”

He nods, conceding my point. “Anyway, the reason I'm here: I don't know if I ever mentioned this, but my buddy Stu is the food editor over at the
Chronicle
.”

My heart nearly stops. “You know Stu Abbott? Since when?”

“Since forever. We met when we were young, scrappy reporters in Washington. He sort of fell into food journalism by accident.”

“I can't believe you never mentioned that before.”

“I guess it never seemed relevant.”

And why would it? It's not as if Charles and I sat around pouring our hearts out to each other and sharing our innermost hopes and dreams. We were colleagues. Our relationship was all surface. Sure, we worked together for four years, driving out to farms in rural Virginia and standing in the middle of record-breaking snowstorms, but beyond our shared experiences, we didn't share much else. For all I know, in his spare time Charles is into bondage and role-playing. Having said that, for many, many reasons, I hope he is not.

“Stu and I keep up with each other a fair amount,” he says, “especially since our network now has a content-sharing agreement with the
Chronicle
. The two of us mainly vent about the state of journalism and our bureau chiefs, but the other day he forwarded me a link to a video on your blog with a note saying, ‘Didn't you use to work with this girl?' ”

“Really?”

“Believe me, I was as surprised as anyone,” he says, his inner diva apparently still intact. “But Stu subscribes to all those foodie e-mail lists, and he came across the profile you did of that baker guy and the video you put on your site. I guess there's a push at the
Chronicle
to add more multimedia to their food page? I don't know. But Stu sounded interested in chatting with you, at least to pick your brain.”

“Seriously? Oh my gosh, Charles—you have no idea. This is like a dream come true.”

“You did always love those food stories. Remember the one we did at that poultry farm?”

“The one where you got attacked by a turkey? Yeah, I'm pretty sure that image is tattooed on my brain forever.”

“I still have a scar, you know,” he says, lifting up his jacket and shirt.

I hold up my hand. “I'll take your word for it.”

He shrugs as if to say,
Your loss,
and tucks his hands into his coat pockets. “Anyway, I assume your e-mail and number are still the same?”

“Yep. No change.”

“Good. Stu will probably be in touch in the next day or two.”

I beat my fists together and bounce up and down. “I can't believe this is happening. Thank you, Charles. This is so exciting!”

“Hey, I'm just the messenger,” he says. He glances down at the table. “I will, however, take two of those chocolate chip muffins.”

“Done and done.”

I bag up the muffins and hand them to Charles, who smiles as he grips the bag with his wrinkly, weathered hands. “And don't worry,” he says, a strange glint in his eye. “Washington is a small town. It won't be long before I'm asking you to return the favor.”