Food Whore (23 page)

 

Chapter 24

E
VEN THOUGH
M
ICHAEL
S
ALTZ WANTED TO VISIT
B
AKUSHAN
for a second time, I started writing the review.
Four stars. Obviously genius. World-­class.
I agonized over every word since I knew that this document, these sentences, would come to define the restaurant and set in motion a whole other chain of events. Expansion. Investments. Cookbook deals. When I wasn't in class or working at Madison Park Tavern, I was crafting the Bakushan review.

After class on Wednesday, I power-­walked back to the apartment to get ready for work and found Emerald sitting on the couch in a black silk taffeta gown and dangly gold earrings. A big bouquet of lilies lay nearby and a guy I didn't know stood next to her.

“Um, hi?” I said to Emerald, even though she had her head buried in her knees. The guy wore a hoodie over a suit and looked nice, down-­to-­earth.

Emerald lifted her head and said, “Sorry Tia, I didn't think you'd be home this early.” She put her hand on the small of the guy's back, in a place you don't touch friends of the opposite sex. “You should go now,” she whispered, a voice that had none of Emerald's usual honeyed swagger.

The guy smiled at me, then left. And then I saw that Emerald's face was red and swollen, her makeup streaky.

“That's Charlie, my boyfriend,” she said flatly.

“You have a boyfriend?”

“Yeah. We just made it official last week. He's great.” Talking about him seemed to brighten her mood, but barely. She was oddly still, like she'd been sedated.

“Elliott introduced us,” she said. “Charlie works at the Botanical Gardens.”

“Oh!” I said, pretending that Elliott's name in her story didn't startle me. So that was why she'd wanted to go to the Botanical Gardens the other day.

“Do you want to know what I was doing today?” she asked in resignation.

The flowers, the dress. I had no idea what other surprises she had in store for me. “Sure. What were you doing today?”

She pursed her lips and leaned her head away, like a buoy tipping far from shore. “You know, I thought we'd be friends. I saw your Facebook profile and you seemed nice, like really
real
. And then you get here, and . . . I don't know what happened. We don't even know each other. I don't know why I even expected we would be buddy-­buddy. It's perfectly fine that we aren't, as long as you pay the bills, I guess. But . . . it's hard living here with you and Melinda, like I'm not welcome in my own home.” She shook her head. Happy, sexy, confident Emerald looked totally hopeless.

Of course she was right. We didn't know each other. But I just didn't know how to relate to her. She looked at me, through me, grasping at a connection we didn't have. Her grief filled the room, and I felt suffocated by her earnestness, not ready for what came next.

“I was at the cemetery today, Tia.”

“The cemetery?” I repeated numbly.

“Yes. I go every week. But today was—­”

“Wait, what?” I didn't feel equipped to be here with sad Emerald. I couldn't even handle happy Emerald.

She collapsed back on the couch, the black ball gown poofing upward like a cloud of dust. “Never mind.”

“No . . . really,” I said. I approached her as if she were an injured animal: concerned but cautious, ready to jump back at any moment.

She eyed me with suspicion and as her tears dried up, I saw the Emerald I knew come into being. Emerald's essence was in her posture. Her spine, sure. But also her alert lips, her demonstrative hands, her hair elevated just so. Even her boobs had poise.

“A memorial ser­vice,” she said, and in her eyes I detected something similar to what I'd been doing a lot of lately—­a computation of what can be disclosed, and to whom.

“Oh,” I said. “For . . . who?”

Emerald scrunched up her face and just went for it. “My brother and father. They died four years ago.”

Sherri's hint of a “hard life.” The sighting at Bergdorf with her bewildered, weak mother. I realized with a shock that I had had a chance to step in and ask her about those things. I could have been there for her instead of gossiping behind her back. At the very least, I could have thanked her for the suit, the suit that had made me feel like I could actually belong at the type of restaurant I now visited every week.

“You didn't know that about me, did you?”

“Oh, Emerald,” I said. I walked closer, but stopped myself as a matter of habit. All semester, I had avoided closeness—­physical and emotional—­with her. We had never spoken about our families, but we could have. It seemed so obvious and right, to be friends with your roommate. It would have made New York a whole lot easier and more fun.

She took a deep breath and blurted out the rest in one long go, like coming up for air after being underwater. “My parents were finalizing the divorce. Dad picked up Peter from Yale for our last Thanksgiving as a family.” Her voice squeaked on the word
family
. She talked to the wall behind me as if she were reading off a teleprompter, so her voice seemed delivered to the space in the living room, not to me. “They were going down I-­95 and a sixteen-­wheeler swerved. The fucking driver fell asleep at the wheel. The road was icy and he threw them off, right into a ditch.”

I gasped so hard it felt like a hiccup. Emerald sighed.

“Every day I miss them. I guess I'm okay for the most part. I guess I'm past it all. But sometimes I think funny stuff, like they're gonna come back. Like Peter's gonna write me an email out of the blue and tell me that he has a lacrosse game on Friday and maybe I can take the train to New Haven.”

“Emerald,” I started. “I don't know how . . .”

“You went to Yale, right?” she asked. Her voice had regained its typical lushness, but there was still a sorrowful lethargy about it.

“Yeah, I went to Yale,” I said. I knew we had done the requisite research on each other, but it still surprised me that she remembered that. I'd thought I was a nobody to her, but now she seemed to be going out of her way to show me otherwise.

“I went to NYU for undergrad, you know,” she said. “Two of my college friends lived with me until they moved to L.A. Is Regina Chang your dean?”

“Yeah . . .” I said. Did she really pay this much attention to me and I so little to her? I was sure I would have remembered that she'd gone to NYU, but somehow it had slipped my mind. I guess I was too focused on myself.

“I saw you at Bergdorf,” Emerald said suddenly and I accidentally kicked a chair in surprise. She turned her head to me and for the first time during the conversation, we truly locked eyes. “I don't hide what happened with my dad and Peter, even if I never told you. But my mom . . . she fell apart after the accident and she's never been the same. I never talk about that—­to anyone. It kills me to have her like this and it's too much for me to explain.”

She looked at me softly, strangely. “You knew my real secret. So, congratulations. I've lived in New York my whole life and yet I can count the ­people who know about her on one hand. It's funny that you're part of that group.” She brushed her hair back and smiled her Emerald smile.

Then she walked into her room and, without shutting the door, changed into a high-­collared red-­and-­white-­check wrap dress that hugged her amazing curves and showcased her face, beautiful even after all the crying.

I averted my eyes and waited for her to finish.

“Emerald?” I tried.

“Yeah?”

“I'm sorry about your dad and brother. And I know I saw you at Bergdorf, but it's just that—­” I stopped myself. I wished I could have matched Emerald's bravery. “I was too distracted by work things to stop and say hello.” That wasn't technically a lie, but it felt so cheap compared to what Emerald had just told me.

But Emerald didn't seem to notice. “Badass.” She nodded. “From day one, you've always been a badass about this food thing.”

I had to laugh at that. Emerald understood. That's all I'd ever wanted out of this situation: to be badass at something. “Thanks, Emerald,” I said. “The internship has been great. And . . . thank you for the suit. I wear it all the time at the restaurant.”

Emerald laughed uproariously. “That old thing? I'm surprised you still bother with it. Don't think I haven't noticed all your new goodies. I see you at Bergdorf once and you come back with a never-­ending wardrobe.”

I tensed and looked away. “Oh, but that was a one-­time visit. My new clothes are nothing . . . H&M and stuff.”

Emerald chuckled, an
okay, if you say so . . .
But she didn't push it. She probably knew better than most that a person is entitled to her secrets.

She slid into another one of her men's coats, smoothing it gently. It dawned on me that those coats must have belonged to her father, and her frequent absences from the apartment must have been so she could visit her mom. She wiped off her streaked makeup and straightened her shoulders.

“Anyway, see you around.” She should have been sad and lonely but instead she was popular and fun-­loving. And probably for the hundredth time, I wished I could be more like Emerald, someone who wasn't afraid to live out in the open and offer her heart to ­people who might hurt it.

 

Chapter 25

T
HE NEXT NIGHT,
M
ELINDA TEXTED
ME OUT OF THE BLUE
and asked if I wanted to eat a late dinner with her. I wondered if she had seen Emerald, too. I had been meaning to talk to her about easing up on the Emerald-­hate. Between that and torturing myself with thoughts of Pascal and my second visit to Bakushan, a night out would do me good.

I wore leather Band of Outsiders pants, a slinky Alexander Wang sweater, and a Marni wool bubble coat with trumpeted sleeves that peekabooed a bright yellow lining. I rarely wore my regular clothes anymore.

Melinda had already arrived and was wearing a knitted purple tube dress and a yellow turban. She, too, was always changing her style. She wore overalls and plaid, or sky-­high heels and piles of gold bangles. When she wore something glamorous and oversize, I sometimes thought she was Emerald, even though Melinda had none of Emerald's curves.

Heedless had just opened in NoHo, and served a variety of raw fish and meats in a blinding white space with scatterings of barren branches. It felt like a boutique in a desert, amplifying the chicness of nothing.

I had once suggested to Michael Saltz that we come here, but he'd thrown a fit about how he was the one in control of the schedule, not me. Fine, but there was no reason I couldn't eat there without him . . . and use his “pocket money.”

“Hey. Sorry for the late invite,” Melinda said, throwing her purse from my seat onto the floor. “Some guy asked me out tonight, but the fucker bailed last minute.”

I smiled in commiseration. Melinda was stood up with surprising regularity. “That sucks,” I said, though I thought that if the guys weren't standing Melinda up, she would likely be the one standing
them
up.

We shared some small plates. Beef with raw quail egg tasted elegant and savage, perfect with some delicate pickled chives, slicked close like veins. Bluefish came slashed with a streak of hot oil that blistered the flesh in a caramel-­colored scar. The herring was paired with a curried goat cheese curd with blueberry jam. The duck breast arrived sliced like sashimi, with a smear of fresh American horseradish.

“This food is like the opposite of Cleveland fare. So sexy,” Melinda said as a busboy came to refill her water glass. “But the ser­vice is eh.”

The busboy, our age or even younger, drew back at Melinda's comment.

“Come on,” I said. “Go easy. They're new. Every reviewer gives a restaurant at least three months to get on their feet.”
Restaurant Reviewing 101,
I thought.
Give the restaurant some time, and—­oh, yeah—­don't be a jerk.

“Hm, interesting,” Melinda said. “So, suddenly you're a babe . . . and a restaurant expert . . .”

“Well . . . I read it somewhere,” I said, shrugging as if it were some factoid on a bottle cap, not knowledge I had earned the hard way, night after night.

Melinda dropped the subject. The conversation drifted to random things like how our apartment was too hot, how she'd applied for a barista job but didn't care for the group interview process, how she had a bunch of guys she wanted to set me up with. I didn't need to talk to Melinda about my secret life with Michael Saltz or Pascal, or even my real life of family and NYU, for that matter. Our friendship was there with no pushes or pulls or obligations, which was often nice, when it didn't feel empty.

As we left the restaurant, Melinda took out a cigarette and we hung out on a bench in front of a health food store. Some guys swept the sidewalk around us, ready to close up. I meant to talk to her about Emerald, that we should try to be nicer to her, maybe invite her out to drinks or make dinner at home or something.

But something gave me pause. I was running low in the friend department and I was afraid of what would happen if I said anything. Melinda had no problem talking shit about Emerald, and I was sure she'd have no problem talking shit about me. I didn't quite care for her friendship, but she was one of the few friends I had, and I didn't want to lose her.

So we just sat on the bench while Melinda smoked. I kept looking at the burning red end of her cigarette, thinking about how to tell her, if at all.

The smoke swirled around her, caressing her with mystery and poise and sophistication. The glow hypnotized me.

“You want one?” she asked. She pulled the pack from her purse, some brand I had never seen. The cigarettes sat in a black box trimmed in silver, wrapped in a slightly textured gold foil, like expensive chocolate. She passed me one and I almost dropped it because it was so light. I had only smoked one cigarette in my entire life. I thought they were heavier.

She gave me a light and I took a breath. The smoke filled my mouth with a flavor like garbage, like bad neighborhoods and wrong corners. I took another breath, and it tasted like men in white undershirts and sweaty feet after dancing. After the third breath, I realized I liked cigarettes now.

Melinda and I smoked that one, then without even thinking, another, just sitting there quietly among the East Village's nightly parade of characters.

After a while, I stopped thinking about confronting Melinda. I didn't think about the upcoming Bakushan review or my paper or what would become of me and Pascal after that late-­night kiss and the even later-­night sex. I watched ­people pass me by—­NYU students, tourists, New Yorkers annoyed at both. The smoke filled me with a soothing dumbness that fizzed into relaxation.

“Jeez, it's getting cold,” Melinda said. She grabbed a scarf from my bag.

Before I could snatch it out of her hands, she peeked at the tag. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Where the hell did you get this nice scarf? Fendi?” She put it around her neck and ran her hands over the cashmere and fur trim a ­couple of times. “Okay. This totally stumped me before, but the new look? The swag and restaurant stuff? You have a sugar daddy, don't you?”

I stared at her in my nicotined post-­dinner buzz and smiled dully.

A big guy in green cargo pants and a peacoat walked by. “Hey, Tia Monroe, right?”

I said nothing. I could sort of hear muffled sounds in the distance, as if they or I were underwater.

“Uh, yeah,” Melinda said when I didn't answer. “This is Tia.”

“Oh, hi,” the guy said. I raised the cigarette up to his face, as if it were a torch that could light the way. My arm felt heavy and tingly. He stepped back. “It's me, Kyle Lorimer?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, still in my murk.

“I wouldn't think a foodie like you would smoke.”

“Why's that?” I said in a toothless, floating-­on-­the sea sort of way. “Tons of ­people in restaurants smoke.”

“Don't you need your taste buds, though? Smoking destroys them.”

Taste buds. I needed my taste.

Suddenly I felt the smoke like a gang of ghosts, terrorizing my tongue. I snapped out of it, threw the cigarette down and stomped on it.

And only then did I register Kyle.

“How's the job at Madison Park Tavern?” he asked.

“It's fine. It's coat check, so it's a riveting collection of wool,” I said, knowing that my sarcasm wasn't a very subtle defensive tactic.

“You know, Madison Park Tavern was almost my first choice,” Kyle said.
Ha, figures.

He was carrying two packed-­to-­the-­brim bags of groceries. I peeked inside and saw three different flours, cornmeal, and parchment paper.

“How is working with Helen Lansky?” I ventured.

“She's amazing. We're transitioning to a big project that will keep her occupied for a ­couple more months. A bit different from her other work.”

“Oh, wow,” I said. “What kind of project?”

Melinda put out her cigarette and nudged me. “Come on, let's go. There's a cocktail special at that Hawaiian-­themed place!” Her eyes crossed drunkenly as she did a halfway hula motion. We hadn't drunk much, so I didn't know why she was acting that way.

“But wait,” I said. I truly was wondering about Kyle's experience with Helen. “I want to talk to Kyle for a second.”

Melinda stood and swung her purse around, bored.

“Yeah, she's working on a cookbook,” he said, brightening up so much I couldn't help but smile along with him. “But she's taking a departure from general recipes and is specializing—­”

My phone gave a
ping
and I looked at it while Melinda watched over my shoulder.

FREE TONITE AROUND 1?

Pascal. Even his texts had his magical smell.

“Whoa!” Melinda said. “It's that unknown number. That dude Pascal again! He wants you so hard. Is he a babe?”

He had been texting ever since our night together. Little smil­eys and pictures of dishes. He'd wanted to meet up, but hadn't been able to because of restaurant obligations.
Yes. You're on!
I texted back. It was already half past midnight.

“Sorry, I have to go,” I said. I had to see him, especially because the review would come out soon. If he was busy now, he'd be even busier later.

“Yeah, of course,” Kyle said. “You're a busy gal. Well, anyway, we should get together sometime and talk shop! If you have time.”

I realized I hadn't heard what Helen was working on, though I wanted to find out. What was Kyle doing with those ingredients at this hour of the night? But he was already retreating, probably embarrassed after Melinda's boy-­crazy encouragement.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, and I meant it. But in the end, Pascal took precedence over Kyle.

As he walked away, Melinda pulled me by the elbow. “I don't buy that that fratty guy is into food. He doesn't look the part. I call bullshit.”

I didn't think that was a fair assessment, but I went along anyway. “Yeah,” I said. “Total bullshit.”

I tried to sober up and concentrate. Pascal. I had to get to Pascal.

“I'm super impressed by you,” Melinda said. “Say hi to your sugar daddy for me.”

And with that, I left to see him.

W
E MET ON
the corner of Thompson and West Broadway, outside a bar. Pascal jumped at me from the shadows.

“Hello!” he said. “Sorry to scare you. Let's not go in there. The staff is . . .” He fanned the air in front of his nose. I peeked inside the bar and saw darkness. The only sensation was a full, bitter smell of weed. “Unless you want to have some?” Pascal asked.

“No, thanks. I don't do that.”

He chuckled and grabbed my shoulder. “Good girl! Focused!”

“So what do you want to do? Is there another place you want to try?” I batted my eyelashes. Did he notice my new outfit?

Pascal looked at me for a long while. “Let's go to my place. If that's okay with you?”

“Yes!” I said, a bit too quickly, with a little too much blush in my cheeks. “Sure.”

We were moving fast. Maybe too fast. Elliott and I had just broken up five days ago, the same night Pascal and I had had sex for the first time. But why would I slow down? He made me feel something I had never felt before. I wanted to say good-­bye to that humdrum existence, putt-­putting along. I couldn't wait for the next step with Pascal. Maybe we'd go out on a dinner date somewhere—­where? I would let him choose. We would say hi to the chef and sit at a PX table. The waitstaff would fuss over us, but we'd be nice to them, tell them not to work so hard because we were on their side.

He held out his arm and I hooked mine in his. We wove through the night to his place, a small but sweet one-­bedroom on Mulberry. So this was what it was like to enjoy New York with a man. Bars twinkled with premature Christmas decorations, and ­couples smiled at us gently, like they were extras to set the scene:
A man and a woman walk out in the November air. Romantic music sets the mood.

He opened his apartment door and let me enter first. It looked like he had just moved in, with basic furniture and nothing that warmed or personalized the space. We sat at a plastic table and he poured me a glass of red wine, then wiped the lip of the bottle with a white dishcloth and turned the label toward me. I laughed at how cute that was, this little bit of hospitality in his austere bachelor pad.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, as he served himself a Scotch. “Still in restaurant mode.”

Thursday nights were his least favorite of the week, he explained—­lots of customers, often demanding and entitled. He didn't mind tourists, who were annoying in their own way, but were at least polite. I put my hand on his thigh and felt his muscles relax. He closed his eyes and took long, slow sips from his glass.

After a ­couple of minutes, Pascal put on some music, opened a door into a dark room, and returned with a single flower.

“For you,” he said. It was an elaborate puzzle of a flower, a vermilion red the texture of crepe paper.

“Me?” Elliott had given me flowers all the time, but they were flowers from his greenhouse experiments—­simple blooms that were understood with a few slices of the scalpel. This one was tantalizingly exotic. The stem was warped, the petals tangled and butterfly-­wing thin, the stamens like eyelashes glooped with mascara. This strange thing was the most beautiful flower I had ever received.