Food Whore (5 page)

“It's not a fashion magazine, it's a restaurant. And no one bothers with anything fancy. Everyone wears things like this.”

“No, they don't.” Emerald laughed. “I guarantee it. They're wearing Hugo Boss, Tom Ford, maybe Armani for the older guys. I bet even the bussers are in designer things. They'd probably buy you a suit if you were a full-­time employee, but this is a way for you to show initiative. A fab suit.”

I wanted to say that was insane. The restaurant was about the food, I thought, echoing a familiar pep talk I'd often given myself at Yale: Yale was about the education.

But I knew that wasn't the complete picture. Yale hadn't gotten its reputation for nothing. Even though those rich kids hardly went to class and spent their nights taking car ser­vices to exclusive clubs in New York City, they still got amazing jobs after graduation. They skipped the hard part and went straight to choice placements at hedge funds, law offices, and consulting firms. Others became overnight bestselling authors, entrepreneurs. One girl, the daughter of an ambiguously wealthy family from Switzerland, had become a glossy “lifestyle consultant,” growing more and more omnipresent in the media by the day.

Madison Park Tavern wasn't just about the food. Like every other restaurant of its ilk, it was also about the ambiance, the rhythms of the staff, the smallest details—­right down to the waitresses' frizz-­free buns. It was about the ­people who came to eat there, who made deals over lunch and whispered secrets over dinner.

And now Emerald wanted to get me a suit, so I could be part of that machinery.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked. “This shouldn't be such a hard decision. Tomorrow we'll go uptown to this thrift store called Trina. You have that small, ass-­less Upper East Side body, so those clothes will fit you. We'll buy you a suit on the cheap, and then I can tailor it for you.”

“But won't the suits still be five hundred dollars or something?” Of course I wanted to wear designer things. I wished I could be like those girls at Yale who could just borrow the family's credit card and take the train down for a Manhattan shopping spree. But that wasn't me.

“Don't worry about it,” Emerald said. “The owner is a family friend, and I've been going there a long time, even though it would take a stick of butter and a prayer for me to fit into most of that stuff.”

I had spent so much time in college trying to squelch my curiosity about those things. Clothes. Nightlife. Restaurants. Real Estate. New York's obsessions. I was afraid of cracking the shell I had worked so hard to put up and was about to decline her offer when the door opened.

“Hey, restaurant girl!” Elliott greeted me, just me, with a smile. I held on to that until he looked at Emerald and his attention—­along with my resolve—­vanished. “And hey to you, too, Emerald. Why does it seem like you have connections with everyone in the city? I just met, like, three ­people who know you.”

“Hey, you're in Manhattan now. It's all about who you know,” she said, puffing up her chest, which looked even more robust under a huge silk chiffon scarf.

“Anyway!” I said. The last thing I wanted was to let Emerald go on about her “connections.” “Em was just saying how I need to get a new suit for work,” I said to Elliott, sure he'd veto any unnecessary suits. “Because she thinks my current one is too ‘blah.' ”

“Oh, yeah, that's a good idea.”

I glared at him, dumbstruck. “Really?”

“I think you'd look nice in a new suit,” he said. But did he mean “new”? Or did he mean designer? Something picked out by Emerald?

“See?” Emerald said, basking in her triumph. “Come on, I can even start our consultation tonight. Learn how to take some
piston
and let me give you an outfit for your dinner.”

“No. That's unnecessary. We have to—­”

“Oh, what's the harm?” Elliott asked. “Just for fun.” He followed Emerald into her room and they turned around, waiting for me to follow.

“Come on,” Emerald said. “Your boyfriend wants a fresh piece of tail.”

I didn't laugh, but I saw Elliott stifle a little bit of a smile. I dragged myself toward Emerald's room, but stood in the doorway, my arms crossed.

“This would be so flattering on you,” she said, pulling a dress out of her closet. “It's sort of Halston-­like and would show off your cute boobs and accentuate your flat stomach. And then this . . .” She held up a cropped bomber jacket. “It's also from the seventies and, you know, toughens up the look. So you don't look so pretty.”

She peered at me, waiting for a response. Elliott sat in Emerald's chartreuse velvet armchair, amused.

“Okay, I'll try it on.” I didn't have the energy for Emerald to fawn over me.

I grabbed the hanger and ducked back into my room to slip on the dress, and it was, indeed, flattering. The red fabric gathered at the bust, swept down my sides, and came out in a wispy trumpet shape at my knees. I put on the leather jacket, and though I never would have picked this out myself, again, Emerald was right. I didn't feel so green and scared, but rather strong and protected. No wonder so many women in New York wore leather.

“You look
incredible
!” Emerald jumped up and down when I stepped out into the living room. Then she calmed herself by admiring her work. “Oh, the red looks so good on your skin. And the leather. It's too perfect. Keep those. They don't fit me anymore.”

“Wow!” Elliott said. “You look great.”

“One last thing,” Emerald added. “Take this purse and seal the deal. It's the latest Proenza Schouler bag. The PS1 is done and now they're onto this. It won't be in stores for another year.”

I looked down at the purse, a blue, green, and gold rectangle with inlaid triangles and textures. Some pony hair, some leather, maybe snake or skate?

“The purse is a loaner. But don't even think about returning that other stuff.”

“Okay,” I griped. I hated being put in this situation, but the clothes and especially the purse were so beautiful. I looked better and, in some ways, felt better. Somehow, Emerald, who barely knew me, had cracked the code of fabric and proportions. I had tried so hard to get this right, but she could have done it blindfolded. It was a special magic.

“But no more dress-­up after tonight,” I said. I couldn't handle anything more than this. Then I turned to my traitorous boyfriend and steered him out of the room. “Come on,” I said. “We need to get going.”

B
AKUSHAN HAD ONLY
been open for a ­couple of months, but expectations were already sky-­high. Still, few ­people had mentioned the food. Instead, everyone was writing about the up-­and-­coming chef, Pascal Fox. According to nearly every article, he'd dropped out of college and worked at top French restaurants around the world. Then, at twenty-­five and on every “30 under 30” list in existence, he had received an offer to take over L'Escalier, a cathedral-­ceilinged white-­tablecloth institution in Midtown. But just as New York was ready to inaugurate him into a realm of Immortal Chefs synonymous with a certain level of luxurious precision, Pascal had said he would open a place on his own. He didn't have a location or a concept—­or so he'd said in his interviews—­just a conviction that he didn't want to fall into the trap of being yet another French chef at another fancy restaurant.

So there we were, in front of his brand-­new place. It was hard to label it. I had read neo-­modernist and Asian-­American eclectic. The food was hard to pin down, but the inside was just cool, at least from my sidewalk vantage point. It was 5:45 and already there was a forty-­five-­minute wait for a spot at one of the communal, no-­reservation tables.

I looked at the crowd while we waited and saw a ­couple of girls dressed in tight, short dresses. One of them held a food magazine with Pascal Fox's face on the cover against a blurred kitchen background. I stole a peek at the photo. His eyes were a deep black-­brown with a streak of gold. His hair was charmingly messed up, longish bits going every which way, casting shadows on his sculpted cheekbones.

That was the other thing. Pascal was exceedingly good-­looking. I hadn't paid attention to the hype around his looks, but seeing these girls swoon over his photo made his handsomeness hard to ignore. And . . . the pictures. I'm only human.

There was no mistaking it. This was New York dining. Restaurants weren't just the food, but also the attractiveness of the chef, the beat of the music, the wait out the door. And then, there was something else.

As Elliott fiddled around on his phone, I watched a group of women waltz right into the restaurant. Everyone waiting gave them the evil eye as they teetered inside with their sky-­high shoes and designer outfits. These weren't the obvious short, tight dresses of the other girls. These women weren't the most beautiful, either. But they were magnetic. An Asian girl wore her hair in purple-­gray dreadlocks, complimenting her floral wide-­legged pants and crop-­top bra. A bald black woman wore a blue knee-­length dress with cut-­outs across her clavicle, and—­dangerously—­over her hips. A full-­figured woman had wrapped herself in a black dress and a matching floor-­length cape. They walked right in and were seated in the front, a striking sight even through the glass and crowds.

New York restaurants were about the swagger.

I was watching them look over their menus when someone walked up to me, a big red-­headed, red-­faced man-­child. Kyle Lorimer, from the reception. He wore a short-­sleeved plaid shirt and came at me with his arms extended.

“Hi, Tia! How's it going!” His gaze switched from me to Elliott, Elliott to me. “I'm Kyle, nice to meet you,” he said to Elliott. Elliott shook his hand and introduced himself.

“Guess what?” Kyle continued. “I got the Helen Lansky internship. I heard you got the Madison Park Tavern gig. Congrats!”

A surge of anxiety rushed through me. I may have liked Madison Park Tavern, but the fact that I didn't get Helen, after so much work and buildup, still stung.

“Oh, thanks,” I managed. “Congrats to you, too!” I mustered up all the cheeriness I could.

“Yeah, I'm pretty psyched,” Kyle said. “Madison Park Tavern should be awesome, too. I've got to head out, but enjoy Bakushan. I've been dying to go.”

“Thanks, man,” Elliott said.

“See you later,” I said, hoping my smile didn't look as fake as it felt.

Kyle left and I returned my gaze to the women in the front window. The beautiful, compelling women who'd walked into one of the hottest restaurants in town and made it theirs.

I looked over every inch of their table. Their hair, their outfits, their shoes. The way they held their menus with the tips of their fingers and drank their cocktails with their lips puckered just so.

They reminded me of similar posses in college, but here those girls—­no, women—­were different. They weren't born into their privilege. These women looked self-­made, women who had formed their looks and identities according to their exact design.

And then my eye landed on something I had in common with the leader of the group, a tall brunette with a long, regal nose and a white padded bustier over a gossamer white strappy dress.

And that's when I walked up to the hostess, a model-­in-­training wearing inky black leggings, an embroidered vest, and open-­toed platform boots. My heart was pounding, but New York City isn't for the weak. Emerald's clothes weren't just armor. They were also a weapon.

“Excuse me,” I said, making sure Emerald's straight-­off-­the-­runway purse was in front of me. “How long for the table again?”

Her eyes snapped to the shine of the purse. I straightened up and looked at her imperiously. Faking it until I made it. I wouldn't let Kyle and his giddiness about Helen rattle me. Emerald and her judging eyes wouldn't faze me. I would model myself after those women.

“Of course, Miss,” the hostess responded. She closed the reservation book and turned on her six-­inch platform. “Follow me.”

I called Elliott over and the rest of the crowd collectively huffed that we had cut them all. But I didn't listen to their complaints. Instead, I kept my ear out for the hostess's words.

“By the way, I
love
your purse.”

W
E SAT IN
the front of the restaurant, alongside the crew of mysterious power women.

“We're so exposed,” Elliott said, as ­people tapped at the window,
ooh
ing at our neighbors' dishes. “This place is good, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It's supposed to be awesome. Though the menu is pretty controversial.”

“Controversial, huh? Well, I'll leave it up to you to navigate the terrain.”

“Come on, really? Order with me. Please?”

“No, no, don't worry about it,” he said. “Go crazy!”

“Okay . . .” I said. “What about . . . gizzard porridge?” That was actually on the menu.

“Sounds fabulous.”

I giggled. “Or what about the pork with three sweetbread jellies?”

“Only three? I like at least a half dozen.”

I held the menu up like an inspector with her clipboard.

“What about the strawberry ramen with peanut broth?” I challenged.

“Ah, the sweet nectar of my youth.”

I spread out my elbows. “Okay, Mr. Chambers. I see your palate is quite sophisticated. Which means you simply
must
have the poached toothfish with nitro-­chocolate ribbons.”

“Darling, it would be heresy to not.”

Elliott and I burst out laughing and a ­couple sitting next to us gave us dirty looks, which only made us laugh more. This was beginning to feel like old times.

“All right, for real,” I said, rubbing his hand from across the table. “What do you want?”