A Second Bite at the Apple (4 page)

The one-block walk to Bar Pilar requires the physical exertion of a two-mile hike, mostly because I am slightly buzzed from the gin and the sidewalks are covered with about four feet of snow. I have no idea how I'll make it home after another drink or two.

The overhang above the bar's entrance shoulders a good two feet of snow, the fluffy mounds bearing down with the weight of a small school bus. There's so much white that from where I stand below the entrance I can barely make out the block stencil letters punched out of the bar's copper nameplate. This is the kind of weather I loved as a kid. I remember missing two weeks of school in the seventh grade, when a major snow and ice storm pounded the East Coast. My mom and Libby baked chocolate chip cookies, while I looked on, peering over my copy of MFK Fisher's
The Gastronomical Me
. The three of us played cards and watched movies and curled up on our couch with steaming mugs of hot chocolate. It's one of the last memories I have of the three of us hanging out like that.

When I walk inside, I find Heidi sitting along the wooden bar, chatting to the bartender as he fills up a glass from the beer tap, his back to a long wall of exposed brick. A song by the Doves purrs through the bar's speakers, and as I tromp through the long, narrow bar in my snow boots, both Heidi and the bartender look up at me.

“There she is!” Heidi says, her blue eyes sparkling. She sips her beer and wipes a dab of frothy foam off her narrow freckled nose.

I look around for the many friends I assumed Heidi would bring with her, but the only people here besides the two of us are a thirty-something couple sitting at a table and a man in a puffy vest sitting at the far end of the bar.

“Where are the ‘troops'?” I ask.

Heidi smiles sheepishly and tucks a stray strand of her stick-straight blond hair behind her ear. “Everyone is snowed in. We're an army of two tonight.”

The bartender slides a beer to the man at the end of the counter and scratches his beard as he nods in my direction. “What can I get you?”

I scan down the list of beer specials scrawled on the black chalkboard, but I've never been much of a beer connoisseur, and at this point, I really don't care what I order as long as it contains alcohol. “Uh, the third one,” I say. “Thanks.”

Heidi helps me unwrap my scarf and stares at me worriedly. “Did you even look at yourself in the mirror before you left?”

“No, why?” I glance in the mirror behind the bar and notice a crease down my cheek, long and deep like the San Andreas Fault, and a mysterious streak of mucus in the corner of my eye. I look like an extra from
The Walking Dead
.

Heidi grabs my drink from the bartender and passes it to me. “To new beginnings.”

We clink glasses, and I gulp down half my beer.

“Whoa, slow down,” she says. “Happy hour lasts another two hours. We have time.”

I slide my glass back and forth on the counter and sigh. “I can't believe I lost my job.”

“Who did they keep?”

I roll my eyes as I take another sip of beer. “Fucking Charles.”

“That's it?”

“Melanie, too. Although she's going to be some sort of quasi producer-slash-digital reporter, whereas Charles will produce his own spots. I almost feel bad for them, until I remember they will still be getting a paycheck.”

“You will, too, soon enough. And anyway, you never loved that job. Maybe now you can give the whole food journalism thing a try.”

I throw back the rest of my beer. “If it were that easy to find a job as a food writer, don't you think I would have left
The Morning Show
a long time ago?”

Heidi rubs my back. “Fair enough. But you'll get another job. Don't worry.”

We both know she has no idea whether or not I'll get another job, but I suppose these are the stock phrases you say when a friend loses one.
You'll be okay
.
You'll land on your feet. You'll find work soon
. People say those phrases so often they almost lose meaning. Really, the only response that resonates at all is,
That sucks
.

On some level, I should trust Heidi knows what she's talking about. She works at an education nonprofit, her third in the four and a half years since we graduated college. She knows all about budget cuts and empty coffers and organizational mismanagement. At one point, between her last job and her current one, she was working three different side jobs—restaurant hostess, dog walker, and farmers' market cashier—just so that she could make the payments on her many student loans. Yet each time her company let her go, she managed to land on her feet, continuing to supplement her meager income with her weekend job at the farmers' market. If she has made it work, then maybe I will too.

Heidi takes another swig of beer and sets her glass on the counter. “Gotta run to the ladies'. You'll be okay?”

“I'm unemployed, not suicidal.”

“You're a pain in the ass, is what you are,” she says. “I'll be back in a minute.”

She scoots down the narrow hallway to the bathroom, and I redirect my gaze to the counter as I swirl my empty glass by the base. There is an inch or two of beer left in Heidi's glass, and, not caring if it's rude or wrong, I grab her glass and finish it.

“Looks like you need a refill.”

The man from the end of the bar is standing behind Heidi's chair, his hands tucked into the pockets of his puffy black vest. His hair is the color of milk chocolate, wavy and thick with narrow sideburns, which frame his slender face. He looks vaguely familiar.

“I guess I do,” I say, looking into the bottoms of my glass and Heidi's.

The man flags the bartender. “Hey, Eli, another for the lady and her friend,” he says. “Add it to my tab.”

I dismiss him with a wave of my hand as I let out a small burp under my breath. “Thanks, but I've got this. I can manage four bucks.”

“I'm sure you can. But I overheard you and your friend talking, and it sounds like you've had a rough day.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You were eavesdropping?”

His cheeks flush, and he rubs his narrow chin. “It was hard not to. Your voice—let's just say it carries.”

“Oh, so now I'm a loud talker? Great. Thanks. That's just what I needed to hear.” The bartender places the filled glasses in front of me. I clear my throat. “I'VE GOT THIS,” I shout. “BUT THANKS FOR THE OFFER.”

The man's face turns even redder. “Suit yourself,” he says. “But don't tell me chivalry is dead. I tried.”

“Badly,” I mumble into my beer.

“What's that?”

“BADLY,” I shout. “FUNNY, IF I'M SUCH A LOUD TALKER, THEN WHY CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I'M SAYING?”

“Sydney . . . ?” Heidi pokes her head out from behind the man in the vest. “Why are you shouting?”

“Gee, I don't know. I guess I can't help it. According to this a-hole, I'm a LOUD TALKER.”

Heidi smiles nervously. “How many of those gin bottles did you drink before you got here?”

“What do you care? I can do what I want. It's a free country.”

Apparently in my buzzed and self-pitying state, I have resorted to the rhetorical sophistication of a six-year-old.

“Maybe another drink isn't such a good idea,” Heidi says, eyeing the bartender and giving him a not-so-subtle sign to cut me off.

“Oh, yeah? And why's that?”

Heidi shifts her gaze from the bartender to me to the guy in the vest and back to me again. “Because I think we need to get something in your stomach.”

“They serve food here,” I say, now invoking the stubbornness of a three-year-old. At this rate, I'll be on the floor in the fetal position by the time we leave.

Heidi pats my shoulder. “I think you're more in the market for Taco Bell tonight.”

“I thought you hated fast food. I thought you only ate organic.”

“Tonight, for you, I will make an exception.” She reaches into her pocket and throws twelve dollars on the counter. “Thanks,” she says, waving at the bartender as she lifts me out of my seat. She smiles at the guy in the vest, who is staring at the two of us. “And thanks to you for the offer.”

“Yeah, thanks for ruining
everything!
” I shout, fighting Heidi as she tries to stuff me into my gigantic coat.

He lifts his hands defensively. “Listen, I'm really sorry. I was just trying to be nice.”

“Yeah, well, mission
un
-accomplished.”

I don't even know what I'm saying at this point.

Heidi grabs me by the elbow with her pale, bony fingers and pulls me toward the front door. “Come on, lady. Let's get some food in you.”

I whip my head around as Heidi pulls me through the front door and stick my tongue out at the man in the vest. He smirks and shakes his head and offers a small wave.

“Jerkface,” I mutter under my breath.

Heidi drags me out the door and onto Fourteenth Street, but I slow my step as I stare at the man's figure disappearing through the closing door.

“What are you staring at?” she asks, her hand clasped around my arm.

I wriggle free from her grasp and readjust my hat. “Nothing. I thought I recognized that guy for a second.”

“Who?”

“The jerk in the vest.”

“I don't think you're in a state where you can recognize anyone right now. . . .”

I teeter as I try to walk through a small mountain of snow and nearly lose my balance at the corner of T Street. “I don't know. I can't put my finger on it. He just looked really . . . familiar.”

Heidi grabs my arm to keep me from falling over. “Easy there, boozehound.” She guides me onto a cleared patch of sidewalk and wraps her arm around my shoulder. “Forget about the guy in the vest, okay? He's an idiot. We have more important things to do.”

“Like what? Buying a bunch of eighty-nine-cent tacos?”

Heidi grins. “Precisely.”

She pats my shoulder with her gloved hand and holds me tight, and together we slip and slide along the icy pavement as we make our way up Fourteenth Street.

The next morning, my cell phone starts ringing at the unholy hour of 5:45 a.m. It's Heidi.

“If this is some sort of joke, I'm not laughing,” I mumble into the phone.

Heidi doesn't answer, and I hear an aria of retching in the background.

“Heidi?”

“Auuuugh,”
she groans.

I sit up and rub the sleep from the corners of my eyes. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

“Fucking gorditas,” she says, letting out another moan. “I think I'm dying.”

“You got food poisoning?”

Again she doesn't answer and instead offers the sounds of her gagging and heaving into the toilet.

“You should go to the ER,” I say. “I'll come get you.”

Heidi pants into the phone. “In what? Your Batmobile?”

She makes a good point. There are multiple feet of snow on the ground, and I don't own a car.

“Listen, I'll be fine,” she says. “But I need you to cover for me at the farmers' market this morning.”

“Cover for you?” I may not have food poisoning, but I am hungover and have no interest in standing outside in the cold at a farmers' market. “Isn't the market closed due to the snow?”

More retching noises, followed by what sounds like a dying cow. “They're open. West End market, near the Francis Park tennis courts.”

I lie back into the softness of my pillow and race through different ways I can get out of this. “I'm sure they'll be fine without you,” I say. “They'll understand.”

“Not Rick the Prick. Someone needs to show up, and it sure as hell isn't going to be me.”

“But maybe if you called him and explained the situation . . .”

Heidi lets out a burp and a long whimper. “Seven thirty, Wild Yeast Bakery,” she says. “And don't be late.”

 

Unfortunately, between the waist-high snowdrifts and my utter lack of motivation, I don't make it to the market until 7:45, and by the time I get there, I am out of breath from trundling through the snow for a mile. The weekly market operates next to a small park with public tennis courts and playing fields, just west of Dupont Circle. Shapeless piles of snow cover the grass and dirt paths where the market usually runs, so today the vendors set up along the sidewalk, just beside the parking meters, which poke their heads through the snow mounds like little meerkats.

I trudge along the sidewalk past a series of tents and scan the vendors for Wild Yeast Bakery. There are no signs, and I have no idea where I am going.

“Excuse me,” I say, approaching a man about my age standing beneath a green-and-white striped tent. He whirls around and smiles, and my stomach flutters as his eyes land on mine. A red knit hat covers the bulk of his dark, wavy hair, and a few stray bits peek out above his round eyes, which are the color of black coffee. His chiseled jaw is covered by a smattering of stubble, and with his red-and-black plaid jacket, he looks a bit like a lumberjack, if lumberjacks also looked like Abercrombie and Fitch models. “Are you Rick?”

The man smirks. Definitely more model than lumberjack. “I'm Drew,” he says. “Are you looking for Wild Yeast? They're all the way at the end, with the red checkered tent.”

I spot it. “Great, thanks.”

Drew nods, studying me with his eyes. I am suddenly very aware that I am not wearing makeup and, in related news, also look like death.

“Good luck,” he says. From his tone, I'm guessing I'll need all the luck I can get.

I make my way over to Wild Yeast's tent, where I find a plump man wearing a black down parka and furry brown Ushanka unloading a stack of bread-filled crates from his truck. It's parked across from one of the meters, in the middle of what normally serves as Twenty-third Street.

“Rick?”

He throws two crates onto one of the cloth-lined tables. “Who the hell are you?”

“I'm Heidi's friend, Sydney. I'm filling in for her today?”

He lets out a sarcastic laugh, revealing a set of tobacco-stained teeth. “Is that so?”

“She got food poisoning last night. She's really sick.” I wait for him to reply, but he says nothing and instead stares at me, the wrinkled skin around his eyes drooping like melting wax. “I thought maybe she called you about it?”

Rick shuffles back to the truck and grabs another stack of crates. “And what if she did? Doesn't change the fact that it's seven-freaking-fifty, and you're just getting here.”

I clutch my bag closer to my body. “Sorry—the snow slowed me down.”

“Like I care? Maybe Heidi didn't tell you, but I'm a real son of a bitch when it comes to being on time.”

No, Heidi never told me that specifically, but I'm guessing the epithet “Rick the Prick” didn't come from nowhere.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“I'll give you a pass this time. But in the future, show up late and I will make your life hell.”

I am about to inform Rick there will be no future for him and me, that today is a one-time favor for a friend, but I decide my survival over the next four and a half hours depends on my keeping my mouth shut.

Rick grabs another stack of crates from the back of the truck and slams them onto the table. He stares at me and raises an eyebrow. “These crates aren't going to unload themselves, sweetheart. Let's
go
.”

I rush to the back of the truck and toss my purse inside. Grabbing a handle for support, I lift myself into the back of the truck, where the warm, sweet smells of freshly baked baguettes and pumpkin muffins waft past my nose. It's how I imagine heaven must smell, the perfume of yeasty bread and cinnamon-laced muffins filling the air as little angels float by on pillows made of billowy croissants.

Rick bangs on the floor of the truck with his hand. “Jesus—are you deaf or something? Move!”

On the other hand, perhaps this is hell.

I grab a crate of cranberry-walnut bread, and my knees nearly buckle under the weight of the glossy oval loaves.

“Wow, these are heavy,” I say.

Rick reaches for the crate. “Hand them over.”

Rick and I start an assembly line: I grab a crate and hand it down to him, and he lugs it over to the table beneath the tent before coming back for another. Once I've unloaded all the crates from the truck, I start on the baskets and wooden cartons we'll use to display the bread and pastries. The baskets come in all shapes and sizes—round, square, shallow, deep—and I am 100 percent certain I will fill them in a manner that is not to Rick's liking.

“Do you think you'll get a lot of customers today?” I ask, though immediately after I do, I realize this is a stupid question Rick will not enjoy.

He narrows his eyes. “What do you think?”

“Maybe people will want to get out of the house. There's a lot of cabin fever going around. And it's the last Saturday before Christmas.”

“Maybe,” he says, loading a stack of chocolate chip cookies into a square wicker basket. “Hey, what are you doing over there? Never line up the chocolate croissants like that. You want a total mess?”

“Sorry.”

He growls and shakes his fists at the heavens. “I swear, one of these days . . .”

I'm not really sure what that's supposed to mean, but Rick, I am learning, is not a man one questions. He talks and sings to himself. He fake punches the air. He laughs at nothing in particular. Rick, I am learning, is completely certifiable.

“Okay, here's the deal,” he says. “Cookies, muffins, and croissants are two dollars. Cupcakes are three dollars. Scones are a buck. Plain loaves are six dollars, ones with fruit or nuts are eight dollars, and that big one over there is sixteen for the whole thing, eight for half, and four for a quarter. Brioche is eight bucks. You can do half loaves of everything but the baguettes. And don't come asking me every five seconds about the price on this or that. Otherwise I might as well work the stand myself. Got it?”

I clear my throat. “I think so. Sure.”

“Good. Now stop staring at those muffins like they're gonna unload themselves and get them in the fucking basket. I'm running out of patience.”

That makes two of us.