Adventures with Max and Louise (5 page)

“It is going to be fabulous. But I need help with the final night. I need someone like you to plan the menu, help me organize things. You are a godsend!” I can’t take my eyes off her hands, which she claps like a little kid. They are sprinkled with scars from oven burns. Except for a few wrinkles, they could be my own.

“But I’m not,” I say, before recalling that I did, in fact, call myself a food consultant. And this is what food consultants do. “What I mean is, I don’t know . . .” I trail off as Sasha’s face falls.

“You must join me.” She insists. “Name your fee. I have instincts about these kinds of things.” She leans her head back with a sigh, clasping her hands. “God has answered my prayers. We must do this together.”

Now she’s bringing God into this? I stir my coffee, stalling. It would make a great column: the frantic pace and last-minute pitfalls of a restaurant juggling both normal business and a huge outdoor event. There’s bound to be big drama and staff meltdowns. But isn’t this a conflict of interest? A food critic working for a restaurant? Would I have to can today’s review? Because not only do I enjoy, and identify with, this theatrical little woman, I love her restaurant. It’s the kind of place everyone needs in their dining arsenal; hip but not jaded: comfort food with European elegance. And the hostess, well, Sasha won me over with salami, going in for the kill with her charm.

“Excuse me, Sasha; I have to run to the ladies.”

In the bathroom I furtively call Martin, explaining the situation. He mulls it over before declaring, “I love it. I totally love it. We’ll nix today’s review. Just do one of your think pieces on food and dating or whatever. For God’s sake, tell her you’ll do it.”

“I don’t know, Martin, I feel kind of funny about it. She’s really nice. I’d hate to be dishonest.” While I’m talking, I can’t help but notice my new profile in the mirror. I pose like a twelve-year-old in her first bra. Except mine’s filled to capacity.

“It’s not dishonest. It’s journalism,” Martin argues.

“I’m a restaurant critic, not Barbara Walters.”

A woman comes in to use the bathroom. I lower my voice, feeling like a spy: the sexy, mysterious variety. Suddenly, this is fun. “All right, look, Martin, I’ll go with it.” I shut off the phone and wash my hands, trying not to ogle my own cleavage.

As I leave the bathroom, Wolf waits expectantly by the bar. Somehow, in the last five minutes, he has managed to rappel off the ceiling, unhook himself, and cross the restaurant without looking the least bit flustered.

“Could I talk to you for a minute?” He’s very polite, even formal.

I glance around, in case he’s addressing someone else, but no, he wants me. I follow him around the corner, inside the bar, where we are out of Sasha’s view.

“I couldn’t help but overhear what my mother asked you.”

“You must hear a lot of stuff up there, don’t you?”

“You’d never believe it; so much drama. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that we’d all appreciate it if you took the job.” For a clown, he’s surprisingly earnest. But I feel manipulated.

“Okay . . .” I turn around to leave.

“Wait. I mean, my mom’s not getting a lot of help around here, and now she’s taken on this Food Fest thing, and, well, she just really could use your expertise. And enthusiasm; that’s a big one for her.”

“She said as much.” Why doesn’t he help her more instead of climbing all over the walls like a spider?

“My mom inherited this place from her parents, and unfortunately, my brother and I really aren’t interested in running it.”

“You’re more into climbing?”

“Yes. And my dad is more into music. Mom would love to have someone else around to bounce ideas off.”

He’s staring at me with a hard-to-read look.

I hike up my purse, shifting uncomfortably. “I’d better get back to the table.”

Before I reach the end of the bar, he says, “Thanks for talking to me.”

I don’t know what else to do, so I wave. He’s changed my mind about this whole thing. Although his mother is adorable, Food Fest is the last thing I need. I have to recover from my surgical mishap and, in a little over seven weeks, give it another shot. Taking on additional responsibilities would be irresponsible, draining, and stupid. As I round the corner, Sasha rises from the table, a kind smile on her gently lined face, determined to be cheerful, despite her family’s indifference.

“Sasha, I’d love to be part of Food Fest.”

S
ASHA AND
I spend the rest of the afternoon talking as only two foodies can. It’s my idea of heaven. When we are tired, tiny cups of espresso and wafer-thin rolled French biscuits appear. When we are thirsty, ice-cold sparkling Pellegrino is poured. From time to time a staff member questions Sasha, but for the most part, the restaurant empties between lunch and dinner.

“And what about dessert?” Sasha asks, her pen poised over the pad of paper she’s filled with our ideas.

“Warm tarte tatin with hard sauce.” My mind goes over the possibilities. “With very strong vanilla in the sauce, using Mexican vanilla beans. I have a great recipe.”

“Or a molten chocolate cake?” Sasha asks. “I like to have one chocolate item on the menu for the ladies.”

My mind floats between the menu and Wolf, roped into a harness above us, installing a motor. At another table Lionel, Sasha’s husband, is playing a clarinet, creating a sound not unlike cats mating. Four bearded young musicians shovel down free plates of seafood risotto, wiping their plates clean with hunks of bread, nodding enthusiastically at their host’s valiant efforts. The wait staff busily prepares for the evening rush.

“How about both?” I’m not really listening. I wonder exactly how Wolf’s device works, marveling at the man’s obsession with heights.

“Both! Good. I’ll have to order new pans for the tarts.” Sasha scribbles excitedly.

“What kind of wild game can you get your hands on?” It’s dumping rain, a relentless gray curtain that drives natives indoors and transplanted Californians back to the smog.

“Hard to tell.” She taps her pen, thinking. “Definitely venison, probably duck, maybe even elk, if we have it flown in from Anchorage.”

“Let’s do it all: a wild game dinner with woodland soup. We’ll decorate the tables with branches of leaves. We’ll have marinated fiddlehead ferns with oven-roasted beets for the salad.” The menu tumbles out of my mouth without my thinking. By now I can plan menus in my sleep. I dream food.

“Fabulous.” Sasha makes notes.

The maître d’, a tall, slender man with a dignified, serious air, approaches.

“Excuse me, Sasha. I need to have a word with you about the party in the red room.”

Left alone, I enjoy the spectacle of a well-run dining establishment readying itself for the evening’s performance. My eyes rise to the ceiling. Wolf glances down. Crooking his finger, he motions for me to join him.

I point at myself. “Me?”

He grins and nods. “Yep.”

Leaving the table, I stroll through the dining room until I am directly under him.

He waves cheerily. “You know, I’ve been eavesdropping on you two. Are you a food critic?”

My face grows hot. I am a terrible liar. And he doesn’t even bother to disguise his eavesdropping. “What makes you think that?” I choke out, dizzy from craning my head. He must be twenty feet in the air with nothing but a thin rope between him and disaster.

“You remind me of that Diner X chick. I’ve read her reviews. She’s pretty funny, you know.”

Part of me panics. He’s on to me. The rest of me is absurdly flattered that he reads and enjoys my column. Besides, how could he possibly know that I’m Diner X? It’s nothing more than a lucky guess. “How do you know Diner X is a she?”

“Men write about facts. Diner X writes about emotions.”

“And food.”

“Yes, but food as a story, as comfort and affection, not food as a biological fact. A man would tell you what’s on the plate. A woman tells you how it’s made, how it made her feel.”

“So men don’t find comfort in food?”

He nods vigorously, causing the ropes supporting him to tremble. “You know they do. But a man wouldn’t write about it, not that way.”

His cockiness is irritating. I catch Sasha’s eye, trying to curtail the discussion with the maître d’. “I’d better get back.”

“Hang on, please. I have a favor to ask. Would you sit down there and push that button?” He points to the booth beside me.

“What will it do?”

“Why don’t you sit and find out?” He winks.

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“Because there is an element of surprise involved, and that is part of what I am testing.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“Are you always this cautious?”

“If you mean, was I the kid who put her hand in the hole first, no, I wasn’t.”

“You press the button, and the painting comes down to table level. Hopefully.”

The hopefully part worries me. “So, I’m the guinea pig?”

“I try to avoid calling pretty women pigs, but, yes, you would be doing me a favor.”

“Pretty” does it. Sitting down in the booth, I press the red button located in the center of the table. The painting closest to Wolf disengages itself from the wall and drops anvil-like to the table, where I wait in frozen horror. The frame, I notice in a terrifying split second, is heavy, with corners that could kill. Its descent seems in slow motion, although in reality, it’s a bullet. I have the horrible sensation of knowing I may die with my cookbook unpublished. Worst of all, I’ll be the victim of a freak accident where people remember the strange circumstances more than they remember the deceased.

Moments before the frame reaches me, I scramble under the table, heart thumping wildly. Holding my breath, I wait for the wood-shattering thud. It never happens.

The only sound is Wolf laughing. “It’s safe to come out now.”

Heels clatter toward me. “My God, Wolf, are you trying to kill her!” Sasha screeches.

I peek out from under the table. The painting swings three feet above on its cord like a pendulum. Slicing past a waitress, it knocks a tray of glasses from her hands. They shatter. I duck back under the table.

“For crying out loud, Wolf!” the waitress screams. “You get down here right now and clean this up!” She storms off.

Still crouched beneath the table, I wrap a corner of the tablecloth around my head. Wolf has rappelled down. I stare at his hairy legs, his slipperlike climbing shoes. “I think you need to slow it down.” My voice quivers pathetically.

He bends down, face inches from mine. “I’m really sorry. The motor failed, and the damn thing just fell. It’s supposed to gently descend until it’s at eye level.” He crouches down. “Can I buy you a drink?”

The words
no
and
son of a bitch
form in my mind. I stand up too quickly and smash my head on the table’s underside, hard. Wolf grabs my arm, ushering me to the nearest chair. He sits me down. My head throbs. Sasha brings an ice pack and a bottle of schnapps, which she places beside a shot glass. The beginning of a small lump forms on my scalp. I’m acutely aware of Wolf’s hand on my shoulder, trying to decide if it’s nice or annoying. I also consider hitting him.

I woozily rub my head. “I’d better go home.”

“Not until you sit down and clear your head,” Sasha insists, pouring me a glass of eighty-proof alcohol. How very European of her to prescribe booze for a concussion. It seems days since I came in here for a quick lunch review.

“I think I’d be better off at home,” I say thickly, downing the surprisingly delicious drink in one swallow. She pours again.

“Let me walk you to your car,” Wolf says.

“I don’t drive.”

“Then it’s settled. I’ll drive you.”

“Please, just call me a cab.”

Mother and son discuss my departure as if I am a kindergartner getting early dismissal, not a grown woman sitting inches away. I let my brain float away on a pillow of schnapps, amused at their bickering over whether a cab or Wolf’s van is the best conveyance.

A half hour later, I exit the restaurant supported by Wolf. He refused to call me a taxi, insisting on giving me a ride home in the Shaggin’ Wagon. After two shots of schnapps, my hair is disheveled, face flushed, jacket hanging haphazardly over my shoulder. Wolf, in a gentlemanly gesture that takes me by surprise, opens the wide chrome front door. I step out onto the damp sidewalk.

And there is Chas Bowerman.

Chapter Six

T
HE CORRECT WAY
to encounter a high school crush is when one is well rested, dressed to thrill, and on the arm of an incredibly handsome, sophisticated man who is clearly smitten. For me, sadly, this isn’t the case. Half-toasted and reeking of mint schnapps, hair snarled and knotted over a growing bump, I’m still dusty from crawling on the restaurant floor. In my haste to get home, I skipped a bathroom pit stop to repair anything. What was the point? I just wanted to leave. Wolf is stuck to me like an embarrassing relative, decked out in paint-stained sweats. He steers me toward the dented purple Shaggin’ Wagon as if I am an Alzheimer’s patient who wandered in by mistake.

Naturally, the only thing blocking our way is Chas, a man who is so much more than my high school crush. I’ve kept careful track of his career online, embellishing randomly to include myself, Zelig-like, in his life. He went to Yale, joined the tennis and ski teams, graduated, and moved home four years ago to work at his father’s land development firm. By all accounts, Chas should be a status-obsessed snob, but he’s not. Last Christmas he worked overtime seeking donations for a free skating rink for inner city kids on a vacant piece of land. When Angeli showed me the newspaper article last December, I actually thought, with her encouragement, of calling him. For a millisecond, it seemed possible. Then I lost my nerve.

Chas stands off to the side of the sidewalk, chatting with a silver-haired man. Both wear suits. Chas’s is navy blue pinstriped. He wears French cuffs, and a small tuft of cornflower blue silk protrudes from his chest pocket. Staring stupidly at the achingly beautiful blue fabric, I realize that the unnecessary, highly ornamental piece of fabric is the exact color of his eyes, eyes I remember blinking in the rain as we waited for our mothers to pick us up from track practice in high school.