Everyone Worth Knowing (66 page)

well.

Penelope had then very calmly instructed the housekeeper

(who just so happened to be Avery's parents' engagement gift to

the happy couple) to pack all of her possessions and ship everything

back to New York. She booked two last-minute, first-class

plane tickets on Avery's credit card, called for the largest and most

luxurious stretch limo she could find, and proceeded to drink herself

into champagne oblivion in the first-class cabin while stretched

out across both seats. I'd met her at JFK and dragged her directly

to the Black Door, where I joined her in getting blind drunk. For

the first few weeks she stayed with her parents, who, to their

credit, did not once tell her to forgive him or take him back, and

when she couldn't take living at home anymore, she moved onto

my couch.

Finally together, we had been miserable, heartbroken, and unemployed,

and so were the perfect pair: we shared a bathroom,

multiple bottles of wine, and the rent, and we watched a horrifying

amount of exceptionally bad TV. Everything had been perfect until

Penelope had gotten a job. She'd announced last week that she'd

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be reverse-commuting to a boutique hedge fund in Westchester,

and that she would be moving to her own place in two weeks. I'd

known our extended pajama party couldn't last forever, but I

couldn't help feeling a teeny bit betrayed. She was doing so well

that she even mentioned that the guy who'd interviewed her had

been really, really cute. It was now stunningly obvious: Penelope

was moving on, and I was destined to be a wretch forever.

"How long do you think I have to wait before I can go check

out the restaurant?" I asked for what must have been the thousandth

time.

"I've already told you, I'm happy to put on a disguise and

sneak in there with you. Very discreet—he doesn't even know me!

Healthy? Maybe not. But definitely a good time."

"Did you see the piece in
The Wall Street Journal?
They worship

the place. It calls Sammy one of the best new chefs of the last

five years."

"I know, honey, I know. That certainly seems to be the consensus,

doesn't it? Aren't you happy for him?"

"You have no idea," I whispered.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing. Yes, of course I'm happy for him. I just wish

I was happy
with
him."

Sammy had opened his restaurant—a charming little Middle

Eastern fusion place that in no way resembled a franchise—two

months earlier, to little fanfare. I wouldn't have even known if Will

hadn't casually mentioned it at one of our Thursday-night dinners,

but from that moment on, I tracked every new development. At

first there hadn't been much information: a biography of the chef

and some details on the quick opening. Apparently, the adorable

twelve-table Italian joint on the Lower East Side had been the pet

project of a prominent former investment banker who'd been targeted

by Eliot Spitzer and ultimately sentenced to two to three

years in a federal prison. The guy had to liquidate his assets to pay

the massive fine to the SEC. Since the entire place had just been

gutted and renovated and the entire kitchen fitted to perfection,

Sammy could open for business almost immediately. At first there

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E V E R Y O N E W 0 K T H K N O W ] N G
351

were some scattered customer reviews on various websites and a

small mention of the restaurant in a piece about neighborhood

gentrification. But then something happened: Sammy's restaurant

went from Neighborhood Solid to Citywide Spectacular in a matter

of weeks.

According to the most recent
WSJ
Lifestyle article, people in the

neighborhood went early and often, and Sammy was able to keep

the doors open while his menu came into its own. By the time

Frank Bruni went to review it for
The New York Times,
Sammy had

hit his stride. Bruni gave him three stars, virtually unheard of for an

unknown chef and his very first venture. The other New York papers

and magazines immediately followed with ecstatic reviews

of their own.
New York
magazine published a typically understated

article proclaiming Sevi "The Only Restaurant That Matters."

He'd gone from being a total unknown to New York's mustget-

reservations-or-die-a-horrible-death-in-C-list-purgatory restaurant.

The only catch with that was that Sammy didn't take reservations.

For anyone. Under any circumstances. According to every interview

I read of him—and trust me, I read them all—Sammy insisted

that everyone was welcome, but no one was getting any sort of

priority treatment. "I've spent so many years determining who's allowed

in and who's not, and I'm just not interested anymore. If

they want to eat here, whoever they are, they can come on down

like everyone else," he was quoted as saying. It was his one and

only requirement.

"But no one will go if they can't make a reservation!" I'd

shrieked to Penelope when I'd first read about it.

"What do you mean no one will go?" she'd asked.

"You have to have some horribly bitchy reservationist who insists

that there's nothing available for the next six months if they

want to eat after five or before midnight."

She laughed.

"I'm serious! I know these people! The only way anyone will

ever eat there is if he makes them believe they're not welcome.

The fastest way to fill those tables is to tell anyone who calls that

they're fully booked and then promptly raise all entrees by eight

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dollars and all drinks by four. Hire waiters who think they're

above waiting tables and a hostess who looks all the guests up and

down disapprovingly as they arrive, and he'll have a
chance."
I

was only half-kidding, but it didn't much matter: his policy clearly

worked.

The review in
The Wall Street Journal
had gone on to describe

how the New York restaurant scene had lately been dominated by

a slew of high-profile restaurant openings and superstar chefs, how

there were five such restaurants in the glittering new Time Warner

Building alone. Somewhere along the way, people had grown

weary of all the pomp and circumstance. They longed for a wonderful

meal in a simple restaurant. And that was precisely what

Sammy's place offered. I was so proud of him, I nearly cried every

time I read a new write-up or heard someone mention it, which

was pretty damn frequently. I was dying to see it for myself, but I

couldn't deny that Sammy had most definitely
not
picked up the

phone to invite me.

"Here," she said, handing me my folder of delivery menus.

"Dinner's on me. Let's order something, and then maybe go get a

drink."

I stared at her as though she'd suggested spontaneously hopping

a flight to Bangladesh. "A drink?
Outside?
You're joking." I

flipped through the menus disinterestedly. "There's nothing to eat."

She snatched the folder out of my hands and pulled out a few

menus at random. "Nothing to eat? There's Chinese, burgers, sushi,

Thai, pizza, Indian, Vietnamese, deli, salad bar, Italian . . . that's

just these. Pick something, Bette. Pick it now."

"Seriously, Pen, whatever's good for you works for me."

I watched as she dialed someplace called Nawab and ordered

two chicken tikka masalas with basmati rice and two baskets of

chapati. She put the phone down and turned to me.

"Bette, I'm only going to ask you one last time: What do you

want to do this weekend?"

I sighed meaningfully and resumed my position on the couch.

"Pen, I don't care. It's not a big birthday. I already have to do the

book-club ritual, which is more than enough. I don't know why

you're so insistent that we need to do something—I'd much rather

just forget it's happening."

She snorted. "Yeah, right. Everyone says they don't care, and

everyone cares a lot. Why don't I put together a little dinner on

Saturday night? You, me, Michael, maybe a few people from UBS?

Some of the girls from your book club?"

"That sounds nice, Pen, it really does, but Will said something

about dinner on Saturday. We're going somewhere good, I can't remember

where. Want to come?"

We chatted until the food came and I managed to haul my

larger-by-the-minute butt off the couch to the little kitchen table for

chow time. As we spooned the thick, spicy chicken chunks onto

plates of rice, I thought about how I was going to miss Penelope.

It was a great distraction having her around, and more to the point,

things between us were finally back to normal. I watched her as

she waved her fork around to punctuate a funny story she was

telling, and then I stood up and hugged her.

"What was that for?" she asked.

"I'm just going to miss you, Pen. I'm going to miss you a whole

lot."

33

"Thanks, everyone. You guys really are the best," I said as I

hugged each person standing in the circle around me. During our

special birthday book-club sessions, we met to eat cake and do a

couple of group shots. My birthday cake was white chocolate

mousse, and the accompanying shot was an old-school lemon drop,

complete with sugar packets and sliced lemons. I was slightly buzzed

and feeling good after our mini-celebration, one that had concluded

with the presentation of a hundred-dollar Barnes & Noble gift card.

"Enjoy dinner tonight," Vika called after me. "Give us a ring if

you want to meet up after you leave your uncle's."

I nodded and waved and made my way downstairs. I was

thinking about how I'd have to start taking people up on offers

to go out again. It was only one in the afternoon, and I didn't

have to be at Will's until eight, so I settled in at a little table on

the patio at the Astor Place Starbucks with a vanilla latte and a

copy of the
Post.
Some habits die hard, so, as usual, I flipped to

Page Six and was stunned by what I saw: a large piece on Abby,

complete with a picture. It said that New York Scoop had just canceled

her "Ellie Insider" column and dismissed her for falsifying her

resume. Details were sketchy, but according to an unnamed

source, she'd listed herself as a graduate of Emory University when

she was, in fact, three credits shy of graduation. She did not actually

possess a B.A. I'd dialed Penelope before I'd finished reading

the piece.

"Ohmigod, have you read Page Six today? You must see it.

Now."

While I hadn't exactly forgotten about Abby, I hadn't made

good on my vow to ruin her life, either. She hadn't written another

word about me since the night of the
Playboy
party, but I didn't

know if that was because my threats had her worried or because