Food Whore (27 page)

I
WALKED BACK
to the apartment. I had expected the sun to rise hours ago, but the night stretched like elastic, moving but not advancing. ­People smoked and talked on the sidewalk and cars passed in the street. I briefly thought I had been drugged because the night had become too surreal. But that was wishful thinking.

When I got to the apartment, I knocked on Melinda's door. No one answered. I waited for a ­couple of minutes, or maybe more than that, I don't know. I had never found our living room so mesmerizing.

Finally, the door opened.

“Tia? Tia, what's wrong?” Melinda could barely open her eyes and she hugged her arms across her chest. “What's going on? What time is it?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I had so much to say and yet to talk felt like an impossible challenge. I lifted my wrist to look at my watch, then remembered I wasn't wearing one. I opened my clutch and looked for my phone, but couldn't find it, even though the clutch was no bigger than two paperback books.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” I squeezed out, and the tears started falling. “I don't know what time it is.”

“Oh, Tia.” Melinda laughed. “That's okay.”

“I've been such a bad friend.”

Melinda furrowed her brow. “It's not a big deal. We've known each other for, like, two seconds. You don't have to put so much pressure on yourself.”

My bawling only got louder. “Everything's gone wrong.”

Melinda raised her hands. “No, Tia. Stop. Nothing is worth this much grief, okay? Whatever's happened, it'll pass. Let it go.” Another one of Melinda's mantras, but now it didn't help.

“I can't. Things won't get better on their own.”

We stayed quiet while she thought. If someone had blown on me, I would have crumbled.

“We all screw up, Tia. And we all get screwed, too. It's the circle of life, and it sucks. But you'll be back on the upswing soon enough. I know you will.”

That night, Melinda and I fell asleep on her air mattress.

We had brunch the next morning at a greasy spoon diner with old, cranky waitresses. My chair was still warm from the man who'd sat in it before, and I had to wipe his crumbs off the table. Melinda had a chocolate chip muffin and a side of bacon, and I had an omelet filled with onions, white mushrooms, and green peppers.

Every now and again a little sob would make its way into my breathing, but Melinda never once called attention to it. I smothered my omelet with ketchup and black pepper, took one bite, then decided I didn't have an appetite. I didn't feel like eating now. I didn't feel like eating ever.

 

Chapter 28

F
OR THE NEXT THREE D
AYS, MY BED BECAME M
Y BEST FRIEND.
I didn't go to my internship seminar. I planned to watch the livestreams of my classes, but instead fell into an agonized sleep with my jaw clenched and my chest heaving on cruise control. When I woke up, I never felt rested. I called in sick to Madison Park Tavern and I didn't care about what Dean Chang would say about my scholarship. No one from the restaurant had contacted me, so I figured that they hadn't seen my episode with Felix and Pascal. I didn't answer Michael Saltz's calls, but I read his emails. Surprisingly, he didn't raise a fuss about my disappearance. I passed on a re-­review of The Oak, helmed by a dangerously sexy, tattooed chef-­wunderkind. I finally saw that sexy chefs were a dime a dozen. But that didn't lessen the hurt.

An email from Carey finally got me out of my funk.

Hey, how's it going? I heard you've been sick. I hope you feel better! I can't wait for you to come back to the restaurant. Chef has some new dishes and they are to die for. (I know I'm prone to exaggeration, but this time I'm SERIOUS.)

See you soon? Before Thanksgiving for sure!

Carey

XX

I read that email ten times, hearing Carey's voice in my head. Every time I read it, more of the restaurant fleshed out. The late-afternoon light shining through the dining room window. The rotation of beautiful flowers at the entrance. The elegant clockwork of the kitchen, the dining room, and even the coatroom. Plus, all my friends.

The next day, Saturday, I went back to work. I missed those guys, and more than anywhere else, the restaurant was my home.

“Tia!” Jake called to me.

I ran up to the dining room wearing my old Jil Sander. What can I say—­it was a good suit and didn't raise any eyebrows.

“Gary is in Miami this week, so I'd like you to help in the dining room tonight. Would that be okay with you?”

“Yes!” I said. “I'd love to.” The Pascal episode had weakened me a lot, but I felt myself reenergizing the second I walked into the restaurant. Here I'd be useful. The tasks were straightforward, elemental. Bring food, take away food, clean. I had never fully appreciated how pure this job was. ­People want to be nourished. To be welcomed. To be known. That's what the best restaurants provided.

Jake grinned and handed me an apron. “Come on. You're getting your hands dirty tonight.”

Carey wasn't kidding about the revitalized menu. In his rush of post-­review inventiveness, Chef Darling had introduced a dish of “crushed autumn duck” in which the waiter presented a clean, lovely plate of carved duck and vegetables. Then a backserver—­me—­used a medieval-­looking instrument to crush the carcass so the remaining juices dripped down a spout onto the plate.

The machine was massive. Every time I crushed a new carcass, I had to degrease the nooks of the intricate carvings. The crank was so tall I had to stand up on my tippy-­toes. I tried with all my might to avoid sticking out my tongue in intense concentration.

Halfway through the night, Angel pulled me aside. I was briefly scared that Carey had told him something. Or maybe word had gotten around about Pascal and Felix. But instead he took out a tasting portion of the duck I had been serving.

“You have to try this. This is one for the Madison Park Tavern Hall of Fame.”

It was incredible—­especially the carcass drippings.

By the end of the night, my apron was soaked with duck fat. I loved every minute of it.

Carey ran up to me. “Hey, amazing work with the duck press! Do you want to go to Room 113?”

“I'd love to,” I said, “but I have some schoolwork I need to do.” I'd also vowed to never step foot in Room 113 ever again.

“Oh, yeah, I forget you're still a grad school intern. I always think you're one of us.”

“Aw, Carey . . .” I said.

“Well, you should come out with me and Romina on Monday. It's industry night at Kel Jabone.”

Industry night at a nightclub? That seemed like the last place I wanted to go—­as bad as attending a Food Studies graduate reception as an anonymous restaurant critic.

“Come on,” she implored. “I know I was out of it at Room 113, but . . .” She shrugged and gave me a look that implied Chef Darling had rejuvenated more than just his menu.

I had holed myself up for days already and I could have done that indefinitely. Yet Carey's kind eyes finally convinced me. I could be a pathetic moper, or I could go to Kel Jabone.

“Sure,” I said. “I'm in.”

Carey looked surprised that I had agreed. I had never taken her up on her invites, but she never gave up on me and I was glad to have someone like that.

I was about to leave when Jake met up with me in the entryway. “Thanks for pinch-­hitting with the duck press. That's difficult work, but you did a great job. Sorry about the grease.” He gave me a twenty-­dollar bill.

“What's this for?”

He looked down at my outfit and for a split second I thought I had worn the wrong thing and he suspected something. But then I saw that the duck fat had soaked through my apron, onto my skirt.

“Dry cleaning.” Jake smiled.

 

Chapter 29

M
O
NDAY NIGHT,
I
WENT T
O
C
AREY'S APARTMENT
ON
A
VENUE
C to pregame. Melinda even joined me. I'd never liked big contrived social events, but dancing I could do.

I still hadn't responded to any of Michael Saltz's emails, even though they bore down on me more with every passing second. A review had come out that I didn't write, so I guessed Michael Saltz had summoned the bullshitting skills he'd used during the three months before he'd found me.

“Hey, guys! Thanks for coming,” Carey said as she laid out a plate of cheeses, charcuterie, crudités, and homemade cookies. Romina put Nina Simone on the record player and the wintry late November chill slid off us.

Carey's place was cute and eclectic. She had African baskets in one corner, glass sculptures on her tables, and funny weaving experiments on her coffee table. But the most impressive thing were her bookshelves. She must have had a thousand books in her tiny one-­bedroom. I went to inspect them, trying to figure out how they were organized.

“By region, then by time period, then by author last name,” she said, barely looking up from the kitchen counter, where she was mashing some berries and mint in our Champagne flutes.

“Ha!” I said. “Of course. Carey . . . you are amazing.”

“No, I'm not,” she said loading her Champagne concoctions onto a tray she had découpaged, thus negating her insistence about not being amazing.

I tried to get Melinda to come join us on the couches, but she lingered by the windows. She hadn't spoken to anyone, then all of a sudden, as if she had just gotten a phone call or woken up, she turned around and said, “Hey, guys? You guys should go without me. I feel weird since I'm not ‘industry.' ”

“Are you sure?” Romina asked, nibbling on a lemon-­poppy square. “I just got a text from my friend at Hellenica. He's bringing his crew. They're Greek and so gorgeous.”

Melinda smiled, but I could tell she was rolling her eyes inside. “I appreciate your invite!” she said in a fake, cheery voice that was patently not Melinda. She was mocking Romina right to her face. “I think I'll sit this one out.”

“Okay then,” Romina said. “See you later.” Carey waved good-­bye from the kitchen. Before she slipped out the door in her trench coat dress and red coat, Melinda gave me a pitying look and shrugged. But there was no need—­I was having fun.

After another glass of Champagne and ten more bites of Carey's delicious hors d'oeuvres, we made our way to Kel Jabone. I had never once been to a club before but I imagined it as a room packed with beautiful, intimidating glamazons. No thanks.

But here on industry night, there were no glamazons in attendance. Everyone was basically in after-­work, comfy-­casual clothes. I had heard that Kel Jabone was a pretty hot club, but inside it didn't look like much—­basically a black box with low-­slung tables and couches, a dance floor, and a DJ booth.

Carey said she didn't like to dance, so Romina and I took to the floor while she hung out with a friend who used to work at Madison Park Tavern, but was now training to be a sommelier. A group of girls and guys who Romina knew joined us, but it was so loud I didn't catch their names or their restaurants.

The DJ was an excellent crowd-­pleaser. At first I started with some classic, conservative moves—­the shoulder sway, the hands getting into it. And then later in the night, my hips started circling. Jumping was involved. I may have imitated a person putting groceries in her cart, a television news anchor, and a plastic bag blowing in the wind.

I probably looked ridiculous, but it was so silly and fun. The club was now speckled with red and white lights as more ­people crowded onto the dance floor.

Finally the DJ said he had one more song, and “Sweet Caroline” came over the speakers, a far cry from the hip-­hop he had been playing. Romina and I put our arms around each other. Then everyone joined in. Even Carey removed herself from the wall. I threw my Manolo Blahniks underneath a chair and danced barefoot.

There were probably ­people there who knew about Michael Saltz's mysterious companion. Most definitely ­people who had been at Room 113 when Felix had caused our quick exit. Maybe some ­people even knew the exact nature of my relationship with Michael Saltz. I didn't rule anything out.

But I didn't care. I didn't
want
to care. Michael Saltz said he could have destroyed my career if anyone found out about him, but he couldn't destroy this: pure fun with ­people who liked me for me.

We were all screaming and jumping, and just as I closed my eyes, really getting into the music, I felt a heavy arm around me.

“Oh, hey!” I said.

“Hey there yourself,” Kyle Lorimer said. He wasn't wearing plaid or those big, boxy cargo pants I'd seen him in. Tonight, he wore a white button-­down and jeans. I started jamming and he joined me with surprising rhythm.

“Ha, you can dance, Kyle Lorimer.”

“
Pff,
” he said, and then he busted out this move where he rubbed my shoulders and shimmied down until he was squatting on the floor. It would have been sexy, if he hadn't looked so hilarious doing it.

“Help me up!” he screamed, and when I held out my hand, he pulled me down with him onto the dirty floor. I laughed anyway.

“
Sweet Caroline! Good times never seemed so good!
” he yelled into the air. He was sweaty, but we were all sweaty. He was actually a pretty good singer. We helped each other stand up and then jumped up and down.

“
Oh! Oh! Oh!
”

“That's it, lovers,” the DJ said as the song finished. “You guys rock. Be safe, and good night!”

Kyle put his arm around me and I swiveled to look up at him. His touch had startled me, but it wasn't unwelcome, either. “You're a wicked dancer!”

“Wicked?” I laughed. The weight of his arm sank into my shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah.
Pahk
the
cah
and all that,” he fake-­protested. “I'm from Boston, what do you want from me?”

“You're so
exotic,
” I said.

He batted his eyelashes. “Exotic indeed. My family owns a lobster shack. Lorimer's Lobsters.”

“I'm allergic to lobster,” I said as a playful dig.

But he didn't get it and looked legitimately concerned. It was kinda cute. “Yeah? Like how allergic?”

“Never mind.” I laughed.

At this point, everyone was gathering up their coats and leaving. We were the only ones on the dance floor besides the guy cleaning up the confetti. Kyle had dimples in his big, soft cheeks. I thought he smelled a little like bread. Really good bread.

“Well”—­and he hooked his elbow around my neck, whispering to me—­“just coleslaw for you, then.”

Though the speakers had long gone silent, I could still feel the bass in my bones. My muscles ached. They turned the lights on and we blinked into consciousness. I didn't want to step into the city streets again. I liked this: happiness. No one to fear. No concern for being “made.” This night had been so nourishing and real, I didn't want to go back to my paranoid life now. Or really, ever.

I tiptoed to my shoes and coat. Kyle seemed like he wanted to talk to me, but he didn't say anything else.

“Okay, I'll see you?” I said when I was properly bundled.

“Yeah,” he said warmly. “Don't be a stranger.”

Romina, Carey, and I walked back to Carey's place to have one last drink.

“Tia! You're such a good dancer—­like, super sexy,” Romina said once we arrived.

I laughed. Yeah, the last time I'd danced with a guy—­for a guy—­it hadn't turned out so well. But at least this time, I'd remembered everything I loved about moving.

“You're so mysterious,” Romina continued. “Like, what's with you and Kyle Lorimer?”

“You know Kyle?” I blurted.

Romina looked at Carey like I was crazy.

Carey saw this as some sort of opportunity and walked me over to her desk. To my surprise, she opened her Wiki, typed “Kyle Lorimer,” then walked to her room.

Up popped an entry:
Kyle Lorimer, son of Claire Lorimer, owner of L&O Clam and Lobster. Supplier. PX.

Kyle was a PX? I had always thought of PXs as demanding bigshots or celebs. But there were also ­people like Kyle and his family. The restaurant could do without yet another investment banker, but they couldn't do without L&O Clam and Lobster.

Romina was still looking at me expectantly. “So? Tell us what's going on there.”

“Um, nothing. He's just a classmate of mine.”

Carey came out of her bedroom, already in pajamas and glasses. “Tia's with Pascal Fox,” she said while snuggling into the couch and paying no mind to the fact that Romina and I were still very much dressed and awake. “And she's also chatty with Michael Saltz.” She lay her head on a cushion and within seconds her curls gave a bounce as she nodded off.

Romina gave me another look and yet again I worried that I had been made. I didn't remember Romina's CTD score, but connecting any dots could have been bad when it came to Pascal Fox and Michael Saltz.

But instead she just laughed. “Carey is so wasted.” I laughed along with her, but Carey's words still rang in my ear.
Tia's with Pascal Fox. And she's also chatty with Michael Saltz.

Those words soured everything that had gone well that night, and I suddenly wished for a total reset on the school year:

Accept the internship.

Wait patiently for Helen.

Make friends.

At one point, that had all sounded so mundane, but now I couldn't think of anything better.

I
GOT BACK
to my apartment around five
A.M.
and woke up three hours later to a phone call from Melinda.

“Hey . . . Tia?”

“Hey,” I whispered, barely conscious and still very much buzzed. “Did you have a good night?”

“Yeah . . . about that . . .”

The phone went dead silent and I immediately knew something was wrong.

“Melinda? Hey, are you there?”

“Yeah . . .” she said. “I . . . um . . . This is sort of hard for me, so I'm just going to say it.”

Someone on the other end of the line—­not Melinda—­yelled, “Hey, baby! Where did you go?”

Melinda spoke up before I could hear any more. “I've sort of gotten myself in trouble. I need the morning-­after pill. The condom broke.” Her voice cracked and for a while neither she nor I said anything.

“Of course I'll help you.” I tried to stay calm. Someone had to, for Melinda's sake. “Can't you get it at the pharmacy? It's over-­the-­counter, right?”

“Come with me?”

“Um, okay. Sure,” I said, though I never would have pegged Melinda as someone who'd be prudish about emergency contraception.

In the background, I heard that guy's voice again. “Hey! Melissa! Come back to bed, baby.”

He didn't even know her name. I understood right away and started putting on my jeans.

Melinda said to me softly, “Can you be ready fast? I'm gonna try to get out of here now. I'll meet you outside the apartment in five minutes.”

I
SAT ON
our steps for five minutes, then ten. The sidewalk was oddly barren—­only pigeons and a mother taking her baby out for a morning stroll. Then I saw Melinda walking toward me and I got up to meet her halfway. At first, I spotted her red coat. Then, her trench-­coat dress. And finally, her face, wrenching in pain.

“Melinda! Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I don't want to talk about it yet,” she said, shivering and refusing to meet my eyes. “Let's go to the Duane Reade on Tenth, 'kay?”

“Okay,” I said. She held me by the shoulder and slipped a ­couple of times, almost knocking me down. I made sure we steered clear of any newsstands. The
New York Times
masthead just reminded me of Pascal.

I didn't mind taking her to the pharmacy, but I also wondered how things had gone down last night. Even if this was a one-­night stand, the guy should have seen how freaked out Melinda was and had the decency to get the pill with her.

Melinda didn't say anything for a while, so I started talking. “Carey's was fun. She and I have been working together for three months, and I've never hung out with her. But I guess I could say she's my best work friend.”

“Yeah . . . interesting,” Melinda said, staring at her strappy-­sandaled feet, blue from the cold.

“And Romina is taking a year off before going to grad school in Brazil. She's studying art restoration. Doesn't that seem cool?” I knew my words meant nothing to her, that I was just spitting them out for the sake of distraction, like music in an elevator. It was uncomfortable to fully realize that. Our empty friendship wasn't something to be proud of. Why did I seek out distance rather than connection?