Georgia's Kitchen (10 page)

T
he digital clock shouted 6:03 like a tabloid headline. Georgia sat up and stretched, rubbed her eyes. Judgment Day, aka The Day Georgia Got Forked, arrived earlier than most, and she cursed her internal clock for being so punctual.

Her feet touched down on the kilim carpet her parents had bought for her on a trip to Turkey, a culinary school graduation gift. Georgia had been surprised by how much she liked it and had decorated her slightly ethnic room around its faded blues, reds, and greens. The bed and bedside tables were ebonized bamboo, the walls were painted a deep eggplant, and an etched-glass lantern hung from the ceiling. The bookshelf was stuffed with cookbooks, novels, and Glenn’s beloved biographies and history books, spillover from the shelves lining the living room.

Two photographs sat on her dresser. One was of Grammy sitting on the dock at Silver Lake, her curly hair hidden by a flowered bathing cap, her legs crossed in front of her like Esther Williams. The other was of Georgia and Glenn at his sister’s wedding, in a sterling Tiffany frame the couple gave to the wedding party. His arm was thrown over Georgia’s shoulder,
his smile open and off-center, as if he’d just heard a funny joke. Togged out in his tux, he looked Rat-Packer suave. Georgia wore Lo’s diamond drop earrings, a strapless black dress, and had treated herself to a blowout, so her hair fell down her back in smooth waves. Her smile was genuine, but her eyes looked just beyond the photographer. She didn’t recall having the picture taken, and when Glenn had asked what she was looking at, she couldn’t honestly remember.

She pulled up the shades and watched the sun begin its slow ascent over the East River, a sliver of which was visible from her bedroom and living-room windows. Water views, the ad for her apartment had boasted, and she had laughed when the Realtor pointed to the swish of muddled army-green water all but hidden between two towering buildings. Because she had spent childhood summers at Grammy’s cabin on Silver Lake, even that tiny slice of water offered comfort in the then still unfamiliar city, and she rented the apartment on the spot.

On weekday mornings she liked to watch the mammoth barges—what little she could see of them—traverse the river, wondering where they had come from and where they were going. Such an unlikely Manhattan scene, she had remarked to Glenn on one of only a handful of weekdays she could remember waking up next to him. He was home, sick with the flu, and wasn’t interested in boats or their stories, or how easy it was to forget the city was an island.

She slipped into sweats and flip-flops, chugged the glass of water on her bedside table, and left her apartment. With un-brushed teeth and hair, and five bucks in her pocket, she padded down the silent city streets, Sally plodding faithfully by her side. Turning in to the twenty-four-hour bodega, she braced herself for the worst. The
Daily
sat right next to the
New York Times,
a place of honor it didn’t deserve. But Mercedes’s restaurant
reviews were, if not the most respected reviews, then at least the most read and were single-handedly responsible for more failed restaurants than the citywide smoking ban years back.

“Good morning, miss.” The young Indian owner smiled at her as she held up the newspaper and handed over a bill. “You’re up early today,” he said in a charmingly clipped accent, recalling her face from occasional late-night ice cream outings. He gave her the change. “Have a good day.”

“Thanks. I’ll try.”

Back at her apartment, Georgia sat down at the repro Chippendale dining table, scarred by decades of Gray family use, and rifled through the newspaper until she hit the lifestyle section. There it was, for all the world to see: half a fork. In case anyone might mistake it for a full fork, the art department had added the fraction ½ in front of the tiny half-fork graphic. It couldn’t be any clearer. She bit her lip to stop it from trembling. “No fucking way,” she whispered before folding back the page.

If you, like the rest of this city, have been desperately trying to score a coveted reservation at Marco, the latest and inexplicable darling of the downtown restaurant scene, you may want to reconsider. Your time could be better spent slurping a tallow milk shake and a plate of wiggly fries at the corner diner. (And given the restaurant’s astronomical prices, the bill, and possibly even the food, will be a lot more palatable.) From the ticky-tacky décor to the haughty service to the largely subpar food, Marco is a must miss that the fickle see-and-be-seen crowd will surely vacate for hotter (or perhaps cooler) pastures soon.


One redeeming quality of this velvet-roped-nightclub-cum-restaurant is a marginally interesting wine list, but with sky-high prices and markups upwards of 400%, it clearly caters to the flat-out loaded social and Hollywood-by-way-of-SoHo set who care not that a mediocre bottle of wine could easily set them back a Benjamin (or two or three).


Georgia felt like throwing up. This was worse than anything anyone expected.

As for the food, will someone please tell chef Georgia Gray salt is not a flavor unto itself but a flavor enhancer? Assertive salting is one thing, but Gray takes it to another level entirely. Some of her dishes taste as if they’ve been dunked in the cold Atlantic Ocean and then hung out to dry in a curing shack. Others are simply inedible, as in the venison, the texture of which recalls leather shoes that have been tap-dancing in the rain a little too long. Guinea hen, an iffy proposition even in more capable hands, fails to impress, floating as it does in a pool of glassy beurre blanc and lifeless baby root vegetables. Oysters Marco, the specialty of the house, according to our uppity, unsmiling waitress, resembles a slippery mass of Silly Putty flavored with cheap, overly acidic balsamic vinegar and the ubiquitous fistful of salt. My four companions and I egged each
other on à la Fear Factor to suck down the esophagus-obliterating concoction, and none of us were successful.


The menu is not entirely without merit, and daily specials ably showcase Gray’s mastery of cooking simple rustic fare, particularly in the pasta department. A bresaola and pecorino taglierini, decorated with spring peas and ramps, is tasty and satisfying, and the special risotto, purple asparagus and artichoke with a healthy dose of Asiago cheese and crunchy caramelized shallots, offers a palate-pleasing meld of flavor and texture. Polenta with wild-mushroom ragout, updated favorably with tangy sheep’s milk cheese, is earthy, velvety and downright good. Gray is clearly in her element with these peasant-inspired dishes, and my advice to her is to stick with them. Desserts are across-the-board insipid, bland and boring. If you must satisfy a sweet tooth, go for the house-made gelato.


Unfortunately, with 85% of the menu missing its mark, a blindly inattentive waitstaff, ambience that recalls a past-its-prime Atlantic City casino, and prices that surpass those at the city’s genuine culinary treasures, I cannot in clear conscience bestow even one full fork on Marco. Perhaps owner and former chef Marco Giado should scamper off, tail between his legs, and hone his skills in a less competitive market before attempting to play with the big boys of the Big Apple.


Georgia reread the review three times before crumpling it up and throwing it on the floor. From that moment on she would forever be known as the half-fork chef, inextricably linked with the most seething review written in the history of restaurant reviews.

“Fuck,” she said, loud enough to rouse Sally from her nap. Georgia stared at the balled-up newspaper, wishing she could make it burst into flames, then walked into the bedroom and changed into running gear. On her way out, she kicked the newspaper ball, then snatched it up, holding it between her thumb and index finger like a bag of doggy poop. “Come on, Sals,” she called. “Let’s get out of here.”

While they waited for the elevator, she tossed the review down the garbage chute. It wasn’t worth recycling.

A few hours later, naked, Georgia stood under the showerhead letting the hot water wash over her body and missing Glenn from the top of her tangled head to her polished toes. Any traces of her sweaty run around Central Park’s upper loop were long gone, but she couldn’t bear to leave the shower. Not with the phone incessantly ringing and not with nine messages waiting on the answering machine, and especially not with that review. Her anger had given way to a resigned exhaustion. Another quarter-size squirt of conditioner, worked into the ends, another round of soap, everywhere but the face. Sally, who had parked herself on the bath mat, poked her nose through the curtain and stared at Georgia for a second before returning to the floor.

“Okay, okay,” she muttered, turning off the water with wrinkled fingertips. She stepped over her dog and wrapped a towel around her torso and another around her head. When the phone rang, she took a deep breath before walking into the living room to pick it up.

“Georgia.” It was Lo.

“Hey,” Georgia said flatly.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.” Georgia didn’t feel like talking, even to her best friend.

“Can I buy you breakfast? Lunch? Treat you to a facial?”

“Thanks, Lo, but I have to deal with this. I’ll call you when the shit really hits the fan after I get axed.”

“Maybe you won’t—”

Georgia cut her off. “Please don’t even go there. I’m getting fired and we both know it. Anyone who reads the
Daily
knows it.”

“Sorry, George. I just can’t believe how spiteful that woman is. That was the meanest review I’ve ever read.”

“Yeah. Anyway, my call waiting is going nuts. I gotta go.”

“Dinner or drinks tonight? On me, okay?”

“Maybe. I’m sure I’ll need a stiffie or six by the end of this day.”

She hung up and clicked over.

“Georgia, it’s Bernard.”

“Not so good, huh?”

“No, not so good at all I’m afraid.” He cleared his throat.

“When am I getting fired?”

Bernard paused. “Let me buy you breakfast and we’ll talk then.”

“You don’t want to just get it over with now?”

“Balthazar in an hour. Can you make it?”

“If I’m cabbing all the way downtown to get fired, Marco better at least pick up the cab. I’ll be unemployed soon, remember.”

“The cab’s on me, Georgia. Breakfast is on Marco.”

“In that case, I’ll see you there. And I’m feeling mighty hungry.”

Sitting at a corner table at Balthazar, once one of the city’s trendiest restaurants and now a New York institution, Georgia silently
prayed not to see anyone she had ever worked with or who knew her even remotely. She wore cropped white jeans, a shrunken black cardigan, and black ballet slippers, which covered her coral toes. She had chosen her outfit carefully, going for a Jackie O in Capri look. Everyone knew that when getting fired or dumped, the ever-dignified Jackie was the icon to channel. Her hair was miraculously devoid of frizz, thanks to the eighty-five different products holding it down and the flat iron her hairdresser claimed would change her life. No way was she getting fired with frizzy hair.

Taking stock of the Balthazar scene, she did a quick scan for familiar faces, famous or otherwise. The last time she was there she’d seen a radiant Uma Thurman dining near Anderson Cooper. Her eyes paused on a two-top against the far wall, a desirable table under the gigantic antique mirror upon which all eyes fell when entering the restaurant. A porcine man used stubby fingers to scoop up something from his plate, while his lady friend, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Donatella Versace, pretended not to notice. Georgia looked closer. Please no, she thought. The man lifted his nearly bald head and she sank back into the red banquette, clutching the sleeves of her sweater like a security blanket. It was Pierre du Mont, her former boss. With any luck he hadn’t seen her. She’d left his bistro to work at Brit bad boy Stanley Quinn’s first stateside venture, and when she last saw Pierre, he razzed her nonstop. Though he was half joking, she knew he was steamed. Pierre went back to his finger food, seeming not to notice her. For the moment anyway, she was safe.

Wearing a tan raincoat, an umbrella tucked under his arm, Bernard hurried over to the hostess stand, where he cased the room for his breakfast companion. Georgia let him find her, not wanting to draw attention to herself with Pierre just a few tables away.

“Georgia, good to see you.” Bernard took the seat across from her.

“You’re such a liar, Bernard. And a bad one too.” She sipped a glass of Pellegrino. “Unless you’re genuinely psyched to fire me, which wouldn’t make you a very nice person.” She smiled, letting him know he was off the hook.

“Listen, you’re right that I’m firing you. And I’m not happy about it. We all know the review had nothing to do with the food, or even the shitty decor or the overpriced wine list or the waitstaff’s bad attitude or anything that”—he paused, trying to find the right word—“that
woman
wrote. It’s all because of Marco and his inability to keep his dick in his pants.” Bernard looked around for the waiter, who materialized instantly.

“Two Bloodies with Ketel One. Right?” Bernard glanced at Georgia for confirmation.

“Actually, I’m more in the mood for champagne. What do you have?”

“By the glass we have Pol Roger, Veuve—”

Georgia cut him off. “I think we’ll have a bottle, actually. What do you have that’s really good? Krug?”

The waiter nodded. “Of course. Be right back.”

“Great, Georgia. Just because you’re getting fired doesn’t mean you have to get me fired too.”

“Come on, B. You know Marco won’t be able to say shit about the cost of this meal. Plus, look at how happy we made our waiter.”

“True.” Bernard looked down at his hands. “So, as I was saying, you’re right I’m firing you. No need to beat around the bush. You can clear out your locker, I can messenger your stuff home, give it to Ricky, whatever you like. You’ve cooked your last meal at Marco.”

No matter how ready Georgia thought she was, nothing had prepared her for the severity of that killer sentence. She swallowed
hard. For a second she felt like the heroine in a film noir after she’s learned her husband has been killed—and that he’d been carrying on an affair with his secretary for years. In the film version, she’d dramatically crumple into the private dick’s arms, and he’d offer her smelling salts or something strong, and likely brown, to drink. Instead, the waiter returned to the table, holding out the champagne for her inspection.