Slim to None (2 page)

No, they’re not, but
I
feel like
I
am. A tractor-trailer loaded with cargo but out of gas on a desolate highway. I switch on the living room lights, peel off my unforgiving shoes and sink into the butterscotch leather sofa, which gasps like a dying man beneath my girth.

"What to do, what to do?" I ask Tartare, who is clearly unconcerned with my dilemma as he strains to escape my grip. I stroke him with one fingernail in his sweet spot at the curve of his chin and he relents, frozen with feline desire. I wish my problems could be solved by a little chin scratching.

I lay my head back and take in the living room. William and I argued for weeks on the color we’d paint this room. He wanted cranberry. I finally won the argument and chose a distinct chestnut shade. I actually brought a wedge of my favorite chocolate—from this amazing French chocolatier in the East Village—to the paint store because the color was precisely what I was looking for. I knew I could readily relax in a room that reminded me of Guillaume’s to-die-for ganache.

"William?" I call again but get no response, so I hoist myself up and pad to the kitchen. The varnished concrete floor is cold on my feet, so I slide them into my banana split slippers, which I always keep nearby. Comfortable shoes are so important for cooking. I’m feeling very agitated by what happened at the restaurant, and decide that the only thing to take my mind off it will be to whip up something tasty. As I reach for the cabinet that houses my cookbooks I notice a note on the counter.

Abbie,

The house was kind of quiet so Cognac and I decided to get away. We hopped on the bike and headed down to the Jersey shore for a couple of days. Call if you need me. Or better yet, come join us. Maybe we can prowl the backstreets in search of a new restaurant. We’d sure love the company.

Love, William

ps. Don’t worry, Cognac is secured into the sidecar with his doggie seatbelt.

William keeps insisting Jersey is retro, thinking that will lure me down there with him. I had enough of Jersey growing up, thanks. I’m not ready to revisit my past, even under the guise of campy fun. I ball up the note and toss it in the trash, then send him a quick text message. I think I’ll keep mum for now about what happened this evening. No need to bother him with details, especially when I’m sure I can clear this all right up in the morning.

Hi sweetie.
Sorry u weren’t home when I got back.
Have fun with poochie @ the beach.
I’m off 2 bed soon so don’t worry about calling.
Luv, me

I rifle through the cabinet and pull out grandma Gigi’s recipe box. For me, job stress—or any kind of stress, really—means concocting an old favorite from her collection. I leaf through the worn pages of Gigi’s recipes until I find precisely what I’m looking for. I pull out the card gingerly, as the corners are dog-eared and yellow with age. Albumen stains speckle it, as well as grease marks from her lard-smeared fingers. Grandma’s impeccable cursive sweeps across the card, even and angled, precise. Like baking: methodical and exact.

I pull out the flour, salt, butter, and shortening and begin to blend together the ingredients, putting a little muscle into it as I mix, adding ice water to consistency. Five simple ingredients that combine to sooth my nerves and please my palate.

Next I mix the pudding, then slice bananas. Crack eggs, separating yolk from white. Pull out the Kitchen-Aid mixer, whip the whites on high with a pinch of salt. Adding the sugar, one tablespoon at a time, a splash of vanilla for good measure.

I dust the granite countertop with flour and roll out two crusts: I think a pie might be just the thing to turn around Mortie’s mood when I break the news to him. Who can’t get happy over a banana cream pie? It’s the mother of all comfort foods, the comfort food of all mothers. At least for my grandmother it was.

As I slide the pies into the oven, I glance at the clock and realize it’s past midnight. I’ve been cooking for almost three hours. Just about long enough to forget that tomorrow I have to face my boss.

Banana Cream Pie

This is a single recipe, but you might as well double it if you’re going to go to all the effort.

for the pie crust

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

With pastry blender mix 2-1/2 c. Wondra Flour (it’s the only flour for this pastry) with one stick softened butter (8 tbl.) and 1/2 tsp. salt.

Then add 6 rounded tbls. Crisco shortening (do not under any circumstances use the butter flavored, and by all means don’t even consider using any other brand of shortening). You can use the Crisco shortening sticks, just cutting at the appropriate line.

Blend until mealy.

Add 5-6 tbl. ice water, mix with pastry mixer until dough pulls together but is not gluey. If needed, add a little bit more water. If too damp, a small bit more flour.

Gently pound into a ball, and roll out on floured countertop or pastry sheet until 1/8" thick.

Roll gently onto pastry roller and ease into pie pan. Snugly roll crust up. Poke holes along bottom of pie crust with fork to allow crust to breath.

Place baking parchment on top of crust, pour rice or pie weights on top of parchment, to weigh crust down as it bakes.

Bake for ten minutes, then paint inside of crust with a mixture of one egg white and 1 tsp. water. Replace the parchment pie weights and bake for another 5 minutes. Remove parchment with pie weights and bake another 5 minutes. Allow to cool completely.

for the filling

Use two packages of Jell-O brand banana cream pudding mix (not the instant). Hard to find but worth the effort. You may have to track it down on the Internet. Cook as directed on package, using slightly less milk. As the pudding thickens, separate out three egg whites and yolks. Just before pudding comes to a boil, add about 1/2 cup of the pudding into the egg yolks, stir well, then pour into the pudding that is just coming to a boil. Remove from stove and let cool. (By the way, don’t even bother making homemade banana pudding. It’s not nearly as good).

for the meringue

A vital ingredient to this pie’s success

Using the 3 egg whites, whip with mixer on high with a pinch of salt. Add, one at a time, 9 tbl. of sugar (
take that! South Beach!
), then 1 tsp. vanilla.

to finish pie

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Once crust and pie filling are cooled, line bottom of pie crust with banana slices. Add filling. Spread meringue on top. Bake for 15 minutes, till meringue is a light golden brown on top.

A Generous Splash of Vinegar

A famous Chinese-American chef once told me that she always incorporates a touch of bitter into anything sweet she is preparing—because life balances out in much the same way.

Maybe it’d have been better to open that little ditty in a fortune cookie back in high school—perhaps then I’d have had ample warning before my dreaded prom fiasco, the jarring pinnacle of my emotionally-pimpled teen years.

High school was in no way a high point of my life; I spent much of my time comfortably cloaked in anonymity. I excelled at flying under the radar as much as possible, in fact. I was plainest of plain Janes, the highlight of whose looks was a dull splash of freckles across my nose and stick-straight hair reminiscent of squid-ink linguine. It’s not that I avoided being part of the action; rather I just sort of blended into it, like butter and chocolate whisked together over a double boiler. I was the girl everyone was perfectly happy to ask to help out with the student council car wash but wouldn’t usually think to invite along for pizza at Greasy Vinny’s on a Friday night. The same girl who toiled away in relative obscurity, seldom asked out on a date, spending mostly empty Saturday nights baking crème puffs and quiche Lorraine while the rest of the kids made out in dark alleyways or drank Pabst Blue Ribbon beer at keggers in the woods behind the park. I don’t want you to think I was a complete loser or anything, but I never quite got past B-level status in high school. I was to Thomas Edison High School what Kathy Griffin is to Hollywood: I had a purpose but no one quite knew what it was.

But then I invited Chip Schnoebel to the prom. Don’t ask me why. It was completely out of character. But my grandmother was determined to construct a social life for me, and she wouldn’t stop haranguing me to invite someone if no one asked me. She said if I wasn’t going to step out of my comfort zone, then she was going to give me strong encouragement. I hesitated to guess what that would entail, but I figured it might be like an unexpected push off the edge of the Grand Canyon. Finally I relented, because it was less humiliating for me to embarrass myself than for her do it for me: I couldn’t imagine having my grandmother finding a blind date for me for the prom, of all things. And I figured if I was going to take the plunge, I might as well step into the abyss on my own free will.

So I drummed up the courage and invited Chip, with whom I had already been thrust into a default relationship as lab partners. You could say that Chip and I had chemistry. Well, I had chemistry skills, and he had the need for chemistry answers. So our symbiotic relationship was the basis for me asking him. He was one of few guys I spoke with on a regular basis, so I knew I’d be able to choke out the words without vomiting on his feet.

Chip teetered on the fringe of the popular crowd. He played on the basketball team and occasionally even started in games. At the very least, I guess the cheerleaders noticed him. I knew nothing about his social life, though. For all I knew he could’ve been dating someone. So I was definitely expanding my horizons by asking him. And when he said yes, well, I mean, who wouldn’t have been thrilled?

I guess in hindsight I should have known something was up, since I was definitely out of his league. He’d called me one night in search of answers to a take-home chemistry test. As I walked him through alcohols, thiols and disulfides for the umpteenth time I somehow drummed up the wherewithal to squeak out the proposal in a fit of daring-do.

"You wanna go to the prom with me?" I sounded like a hamster-wheel in need of a good oiling.

Chip was silent for a moment, perhaps taken aback with my forward ways. Or maybe I rendered him speechless. Finally he spoke. "Um, er, uh. Yeah. I guess so."

That was the extent of the conversation about the prom, and we returned to the world of acids and alkalines, a far more comfortable arena in which to converse for me.

My friends—all B-listers, all pretty smart and disinclined to engage in too much social discourse—were stunned at my ballsy maneuver. No one would have pegged me for a prom-goer, first off, and certainly not a date-asker!

For the weeks leading up to prom, Chip was noticeably quiet in my presence. Almost as if he was mustering up the courage to speak but unable to. Which was okay. I was busy preparing for exams and didn’t mind focusing on my work. I mean sure, a little part of me was excited that one of the almost-cool guys at school was willing to go to the prom as my date. But I didn’t get too terribly worked up over. Eventually we mapped out timing for the prom, and when the big night came, things seemed to be fine. Until he disappeared immediately after the sit-down dinner somewhere in the vast ballroom of the Sheraton. In a sea of prom gowns, tuxedos and boa feathers, he wasn’t easy to spot.

I thought he’d gone to refill our punch glasses. I took advantage of his absence to run to the bathroom. When I returned he was nowhere to be found, so I sat down to wait, knowing he must’ve gone to the rest room as well and he’d be back soon. It was like one of those time-lapse scenes you see in a movie, where you can tell the change of light and the shift in bodies and yet it all seems static. But you know it’s not. You know that Amanda Coggins is slow-dancing with Matthew Frenecky and you’d give about anything to be Amanda Coggins at that very moment that Matthew’s hands are sliding perilously close to her perfect little heart-shaped bottom. And then you know that Phil Deruto is dancing awfully close to Emily Hutchinson even though it’s a very fast song by the Gap band and you wonder if the teacher chaperones are going to say something about too much fraternizing. And later you know that everyone is on the floor, laying on their backs, shaking their legs in convulsions to "Rock Lobster," and that you’re the only one not on the dance floor. And that almost two hours have passed.

At about ten thirty, Jackie Rankin wriggled by in a skin-tight dress as red as my face was about to turn when she said to me, "Isn’t Chip back yet?"

I looked at her, perplexed, my eyebrows making a furrow so deep you could plant a row of corn in them. "Back?"

"From Central’s prom, over at the Holiday Inn."

I squinted my eyes at her, perfectly symbolic of how in-the-dark I obviously was about my date’s intentions for the evening. Central’s prom? Why would Chip be there? He was my date to our school’s prom. And then Jackie realized I didn’t know that Chip had pulled an Elvis and left the building.

Jackie covered her mouth in exclamation. "Oh, gosh, I must be wrong about that. I don’t know where I got that from but seriously, I’m sure he’s not there. I think that’s just Jason who went."

"Jason?" I asked. Jason was Chip’s best friend. Who’d sat with his girlfriend at this very table during dinner a few hours back.

"Yeah, Jason’s girlfriend goes there and so they split up prom night at both hotels. And Chip used to go out with her friend Vicky," she said. "But I’m sure they broke up."

I felt a rush of molten heat sprint up my neck and dash across my face. And red was never my color, dammit. Everything was beginning to make sense, and I felt like such a fool.

Jackie reached out and looped her arm through mine. "Why don’t you join us until we can figure out where Chip’s wandered off to. He’s probably just found a football game on TV somewhere." Except that football season had been over for months.

As much of an introvert as I was, I decided I couldn’t suffer the humiliation of being ditched by my date and left sitting alone at an eight-top with an endless succession of ginger ale and orange sherbet punches, so I agreed. Jackie and her friends were dancing to "Get Off My Cloud" and using somebody’s shoe as a microphone. At some point a flask of Southern Comfort found its way into my hands. I’d never once had alcohol, in all my years. I’d cooked with it plenty, deglazing the pan for bananas foster or chicken piccata. But never ingesting even a sip. It seemed as good a time as any to drown my sorrows in it, so I took a swig. And then a gulp. And then a guzzle.

By the time Chip returned, all that was missing on me was a lampshade. I was in the middle of belting out "Like a Virgin" into Jennifer Rigo’s black satin pump when Chip reached around me and whispered "Boo!" into my ear, acting as if he’d just slipped out for a moment for some fresh air.

Not realizing what was happening, my heel slipped and my arms swung up reflexively, smacking Chip Schnoebel hard across his until-then aquiline nose, bashing it enough to set off a real gusher and maybe set it off-kilter just the teensiest bit. It was hard to tell in the dark with the sparkly disco ball scattering diamonds of light around us, really only illuminating the harsh crimson of his profuse bleeding.

As soon as I realized what I’d done, I just froze in absolute humiliation. But Chip was just getting started. "My nose! My nose! She punched me in my nose!" He kept pointing at me like I was a thief, making off with the jewels, glaring over the rapidly-reddening white polyester blend napkin someone had stuffed beneath his nostrils. "My tuxedo! My white shirt! They’re never going to give me back my deposit!"

Soon people were gathering around, and the buzz of conversation became a swarm of gossip. "He left her for Vicky Sangrinella. Abby got mad at him so when he came back she punched his lights out."

I looked at the boy who said that and I tried to tell him that wasn’t the case. But then I heard someone else say, "She’s been dating Chip and she’s got a really hot temper." Dating him? I couldn’t even have considered going to prom with the guy a date, he was gone for so much of it. And about the hottest thing in my life was our electric oven when I was searing a piece of meat or browning the top of a casserole.

"He was using her for the chemistry exam." That came from a skinny girl with bucked teeth and her hair plastered into an updo with what must have been industrial-strength spackle.

Well, that was the final blow.

As the tittering swelled to a fever pitch, I wove in between the elegantly-attired lynch-mob, past the scenic backdrop for memorable prom portraits, pausing just outside the ballroom door long enough to dry heave into a grove of decorative plastic potted palms. I finally found my way outside to the turnaround, where taxicabs awaited. I knew I could get my grandmother to pony up for the tab, under the circumstances.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked.

"Anywhere but here," I muttered, then told him my address. Only then could I allow my tears to surface.

So much for the sweet side of life.

* * *

I’m sitting outside my favorite Italian coffee shop, running a little late for work, but I can’t start the day without a double decaf ristretto cappuccino, bone dry, whole milk. As I enjoy my drink and an almond-fennel biscotti at a sidewalk table, I’m momentarily transported to a cliff-side coffee bar along the Amalfi Coast, overlooking the sapphire waters of the Mediterranean. The chatter of Italian, the language of amore, drifts in and out while schoolchildren play football on a nearby pitch, nothing but a high mesh fence protecting them from the churning blue ocean, one mile below. The smell, the taste, the place all become one to me.

When William and I traveled through Italy, we spent a couple of months along the Amalfi coast. No better place to be in June than in Praiano. Sitting at a cliffside café, sipping prosecco with a raspberry at the bottom of the glass, dipping spongy peasant bread in local olive oil, and relishing the briny olives as we watched the fishermen bring in their catch. I can still see the adoration in William’s eyes as we toasted our good fortune for having found one another.

I take a deep breath and exhale. Life is good: the birds are singing over the roar of Manhattan rush hour, fruit trees in the park are in full flower, my husband still adores me, and I have the best job in the entire world.

Things couldn’t get much better. Well, maybe if I were to suddenly wake up tomorrow quite a bit thinner... Without having to starve myself. Now that indeed would be a perfect day. But the truth is, I love food. And it loves me, judging by the way it doesn’t seem to want to subsequently let go of me once I’ve finished with it. Like some bunny-boiling stalker, dammit. Yeah, that is the sordid downside of decadent food: once it joins the party, it never wants to leave. It’s the drunken guest with the lampshade over its head, the one you have to take the car keys from but really don’t want it rearing its ugly head in the morning and would just as soon shove out the back door.

Don’t get the wrong idea: I don’t love to eat volumes of food. I’d probably sooner not eat than opt for fast food, for example. But asking me to forego tonight’s sumptuous six-course meal prepared by Michelin-starred chef Etienne Lordeaux simply to be a calorie-miser would be like asking a mother to throw her child from a moving train. Absolutely no can do.

So I suppose when it comes to weight issues, I have just yielded to the reality of my life. I am a food critic, after all. The premier food critic for the
New York Sentinel
. It’s my job to love food. And to eat it, often. I have no choice but to be fat, I suppose.

* * *

I divert myself to a park bench en route to work to deposit an egg sandwich and a half dozen cookies to George, a homeless man I walk by each day to and from my job. George may well be one of the best-fed street people in Manhattan, as I usually bring my leftovers straight to him whenever I try out a restaurant. Since I didn’t have it in me to run them by him last night, I had to provide him with some sort of consolation meal this morning.

"What’s this, no entrecôte, today?" he asks, grinning.