The Cookbook Club

by Beth Harbison

  It was relaxing.

  So maybe that was why she felt so inexplicably comfortable here and now. In a house in Bethesda, at a tiny party where she still knew no one, but could talk to the two others about the very subject at hand.

  The discussion never became formal. Apparently that wasn’t the point, which was something of a relief for Margo. It was a potluck where the common interest was a single source for the recipes and then multiple takes on the food. The rum helped, she had to admit, bolster her courage a little, to move along and discuss cooking techniques, recipe glitches, or whatever as she and Trista and Aja sat in the little living room and gorged themselves on every dish.

  By the time she was ready to leave, Margo had gone from thinking it was unlikely she’d ever attend again, to thinking about the next book, The Silver Palate Cookbook, and how she’d have to do something way more exciting than rice. Maybe even more than one something.

  “How long have you been doing this cookbook club?” she asked Trista, then hoped it hadn’t sounded sarcastic.

  Trista laughed. “This is my first go. Honestly, I wasn’t sure anyone was going to show. I’m really glad you both did.”

  “Me too.”

  Incredibly, little Aja was still eating. “Me too! God, I feel like I have been starving for days. Everything is so good.” She looked at Margo. “Your rice is better than mine.”

  “It’s the exact same!”

  Aja shrugged.

  “I always feel judged when I cook,” Margo said, reflecting. “That is, I did when I was married.” She paused, then gave a dry laugh. “I think it’s because I was.”

  Trista nodded and looked into her eyes. “I used to love cooking for this really crappy boyfriend I had. I might as well have made him an aged rib eye, served it to him with wine, then knelt before him and rubbed his feet while he ate. He liked the food but never had anything nice to say about me behind my back.”

  “Ugh, I’m sorry. And yet . . . yeah, that sounds familiar.”

  Trista looked across the room. “I bet every woman has felt the same thing to some degree.”

  “Sing it, sista,” Aja said. “My mom worked when I was a kid, so I had to take care of my little brothers and they never let me forget that my microwaved Stouffer’s dinners were not nearly as good as Mom’s Prego and shells. They’ve apologized by now, of course, but I always have this vague feeling that I’m letting people down if I can’t give them sustenance. Or comfort. Or whatever basic needs they have.”

  “I read a great book on it,” Margo said, though she hadn’t realized what the book was at first when her mother recommended it to her. Everyone saw what a tool Calvin was before she did. “It was about breaking the cycle of trying to control everything in order to stop coddling other people. It was an interesting take.”

  “I’d like to read that,” Trista said.

  “I’ll text you a link.”

  “Send it to me too,” Aja said. “My number is three-oh-one, A-S-S, M-A-T-T.”

  Trista laughed. “Ass matt?”

  Aja shrugged. “It doesn’t mean anything, but it’s easy to remember.” She yawned. “Sorry, I’ve been up since six, so I think I’m going to hit the road. I’m teaching a sunrise yoga class tomorrow at the Om Center.”

  “That sounds nice,” Trista said. “I’m glad you were able to make it tonight.”

  “You’re welcome to join the class.” Aja looked from Trista to Margo. “Both of you. Seriously.”

  “I’ve got a late night tomorrow,” Trista said quickly. “I don’t think I could be anywhere by six A.M.”

  “What is it you do?” Margo asked.

  Trista hesitated for a split second before saying, “I was an attorney with Cromwell and Covington.”

  “Oh my gosh, Carl Covington is on NBC all the time!” Aja said. “He’s really cute!”

  Trista seemed to wince. “Yeah, I’m not there anymore. Now I’m just closing on a bar down Wisconsin.”

  “You mean you’re buying it?” Aja asked. “You’re going to own a bar?”

  “Yup. Worked there while I was in law school and know it inside out, so when the owner decided he was getting tired of the grind . . .” She shrugged. “That’s why I’m trying all these recipes out.”

  “That’s quite a far cry from law,” Margo said, impressed. “My ex worked for them and it was pure chaos with all the partners and attorneys. I wish I were brave enough to just up and do something crazy. Not that that’s crazy,” she hastened to add. “You know what I mean. I hope.”

  Trista laughed. “I do. Actually, it probably was crazy. Anyway, I started this group as a way of trying out new foods and seeing what people like so I can expand the menu.”

  Margo nodded. “Very smart.”

  Trista tapped her forehead. “It’s also a way to eat while I’m waiting for profits.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Now that you mention it, this is the best meal I’ve had in ages,” Aja added. “If I could find six more cookbook clubs, I’d never go hungry.” She stretched. “Okay, that’s it for me for now, though. It was great meeting you guys.”

  Margo and Trista agreed, and they all stood awkwardly for a moment before Aja added, “I’m going to grab my bowl and go. See you next time!” She headed away.

  “I’d better go too,” Margo said to Trista. “Thanks so much for being so welcoming.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Like I said, it’s helping me out. There’s no business more liable to fail than the bar and restaurant biz.”

  Looking at the tasteful but clearly expensive decor, Margo really hoped it worked out for her. This neighborhood, once a place where young families lived, had been priced out of the family market and into the wealthy professionals market ages ago.

  Then again, if Trista decided to move, Margo would be more than willing to handle the sale.

  Oh God, was she becoming that person? So desperate for business that she’d push it on a brand-new friendship? Was the idea of divorce already changing her that way?

  Her years with Calvin, being his wife more than her own person, had turned her into a social weirdo.

  On the way home, she concluded that it had felt really good to get out and meet completely different people, people who had no preconceived notions about her or her marriage or anything. People who just got together over the love of food.

  It just seemed like life didn’t need to be more complicated than that. Like maybe it would all be okay.

  * * *

  MEETING 1—JUNE

  Cravings

  COCONUT RICE—Mass appeal, clearly. Add toasted coconut (tableside, if guest prefers).

  CHICKEN WITH HOT HONEY—Add hot honey at serving, otherwise too soggy and sticky.

  Live and learn.

  TACO SALAD—Everyone loves Doritos.

  DEVILED EGGS—Excellent, easy appetizer; keep on menu.

  *Three members feels lazy but good, removing advertisement for now, as friends needed more than crowd in house. Only other taker was a guy whose pictures were all of bugs. Never answered his DM. Am bad person but mercifully bug-free.

  * * *

  July

  Chapter Four

  Trista

  I’m sorry, that card was declined. Do you want to try another one?”

  They were the words Trista dreaded lately, positively feared. When she was working at the law firm, money was never a problem.

  For weeks she had been playing credit card roulette every time she made a purchase, but now, standing in the grocery store line with twenty-eight dollars’ worth of food and a card that couldn’t even cover that, she felt the embarrassment acutely. She’d overspent before the first cookbook club meeting because she’d been so hungry looking through the cookbooks and then went straight to the grocery store. Mistake.

  She heard the shuffling feet of the people behind her, people grabbing a few things for dinner and eager to get home. Someone sighed. Everyone had heard, everyone knew what was going on. Their ju
dgment was as thick as the honey she couldn’t afford for her Safeway brand tea.

  She feigned a carefree laugh—or tried to—and said, “I think they sent a replacement and I put the wrong one in my wallet. You know what? I’ll just pay with cash.” She dropped the useless card in the cavern of her purse and reached in for the thick pile of one-dollar bills that was held together by a ponytail band. She counted through quickly, recalling, as she often did, the Fun Fact that cash had more fecal matter on it than a public toilet.

  She counted out twenty-nine—she’d gotten fast with that—and handed them over. The cashier, a kid of about sixteen with frizzy ginger hair and skin he undoubtedly hated, took the pile and counted through deliberately, holding the fan of cash high enough that everyone would see its suspicious denominations.

  Trista’s frantic brain, always ready to make up an explanation for any humiliation, was ready with a story about her daughter’s Girl Scout cookie money, but she knew that would sound equally bad. Credit card didn’t work so she was paying for her packaged Caesar salad, club soda, chicken breasts, Twinkies, and Ragu with her kid’s Girl Scout money.

  “Oh, hold on.” The kid held a bill up to the light. “Never mind, I guess it’s real.”

  Trista felt her face go hot. Like she’d be using a counterfeit one?

  “It’s real,” she said, her voice dry. Explaining why she had a bunch of small bills wasn’t worth it. No one needed an explanation, they had probably guessed she was a broke-ass stripper already. Her palpable self-consciousness was only making things worse. She just needed to pay and get the hell out of here.

  The kid shrugged and put the money in the drawer, counting out the pitiful change.

  She took it all, dropped it into her purse—she’d worry about organization later—and started to hurry away when she heard, “Ma’am?”

  Automatically, she turned around, though she wasn’t, in her opinion, a ma’am. Turned out he was talking to her. He pointed to her bags, still on the counter. “You forgot your stuff.”

  It didn’t seem possible for her face to get any warmer without her skin spontaneously combusting, but somehow it did. She reached for the bags, thanked him, and hurried out of the store, wondering if anyone would believe she had once been an attorney who worked across the street from the White House and was on the fast track toward partner in one of the most established firms in the DC area.

  She still worked downtown. Just not quite as close to the White House. And not with the same cushy benefits she’d once enjoyed. Sure, her job was a dream come true, but in the month since she’d taken over the bar, her optimism hadn’t been able to translate to any appreciable profits, so stripper should probably be on the list of emergency backups.

  She threw the bags into the backseat and got into the car, jerking it into reverse and screaming out of the parking lot. It was after 11:30 A.M.

  She was already late.

  * * *

  Thirty-two minutes later, she was running past fetid trash cans, through what felt like a game of Frogger to avoid the rats, to the back door of Babe’s Blue Ox, on Wisconsin Avenue north of Georgetown.

  She needed to change the name. It wasn’t helping business, and she was tired of being asked if she was Babe.

  When she’d first started back, after losing her job at the firm, Trista hadn’t planned on staying for long. She was just picking up shifts for extra cash until she could clear her name and get another good job with another law firm.

  After all that schooling, she’d never wanted to return to bartending again, particularly not back here, where she’d worked her way through law school at GW. But one place was as good as another as far as she was concerned, and no matter where she could work, she’d feel like she’d gotten nowhere except very deeply in debt.

  Which was basically true.

  She’d gotten cocky when she began making money and got a place that was a little more expensive than she could now afford alone. Pottery Barn furniture and kitchen equipment, which had once made her happy and now made her wonder what they’d fetch on eBay and if it would be worth it to sell at a loss while she still literally had them on her credit cards. Probably not.

  And it wasn’t long until her boss at Babe’s mentioned he wanted to sell the place and was willing to finance it if she wanted to take it over. Her first reaction was to be thrilled. Over the moon. Her own place? That was great—that erased all the feelings of failure and replaced them with a sense of purpose.

  Her next reaction was to hear a parental voice in her head telling her to get a “real” job, not to waste all that schooling and all her great experience. It had to be a parental voice, because she knew as well as anyone who had worked in the restaurant industry—it was a real job. It was a real hard job. And the people who were good at it were really some of the strongest people.

  The decision to just go for it came after a little research and a lot of going back and forth. She couldn’t just start making six figures again—that might never happen, in fact. Restaurants were truly often pro bono endeavors. Something she reminded anyone who complained about pricing at a restaurant when they were out with her.

  She talked to a friend in real estate, who projected that the building itself could be worth a fair chunk eventually, since the area was modernizing. She had the kitchen equipment inspected and was delighted to learn that it was in pretty good shape—if it hadn’t been, it could have been a money pit.

  The sales were the biggest problem. Considering the state of the decor and nonexistent social media presence, she could understand. It was merely outdated. A standard sports bar that made sense in 2009 but no longer worked in the landscape of local IPAs and pre-prohibition-era cocktails with weird and unusual ingredients. The menu didn’t make sense when people wanted avocado toast and buffalo cauliflower, and all you had were flavorless french fries that came from a freezer bag.

  But now, three and a half weeks after closing, she was already wondering if she’d made a huge mistake.

  The people who still came to Babe’s were old locals who loved the specialty barbecue sauce, craved the family-recipe apple pie, and who would look merely puzzled at the mention of Snapchat, and students over twenty-one years old, who could get a lot of cheap beer. But she knew the place could be so much more.

  Unfortunately, what she considered great menu improvements weren’t universally appreciated. She knew she’d have to strike a balance between tried-and-true bar food and the new offerings. That’s why she’d gotten the idea for the cookbook club.

  Trista went to the main room and got behind the bar and tied an apron around her waist. There was actually a pretty decent crowd this afternoon and so she felt bad for being late, because that had left Tim, the bartender, to handle all this alone before she got there. Better tips for him, but a whole lot more work.

  “Miss?” A guy who looked to be in his late twenties raised his hand to get her attention. He sat down at the one empty barstool and held her eyes. He was nice-looking, though a bit typical of the upwardly mobile ilk that came to DC to work their way up in and around politics. Not her type, certainly, but someone’s, and that someone was likely to show up tonight, since this was also an area that attracted the yuppie counterpart.

  “What can I get you?” she asked him.

  “Flying Dog Blood Orange.” He took out a credit card. “Can I start a tab?”

  “Yup. I’ll need your license too.”

  He reached back into his wallet. “Got to make sure it’s me, huh?” He handed it to her. “It is.”

  She smiled. “Ah, but that’s what you’d say if it wasn’t, isn’t it?” She ran his card and handed it back to him, then put his license in the index box where they kept them until the patron signed off. His name was Brice Kysela, so she dropped it into the J–L slot.

  Meanwhile, he laughed and nodded his agreement. “You got me. I guess you see a lot of different kinds in this job.”

  “More than you can even imagine.” She went to the
tap and pulled out his draft, having just enough time to slide it over to him before four or five other people summoned her.

  The night went like that; every time she got one thing done, a handful of others cropped up. It was frantic, but she liked it that way. Time passed more quickly, and she’d gotten too practiced too long ago to spend any time in the weeds.

  Brice was a nice guy, spent most of his time there on his tablet but threw enough cute quips her way to keep things entertaining. She felt like they had a mini-kinship, and toward the end of the evening she started spotting a couple of his beers and even offered him the Buffalo chicken bites appetizer on the condition she could have one. It was her recipe, or rather one she’d found online and modified a bit so that she could call it hers, and it had turned out to be a big hit in the restaurant.

  With the new cookbook club, she hoped to come across more unique things she could add to the menu in order to get the restaurant more notice. It did pretty well as it was right now, but a better reputation for food—rather than just a large number of unique beers on tap—would pull in a lot more people.

  They had finally kicked all of the garbage beers left in the keg room—though she’d had to incorporate a lot of it into the food. It actually turned out to be a fun new challenge that she sort of kicked ass at.

  Tecate was great in the queso dip.

  (Expired) Fat Tire was perfect for the onion rings.

  The unbelievable amount of bottled Guinness with worn labels still left over from Saint Patrick’s Day would have to wait until the weather cooled, but dark beers were fine to wait, though she looked forward to having the space. But once September hit, she’d have tons of items to slip it into.

  The food was a slower build, but she was getting there. It was a start that the beer list was getting more unique. She’d always been good at creating good connections with people who might be able to hook her up. Only now instead of exonerating—sometimes painfully guilty—criminals, she was just getting hipsters drunk on the newest release from Burley Oak or Adroit Theory.