Off the Menu

by Stacey Ballis

  “No way, guys, I can’t let RJ play into this decision beyond whether it would be detrimental or positive for our relationship. But nothing financial. I know he and I keep talking about the moving in together and getting married and everything, but I can’t do anything except assume that for the foreseeable future I am still very much a single girl and very much responsible for my own upkeep.”

  “I’m just saying.” Mina shrugs. “Speaking of boyfriends, I have to go pick mine up. Alana, you’ll make the right choice. Whichever you pick. You’re lucky; there isn’t a bad decision here, just a decision.” She gets up and grabs her purse, kissing her palm to the room. “Toodles, bitches. See you all next time!”

  “That girl is crazy. But she’s right.” Emily stands up and brushes the crumbs off her polo shirt, sighing at a midbosom hummus stain, and fluffs her golden curls. “You can’t make a wrong decision, you win either way. And you’ll figure out what kind of winning is most important to you.”

  Lacey calls Jaxie over, and waves away my attempt to make her take the rest of the chocolates. “Got to get back in fighting shape,” she says, patting her belly. “Going back on Match this week.” She has been between servicemen for a few months, I have no doubt that within the week we will start to hear about the latest uniform she is dating.

  I put on Dumpling’s leash and we walk out with them. Lacey decides to walk Jaxie along with me and Dumpling.

  “What does RJ say about the job thing?” she asks, as Dumpling and Jaxie romp around in the grass out front.

  “He’s like you guys, totally supportive whatever I decide. And he keeps telling me that I can’t make a decision based on money or helping my folks. He says that the economy has hurt everyone, they wouldn’t be surprised to discover it impacted them as well, and they would respond accordingly.”

  “He’s right, you know. The kids will be fine with a smaller trust from their aunt Alana, because they have your love and support and attention. Don’t be ashamed to turn the job down and keep the comfort, but don’t hesitate to take it if you think it is really what you want. The finances will figure themselves out.”

  “Thanks. I know it deep down. But I’m genuinely torn. I’m not unhappy at work, I’m comfortable there, I’m good at it, it’s exciting and challenging in all the ways I like to be challenged without any micromanaging, and it gives me enough flexibility to participate in the At Our Core stuff on my terms. On the other hand, it has been a long time since I had a new kind of challenge, and my industry is notoriously fickle. From the moment you reach the top you are one bad season away from boring and underemployed. Think about how many shows we loved that annoyed us by season three. How many sophomore albums were grating and regrettable. You get to the third book in the trilogy and read it out of a sense of obligation instead of real joy. My fortune is tied to Patrick. He’s at the top now, but it’s a quick trip down, and when he falls he takes me with him. Provided he doesn’t blow a gasket and fire me before then.”

  “You can’t base any decision on what-ifs. Take the information you have, make the best decision you can, and live with it with as much happiness as you can muster.”

  “You’re very bright, you know that?”

  “I do, in fact.”

  “We both appear to have blue-bag duty to perform.” I look over to where Dumpling and Jaxie are taking something of a synchronized dump.

  “What is he doing?” she says, motioning at my goofy dog, who is pooping with one leg straight up in the air as if peeing on an invisible tree.

  “Poop plié. He loves ballet.”

  “That dog is bizarre.”

  “I know.” When the dogs are finished, we pick up the evidence, and walk over to drop the blue bags in the garbage.

  “Good night, sweetie. Talk to you later,” she says, heading for her car.

  “Bye. Thanks for the pep talk.”

  “Anytime!”

  Dumpling and I get home just in time for RJ’s call. He’s wiped out from travel and meetings, so we keep it brief. I send best wishes from the girls, and tell him that they have not made my decision for me. He laughs and tells me to not pressure myself. To just let it be what it is and try to let the decision make itself. I tell him he is very wise, and thank him for his counsel. He tells me that he loves me and misses me and sends love to Dumpling and promises to call tomorrow when he isn’t so exhausted. Then he tells me to be sure to look under my pillow before I go to bed.

  The front of the card I find there shows a diner scene, and says, I’ll have the special. On the inside it says, That would be you. RJ’s note, in his usual scrawly handwriting says:

  Alana—

  Dreams don’t come easy. Please don’t lose sight of yours, especially the dreams you didn’t know you were dreaming. You’ve done everything “right” and now you have to make some decisions. But that doesn’t necessarily mean changing course. You’ll get what you want, it’s your nature. In the end, a harder struggle to get it will make it that much sweeter. I believe in you without hesitation, qualification, or any other “tions.” I absolutely love you with all my heart, and I’m here for you however and whenever you need me. Let’s help you together.

  Love, RJ

  I shoot him a quick e-mail to thank him for his lovely words and for his support. It feels so amazing to have him in my corner, to have someone who truly believes in me with such purity of heart. I pour myself a glass of port from the bottle we opened the other night, a 1985 Fonseca that is like drinking the smoothest, yummiest raisins on the planet. I run a very hot bath, toss Dumpling a bully stick, and lower myself into the water, sipping the warming wine and letting my stress begin to ease a bit. No sooner have my shoulders begun to unclench than my phone rings. It’s after eleven. I’ve already spoken with RJ. Anything else will have to wait. I take a decent soak, and when I am appropriately pruny, I get out. I remember reading once that the best way to combat dry skin is to just stay naked after bathing and rub yourself with the water till it absorbs. It’s a ridiculous exercise, but now and again I try it, because from November through April in Chicago, most of me looks like an elderly alligator. I am attempting this bizarre trick when suddenly Dumpling goes from sound asleep on the bathroom rug to bouncing and barking. Goddamnit all to hell.

  I throw on my robe and go to the door.

  “Alana-quintana! You look flushed.” Patrick kisses the top of my head, and kneels down so that Dumpling can launch himself into the loving arms of the last man on earth I want to see tonight.

  “Patrick …”

  He wanders over to the kitchen, grabs a glass, helps himself to the last of the port, and opens the box of chocolates Lacey left, popping two into his mouth at once. “Alana, get ready, my love, my light, your life is about to change.”

  “Can I put clothes on before this change?”

  “Of course. I’m raiding your fridge.”

  “Of course you are. I’ll be back. Please don’t give the dog any food, he’s getting fat.” Dumpling turns to glare at me in an insulted manner and then returns his attention to Patrick.

  I leave Patrick talking to the dog and rummaging in my fridge and quickly throw on some clothes. Every bit of relaxation I had achieved is gone, and my shoulders are back up around my ears. For the eleventh time today the pendulum swings, this time away from Patrick and toward the Foundation job. I’m pretty sure Rachel would never show up in the middle of the night to raid my fridge.

  I text RJ that Patrick has just arrived, and if he isn’t asleep yet, he should feel free to call and save me. I wait, knowing that if he is up, I’ll get a reply text quickly, since his phone is always at his elbow. Nothing. Crap.

  I wander back out, and find Patrick doing the unthinkable. He is cooking. There are two placemats on the island, napkins and forks. He has found a dish of leftover pasta I made last night, linguine with chickpeas, pancetta, and toasted breadcrumbs, with torn basil leaves and lemon zest. He’s put together a frittata, which he has cooked on one side, and is def
tly flipping it over to cook the other side. On another burner, some of my marinara that I put up last summer simmers in a small saucepan. A pile of shaved Parmesan is on the cutting board, two plates sit at his elbow. Patrick never cooks for me. And certainly not at my house. Something is definitely up.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I felt bad. I know I’ve been really hard on you lately, and extra demanding, and I know I was sort of rude about RJ. Plus, you always cook for me, figured it was more than my turn.”

  “I just don’t know what is going on with you. You’ve been insane and secretive and cranky. Let’s put aside the business about RJ, which, frankly, wasn’t rude, Patrick, it was mean and hurtful. Regardless, I can’t support you if I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

  Patrick slides the frittata onto a cutting board. “Okay, I deserve that about the RJ thing. I’m getting used to being the number-two guy in your life, and it doesn’t suit me terribly well.” Dumpling butts his calf with his tiny head. “Sorry, buddy, number three.” Dumpling harrumphs, sneezes, and flops onto the floor.

  “Patrick, you just have to be honest with me. I know that we aren’t exactly just employer and employee, but that does have to be the biggest part of our relationship.”

  “What if I want more?”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Patrick drops on one knee and takes my hand.

  Oh … no. This cannot be happening. That would be too sappy rom com even for a sappy rom com girl like me. What on earth am I going to do?

  “Alana, you know how much you mean to me.” My heart drops into my toes.

  “Patrick … don’t. I mean I’m flattered, but … really, it’s just not, I mean, you know …” He grins at me with the wickedest of twinkles in his eye. That bastard. I smack him in the head. “Get off your knees you unmitigated asshair.”

  “I can’t believe you actually thought I was going there,” he says, getting up off his knees, and laughing in a profoundly annoying way.

  “You are a shithead.”

  He puts his arm around me and pulls me tight against him. “I am. And if ever I were going to make such a ridiculous gesture of romantic hooey, I know I could do a lot worse than aiming it in your general direction.”

  “Wow. Such flattery. You going to serve that or just let it perfume the air?” I gesture at the frittata.

  “Good point.” He walks back over to the cutting board, slices two thick wedges and places them on the plates. He dollops tomato sauce over each one, garnishes with cheese, and then hands me a plate and we head for the island.

  “So,” Patrick says, around a mouthful of frittata, “about this secretive business. There is something going on, which I have not been at liberty to share with you. Technically, I am still not at liberty, but I do hate when my little Alana is cranky with me, and I agree that it has been a particularly difficult and annoying time for all of us, so I’m going to trust you with something pretty big and you are going to have to keep it under your hat.”

  “Have you ever known me to spill a secret?” Damn, this frittata is freaking delicious. Never let it be said that the man can’t cook.

  “I have not. Which is why I’m going to tell you. You? Are looking at the new Warrior Chef on Master Chef Battle.”

  “WHAT?!” Master Chef Battle is the Food TV parent network’s answer to Iron Chef America, the major difference being that the opponents aren’t limited to restaurant chefs. Caterers, home cooks, critics, celebs, even other television chefs—anyone can issue a challenge. And instead of one secret ingredient, there is an initial mini battle and the winner gets a one-minute head start in the pantry to have a slight advantage in choice of ingredients. They each have to produce a five-course meal that must include at least one dessert, and periodically during the cooking a buzzer will go off and the judge will issue an extra challenge or some twist. Each chef has one sous chef, and they have their own twists and turns during the course of the show. It’s been doing insanely well in the ratings, since it taps into a more mainstream audience. All three of the initial Warrior Chefs have become major stars, and their on-air sous chefs now all have shows of their own and cookbook deals and their own fan bases. On-air sous chefs … Oh no.

  Patrick watches the reality sink in. “Yep! That’s right my little princess. Get ready for fame and fortune, because we are going to be the hottest team on television! First off, we’re going to be undefeated forever, because we are unstoppable! My speed and your palate, your knife skills and my butchering, your insane ability to remember recipes, and both our gorgeous faces …” He takes my face in one large hand, squishing my cheeks together, and puts on a good imitation of my mom’s accent. “Such a punim, we are going to be huge!”

  My stomach turns over. This is my worst nightmare.

  “And the best part? The money is RIDICULOUS! For both of us. Network money, baby, not cable. The show is already in syndication, and they air reruns every afternoon, so in addition to the per-show appearance fees, there will be residuals rolling in almost immediately. The cookbooks will get a bump, the other shows will get a ratings boost, and you, my soon-to-be star, will have your own show and your own cookbook deal within the year. And endorsement deals for both of us. Maybe we’ll do a cookware line together. Seriously, Alana, I was talking to Jeff last time I was in New York, and his sous, Howie, just bought his parents a new house on Long Island. For CASH.”

  And that is when my heart breaks completely in two. Because I know in that moment that this opportunity is probably the difference between my folks being able to keep their house and have the Florida place for comfort in their golden years and scraping by with two weeks’ warm vacation and barely enough money to sustain a decent lifestyle. The chance for me to secure my own financial future, not just year to year, but for the long run. I could keep the cabin. And maybe even do the big master bedroom project at home, make it roomier and more comfortable for RJ to move into.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?” Patrick looks like a little boy who has brought home a first-prize trophy, and I’m sitting here mute attempting very seriously not to shit my pants.

  “Patrick, that is so great for you.” My head is swimming. The very idea of being on camera makes me feel like I am about to vomit. I think about the blogs that are devoted entirely to people who make idiots of themselves on television. The candid pictures of television people in their least attractive moments. Any error captured forever to be YouTubed and Tweeted endlessly. Ever read the Food Network Humor blog? It’s hilarious. Because it is about someone else.

  “For us, kiddo, for us! That’s why I’ve been so nuts lately about the show. The network has been watching footage and looking to see where we are headed and make sure the show is still on an upward trajectory.”

  “No, it all makes sense now, I totally get it. And it is very exciting for you …” But the kids. If I took this job I might not be able to have time to participate fully in the program, but I might be able to start a scholarship fund.

  “US! Don’t you get it? I could never have gotten this without you, hell, half the things they praise me for in these meetings are things that are your ideas. And now, we get to take this next step together. We’re getting called up to the bigs, the show, the major fucking leagues! I’m the pitcher and you’re my catcher. I’m Starsky and you’re Hutch ….”

  “I’m Turner and you’re Hooch ….” I think that was my out-loud voice.

  “EXACTLY! We’re gonna be amazing.”

  “Patrick, I’m really grateful, and it is a wonderful opportunity, but I do have to think about it. I have to learn all the details and responsibilities and obligations, and I have to spend some time making sure it’s right for me. I’m hugely excited for you, and I think they are damned lucky to get you, but I can’t just say yes without knowing all the details and having some time to think about it.” Why? Why now? Why not three months ago, when I could have just made a decision without this Foundation t
hing hanging over me.

  “What’s to think about? It’s fabulous money. Between you and me, you’re starting equal pay and perks to the other sous chefs; I made sure of that, so you’ll be on equal footing. And it is ON TOP of your current salary and benefits! You’re going to get a full-time assistant, to take some grunt stuff off your plate. And I’m telling you, by the end of the season you’ll have a show of your own!”

  “That’s all great, Patrick, but it is possible I don’t want a show of my own ….” A show of my own? That would be even WORSE. But maybe I could be the background person. How awful could it be? It isn’t like it shoots in front of a live audience. And what would I care if a bunch of mouth-breathing bloghoos with nothing better to do than to poke fun at people on TV write some snarky shit about me on the intertubes? I could have a nice life, my parents could have a nice life, and I could still be involved in the work of the Foundation, maybe even become a board member.

  “Well, it isn’t a requirement. You can just be my right-hand gal, and still rake in the moolah! You might not get as big a cookbook deal without your own show, but for sure we’ll get to do one together based on the stuff we make on the show. Alana, you’re finally going to make the money you should be making, passive income, royalties, and bonuses, all the stuff you should have had for years but we couldn’t manage. You should be insane with delight!”

  “Look, Patrick, it isn’t all about the money for me. I have to take a look at the whole picture, my whole life, and make sure that this is what is best for me.” I think about Max. He said to me that in some ways, his folks losing the money and the house is the best thing that ever happened to him. He feels closer to his mom now. They shop and cook together and play board games instead of occupying different rooms in a massive house and eating meals in restaurants. He feels like he is a better person for living in a diverse neighborhood, going to a school with all sorts of different people. He likes that he can tutor some of his classmates, and that the friends he is slowly making feel very real to him. None of his pals from his former school have kept in touch. And while he still intends to go to college, he thinks he might be able to pay for it by working in the school cafeteria. And I have a piece of that. I have seen his spine get straighter, his skin clear up, his confidence increase. And I think he and Mari might be dating. Or hanging out and kickin’ it, as Joseph would say. He is a different person from the one I met, and I had a part of that. That has got to be worth as much as a cookbook deal, doesn’t it? Maybe more?