Food Whore

by Jessica Tom

  “Bakushan,” I corrected her flatly.

  “Oh! Haha! Right, I knew that. So what are you eating? This place is cool. I like it.” She grabbed a menu from the hostess station, took one quick look at it, and pulled it over her mouth as if she were telling us a secret. “But the menu is weird, isn’t it? Snail, chocolate . . . what’s screwpine? I guess I’ll get the chicken? I’ll wipe some of the wacky stuff off.” Then she took off her coat and sat at our table.

  “I’ll get the chicken, too,” Elliott said, looking away, then at me, then away again. “Sorry T, I’m pretty hungry.”

  “You could have said you wanted the chicken . . .” I said, keeping my tone as flat as possible so Emerald couldn’t detect that things had gone sour. I looked at Elliott and said as much as possible with my eyes, Please, let’s just have a nice dinner?

  But he didn’t see, or didn’t care, because he began chatting with Emerald.

  “How did you even get in here?” Elliott asked in disturbingly easy tones. “We had to wait.”

  Emerald shrugged in a way that was at once modest and boastful, Oh, it’s no big deal if you’re me. “Wait, what’s the chef’s name?” she asked. “I think I read about him in ELLE.”

  “Ooooh, ELLE,” Elliott mocked. “He must be a big deal, then.”

  “He is a big deal!” Emerald said, slapping him with the menu. “Or at least he’s cute!”

  I wanted to yell Enough. I wanted to redo the whole night—­the outfit from Emerald, seeing Kyle, my orders off the menu.

  “His name is Pascal Fox,” I said quietly, way too quietly for normal conversation, and unintelligible in this loud restaurant.

  The open kitchen’s steam and smoke masked Pascal a bit, but I still caught a glimpse. Even though he was getting a lot of media attention, he didn’t look like a man who cared about photo shoots and celebrity. He looked like a serious chef with a lot on the line. He sprinted sideways through the narrow galley, threw something out. His chef’s jacket was rolled to his elbows, revealing a mural of indecipherable tattoos.

  In a faraway place in my mind, I heard the music of the restaurant and Elliott and Emerald, maybe talking about work or liking chicken. I didn’t regret coming to Bakushan anymore. Only bringing Elliott there. It was horrible to say, but why had I thought he would enjoy it?

  I stabbed a snail-­and-­pork dumpling, a half-­eaten bite that Elliott had probably all-­too-­happily put back on the serving plate, and ate it. And maybe it was in my head, but this time I tasted a bit of sand.

  The waitress came back. “Two chickens . . . for the ­couple?”

  I sneered at the oblivious woman, then looked back at Emerald and Elliott. It was a tone-­deaf amateur mistake, but I couldn’t blame her. The two of them talked, they laughed. They relaxed while I squirmed. They looked like a ­couple, cool and easy while I was still stuck in some anxious liminal space where you realize that the choices you’ve made might not be the right ones.

  Just then I looked up to see Chef Pascal standing over our table.

  “Excuse me for one moment.” He reached over me, and I think Emerald and I both gasped aloud at him. He smelled like bacon and caramelized onions and had a movie-­star-­perfect face, soft but still chiseled. A little stubble. Dark skin and big eyes with long, thick lashes. And the gold streaks in his eyes? Even better in person, luminous and crackling with light.

  Now I felt like Melinda in the living room, asking me what I was. Was he Egyptian? Mexican? Spanish? But of course he wasn’t like me at all. He was closer to a model or an actor than anyone like me.

  Pascal didn’t appear to notice our gawking. He removed the housemade kimchi-­ghee hot sauce from our table and replaced it with a new bottle. He gave a soft, barely there smile, then continued to the other tables, leaving almost every girl—­and many guys—­shivering in his wake.

  “Ha!” Emerald said, clearly exhilarated. “That was a rush, huh?”

  “Yeah . . .” Elliott struggled. “That guy . . . has a lot of tattoos.”

  I watched Pascal march back into the kitchen. From the pass, where the dining room met the kitchen, I thought I saw him look back at me, too.

  Yeah, right, Tia, I thought just as quickly. Like that could ever happen. He was probably looking at those other women, the important ones, the ones who didn’t get their table using borrowed clothes.

  EMERALD DIDN’T COME home after Bakushan, and I spent the night reading everything I could about New York restaurants. I wanted to soak up everything—­the places to be, the ­people to know, the things to say. No more being the ignorant one at the table, the sucker who waited in line in the shoddy outfit. I wouldn’t be left behind.

  The apartment building quieted and New York briefly rested, but I stayed up.

  I visited Carey’s Madison Park Tavern Wiki page and ravenously absorbed details about the menu, the flowers, even the soap in the bathroom.

  And I looked up those acronyms I’d seen on Jake’s reservation sheet, to see what lay on the other side:

  LOL: Lots of Love.

  SFN: Something for Nothing. Typically an appetizer or dessert.

  Bubbles: Champagne upon Arrival.

  WFM: Welcome from Manager.

  And then, the term that encompassed them all: PX. From the French.

  Personne Extraordinaire.

  Even as I grew tired, that knowledge strengthened me. By the time I heard the birds singing and the sun had crept up in the sky, I had something to hold on to. Knowledge, authority, direction. And a goal: to become an extraordinary person.

  Chapter 5

  I AWOKE THREE HOURS LATER TO MY ROOMMATE’S un-­made-­up face.

  “Hey there, sunshine! Let’s go shopping for your suit, then brunch. Tonight’s your first night of work, right?”

  “Jesus, Emerald. I thought you weren’t a morning person. What time is it?”

  “I’m excited to doll you up. Did you have fun last night? You looked so good in that dress. Dinner was so-­so, though. Did you try my chicken?”

  “No. I didn’t. And you’re not supposed to go to Bakushan for the boring chicken dish. You go there for—­”

  “Yeah, yeah. So sue me.”

  She threw the blanket off my body and pulled me out of bed.

  I was going shopping whether I liked it or not.

  THE STORE STOOD on one of those ultra-­rich streets lined with brownstones and private garages. Each house evoked a different style. This one was old money—­look at the heavy velvet draping, the bulky antique furniture, the oil portraits of unsmiling ancestors on every wall. And this one belonged to a showbiz family—­was that a hot tub on the roof? That one was home to serious art collectors who must not have had children because everything visible through the window was white, expensive, and/or precariously perched.

  A chime sounded as we entered the store, a narrow slice of a room ringed with tightly packed clothes. Shoes lined the floors, hats and bags overtook the top shelves. The clothes hung according to color, but that was the only sense of order I could see. Within each color, there were summery dresses, heavyweight coats, sequined confections. Other stores rotated their stock with the seasons, but this place seemed like it stayed the same.

  “Heeey, Em . . .” the shop owner trilled. She was a big-­bosomed woman, with fluffed, feathered hair. “Haven’t seen you in forever! Tell me everything that’s happening in your life.”

  “Hey, Sherri. I’m swamped with this new design project and I hardly come uptown anymore.”

  “Oh. Boo-­hoo. So what can I do for you ladies? You have a party to go to or something?” She wiggled her fingers at the word party, as if it were magical.

  “Ha! I wish. Actually, we’re shopping for Tia here. Her clothes are a little lame and she needs a suit for Madison Park Tavern, stat.”

  Had she really said lame? Right. Thanks, Emerald
.

  “Oh! When are you going?” Sherri asked.

  I laughed. Surely more Upper East Side ­people dined at Madison Park Tavern than worked there. But I didn’t correct her. “Tonight, actually.”

  “I think she’s a Jil Sander girl,” Emerald yelled as she walked to the black clothes in the back, trailing her fingers across the silks, cashmeres, and leathers. “Like, sorta boring, but with a twist.”

  “Yes, yes,” Sherri said, her eyes widening, though she had the good manners not to repeat the “boring but with a twist” direction.

  “Try this one,” Emerald said. “And this.” She held out a Jil Sander suit and a Diane von Furstenberg suit, which had a ruffled neckline and a tie around the waist. I had heard of Diane von Furstenberg, but of course had never worn her or Jil Sander. As much as I had hated the fact that Emerald had dragged me here, trying on these clothes excited me. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  “You’ll hate this DVF one. But you should try it on. It’ll be good for you.”

  I grabbed both hangers from her.

  “Fine,” I said. “But I don’t understand why I can’t wear my Banana Republic suit.” Damn. I had tried to keep the brand a secret from her. I entered the fitting room, undressed, and started to put on one of the suits. “And if you were going to give me so much grief, I could have come myself. The 6 train isn’t hard to find.”

  “Whatever, Tia. You would have walked into Ann Taylor and bought a regular mall outfit. What an upgrade. Seriously, though. You don’t want the guests at Madison Park Tavern to shade their eyes when they turn over their coats.”

  “I don’t care,” I replied, zipping up the Jil Sander skirt. “I never asked for your help anyway.” I stepped out with a dramatic thud, to show her that I hated coming here.

  But suddenly I didn’t. I saw my reflection in the three-­way mirror. I had put on the dressing room’s spare set of heels and pulled my hair up in a bun, like the waitresses at work. The suit shined like gunmetal, sleek as sharkskin. It was thin and pliant, shaping me in the right spots and letting the curves hang out in others. It was a thing of beauty. The person who looked back at me was sophisticated and poised, as if she belonged at a place like Madison Park Tavern.

  Emerald came up behind me.

  “Look, you’re gorgeous, okay? I realize I interrupted your dinner last night. That was a jerk move of me. I’m sorry.” She spoke into my ear and I began to sweat inside this beautiful suit by a designer I had learned about five minutes ago.

  “Elliott and I were trying to catch up,” I said. “He works all the way in the Bronx, and I hardly see him.”

  “But you guys love each other, right? What’s worrying you?”

  “I guess I just feel a little lost,” I admitted. “And . . .”

  Then her phone rang and Emerald clammed up. “Oh, Tia, I totally forgot I have an event! And now I’m late. The suit’s fifty dollars, I already worked it out with Sherri.”

  She left so fast the bells on the door smacked across the glass. I thought back to what Melinda had implied—­that Emerald was a flake and a flirt, someone to be wary of. Melinda was on to something. Emerald had something sketchy to hide.

  The suit still had its original tags: $2,500. The store had marked it down to $700, and then Emerald got me a $650 discount. She had really hooked me up.

  Sherri rang up the skirt and jacket, then put them in a bag. “Sweetie . . .” she said after inspecting my face, likely soured by Emerald’s hasty exit. “I’ve known Emerald since she was a little girl. She’s had a hard life and I’m sure she’s doing the best she can to be a good friend.” She handed me my bag. “Enjoy your suit. It’s a fabulous one.”

  I didn’t doubt the suit’s fabulousness. But a very hard life? As far as I could tell, it didn’t seem very difficult to be beautiful and talented and connected. All I had seen from Emerald was glossiness and unexpected generosity and an ease in the city that made me so tense.

  I didn’t thank her for the beautiful suit and never asked where she ran off to. I needed to keep my distance, so she wouldn’t have such a hold on me, wouldn’t make me feel so uncool and dull and common.

  THAT NIGHT, SEPTEMBER turned from summer into fall.

  I slid through the revolving door and found the restaurant had already transformed to match. My first official night at Madison Park Tavern. A tall bouquet hung over the front foyer: winding tapering sticks, eucalyptus leaves, tiny bells hanging on wayward stems, exotic berry-­colored flowers the shape of lily pads, purple-­veined curly kale, featherlight white poppies ringed on the inside with black, like a goth girl’s eyeliner. I smoothed my Jil Sander skirt against my hips and walked up to the dining room. The fireplace crackled and the linens were a tad more gold, not the crisp white of newness, but something with a more weathered patina.

  “Happy first day,” Carey said. “Are you excited?”

  I paused to get my bearings. Even though from coat check I couldn’t see anyone eating or smell the aromas from the kitchen, I could still appreciate where I was: Madison Park Tavern, a four-­star restaurant in New York City.

  “Yeah, really excited,” I replied.

  The cooler temperatures outside made coat check the place to be. I coddled every coat and bag, warmly welcomed every guest. There were big potbellied men and soft-­in-­the-­shoulders women who looked like the adoring and generous Pop-­Pop and Grammy children love to visit. There were younger men who shoved their packages in my face. One gave me a twenty-­dollar tip in front of his guests, who didn’t look all that impressed. I got a small thrill taking the coats of some local news anchors and one big-­time news anchor, and an even bigger thrill when about ten reality TV show contestants came in to celebrate something.

  But of all the faces and facelifts, one man caught my attention. He handed me his coat with two hands, as if handing a flag to a fallen soldier’s family. I mirrored his movements and his cold fingers touched the insides of my wrists. I watched his skinny silhouette walk upstairs, his slacks hitting more air than leg. He wore a linen shirt with a Nehru collar, the look of a genteel Indian diplomat, which threw me off. But something about him seemed familiar.

  When I got a free moment—­between a fur-­collared jacket from MaxMara and a bag from Ferragamo—­I looked at his coat again, in case it provided a clue. Even in my short coat check career, I knew cashmere was normally just the shell of the coat, with silk or wool for the lining. His coat had cashmere inside and out. It was cold out, but not that cold. Though if I had a coat this soft, I’d find any excuse to wear it.

  A note dropped out.

  Good evening. Stay on your toes tonight.

  A tingle ran down my spine as I turned the velvety blue cardstock in my hands. Stay on your toes? Who should stay on their toes? For what?

  I heard a cough at the coat check opening, then turned and held out my hands.

  It was Jake. “Oh. Hi, sorry, I thought you were a guest.”

  “Tia. I have a ­couple questions for you.” Jake’s usually composed hands moved double-­time and a cowlick was showing itself on top of his otherwise perfectly styled hair.

  “Okay, what do you need?”

  “I don’t need anything. I want to know what you know. How is the shrimp toast prepared?”

  “Oh, um,” I said, collecting myself. “Brioche is marinated overnight in shrimp stock, then caked with Indian prawn and langoustine mousse.” I had read that in Carey’s Wiki last night.

  “Where are the langoustines from?”

  “Montauk.”

  “And how would you recommend serving the salmon?”

  “Which salmon?”

  “Both salmons. The sous-­vide and the salad.”

  “The sous-­vide should be served well.” I remembered reading that sometime between two and three A.M. “Because it stays moist in the pouch no matter what and th
e greater cooking time allows the flavors to infuse longer. Medium-­rare to rare for the salad, to show off the quality of the product.”

  “And where do you put the bone bowl for the frog legs in tarragon gremolata?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you put the bowl on the right or left of the guest?”

  “Neither. The frog legs are deboned. No bowl is necessary.”

  “Good answer,” he said, visibly relaxing. “Listen, we have a full house and thirty PX tables, most of them unexpected. We’re in the weeds in there. This is a very unusual circumstance and I need your help. Will you backserve regular tables so we can concentrate on the PXs? You’ll trail Henri on half his tables and we’ll let the hostess do coat check.”

  “Backserve tonight? You mean work in the dining room?” My voice must have jumped an octave.

  “Yes, work in the dining room. My God, let’s not say everything twice, okay?”

  I immediately lost interest in the mystery note and stuffed it in my pocket.

  “Of course,” I said. “Whatever you need.”

  As Jake handed me my white apron, I saw that Jake’s idea of “in the weeds” would have looked serene to 98 percent of other restaurants. But I had already gotten a sense of the staff’s collective competence, and indeed the air had turned tense. In the back, a ­couple of waiters were sorting out the chits, little cheat sheets on tables’ preferences.

  “No! Dean Chariss is on table nine,” a waiter whispered.

  “No, that’s Frank Harris. He’s a friend of Yael Jean.”

  I saw a waitress anxiously watching a wine chiller water bath, waiting for a bottle of champagne to come to the guest’s exact preferred temperature.

  Jake was already in ser­vice mode, smiling and shaking hands, patting backs and pouring wine.

  I only had to watch Angel, the wait captain, to learn how to act. I hadn’t yet seen him on the dining room stage and found he moved with a regal grace, his usual swagger tightened to a light-­footed march.