Food Whore

by Jessica Tom

  What in the world was Emerald doing on the Upper East Side, going to Elliott’s symposium? She never came up here. She had said as much when we’d made the trek to shop at Trina. Had she come all this way to listen to him? Had Elliott actually invited her?

  After the cab pulled away, I watched Elliott in his suit looking capable and smart and happy. He carried a basket of mushrooms and handed them to a guy who patted him on the back. Another girl with a notepad and a pen asked him some questions and Elliott stopped and talked to her while she scribbled.

  There was a time when I never would have missed anything as a big as Elliott’s symposium. I would have altered my entire schedule for a special event like this, as he would have done for me. Why hadn’t I asked Michael Saltz to reschedule?

  In an alternate universe, the one I had imagined for us when we first arrived here, I’d have been standing there with him, chatting with his friends, getting to know his research deep enough that I could actually help him.

  He walked toward me then and pain sliced through me. None of those things had happened. I didn’t know about his job. I didn’t know his friends. I didn’t really have any friends myself.

  I suddenly remembered my ugly swollen face and thought he might wonder what I was doing in this obviously new and expensive coat and skirt and shoes.

  “Hey,” he said, seeing me finally. “There you are.” He didn’t seem to notice my bogus clothes or my bloated face, and that killed me, too. Maybe he just didn’t care.

  “How did everything go? I’m so, so sorry I’m late. I had this thing, and it took much longer than I thought. And then I had an allergic reaction. I’m sorry. I know this is important to you, and I should have been here. Things have been crazy for me, and—­”

  “Things have been crazy for me, too, Tia. Don’t worry about it,” he said. He gave a small, closed-­mouth smile—­not an Elliott smile at all, but the smile of someone else. “Let’s meet up later. I don’t want to talk about this . . . here.” A ­couple of the senior scientists were walking up behind him, looking about ready to congratulate him. “I’ll see you later,” he said, turning toward them. As he did, his body opened and he smiled a large, goofy smile, like a kid. That was the real him, not the stiff, distracted Elliott he had shown me.

  I saw Emerald give him a big hug and they walked together with a bigger group down the street. They left without me. A rotten taste built up in my mouth, something worse than the vomit at Le Brittane. He looked so comfortable with her as they moved in rhythm along the sidewalk. An ugly idea popped into my brain, one so vivid I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it earlier.

  What if they were secretly seeing each other when I was at class or with Michael Saltz? Was Emerald actually with Elliott every time she went out late at night? Were they laughing about me and the “pretentious” food I always ordered? The questions piled up in my head.

  I sat down on a stone bench. I had been paranoid about Michael Saltz picking up on Pascal’s text, and I hoped I was being paranoid now.

  ONCE JAKE DISMISSED me from Madison Park Tavern, I texted Elliott, asking if I could stop by. He said sure and I rushed over.

  Elliott opened the door and I hardly recognized the place. He had gotten more plants and a desk. The wreath had been replaced with a bouquet of flowers, the type of bouquet you’d give your girlfriend or maybe one you’d receive from a would-­be girlfriend trying to woo you. I willed myself not to think that way. That’d get us nowhere.

  “Hey,” he said as we awkwardly hugged.

  He stared at some distant place in the hall. “So, why did you get to the symposium so late?” His voice sounded hollow and hoarse, devoid of warmth.

  “I was tied up with something else. I’m really sorry. The day just crept up on me,” I said, pleading. “Can I . . . can I come in?”

  He paused for a second, like he was thinking, like he’d actually consider not letting his own girlfriend in his apartment. “Sure,” he said finally, then he sat in his desk chair. “Come on in. So you were caught up with . . . something else. Like, work? A paper?”

  “Like . . . an event. It was for work. A last-­minute thing for the restaurant.”

  “Oh. I guess I didn’t give you much notice. I’m not sure I told you about it in advance,” he said, again in that flattened voice that was freaking me out. So I hadn’t forgotten about the event. Not that his omission made me feel any better. In fact, it made me feel worse.

  “It’s just . . . it’s just that I never got the chance, you know?” Now his volume was rising and an edge sharpened in his voice. “You . . . you’re not around.” He talked to the wall. “You’re always running away.”

  I thought about taking him by the shoulders and saying, Hey! I haven’t been great—­in more ways than I’ll ever be able to admit to you—­but I love you. And you’re my Elliott. And I don’t want to lose you. But something in his posture told me that if I said that, he wouldn’t hear it. Elliott was a scientist. He needed proof and all I had were words.

  So I had to find the facts. “When have I been running away?” I asked.

  He exhaled sharply and the sweet face I knew turned sour, offended. “Running into your apartment. Out of your apartment. Running out on our phone conversations,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Or like that time you high-­tailed it out of here and immediately jumped on your phone. Once you thought you were in the clear, you called someone back. Who was it?”

  For the first time that night, he looked me straight in the eye as he said those last three words.

  Who. Was. It.

  I knew he’d only accept one answer—­the truth. But I couldn’t do it.

  “Who was . . . who?” I asked in my best confused voice.

  “Don’t patronize me, please, Tia.” He went back to staring at the wall.

  “Elliott . . .”

  “Why are you keeping this from me?” He sounded defeated, tired. Old. He had been spending nights in the lab. Did I ever ask him how he was holding up? Did he ever tell me? We had never been like this, ever. Before we were a ­couple, we were friends. Now we were barely acquaintances.

  “And every time I touch you,” he continued, “you cringe somehow. You’re shrinking away from me.”

  “Elliott . . . I . . .” But I wasn’t sure what I could say.

  “Tell me something.” He closed his eyes, a full pressing of the lids. A wet, tear-­licked seam. “Do you still love me?”

  I made myself hold his gaze when his eyes opened.

  I did what Elliott wanted me to. I looked at the facts.

  I thought about how hurt I’d been when he’d pushed aside that Bakushan dumpling. How he hadn’t opposed Emerald’s suit idea. The way he’d looked at me hungrily in her clothes, a new me that wasn’t the Tia he had fallen in love with. I thought about his face when I’d told him I didn’t get the Helen Lansky internship, that blankness. His swift dismissal of the Tellicherry review even though he’d never read it. I remembered that I’d never really believed he would be into it anyway. It had been a long shot asking him to eat with me there.

  It was a long shot to ask him to be interested. It was a long shot to think he could understand everything that was happening, and that’s why I was withdrawing. That’s why I was running away.

  What would I do if I lost him? We had been through so much together. College had formed us, and we’d thought we would come to New York and continue growing together, become the ­people we were meant to be. I looked at Elliott’s end table. He must have paid three hundred dollars for it and he had been so proud. Now three plants had spilled their soil on it. A water stain peeked from underneath a wide unruly vine. So much for our big New York plans. You could plan and plan, but ultimately, life takes over. Choices get made.

  “I guess I’m figuring things out,” I said. “And . . . I’m a bit hurt that I haven’t been able to share t
he things I love with you. Like that time we went to that restaurant, or when I tried to show you that review in the newspaper . . .”

  “Review in the newspaper? That thing you showed me at the bookstore? You know I’ve never been into that stuff. I try, I’ve always tried. Come on, you can’t make me the bad guy here.”

  “I know you’re not a bad guy,” I stammered. “But even you have to agree that we haven’t been that attentive to each other lately.”

  “Attentive, right,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on with us. I guess I was pissed that you couldn’t make the symposium, but I’m not sure I even told you about it. That won’t happen again. We can do better. Like, go out? I want to try Madison Park Tavern. It sounds . . . great? Whatever, even if it was some disgusting roadside shack, I’d still want to go with you.” He looked around for a second and I tried to follow his line of sight. I was in my work clothes, but then realized I’d brought my Goyard. My paranoia rushed out again. Would he notice? Now that he was in New York, did he realize how much those cost?

  Instead, Elliott looked at his corkboard of pictures.

  He took a pushpin out of a snapshot of me posing with a Helen Lansky cookbook.

  “I love this picture of you. I guess I never told you that I’m sorry you didn’t get the Helen Lansky internship. That must’ve sucked for you.”

  My heart plummeted a mile. Part of me wanted him to deny everything I had just said about our distance. I wanted him to say that I was wrong, that it was all in my head.

  He continued, “And I’m sorry I was passive-­aggressive at Bakushan.”

  “Mm-­hmm,” I said, biting my lip and closing my eyes. His apologies should have stitched us together, but instead they did the opposite. Each word snipped us farther apart.

  ­People say you should never keep secrets from your partner, but that’s all I’d been doing since we got to New York. I could have disobeyed Michael Saltz and told Elliott the truth about the reviews and all of it. And then we’d be Tia and Elliott again. But I didn’t. I didn’t think he’d understand why I was putting myself through Michael Saltz’s intimidation and abuse. He wouldn’t understand the failure I’d feel if I didn’t go after this with every ounce of my being.

  In the end, I didn’t want to be on the same page again. That was the truth of it.

  I took the photo out of his hands and laid it on his end table. “Elliott,” I started. “I’m sorry. I never thought New York would be like this, either. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. And I didn’t mean to hurt you, but—­” I took one last look at that Helen Lansky picture and gulped. That was ages ago, whole identities ago. With my eyes down, I said, “I know I’ve been a jerk lately. But I just don’t think—­” I stopped again and bit my lip.

  I hadn’t planned on doing this, but this is where life’s momentum had taken us. We couldn’t make each other happy anymore.

  I looked back up at him. “I think we should take a break.”

  Elliott’s shoulders dropped a millimeter but his eyes stayed focused on mine.

  “Is that what you want?” he asked. To my surprise, his voice was steady. As steady as I was forcing mine to be.

  I steeled myself again. This was so hard, excruciatingly hard, but I had to do it so we could get on with our lives.

  “Yes,” I said. “Not a breakup . . . a break.”

  I saw his tears collect, yet he didn’t let one drop. He straightened up and walked over to me. He held me for a long time. We stood there, quietly rocking.

  “Okay,” he said. We didn’t fight for each other. He deserved better. And so did I.

  I GOT HOME a little after midnight, and found Emerald’s program from the symposium on our coffee table. She had circled Elliott’s presentation.

  I quickly escaped to my bedroom, catching my breath.

  I remembered my best times with Elliott: puzzling over econ problem sets while playing footsie. Him tagging along gamely as we visited farmers’ markets across town. Trekking to our favorite deli way off campus and picnicking in the park. Sitting in his dorm room drinking cheap wine and nibbling on whatever my latest project was—­caramel corn, flaxseed crackers, coconut macaroons with some exotic spice.

  I opened my wallet and took out a small piece of paper, now faded and creased to oblivion: 59 Reasons Elliott Loves Tia.

  But we were in New York City now, which burned with an activity and excitement that eclipsed those memories, all fifty-­nine of them.

  I put that out of my mind and wrote Le Brittane’s review in one sitting. We hadn’t even finished the meal, but what I didn’t know, I made up. I had gotten the hang of the rhythm, and the words banged out of me easily, even the wholesale fabrications.

  TWO STARS

  I knew what a downgrade from four to two stars would mean. I knew that the soul of the restaurant would change, that morale would plummet, and that I was bringing an end to a New York institution.

  But in my room, I didn’t see those things. It felt small pressing the Send button, not like I was throwing a grenade into the New York dining world. It just felt like this was the only way I could untangle my emotions after a very long, very hard day.

  By sunrise, my review and everything that had pained me that night were in Michael Saltz’s hands.

  Chapter 20

  “ARE YOU SURE?” MICHAEL SALTZ ASKED THE NEXT morning on the phone. “Two stars, huh? That’s a big thing. ­People will talk.”

  I sat in the living room in my pajamas, my eyes crusted with fatigue. Emerald and Melinda were still sleeping.

  “I didn’t enjoy it that much.”

  “Are you talking about the experience, or the actual meal?”

  “The meal, of course.”

  “Do you want to try it again?” he offered. “No shellfish this time, and we’ll make sure the scheduling is less problematic.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m set in my decision. I think it can run as is.”

  “Well . . .” he said. Then a ­couple of seconds later, “Okay. We didn’t finish the meal, but that might be okay. Scandal. The news will be everywhere.”

  “Right.” I gulped. “It’s your call, obviously. It’s your byline.”

  Though I wished it was mine.

  I imagined Michael Saltz in his big apartment overlooking Central Park. I tried to guess what he was sniffing. Perhaps a roasted seed from Bhutan, or a fermented bean paste from China, or a fatty pâté from southern France. Whatever he was doing, he had it so easy. It was my life that was fragmenting into little pieces. Helen and my words in the New York Times were the only things keeping me going until spring.

  “Two stars, that would make a splash,” he said. “It’s an interesting thought. What did your boyfriend say when you got to his presentation late?”

  It sounded like a riddle, another trap. I waited until the wave of emotions had retreated. “It was fine,” I lied.

  Another pause. “We have a good thing going here. Don’t forget that. Sometimes you have to struggle to gain clarity.”

  Struggle! That was the key word for my life these days. His concerned, earnest tone caught me off guard, but he was the one who knew the most about my life—­my double life, that was. And in that way, he was more than a boss or mentor—­he was my best friend. As much as I disliked him for his sneakiness, the sense that I was never quite getting the full story, I couldn’t hate him.

  “Why did you agree to the lunch if you knew you had another commitment?”

  I looked around the room, squinting, looking for some knowledge that I never had.

  “I thought I could do both,” I said, and nearly gagged, because at the time, that had been true. But now I realized I had been lying to myself, as brazen a lie as telling Michael Saltz I was “fine.”

  “Watch out for that,” he said, with what I tho
ught was empathy.

  “How do you keep everything balanced?” I heard popping in the background.

  “Sorry, making popcorn,” he said. “To start, I have a lot of secrets. I can’t taste. I’m hiding you. And I’m the supposedly anonymous New York Times restaurant critic. After a certain point, these secrets don’t register anymore. They just become second nature.”

  “Second nature,” I repeated. I imagined a life of this being the status quo. Getting to things late, changing in the bathroom, lying to ­people I cared about.

  It wasn’t what I wanted long term. Absolutely not. But I had gotten this far, and I couldn’t give up yet. Spring would be here in no time, and then I’d be able to file this semester away as simply paying my dues. Getting to the NBT would make up for everything.

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, when is your surgery scheduled?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, that,” he said, like it was the last thing he wanted to talk about.

  “Is everything going okay?”

  “Well . . .” He sighed. “It’s been a battery of tests. Grueling, actually. Brain surgery is never a bet easily taken, and psychosurgery, that’s another story.”

  “Are you excited? Scared?”

  “Um, well. Not scared. It’s, um . . .” Michael Saltz was usually so articulate, I took his stammering to mean that he felt real terror. “The other patients in the trial have had success, so that’s quite promising. I just need to hear back from New York–Presbyterian on timing, and they’re waiting on the FDA for approval, and my test results and the like. It is a bit . . . harrowing, in a way.”

  I had never heard him speak so frankly. On the other end of the line, I imagined his posture changing, the slouching of a bewildered patient in front of his doctor.