by Ruth Reichl
“Is very pretty,” Rosa said, ignoring my hand and steadfastly eyeing my head. “All men like. You keep.”
But now that I was getting the images, I didn’t want to be interrupted, so I rushed on, afraid to lose them. “Dan doesn’t like his women to work. He thinks they should be available to him at all times. ‘I want to be able to take a plane to Paris for the weekend on the spur of the moment,’ he always said. That’s why he didn’t want children; he wouldn’t even let me have a dog. Nothing was supposed to interfere with his freedom. I’m an interior decorator, but when I met him I dropped everything and dedicated my life to him.”
“Interior decorator!” said Rosa, clearly impressed. “Is fine.”
“I loved it!” I said passionately, and as I spoke I really could see myself hunched over a big stuffed chair with fat wooden legs, swatches of fabric in my hands as I made crucial design decisions. I actually visualized the apartment I had designed for Dan, saw the little powder room with its black-and-white-patterned wallpaper of Minute Men marching toward Concord, saw the Early American waiting room I had filled with pine furniture and kerosene lanterns, cleverly wired for electricity. I saw the green dining room in our apartment, with its bouquets of dried flowers that made my nose prickle, and the handsome living room, all wood and horse paintings and deep pile carpet. I smelled the Lemon Pledge that the maid applied to the tops of the tables every day, and the slight residue of the one cigar Dan liked after dinner, blowing the smoke out in large, self-satisfied puffs.
“I created a kingdom for him,” I cried, “but now I’m going to redo the apartment and make it my own.” In one grand gesture I swept it all away, replacing the horses with something vaguely Monet lily-like, the walls stripped down and painted a delicate lavender that changed as the sunlight moved through the room.
My family, who know my utter ineptitude at home décor, were going to find this fantasy highly entertaining. If not for Michael, we would sit on broken chairs and walk across frayed carpets. He is the decorator, the one who cares about lamps and sofas and the color of the walls, the person who has made every house we’ve had worth living in. But no one has ever faulted my imagination; I was Chloe at this moment, and I uttered every word with real conviction. “I’m going back to work,” I told Rosa. “I got the apartment in the settlement, but the mortgage is so steep that unless I start making money, I won’t be able to keep it.”
“Men!” said Rosa with disgust; she was now massaging cream into my feet. “I give you red toes,” she decided, brandishing her brush as if it were a tool of liberation. “So sexy.” She swiped the polish savagely across my nails, leaving a trail of bright crimson in its wake. She wove a length of cotton between my toes, and as we waited for the paint to dry, she outlined a plan of action. “You will find better man,” she promised, urging me to begin the chase at once. No time, she said, like the present.
“I don’t think I’m quite ready,” I demurred, squirming at the thought of walking into a bar alone.
“You must!” said Rosa, shooing me out the door. “Go.” She gave me a last look and sighed. “So pretty. So blonde!”
She had said the magic words. The overweight teenager who still lived inside me, the one with thick glasses and frizzy brown hair, the one who never had a date for the prom, was intrigued. I took one last look in the mirror, feeling the same reckless exhilaration I had felt when I first saw Miriam. Now I had created an alter ego who was my direct opposite, and I was eager to start living her life.
I tipped Rosa lavishly and left the shop, intent on finding a taxi. This, in past experience, involved stepping into the street and hurling myself into the path of oncoming cabs in an attempt to attract their attention. For Chloe, on the other hand, things were different. I stepped out the door, raised my hand, and two taxis came screeching to a halt, avoiding a collision by mere inches.
The effect at the far end of the journey was no less gratifying. As my taxi came gliding to a stop on Fifty-second Street, a tall man in an overcoat rushed over hopefully, eager to catch the cab before someone else could snag it. But when my platinum hair swung into sight, followed by my pink lips and red nails, he hesitated, and for a moment I could see him struggle. In the end he smiled, helped me out of the cab, and climbed in himself. But I could feel his eyes still on me as I pushed open the door of the bar.
Palio is a small square room, so hermetically sealed off from the city that it is its own little world. Murals cover all four walls, and no matter where you sit, heroic horses come thundering toward you, so vivid you can almost feel their breath. In Siena, at the actual race, people pack into the square until they are so dense that the air grows thin. The crowd sings and sweats and cheers as the horses careen about in crazy circles and the atmosphere becomes electric with colors of dizzy-making intensity.
I sat down, ordered a martini, and looked up, losing myself in the painting, remembering the heat of summer in Siena, the sounds, the smells.
“Come here often?”
I blinked and looked around. A small man with a neat gray beard had taken possession of the stool next to mine. As my eyes swung toward him I saw that he was extremely good-looking, and then I caught the pale helmet of my hair reflected in the martini glass and remembered where I was, and why.
“No,” I said, my voice softer than I had known it could be, “this is my first time.”
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” he asked, gesturing toward the paintings.
“Oh, yes,” I said in my new whispery little voice, “I think they may be the most beautiful paintings I have ever seen.”
“They’re by Sandro Chia,” he told me, “and I was so excited when I first saw them that I went out and bought a few of his drawings.”
“Was it a good investment?” I asked.
“Very,” he replied, “collecting art is one of my hobbies.” He gestured to the bartender for another snifter of single malt, and raised his eyebrows in the direction of my glass, indicating that he would like to buy me a refill.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” I said demurely. “One is more than enough for me.” And then I asked the question he obviously wanted to answer.
“Yes, many hobbies,” he replied. “I have a large wine collection and I spend a great deal of time going to auctions. I also travel a good bit, and I guess you might call me a collector of restaurants as well.” He wiped his rather corpulent lips with a handkerchief and added, with a self-deprecating laugh, “My friends consider me something of a connoisseur.”
“Really?” I asked breathlessly, as if this was the most rare and fascinating knowledge.
“Oh yes,” he replied, and his hand came up again to stroke the beard. “I actually put out a little restaurant guide for my friends every Christmas, telling them about my discoveries. It’s strictly for fun, of course, but they’ve come to depend upon it. The year I decided not to do it they were furious.”
“I’m sure they must have been,” I said in that little-girl whisper. I suddenly saw that I was doing a bad imitation of Marilyn Monroe, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I don’t actually know much about food myself,” I added. Gesturing down at the black suit, I said, “Fashion and food don’t mix very well. But”—and here I sighed and let my eyes go misty, wondering if he was going to fall for this—“maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.”
He did! “Troubles, my dear?” he asked, picking up my metaphorical handkerchief. And so, reluctantly, I told him the story of the dastardly doctor.
“What a coincidence,” cried my new friend. “My name is Daniel too. Dan Green.” He patted my hand and added, “But, believe me, I have no interest in young women. And if you don’t mind my saying so, I find it hard to imagine leaving someone as charming as you are for—well, for anyone.”
Dashiell Hammett,” Lillian Hellman once told an interviewer, “used to say I had the meanest jealousy of all. I had no jealousy of work, no jealousy of money. I was just jealous of women who took advantage of men, because I didn’
t know how to do it.” I was about twenty when I first read that, but I copied it into my journal because I recognized myself. It is that jealousy that made Chloe different from Molly and Miriam.
I was never able to disappear into the role. I sat back, watching Chloe with amazed distaste, this blonde who seemed to know just what men wanted to hear and didn’t mind saying it. The most astonishing thing was discovering, at the age of forty-five, that I did know how to take advantage of a man after all. When had I learned this? And what was I going to do about it?
Dan excused himself for a minute, and as I watched him walk away I saw that he had an incipient potbelly and moved with a short man’s swagger. But he seemed very sure of himself and I did not think it would be long before he asked me to dinner. I knew I would be tempted: it was such a perfect ploy. My friends were usually so titillated by the disguises that they gave me away. Here was an opportunity for complete anonymity, a chance to have dinner with someone who truly believed I was the person I was pretending to be. The restaurant would never know I was there!
But could I go through with it? Dan returned and I watched, fascinated, as Chloe extracted the information she needed. He was a lawyer, he lived in Los Angeles, and he had never been married. Business brought him to New York a few times a month. At last he glanced at his watch and said he must be going. “I’m already late,” he said with obvious regret. “If it wasn’t an important business meeting I’d blow it off. But . . .”
Here it came, the invitation. Looking earnestly into my eyes he said, “Tomorrow night I have a reservation at what I consider New York’s best restaurant, and I’d be honored if you’d join me.”
I couldn’t go through with it after all. “Thank you so much, but it’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible, Chloe,” he said, giving me a soulful look. He pressed on. “One of the world’s great chefs is right here in New York, and the locals have yet to discover him.”
“Really?” I replied. And then, because I just couldn’t help myself, I added, “Not even that new critic at the Times?”
“Her?” He let out a contemptuous little snort. “What an idiot. All she seems to know about are Japanese noodle shops. The critic before her was a man who knew what he was talking about, but this one wouldn’t know a great restaurant if it bit her.”
Is that so, I thought, beginning to reconsider. Dan caught my hesitation. “You seem like a woman of discernment,” he urged. “Please join me at Lespinasse. Gray Kunz is as talented as any chef working in France right now. It would give me such pleasure to introduce you to his food.”
It was too delicious. There was the delicate matter of money, so I put on my breathiest little voice and told Dan that I would join him for dinner, but only if he would allow me to pay.
In the end we compromised: we would go Dutch. We agreed to meet at the restaurant at eight. Then I went home to wrestle with my conscience. I had twenty-five hours to change my mind.
Ruth?” said Michael when I walked into the apartment. He recoiled as if I were an intruder. “Ruth?” Although I had opened the door with my key, he assumed a threatening stance and eyed my blond head uncertainly. I could see him searching for identifying marks, watched him note my familiar shoes and then saw his eyes move up, looking for my wedding ring. I had taken it off. Only when Nicky hurled himself into my arms, shouting, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” did the doubt leave his face.
“Pretty,” said Nicky, stroking the soft blond hair. And then, ever the diplomat, he added, “But I think I like brown curly hair best.”
“Are we staying home for dinner?” asked Michael.
“Yes,” I said, and they looked at each other and smiled. “I’ve done enough today. We’re going to have salad and spaghetti carbonara. But first I have to change.”
The guys went into the kitchen to put the pasta water on to boil while I went to the bedroom and began peeling Chloe off, layer by layer. When I joined them, Michael was washing lettuce and Nicky was sitting on the kitchen counter, drying it.
“My teacher wants to know if you’ll come on our class trip,” Nicky said as I removed the bacon from the refrigerator. He puffed out his chest and added importantly, “We’re going to the Metropolitan Museum to draw the Temple of Dendur.”
“Do you want me to come?” I asked, thinking how miserable it made me when my mother came to class.
He nodded solemnly. “Please?” he asked.
“Of course I’ll come,” I said, putting the spaghetti into the pot. I turned to Michael and said, “What a day! You’re not going to believe it; I’ve got a lot to report.”
Spaghetti Carbonara
Contrary to the recipe so often used in restaurants, real carbonara contains no cream. The real thing also uses guanciale, cured pork jowl, but to be honest, I like bacon better. I think of this as bacon and eggs with pasta instead of toast. It’s the perfect last-minute dinner, and I’ve yet to meet a child who doesn’t like it.
1 pound spaghetti
¼ to ½ pound thickly sliced good-quality bacon (I prefer Nueske’s)
2cloves garlic, peeled
2 large eggs
Black pepper
½ cup grated Parmigiano cheese, plus extra for the table
Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. When it is boiling, throw the spaghetti in. Most dried spaghetti takes 9 to 10 minutes to cook, and you can make the sauce in that time.
Cut the bacon crosswise into pieces about ½ inch wide. Put them in a skillet and cook for 2 minutes, until fat begins to render. Add the whole cloves of garlic and cook another 5 minutes, until the edges of the bacon just begin to get crisp. Do not overcook; if they get too crisp, they won’t meld with the pasta.
Meanwhile, break the eggs into the bowl you will serve the pasta in, and beat them with a fork. Add some grindings of pepper.
Remove the garlic from the bacon pan. If it looks like too much fat to you, discard some, but you’re going to toss the bacon with most of its fat into the pasta.
When it is cooked, drain the pasta and immediately throw it into the beaten eggs. Mix thoroughly. The heat of the spaghetti will cook the eggs and turn them into a sauce. Add the bacon with its fat, toss again, add cheese and serve.
Serves 3
At the office the next morning I found myself telling Carol Shaw about meeting Dan at Palio. She was instantly amused. But when I told her that I was going to dinner with him, she frowned.
“You sure you want to do that?” she asked. “It would serve the guy right, but it seems sort of risky.”
“What could possibly happen?” I asked. “I’m meeting him in the restaurant, and he can hardly attack me there. I’m paying my way, so he can’t think I owe him anything. And when dinner’s over I’ll jump into a cab and go home.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know why it makes me nervous, but it does. What did Michael say?”
“It makes him nervous too,” I admitted. “He wanted to come and sit at the next table just to make sure I was okay. I talked him out of that, but he said that if I wasn’t home by midnight he was coming to get me.”
“Good,” she said. “That makes me feel better. But I sort of wish he was going to be there.”
“Don’t even think it,” I said. “It took me hours to talk him out of that scheme.”
The doorman at the St. Regis greeted me with a warmth I was sure he saved for blondes. I got out, sailed through the door, and heard my heels click along the hotel’s marble floor as I watched the maître d’ scrutinize my approach. I was positive he did not recognize me. Relieving me of my coat, he murmured, “Welcome to Lespinasse. Are you joining someone?”
As he led me into the dining room I saw how perfectly Chloe suited this cream and gilt décor, which seemed to have been designed to show her off. Or perhaps it was the other way around: as Dan stood up and the maître d’ held my chair, I wondered if I had unconsciously designed the perfect patron for this Louis XIV fantasy.
“I’m relieved that you�
�re here,” said Dan. In his neat black suit and starched white shirt, he looked less handsome than he had the night before; what he brought to mind was a prosperous penguin. “I was a little afraid that you might stand me up.”
I said nothing and he continued, “I’ve been going over the wine list—” He stopped, looked at the maître d’, and said, “If you’d be good enough to send the sommelier?”
A little robin of a man came bouncing to the table and stood, balancing expectantly on the balls of his feet. I could feel him assessing Daniel Green, could sense him estimating how much money this particular customer was worth. “Perhaps a little Champagne?” he offered.
Dan shook his head. “No,” he said, and I had the feeling that he would have rejected any suggestion, just to get the upper hand. “I think we’ll begin with a white Burgundy.”
“Excellent, excellent!” approved the sommelier, and I saw that he knew exactly how to handle his customers. Last week, when I had shown a disinclination to engage him in discussion, our transaction had been brief and businesslike. Now he said, “I assume you’d prefer the Côte de Beaune?”
“On the contrary,” said Dan, and although it might have been my imagination, I thought I detected a small smile flit briefly across the sommelier’s face. “I see you have an ’89 Musigny here, which interests me very much. I consider a good white from the Côte de Nuits a thing of great beauty.”
“Very wise,” said the sommelier, his head cocked to one side. His voice rich with admiration, he added, “So few recognize the merits of the whites from the north.” Unspoken, but surely there, was the phrase “but you are obviously among the discerning few.”
