Wedding Girl

by Stacey Ballis

  “You’ll never get the modern-mommy brigade, not until you start sneaking a full serving of organic, locally foraged eggplant into every gluten-free non-GMO cookie, but you’d think the hipsters would love the retro old-school vibe,” Ruth says.

  “You’d think,” I say. “And actually, I’m sure that if we just up the quality of the ingredients a little bit, bring in the basic-level organic stuff, which isn’t that much more expensive these days, up the ‘artisanal’ factor, and maybe add just a few more items to the roster, we could get their attention.”

  “You have to raise the prices,” Jean says, breaking off half of a muffin and sticking her tongue out at Ruth when she looks over.

  “I think so too, but Herman is sure that his regulars would balk; so many of them are on a fixed income.”

  “Maybe not the prices on the things that those people rely on, but the other stuff, the new stuff. There’s a weird psychological thing about pricing; sometimes if things are too inexpensive, people assume they are bad. You think those four-dollar fancy doughnuts are really four times better than a one-dollar glazed right out of the fryer at some dive? Nah. But the existence of the four-dollar doughnut makes the one-dollar doughnut look suspect to a certain branch of the population,” Jean says.

  “She’s right, you know,” Ruth says. “I can’t tell you how many clients I have advised to double or even triple what they charge, and watched their businesses explode. People are weird; they perceive cost as equal to quality. And whether he likes it or not, the demographic of his neighborhood has changed and isn’t going to change back. The old biddies might still need their three-dollar challahs and ryes, but the new people aren’t going to come for low prices; they will only come for awesome product.”

  “I know, and I do think there could be some manageable changes, but I don’t want to rock the boat. After all, who knows how long I’m even going to be there?”

  “You still looking?” Jean asks.

  “Yeah. I check the boards; I have alerts out on stuff that is relevant. It’s just all either really entry level, so I’m overqualified, or restaurant stuff, so I’m persona non grata.”

  “What about teaching? Could you go back to your pastry school and see if they need instructors?” Ruth asks.

  “I’d be terrible at it. You know me.” I barely had patience when Georg had people doing stages, those brief unpaid internships designed to help train chefs, which are often just annoying babysitting jobs for a bunch of kids who think they are going to be either the next Food Network star or the next Grant Achatz, and who mostly get underfoot and screw up the prep. I’m just too much of the school that if it takes longer for me to explain how to do something than it would take for me to just do it, I bail.

  “Have you given up on having your own place?” Jean asks.

  “I think so. At least for now. It’s too big a risk, too difficult to pull together from scratch. I’d have to be the face of the business, and my face is still a little bruised from my previous fifteen minutes of infamy. I think I just need to try and find something in high-end hotel work, something that uses my skills but doesn’t make me be out front. Something second-in-command. Unfortunately, at the moment, all of those jobs are well staffed, and no one is going to let me in the door at the bottom.”

  “That being the case, would it be the worst thing in the world to do what you can for Langer’s? If you know what you want, but know that it might take a while for something like that to open up, what would be so wrong about you dragging his place into the twenty-first century? If nothing else, for your own sanity?” Ruth stands up and carries the plate of muffins into the kitchen; Jean and I follow her with our plates and teacups.

  “I have to think about it. I wouldn’t want to set something up over there that is too dependent on my ideas or my work. But it would be nice to bring the business back a bit, just to get him more financial stability.”

  “Well, I, for one, think you should turn the place around, make it hot and happening, and then take it over when the old man retires,” Jean says definitively.

  “A bakery? A neighborhood bakery? Not really me, you know?”

  “And why not? You too fancy?” Ruth’s questions drip with sarcasm. “Honey, you know I love you more than my Birkin, and you know I hate everything you’ve gone through. But let’s be clear. Your claim that the restaurant business is dead to you is more than a little bit of bullshit. You know very well that if you went hat in hand to Georg and were humble and contrite, and honest, he would probably give you a decent reference, or at least would agree to not blacklist you in the community or shame you if someone called about your work. There are plenty of off-the-rails divas in your business, plenty of people who come back from all sorts of issues; you just don’t want to face those people. You hate the idea of the whispering. You hate that everyone knows your secret shame. The world was shown your ass, quite literally, and I get that it was horrific and mortifying and all you want to do is hide. You know me; I’m going to support whatever you choose, so if you are choosing hiding, hide away! But don’t hide and claim you aren’t hiding. Don’t hide and give up. Don’t hide and stop dreaming. Your dream died? Fine. Give it a decent burial and dream a new dream. Take off the black armband and figure out the next thing. Be open to the universe plopping it in your lap. What’s the worst thing that could happen? You make old Langer’s place a smashing success so he has some financial juice in his dotage, and then let it launch you into your next big thing. Or you discover you love it and take it over when he’s through and become the best neighborhood bakery in Chicago. Why would that be so bad, so beneath you?”

  Jean slides her arm around my waist, not quite trying to protect me from Ruth’s rant, even though it is coming at me with a slight edge of frustration peeking through, but in a way that indicates that while she might not have said it so pointedly, she isn’t exactly in disagreement with the sentiment.

  I hate that Ruth is right. I should be used to it. Ruth is always right; she has been our whole lives. It’s fucking annoying.

  “Can we put a pin in this conversation and just say that I heard you and I will not dismiss it out of hand?” I don’t want to fight; I don’t want to push back; I don’t want to list all the many, many reasons why someone of my background and experience would be wasted trying to eke out a living in bread and cookies. And I really don’t want to discuss the stomach-churning idea of my reentering the Chicago fine-dining scene. Of facing Georg, who was like an uncle to me, who was supposed to be the one leading me through my “I do’s,” and who I treated so very badly, who I disappointed so much. My behavior was poisonous, and I wouldn’t begin to know where to find the words to apologize, especially if any part of that apology also had the mercenary aspect of my wanting a good job reference. Too ghastly to consider.

  “I’ve said my piece; you do with it what you will,” Ruth says, putting the tea things in the dishwasher while Jean, winking at me, sneaks a last piece of muffin behind Ruth’s back. “And leave those muffins alone, Jean,” Ruth says, without turning around.

  Jean looks so shocked that it makes me giggle, and when Ruth finally faces us, Jean gives her some serious eyelash batting.

  “Don’t play winsome, woman; you know that shit stopped working on me in 1999.”

  I walk the two of them to the door. The hugs I get are strong and warm.

  “Love you, Soph, you know that,” Ruth says.

  “I know. I love you back.”

  “Can we have a girls’ night soon? Cheap and chic?” Jean asks.

  “Of course. My evenings are pretty open these days.”

  “There’s more ahead than there is behind. Don’t let that math reverse on you,” Ruth says ominously.

  I look past her shoulder and see Bubbles slowly heading back up the block with Snatch, think about where she is in her life.

  “I won’t.”

  Wh
en I get to work, Herman leaves me up front to handle the few customers while he heads back into the kitchen to continue dealing with the challahs for tomorrow. Thursdays always mean a constant round-robin of baking challahs all day. There is a local Jewish day school that gives all of its students and staff members a challah every Friday to take home for Shabbat, 260 loaves a week, and there are times I think it is that one client who really keeps the lights on here. This is in addition to the forty or so loaves we need for our regular Friday customers. Herman, despite the arthritis, is still twice as fast as I am at the braiding, so I come in at midnight on Wednesdays to make all the dough, and then start my day late on Thursdays, leaving Herman to shape and bake off the loaves. After we close at seven, Herman and I will slide each finished and cooled loaf into a plastic bag with the Langer’s sticker on it, adding a twist tie at the top, and load them into the large plastic delivery trays. The school will send their van in the morning to pick them up, and they’ll return the plastic trays on Monday.

  We have a brief lunchtime rush from eleven till noon, and I busy myself with cheerfully attending to the needs of precisely three octogenarians requiring sweets for, respectively, a charity meeting, a mah-jongg game, and an impending visit from grandchildren. Each of them generously offers to connect me to a single Jewish son/grandson/grandnephew. They are darling, and it doesn’t even bother me when they debate endlessly over the perfect combination of butter cookies, or waffle over buying the walnut rugelach, which is apparently everyone’s favorite but dangerous when one has guests who have diverticulosis, whatever the hell that is. I send them happily on their way, with a promise to “think about” their potential fix-ups. Herman comes out of the back, winks at the ladies, and makes sure to hand them each a piece of mandel bread for the road, and then heads upstairs to have his lunch, leaving me in total quiet with my thoughts.

  I haven’t for a moment contemplated men or romance or dating since the non-wedding. In the beginning, I was just too raw and embarrassed, and then I was too focused on my other boyfriends Mr. Hendrick, Ben, Jerry, and Chester Cheetah. And ever since I moved in with Bubbles, all the romantic inclinations in my life have been satisfied by black-and-white flickery images on the television. Exactly what sort of flesh-and-blood boy is going to compete with Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart? Not to mention the fact that trying to date as a nearly-thirty-five-year-old famously-jilted-at-the-altar woman who lives with her grandmother while working part-time in a little bakery seems pointless. Frankly, I’m not so sure that anyone who might deign to date me in my current condition is someone I would want to date, which I know is terribly morosely Woody Allen of me.

  I catch my reflection in the mirrored backsplash above the counter behind me. I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been, officially beyond voluptuous and well into lumpy. My hair has been neither cut nor colored in about six months, so it is dull brown and frizzy, but I keep it up in a bun all the time, so I’m hard-pressed to care much. I’m living in black long-sleeved T-shirts and the two pairs of jeans I own that have Lycra in the mix, since the regular denim ones don’t button anymore without cutting off my circulation. It’s a good thing Cary and Jimmy can’t see out of the television, or they might refuse to continue acting for me.

  I’m chuckling to myself about the image of Cary Grant scolding me personally through the television set in some magical realism comedic moment, when the bells on the door peal. And in walks a man who seems to have serious purpose in his step. He’s not terribly notable looks-wise, average height, average build, dark hair thinning a bit at the hairline despite the expert cut that is designed to hide it, maybe fortyish. His suit is impeccably tailored, good shoes, a long overcoat that I can tell from here is probably a cashmere blend. My time with Dexter made me a devotee of well-tailored men’s clothes. Actually, if you put a fedora on this man, he could step right into an old movie. Good chin, the kind of guy you would call nice-looking but not handsome. Or rather, he might be good-looking if he weren’t sort of scowling. My best guess is that he has parents in the area and is stopping by to grab something to bring on a visit that he doesn’t really want to be having.

  “Hello there, welcome to Langer’s. How may I assist you today?” I’m determined to stay cheery. “Would you care to try a sample of one of our newest offerings?” I extend the platter of samples. “This is our new salted spice rye roll with raisins, and this is our new sour-cherry chocolate rugelach.” Herman has been letting me play, and while he hasn’t loved all of my new ideas (the sweet potato financiers were definitely not a hit with him), when he likes something, he insists we try adding it into the case to see how people respond. So far the rolls have done pretty well, and the chocolate cherry rugelach are now outselling both the apricot and poppy seed versions.

  “Of course,” he says, taking one of each sample, popping the piece of roll into his mouth, and chewing thoughtfully. “Hm,” he says, then follows it up with the chunk of rugelach. “These seem a little bit nontraditional for this place.”

  “Well, here at Langer’s we are committed to providing for your old-world needs, but we recognize that now and again it doesn’t hurt to amp things up a bit.”

  “I see. Do I take it from your enthusiasm that these are your additions to the menu?”

  I blush a bit. “They are.”

  He nods and reaches for another sample of the roll. “So what do you think? Add a few new things in here and there, see how they work, maybe move towards a larger overhaul of the menu? Taking the old familiar flavors and just making them sing like new? Thinking about eventual expansion?”

  I can hear Jean and Ruth in my head from this morning. I was bound and determined not to even think about a bakery as my destination, but maybe I was too hasty. After all, what would be so terrible? What if, like this guy seems to be implying, I could keep what’s great and nostalgic about Langer’s but bring in enough modern touches to rejuvenate the business? Overhaul the special-event cakes for sure, and tweak things here and there to make it relevant, maybe even replicable? “One never knows,” I say, almost flirtatiously, figuring whoever he is, he certainly doesn’t need to know this isn’t my dream.

  “Must be hard to compete in the market with the current menu.”

  “We like to think of it as sticking with the classics.”

  “Still, I’d imagine for someone like you, who clearly has a lot to offer, it must be a challenge to work somewhere so outmoded.”

  This man is terribly presumptuous, and I feel the need to defend Herman and, by proxy, myself.

  “Not at all. Fads come and go, but classic is classic for a reason. When you have products as proven as ours, you don’t need to chase every new thing that comes down the pike.”

  “And yet . . .” He gestures to the tray of samples. “You certainly aren’t above breaking the mold.”

  I shrug. “Bringing the occasional new twist to something familiar is fun for us and fun for our customers.”

  “I’m sure they appreciate it.”

  This guy is beginning to make me a little bit nervous. “Is there something I can get you?”

  He shakes his head. “No, thank you . . .” He raises an eyebrow at me, letting the sentence trail upwards quizzically.

  “Sophie,” I say, taking the hint.

  “Sophie.” He nods. “No, thank you, Sophie. I think your samples are probably all I need for the moment.”

  How weird. I assume he must have come in for something. “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “Oh, yes, quite sure. Thank you for your time, Sophie.” He says my name like he is tasting something new and unfamiliar, and is deciding whether he loves it or hates it.

  “My pleasure . . .” I imitate his eyebrow raise.

  He laughs wryly. “Mark,” he says.

  “My pleasure, Mark. Come back again.”

  “I will. You can count on that.” And then he’s gone, leaving me feeling somewhat perp
lexed and weirdly exhilarated by the exchange.

  And something tells me that while I’m not remotely thinking about being back on the dating market, at the very least, it might be time for a haircut.

  The Shop Around the Corner

  (1940)

  JAMES STEWART AS ALFRED KRALIK: There might be a lot we don’t know about each other. You know, people seldom go to the trouble of scratching the surface of things to find the inner truth.

  MARGARET SULLAVAN AS KLARA NOVAK: Well, I really wouldn’t care to scratch your surface, Mr. Kralik, because I know exactly what I’d find. Instead of a heart, a handbag. Instead of a soul, a suitcase. And instead of an intellect, a cigarette lighter . . . which doesn’t work.

  “Good morning, sweet girl,” Bubbles says as I schlump into the kitchen.

  It was a long night; I went in late to do the week’s challah dough so that it would be ready for Herman today. Usually when I get home after that, I just go right to bed, but last night I returned to an email reply from a query I had sent to the Four Seasons, where, I’d heard, there might have been an opening. The terse “Thank you for your interest, but there is no position available at the moment; we’ll keep your résumé on file . . .” form letter was disappointing and annoying, and I tossed and turned for hours, and fell into fitful sleep. I am not exactly feeling rested. Bubbles’s serenading Snatch with Sinatra from the shower at six did not help, despite her adjusted lyrics: “My kind of dog, Snatch is my kind of dog . . .”

  “Coffee,” I croak.

  “Coming right up. And eggs?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I grab the Chicago Tribune that Bubbles has left on the counter, minus the sports section and the crossword puzzle, her two favorite things. I grab the dining section and shake it open. And there, big as life above the fold, is the smiling visage of the Cake Goddess. The relentlessly perky MarySue Adams, darling of the food networks, is grinning her veneered grin, hair shellacked into place, wide blue eyes sparkling with a combination of smugness and condescension and faux hominess. She’s everything I loathe about the celebrity-chef movement. She started with a little cake-baking business in Atlanta, a way to earn some money after an acrimonious divorce while raising three little girls on her own. Back then she was sweet and real and plump like a milkmaid, wide-eyed with charming little crooked eyeteeth and a thick accent. I met her once after a panel about women in the industry at the Music City Food and Wine Festival in Nashville. I was on the panel; she was in the audience, having been brought to the festival by a well-known country music star who had loved her cupcakes in Atlanta and flown her up to bake desserts for the party she was hosting for the festival. Back then MarySue was effusive and energetic and authentic. We ended up back at the hotel having drinks and snacks, and it was a memorable evening with a fun gal.