But that was ages ago.
She met the Food Network people at that same festival; they signed her and proceeded to completely make her over. Today she is a trim size four, with cheekbones where cheeks used to be; a slight hint of a southern lilt has replaced her full-blown drawl. The teeth are now a scary row of perfectly even and blindingly white fake choppers. Once a week she is the Cake Goddess on national television, making “simple, straightforward home-cooked desserts that the busiest mom can manage in a jiff!” and she’s opening stores all over creation. She publishes a bestselling cookbook once a year like clockwork and does a regular weekly cooking segment on Today, as well as a column in Marie Claire magazine. Last year she went public with her longtime boyfriend, Chicago venture capital billionaire Charles Monroe, once his endless divorce was finalized.
According to the article, Cake Goddess, fresh off its successful recent IPO, is apparently expanding its monolithic cake empire into Chicago. Twelve flavors of cupcakes, with eight different frosting options. Five types of chocolate chip cookies alone, and eight types of brownies. A dozen different breads daily, and nearly two dozen on weekends. And a full range of organic/vegan/gluten-free choices. And they specialize in over-the-top wedding cakes, the cornerstone of their empire. MarySue is so excited to finally be in Chicago after successful endeavors all over the South and Northeast, and on the West Coast. Chicago will be her flagship midwestern store, and she is going to make it the biggest and best. She plans to set up her testing kitchen here, and the store will serve as the place where she’ll first roll out new offerings, including event spaces for parties and a small café for lunch and high tea.
She will be keeping her sprawling Atlanta mansion, a pink-stuccoed nightmare that looks like Dixie Barbie’s Nouveau Riche Dream House, but has bought a multimillion-dollar Lake Shore Drive penthouse condo, which I recognize immediately from Anneke’s portfolio. She showed me the before and after pictures when we were working on the restaurant, and the before had the most amazing and ridiculous kitchen covered entirely in blue-and-white floral delft-patterned wallpaper with matching countertops and ceiling and cabinet pulls. We had laughed about the matchy-matchy and the ancient appliances and the general insanity of the space, and when she said she promised me that the restaurant would not look like that, I knew that Anneke, beaming at me over the swell of her enormous belly, was the perfect person to design my dream restaurant. It sort of hurts my heart to know that MarySue Adams gets to reap the benefits of Anneke’s gifts in her home and that Dexter and Cookie get to reap the benefits in their restaurant, and that I will now never again be able to afford to work with her.
I keep hate-reading the article, learning about how much MarySue has fallen in love with Chicago, that she has some fun new treats that will be Chicago themed, and that she is delighted to announce that she will be breaking ground soon in one of Chicago’s most historic and storied old neighborhoods.
Less than four blocks from Langer’s.
My eyes fly open, my stomach turns itself into a pretzel, and I’m suddenly powerfully awake.
“Shit,” I say as Bubbles comes over and slides a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me and puts down a large mug of steaming coffee, light and sweet.
“What is it?”
“A nightmare.” I show her the front page of the section.
“Oy, that woman. She gives me the creepy-crawlies. I always feel like she is peering into my soul through the television. Her teeth look like she wants to eat me. And I don’t think anything I’ve seen her cook has ever appeared appetizing.”
“She’s bringing her bakery here.”
“To Chicago?”
“To the old Woolworth’s space on Milwaukee.”
“Over there?” Bubbles says, gesturing to the backyard and beyond, where the long-empty building has been awaiting development, less than a half mile from where we sit.
“Yeah.”
The realization of what that will mean flashes across her face, and she flops into the chair opposite me, hand over her mouth. “Poor Herman.”
“Exactly.”
I hand her the article and eat my eggs and toast, which are at once delicious and suddenly leaden. By the time I’m finished with my breakfast, she is finished with the article.
“Vey iz mir.”
“Exactly. I think I’d better go in early today. I don’t know if he’s heard yet, but if he hasn’t, it should probably come from me.”
“Good girl.”
I drop my dish in the dishwasher and head upstairs to get dressed. As I pull on my work clothes, I think about poor Herman and what this will mean, and then about myself. Last night’s email means I’m no closer to the type of employment that I really need, and while Langer’s isn’t my dream job, it is a job, and a pleasant one at that. What if Herman just throws his hands up and closes quickly? I’ll be totally back to square one. I shake this off, knowing that Herman’s best bet is probably to just try and sell his place as fast as he can before Cake Goddess opens so that he doesn’t face the humiliation of being put out of business. I would hate to see him suffer that, especially after so many years.
I grab my bag and zip down the stairs, yelling my good-bye to Bubbles, and head for the bakery hoping upon hope that Herman already knows and I’m just there for comfort, and that I don’t have to be the one to tell the sweetest old man in the world that his business has one year left at best and whatever nest egg he was aiming to get out of it has likely fallen right into the toilet.
When I push open the door at Langer’s, slowly to prevent the bells from ringing out, the first thing I hear is Herman on the phone.
“I can’t worry about some other bakery.” Herman’s voice, coming out of the kitchen, sounds weary.
There is a pause.
“They do what they do; I do what I do. It’s not the same.”
Another pause.
“They may in fact do it bigger. But not better.”
When I walk into the kitchen, Herman catches my eye and winks at me, gesturing to the pitcher of coffee, and I go to pour myself a cup.
“You may think that better doesn’t matter today, but I disagree. Bigger and cheaper and with more variety, with their big-time celebrity-chef owner. That doesn’t mean anything to people who respect places like this.”
Herman rolls his eyes and holds the phone away from his ear, the ancient receiver emitting the noise of a thousand angry bees.
“Please, Junior, I understand that you want to help, but I know what I know. This is my home; this is my job; this is where I belong and what I belong doing. If the new place makes things slower, so be it. But I’m not a coward. I don’t run away. I stay. The business stays. That is the end of the discussion.”
I hear a noise that sounds very much like “aaarrrghhhhhh” through the phone and then, unmistakably, a dial tone. Herman puts on a brave smile.
“Sweet Sophie. You are early! But it is good, because there are still many challahs to get ready. Can you continue for me? I need to go upstairs for something. I will return quick as a rabbit.”
“Of course, Herman. Take your time; I’ll get the challahs done.”
He pinches my cheek on his way to the door and disappears upstairs. That must have been the son. Herman has shared very little about his son. All I know is that he is some sort of big-time businessman who splits his time fairly evenly between Chicago and the West Coast. The two of them seem to have a strained, respectful relationship. I know that they spend key holidays together and that the son does try and stop in to see Herman when he is in town and has time, but apparently those visits have been fewer and fewer ever since his mother died. I know that Herman is proud of his son but doesn’t really understand him, and on the rare occasion he mentions him, I make sure not to pry or ask for more info. And it always makes me grateful that my folks, who also don’t necessarily understand me, d
on’t let it distance us from each other.
Herman returns, looking like nothing in the world is wrong.
“Sophie, you are very early.”
“I saw the paper, thought I should come in.”
He pats my hand. “Very sweet of you, my dear, but nothing to panic about. I’m very delighted to see that our neighborhood is attracting new and exciting businesses.”
“But, Herman . . .”
He shakes his head. “There is a big building that needs to be torn down, rebuilt from the ground up. Who knows what happens between now and then? For all we know, having the new business nearby brings many more people to the neighborhood, people who love baked goods. I’ve seen photos of this Baking Queen woman. This is not a Jewish face. I’m sure she makes an excellent cookie, but I would bet she wouldn’t know a babka from a bobcat, nu?”
Herman puts on his thickest shtetl accent and mugs for me, making me giggle despite myself.
“There’s my girl. Bad enough I’ve got my son phoning in from California all gloomy and doomy. You and I know better. Don’t we both still love to get that perfect French baguette at La Boulangerie? Those amazing English muffins at Summer House? The carrot cake muffins at Blue Door Farm Stand?” Herman rattles off some of the outstanding work of other local Chicago establishments.
“Of course we do.”
“Of course we do. Because no one place can be all things to all people. We do what we do. She will do what she does. There is room for everyone. The tide raises all boats.”
It does indeed. Even the Titanic.
“Okay, Herman, I’m here for you. So, since I’m here, shall we bake some challah?”
“Yes, we shall. You think that woman knows from challah?” He chuckles at the very idea, and his confidence puts me at ease. He’s right, of course; what we do and what she does are so different. Why would her store affect ours negatively? Why can’t the burgeoning community sustain both places? I think about other clusters of businesses: that stretch on Western Avenue with all the Thai restaurants; Armitage Ave. with a Kiehl’s, L’Occitane, and Lush in a two-block stretch, all hocking their lotions and potions. Why can’t there be two very different bakeries near each other. Four blocks might as well be four miles; you can’t even see her place from our place.
You can’t even see her place from our place.
Which also means that if you swing by her place and see lines or crowds or no parking, you have to know we are here for us to get overflow business. And as far as I can tell, only a few dozen people know we’re here. My heart sinks anew. If we are going to stay, we have to figure out some way to at least get our name out there. I stop myself. Herman’s name. Get Herman’s name out there. After all, he’s right about the build; it could take a year, depending on what she is planning. Do I really think I will still be here in a year?
Herman and I bake and bag the challahs, working in companionable silence, occasionally popping out to the front to deal with a customer. Whatever his bravado was with his son, with me Herman is still fairly quiet for most of the day, and when the skies darken around four p.m., he sends me home ahead of the storm, telling me that things will be very quiet in the rain and that I came in early and should get back so I don’t have to run home in the wet. And I have to say, I’m grateful for the release.
When I come through the door, Snatch greets me with happy barking, resplendent in a new sweater I haven’t seen before, an ivory fisherman’s number with traditional cabling and design. He looks like a little roly-poly longshoreman in need of a black watch cap.
“Hello, sweet boy. Is this a new sweater? You are very handsome.”
He yips in reply, and Bubbles appears in the hall, drying her hands on a dish towel.
“Hello, schnookie. How is Herman?”
I head over and kiss her cheek. “He is doing great actually, not worried at all. Says that what MarySue does and what we do are so different we shouldn’t even think twice.”
Bubbles nods. “And what do you think?”
“I think that I hope he’s right.”
“But?”
“But he might not be. Right now we are the only game in town, so to speak. She’ll be bigger and brighter and newer and more up-to-date. I don’t think we’ll lose our devotees, but I can’t imagine how the doors are staying open now, let alone if we lose the people who use us more as ‘the only local option’ as opposed to ‘our favorite place.’”
She nods thoughtfully. “Well, it is Herman’s place, so all you can do is what he needs.”
“True enough. I see your compatriot here has a rugged new look.”
We peer down at Snatch, who gives a little spin as if he is auditioning for America’s Next Top Model.
“He had one like it before, but there was an unfortunate dog park incident.”
“I’m not even going to ask.”
“Probably best.”
I give the dog a head scratch and go upstairs to get my computer, the pug staying close at my heels. Herman might be feeling confident, but I still think my best play is to take advantage of my early dismissal to get out another round of job queries. I grab my laptop and get onto my bed. Snatch snuffles and snorts, doing his level best to join me, but the bed is tall and his vertical leap is roughly that of a small newt’s. In Bubbles’s room he has an elegant little staircase.
“Hey, fat boy. You wanna come up?”
He snorts in agreement. I lean over and grab the sweater, using it as a sling to haul him up onto the bed. “Damn, dog, you are leaden.”
Snatch sniffs around on the bed, finally plopping himself down next to me, resting his head on my knee, his warm weight a comfort.
“Okay, buddy. What do you think? The Ritz-Carlton or the Peninsula?”
He raises his smooshed little face and lets his tongue loll out the side.
“Yeah, okay. Both it is.” He puts his head back down on my knee, drooling slightly, and I reach out into the ether hoping upon hope that someone somewhere will want me before MarySue Adams makes me even more irrelevant than I already am.
She Wouldn’t Say Yes
(1945)
Ethics shouldn’t even have to be considered when a man’s sanity is at stake.
• ROSALIND RUSSELL AS DR. SUSAN LANE •
“Hello?” I don’t recognize the number on my phone, but I answer anyway, hoping it is one of the hotels I sent my résumé to, calling with an interview for me.
“Hey, Sophie? It’s Amelia. The wedding cake for June sixth?”
Damn. I hope she isn’t cancelling. “Hi, Amelia. Everything okay?”
“Yes . . . well, yes and no. I was wondering if I might take you to lunch? Pick your brain some more on the wedding stuff?”
On the one hand, this is the last thing I want to do. It was one thing to hang with her that day at the bakery, but I definitely meant it when I said I was not up for being her wedding planner. On the other hand, since I left the restaurant having pissed everyone off, Ruth and Jean are about my only friends, and with both of them so busy with their own lives, Bubbles and Snatch are my main companions. Lovely, both; but not exactly a full social roster. Amelia was sweet and smart and funny, so it would probably not be a terrible thing to have lunch with her, just for the change of pace.
“Sure, when were you thinking?”
“Um, what does your week look like? Would noon tomorrow work?”
Tomorrow is Wednesday, which I have free until I have to go in at midnight to do the challah dough. “That would be fine.”
“You like Mexican?”
“Love it.”
“Nuevo Leon?”
“Perfect. See you there.” At least the food will be great. I slip my phone back into my pocket and head out front, where Herman is sitting with Bubbles, sneaking bits of butter cookie under the table to Snatch.
“Well, this i
s a nice surprise,” I say, walking around the counter to give her a kiss. She sips her tea and nibbles on an almond horn.
“This is very delicious.” She waves the crescent cookie at me. It’s one of my new items, a chewy marzipan-like cookie rolled in toasted sliced almonds, with one end dipped in dark chocolate.
“Your Sophie is a wonder, Betty, a true wonder.” Herman winks at me. “Her talent is a bit wasted here with me.”
“Don’t be silly, Herman,” Bubbles says, patting his hand. “This is a wonderful thing for Sophie; it’s important to know where she came from. After all, yours were among the first cookies she ever tasted. Where else should she be but where her love of baking began!”
“Alright, now, do either of you need anything else up here? Otherwise I’m going to take my prodigious talent into the back and get a cupcake party happening.”
“We’re fine, dear. I was just taking Snatch on his walk and thought we’d stop in to say hello.”
Wedding Girl Page 8
