by Liza Palmer
I smell the delicious tamales as I walk from the parking lot to the farmers’ market, just south of Sunset Junction. Tents and tents of fresh fruits and vegetables line the street, while street musicians squeeze in between and play for whatever pocket change you might throw their way. As I mill around the market, munching on an apple and carrying a bag of fresh tamales, I hear my name being called in the distance. I turn and see Samuel’s very pregnant wife, Margot, waddling toward me. Margot owns and operates property (all lowercase, thank you very much), a clothing boutique specializing in all things handmade. Samuel trails behind her, pulling a rolling cart that’s filled to the brim with fresh fare. They must live in Silver Lake. Of course they do. In L.A., each neighborhood has its own, very specific style; its inhabitants stick to a strict dress code pursuant to the neighborhood’s bylaws. It’s a community shorthand. Silver Lake is a burgeoning hipster community stuck between Los Angeles proper and Pasadena. Its dilapidated streets are filled with newly renovated houses sporting paint colors that would make Diego Rivera proud, surrounded by vertical slatted fences. Silver Lake is one of the few areas in L.A. County where young families might find a starter home for under a million dollars. For a few more weeks, that is. I thought about renting there when I moved back from Lyon, but with the notorious L.A. traffic, it was too far away from the restaurant.
“Elisabeth! So good to see you,” Margot says, squeezing my hand and smiling serenely. Stray blond ringlets brush her cheeks, but the bulk of her hair is caught up in two thick braids that trail down her back. She looks like a wandering milkmaid who belongs somewhere on the plains of Nebraska. She has gained little to no baby weight on her tiny frame. I compliment her on how great she looks, and she responds that a little kundalini yoga, eating macrobiotically, and a lot of good sex did the trick. I stop listening and am tempted to poke out my own eardrums with a nearby street performer’s flaming torches. Despite everything, there’s an air of pure calm floating above Margot.
She comes in for a hug; it appears the hand squeeze wasn’t enough for her. Margot grew up on the Los Angeles touchy-feely aesthetic. The few times I’ve met her have bordered on the Sapphic. I laugh and nervously twitter through the awkward embrace. When Margot releases me, I greet Samuel with a tentative wave. He seems out of his element. His usual white chef’s jacket has been replaced by a white T-shirt under a vintage-looking plaid shirt that’s half tucked in. He’s exchanged his checked chef’s pants for low-slung tan corduroys with a large leather belt.
“I’m thinking about a pumpkin something for tomorrow. What do you think?” I say to Samuel. He looks slightly stricken and thinks a little too long about his answer. He’s probably mulling over thousands of recipes.
“You could go left field and do a pumpkin flan, or go kitsch and do a roulade with a pumpkin puree,” he announces at last.
Margot claps her hands together, tilts her head to the side, and beams at him. Samuel’s entire face relaxes as he takes her in—her wide smile, the very glow of her. As a giant smile breaks across his face in reply, I realize I’ve never, not one time, seen Samuel smile. I feel like a voyeur. They’ve retreated to a world of their own for a few seconds. I snap back to reality. The flan isn’t a bad idea.
“Maybe the flan with some kind of praline?” I say, realizing I’m completely uncomfortable around their easy intimacy. Samuel tears his gaze away from Margot and nods at me, accepting my praise. His beautiful smile quickly recedes. It wasn’t for me; it was for Margot alone. I ache. Where Will touched me, I can feel my body already starting to frost over.
Margot breaks the awkward silence. “Oh, I wanted to thank you for your RSVP to my baby shower. It’s right around the corner, isn’t it? We’re really looking forward to it,” Margot says. Mom has instilled many things in me over the years. One thing I’ll never be able to do is let an invitation lie around without responding. I’m also the fastest gun in the West when it comes to thank-you cards. I’ve been known to send a thank-you card for a thank-you card. I still don’t know why, exactly, I was invited to Margot’s baby shower. Based on information gleaned from Samuel, which isn’t much, I’ve decided that Margot was one of those free-love girls who invited her entire classroom to her birthday parties, only to have the kids gag in unison as her parents presented them with a gluten-free cake and asked them all to donate to a worthwhile charity in lieu of presents.
“You’re welcome. It should be really fun,” I say, lying through my teeth. The only thing worse than a baby shower is a baby shower for someone you hardly know. That’s a lie as well. There’s simply nothing worse than a baby shower. Period. Doesn’t really matter whom it’s for.
“What are you doing for the rest of the day, Elisabeth?” Margot asks, like Mom always did when she asked Will what he was doing for dinner, knowing full well there was nothing—no food or company—waiting for him at home. God, do I look that pathetic? Is Margot like a witch or something? A mind reader? Is she like a dog or bee, able to smell fear? Or am I just that transparent today?
“I’m not sure—maybe clean the house, do some laundry.” Every Monday, when the restaurant is closed, I get myself ready for the hectic week ahead. I do a heavy cleaning of the apartment and launder all of my linens. I was going to buy a nice bouquet of fresh-cut flowers today. Coming to the farmers’ market is like therapy for me.
“Might I tempt you to come along with us to look at a few houses?” Margot beams. Samuel looks horrified.
“Oh, well . . .” I stall. That sounds like the exact thing I don’t want to do, Margot. I can’t stomach the notion of hunting for a house on my own, let alone for someone else. Renting an apartment is ideal for me right now. Leaky faucet? Call the landlord. Creak in the floorboard? Call the landlord. Problem with the space? Give notice and find a new one. No lawn to mow, no garden to tend. An apartment is perfect in the very definition of its transitory nature.
“Chef, you don’t— Please don’t feel obligated. Margot’s a bit spontaneous . . .” Samuel trails off. She nudges him slightly, and he softens, shooting the smallest of smiles her way. They’re fucking adorable. They are the last people in the entire world I want to be around, especially today. I thought Samuel was a quiet rock of a man, steely and resolute. Now I find out that, only through love, a happy marriage and a baby on the way, and blahblahBLAH, he’s a new man and all smiley and endearing and shit. I would rather drive back up to my parents’ Montecito house and spend a wonderful afternoon reconciling my checkbook over a nice bottle of merlot while Will finalizes his travel arrangements.
“Oh, Samuel, please!” Margot leans against Samuel, putting her hand on his chest. Get. Me. Out. Of. Here. I came here for a safe harbor, not to be reminded of what it is that I’m missing.
“The first house we’re scheduled to see is right in Silver Lake—what do you think?” Margot presses. I’m twitchy and nervous. I never should have left my apartment.
“I’ll have all of the pumpkins in the car, you know, the flan idea . . . so . . .” I say, looking around as if I have important business here. I must be in a weakened state because of the whole Montecito fiasco. I simply don’t have the energy to turn Margot down. And the horrible truth be told, I don’t want to be alone right now. Despite all of my objections.
“It’s perfect fall weather for once—the temperature won’t affect the pumpkins at all. So will you join us?” She asks again. Samuel stares at me. Margot tucks her hair behind one ear, and her sun hat lifts with the breeze.
“Sure . . . sure,” I say. I hate how weak I feel. We head over toward the pumpkin stall; I’m still attempting to make excuses. I drop in that my stomach is a little upset this afternoon, so best not to take on the winding hills of Silver Lake. Margot suggests I buy a steaming mug of yogi tea from a turban-wearing gentleman under a tent that’s decorated with bright orange and pink saris. Yogi tea. Uh-huh. Hey, Margot “I have the perfect marriage” Decoudreau, maybe it’s not a glass of goddamn tea I need. Do you think the guy with the turban might
conjure a man who could stick around for longer than a couple of days without wanting a motherfucking medal?
We buy eight pumpkins. As Samuel and I load them into my car, Margot wanders off and finds herself some gluten-free bread and a pair of baby overalls made from hemp.
I follow Samuel and Margot through the winding streets of Silver Lake. The yogi tea smells incredible, and shockingly, it does settle my stomach a little. I think about my apartment and briefly entertain the idea of buying a house of my own someday. Briefly. Even without all my philosophical reasons for not wanting to buy a home, it would still be just out of reach financially. My salary minus my monthly expenses equals a comfortable enough living and a nice savings; I’m definitely never going to go hungry.
The obvious addendum to this issue is my parents’ standing offer to give me the money for a down payment. They always made it very clear that Rascal and I weren’t going to be trust-fund babies. Dad had made it on his own, and we were to follow in his footsteps and not the Foster Family Tradition of breeding social climbers with no work ethic. Our educations were paid for, but beyond that, we were supposed to support ourselves. However, we were each given the option of “borrowing” money for our first house. Rascal immediately took them up on that offer and bought his bungalow in Santa Monica. But I can only see bars on the windows of any house that comes from my family’s money. Let’s face it, I can see only bars on the windows of anything as all-consuming and permanent as owning a home.
We park. I make sure my tires are cranked the right way; the hills in Silver Lake can get pretty steep. Samuel opens Margot’s door and helps her out of the passenger seat as her linen skirt flies up. He smoothes down her skirt and leans in and kisses her. They speak quietly with each other and then share that little smile. My face flushes but instead of feeling anger and frustration, I’m overtaken by a wave of sadness. The void in my life seems to open up in front of me. Would I have missed that exchange completely if not for the past couple of days? I breathe in deeply, set my jaw, and push back any sadness and regret. On with the day. Stiff upper lip. I grab my purse from the passenger seat, get out, and beep my car locked.
The house is quintessential Silver Lake—gorgeous yet ramshackle. Set on the side of a hill, the entrance is hidden by overgrown hedges. You can’t tell how big the house actually is. We file past the open-house sign and creak the door open. Samuel holds the door to let Margot enter first.
“Hellooo! Welcome!” It sounds like an extra from The Stepford Wives is greeting us. Samuel immediately slows down, causing me to bump into him. It feels oddly childish and a little slapsticky.
“Hello, Miss—” Margot says, taking a moment to read the woman’s name tag. “Hughes?”
“Mrs. Hughes, and you are?” The very married Mrs. Hughes extends her overly manicured hand, revealing an obvious zirconia solitaire on her finger and a Rolex knockoff on her wrist, flanked by a diamond tennis bracelet Mr. Hughes probably purchased at a mall somewhere. She catches me taking inventory. I know I’m bitchy, but I can’t help myself. Jewelry 101 is a required course in the Foster Family, right up there with prudent investing.
“We’re Margot and Samuel Decoudreau,” Margot says. There is an awkward moment as Mrs. Hughes looks at me. How do I fit in to all of this? Is this some weird surrogate-parent thing? Is Margot carrying my baby?
“And you are?” Mrs. Hughes arranges her hands in that weird triangle pose television presenters adopt when they dish the newest celebrity gossip. She’s standing with her feet in a perfect L—the pose that slims. She must have learned that in her broker seminars at the Learning Annex. That and the now overused statement “And you are?”
“Elisabeth. I’m a friend,” I say. Mrs. Hughes takes my extended hand and shakes it vigorously. I politely unravel myself and begin to walk through the house, leaving Mrs. Hughes to focus on the happy couple.
I can hear loud congratulations about the upcoming baby as Mrs. Hughes goes on about the great schools in the neighborhood, saying “inclusive” and “diverse” a few too many times. After the introductions, Mrs. Hughes leaves Samuel and Margot to investigate the house on their own. The three of us meet back in the dining room. The current owner decided to paint the beautiful high ceiling brilliant blue, in contrast with that of the living room, which is painted crimson red with a bright yellow sun around the tacky apartment-style chandelier.
“You have to look past the paint, love,” Margot says to Samuel.
Samuel and I are both standing, mouth open, staring at the blueberry-colored crown moldings. I decide to leave them alone again. I wander off down a claustrophobic staircase. It leads to a personal gym that looks like it was inspired by a Bret Easton Ellis novel. Mirrors everywhere.
I start to look at the real nuts and bolts of the house.
If I were thinking about renting this place, I wouldn’t care about any of the things a prospective buyer would. I’d look at the location and the price. That was what I did when I rented the apartment I live in now.
Do I look at men this way, too? As rentals? “Perfect in their transitory nature.” Have I been giving notice and finding something new every time a problem arises? Afraid to invest in anything permanent because it may turn out to be decaying, given closer inspection? Fearing that one day I’ll come in and find my cozy home is back on assignment in Venezuela?
“Elisabeth? Where’d you go?” Margot calls, startling me out of my trance. I run my fingers along a massive crack in the wall as I pick my way carefully up the narrow, dangerous staircase to find Margot and Samuel.
Where’d I go? That’s a very good question.
Chapter Eleven
Like all pastry chefs in top-rated restaurants, I spend my week working until the wee hours of the morning. On the nights when I don’t take Julie up on her offer for an after-hours glass of wine, I stumble home, throw my chef whites into the washer, and get my running gear ready for the morning. The occasional glasses of wine with Julie are merely a political maneuver, allowing me to keep her close and on good terms. I figure this way at least I’ll have some kind of psychological red flag as to when—not if—she plans on climbing over me in order to get my job. But maybe I’m being naive. If Julie’s worth her salt, I won’t see her coming at all.
Most nights I have to wind down before I can fall asleep. I brew a mug of chamomile and watch some Tivoed shows—guilty pleasures, mostly: teen-angst dramas, BBC America mysteries, and reality shows. I spend several minutes staring at the ceiling before I finally doze off, thinking of the hundred or so desserts that went out that night. Revisiting each one. Could I have done better? How can I strive to do better tomorrow?
I wake at eight-thirty every morning, even on my days off. I make my bed, wash any stray dishes, and/or Swiffer if need be. If Mom doesn’t call, I won’t speak to another soul until I reach Joan’s on Third at the end of my run. After Joan’s, I come home, shower, and dress for the day. I wear a variation on the same outfit: checked pants and T-shirt. If it’s chilly, I’ll throw on my cashmere wraparound sweater. I have two—one charcoal gray, one black, so when one’s at the dry cleaner I can wear the other. I slip on my clogs, put my hair in a ponytail, and hold my freshly laundered chef’s jacket over my arm. I lock up my apartment, then walk down the staircase and into the communal courtyard, past the burbling fountain, and find my car in its space. I beep it unlocked, open the back door, lay the jacket neatly along the seat, and slam the door closed.
Depending on the day, I drive to one of five farmers’ markets in and around Los Angeles. Some restaurants employ a “produce wrangler” to alleviate some of the stress of the job. But if it weren’t for these daily adventures, I would be without the only variable in my day: the night’s feature. The restaurant always carries a fruit feature along with the dessert-menu regulars—the bread pudding, the crème brûlée, and the moelleux chocolate cakes, the desserts that sound simple but are extremely complicated and involved. I wander through the tents, daydreaming, running through t
he Rolodex of recipes in my head. Unhurried. Content. Breathing easily. The more complicated the taste profile of a dessert, the more I relish the gathering of the ingredients. I load my purchases into the hatch of my car on the white sheet I keep there for this very reason. I drive to work and start my routine. Over and over and over and over again.
The idea of having any kind of a social life is laughable, with this kind of schedule. I haven’t stayed in touch with most of the kids I grew up with, save Will. Once I left school, I realized rather quickly how little I had in common with them. I still get e-mailed photos of new babies, receive wedding announcements in the mail, and hear about those who made partner or took over the family business in my alumni newsletters. I’ll send a card, flowers, or a congratulatory e-mail depending on the situation. But that’s mainly because Mom would kill me if I slipped even a bit in the etiquette department.
As I walk from my car to the restaurant this Saturday morning, I notice the neighborhood school is having a big Halloween hoedown. I’m juggling a flat of Rome Beauty apples for the baked-apple feature when I see some strange figures approaching me. A witch/mom fights with the huge black brim of her hat to keep it from flying off in the afternoon wind. Her daughter, a combination Tinker Bell/wood nymph, stomps her tiny ballet-slippered feet impatiently. She’s anxious to get to the hoedown. Behind them, the father, in full cowboy garb, rounds the corner carrying a baby dressed as a red M&M and holding hands with a barely-able-to-walk Jedi knight. I love this time of year.
When I get to the restaurant, Louis, the maître d’, greets me with his usual two kisses and warns that Chef Canet is already in the kitchen. Wow, twice in one month. I feel my shoulders rise in anticipation.
Working in a kitchen of this caliber is like walking a tightrope every minute of every day. On one hand, I admire the passion and enormous talent that boils up from each and every corner. But the cutthroat competition, microscopic scrutiny, and almost daily temper tantrums are beginning to take a toll on me. I know it’s the price we pay for being number one in a city where big numbers, opening weekends, and being “in” are coveted far more than a James Beard Award. Chef Canet has two. People would kill to do what I do. Shit, I would have killed me back in the day. I honestly thought the eggshells would disappear after I paid my dues.
