by Liza Palmer
I wonder which incarnation of Chef will be here tonight. Jolly, wine-spilling Christian, who slaps your back and tells you he loves you—he really loves you. Or Chef Canet, who fires you because you bought Gala apples instead of Fuji. The night I got fired for choosing the wrong apples, I sat in the walk-in for fifteen minutes, waiting for him to cool off. He did. All was forgiven after I apologized profusely for my stupidity. Of course, this pales in comparison to what went on in my years as an apprentice in Lyon. And one could argue that none of these instances hold a candle to what I grew up with. Christian Canet is a rank amateur next to Dad.
The kitchen is silent except for the vigorous, almost violent sound of knives on cutting boards. Chef is already in the corner with a glass of wine, whispering to Michel, his chef de cuisine. I notice his eyes are a little more bloodshot today, the dark circles a little more defined. The wine is being poured a little earlier, and his face is looking more haggard. Neither man looks up at me as I walk to my corner of the kitchen. Samuel and Julie haven’t arrived yet. I have a couple of minutes to myself. I set the apples on the counter and make a beeline for the coffee.
“Chef Page—you will do an apple tonight?” Chef Canet breaks his conspiratorial conversation with Michel. Michel, who would say yes if Christian asked whether he could shoot Michel square in the eye with a double-barreled shotgun. “Oui, Chef Canet, whatever you want, whatever I can do to further your greatness” will probably be Michel’s dying words.
“A deconstructed baked apple with Tahitian vanilla bean ice cream that we’ll make here. Very simple—but.” I make an A-OK sign that tells him I know it’ll be great.
“It is good. It is not . . . the pumpkin flan you make last week—that was working-class, yes? Not even French.” Chef Canet searches for his words, settling on the perfect one to make me feel like shit. How masterful. I guess the mystery of which incarnation will be joining us tonight is solved.
“Oui, but it was far and away the most popular dessert that week, so . . .” I offer, my eyes fixed on the floor.
“If we served candy bars and Reddi-wip, they would eat it, Chef Page. Is this what you tell me—you want me to serve candy bars? Oreo cookies?” Michel stifles a laugh. There’s always a collective sigh of relief when Chef Canet chooses a victim and it’s not you. Tonight it’s apparently my turn in the barrel. “No, Chef.” I’m making imaginary patterns out of the tiles on the floor. The geometric pattern allows me to form flower after flower.
“So, don’t make caramel apples out of these, yes? And make us bob for them.” Chef Canet picks up his conversation with Michel. I make no effort to correct him. He has obviously mixed up two Halloween traditions. I stifle a smile as I envision the ridiculous spectacle of hot caramel and the bobbing wet heads of our upscale clientele.
“Yes, Chef,” I say. He puts up his finger to let me know he’s done speaking to me.
My stomach is still churning despite two more Pepto-Bismol chewables, so I bypass the espresso machine and grab an Earl Grey tea bag and pour hot water into my mug. I have yet to perfect my own recipe for yogi tea—I always seem to add too much cardamom. I’ll get the recipe right if it kills me. I inhale the deep lavender aroma of the Earl Grey as I walk back to my station. I feel someone take hold of my arm. I whip around, spilling my tea a little. It’s Laurent, the fish specialist.
“Can I help you?” I take my arm out of his clutches. Remnants of the working-class-flan remark are still bubbling just below the surface. I clench my jaw. I can hear my teeth grinding.
“I want you to hear from me that I . . .” Laurent shakes his head back and forth, and I get the gist immediately—or is every movement he makes sexual? He continues, “With your Julie.” I thought I smelled the faintest whiff of patchouli on him.
“And?” I say.
“Just passing this along,” Laurent whispers. He dramatically turns back to his fish, managing the slightest look of pride. I continue to my station, thinking that if what I have with Will can be likened to an apartment or a pied-à-terre, Julie and Laurent are like some motel that rents by the hour. I wonder if she might have the right idea.
Samuel and I have started washing and halving the apples when Julie rounds the corner. Her face is flushed. I look up. “You’re late,” I say.
“No, we’re supposed to be early all the time. I’m actually still early, just not as early as everyone else.” Julie twirls her long strawberry-blond hair into a ponytail and begins tying the gingham handkerchief around her head. She walks over to Laurent, and they share a creepy moment. It’s fast and barely noticeable, but it’s enough to make me want to take a shower. The entire kitchen slows down to take stock of the new lovers. It’s not a rarity in kitchens. Schedules being what they are, it’s logical to hook up with someone in the trenches with you. I’ve certainly had my share—Jean-Claude with the Small Turd Under His Nose, for example.
“You’re just dying to know, aren’t you?” Julie says, walking back over to the pastry station as she buttons her chef’s coat. Samuel continues washing.
“But he is married,” I say. To Julie, the fact that a potential conquest is married is merely an invitation—a challenge, a throwing down of the gauntlet, if you will.
“She’s in France,” Julie explains.
“That still counts,” I say.
“Oh, it won’t affect his marriage,” Julie says. She’s so driven to be memorable in all parts of her life—except when it comes to relationships. Takes one to know one, I suppose.
“Go get the berries out of the walk-in and start prepping them,” I say, moving on.
“Yes, Chef Page,” Julie says, dripping with sarcasm.
I sip my tea as I replay the scene with Julie. Maybe normal, loving relationships—not pleasantries—are the first victim of a streamlined kitchen. People at the top of their game trying to find someone who’ll tolerate them on the outside. Tolerate them enough to put up with coming in second to the jealous mistress that is their chosen profession. Rage-filled tantrums, drunken flirtations, drives to nowhere, death-defying trips to Venezuela, and jobs that take up every iota of the soul. Is there hope for any one of us?
Then I think of Samuel and Margot. There are exceptions to every rule. I have to wonder, though, how long the two of them can last. I’m sure every marriage starts out looking like theirs.
Chapter Twelve
Elisabeth!” Mom floats across the crowded ballroom floor. She’s wearing a pressed white blouse with a majestic, sweeping collar and a long black skirt. She’s not wearing any jewelry this evening, and her makeup is minimal. She looks beautiful. I haven’t seen her since Montecito. I lug my basket of goodies over to where she’s holding court.
“Hi, Mom,” I say. She kisses me on the cheek and wipes away the smudge of her lipstick, as she always does. She motions for one of her worker bees to take my basket. She tells me, “Go say hello to your father.” She picks up my name tag and pins it to my dress. She straightens the tag and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. She is quickly distracted by a well-heeled couple who have just arrived. She waves as I scope out the room for Dad over her shoulder. It’s easy. I just look for the circle of adoring twenty- to sixtysomething women and a floor littered with panties à la Tom Jones concert.
The Ritz-Carlton Huntington Hotel was built in 1907, and it’s been the hub of Pasadena’s social scene ever since. The ballroom we’re in tonight boasts large arched ceilings, enormous chandeliers, and paneled walls, with Pasadena’s elite packed in like sardines. Waiters in tuxedos move through the crammed space, offering appetizers even Chef Canet would take a second bite of.
The silent auction is set up on long oak tables at the far end of the ballroom. I can see the exotic floral arrangements from here. I thread through the crowd like a concertgoer through a mosh pit. I’m spit out by the long tables that hold the silent-auction items.
* Surfing lessons: two bidders
* Walk-on part in a future blockbuster: eight bidders
* L
akers courtside seats: five bidders
* Two VIP tickets to the Academy Awards: six bidders
* Signed first-edition Ben Page: twenty-three bidders
* Signed first-edition Rascal Page: fifteen bidders
* Basket of pastries and a computer-generated certificate Mom must have printed out for a free series of private baking classes with “World-Renowned Pastry Chef” Elisabeth Page: two bidders. Rascal is the opening bid with five dollars, and Mom has outbid him at twenty.
Awesome.
“Can I have your attention, please?” Mom is at the microphone. The room falls silent.
“Welcome to our annual benefit for the irreplaceable Grace Center of Pasadena. The Grace Center is a safe haven for women in abusive relationships. They can get help for themselves and their children and start their lives anew.” Applause swells.
“We’re so thankful you’ve made the commitment it takes to make this program a successful one. I’d like to introduce you to a woman who will guide you through this evening’s festivities, the silent auction, introducing you to the newest members of the Grace Center family, in addition to giving you as many opportunities as possible to help fund the important work the Grace Center does. Please welcome my friend and right-hand woman, Roberta Huff.” The crowd applauds politely.
While Roberta Huff is speaking, I turn around and double Mom’s bid for my pastry basket and private baking series. I write down Julie’s name and contact information. Then I grab another pen from my purse and, using my left hand, bid again. This one is Margot’s. She must really want this amazing basket of pastries. Not only has she doubled Julie’s bid, she’s added a dollar out of spite. I look around the room. Roberta Huff is introducing a group of college basketball coaches who are going to start volunteering their time regularly at the Grace Center house with the kids. I take a second and marvel at how all of the men look and stand the exact same way. Mom used to sing a song to Rascal and me when we were kids as we passed houses that looked exactly like one another. She would sing from the driver’s seat of that old Mercedes wagon, about the ticky-tacky houses on the hillside and how they all looked just the same. All different colors, but one indistinguishable from the next. I’m reminded of that song as I look at the men on the stage.
Losing interest in the ticky-tacky people, I grab the pen once more. It seems Julie doesn’t take kindly to Margot’s bid. She doubles her bid once more, plus a dollar.
The crowd erupts in applause. I am startled out of my imaginary bidding war and drop the pen. It hits the floor and rolls under the table. Great. My pen is gone. How will Margot and Julie ever increase their bids now? I quickly step over to the clipboard for Dad’s book, snatch his pen, and carefully place it on my clipboard.
“I’m tired of people bidding on me anyway,” Dad says as he sidles up beside me, hugging me and grabbing the pen from my clipboard.
“You’re just using me as a ruse so you can nab that pen,” I say, picking up the clipboard next to mine. I try to make out exactly what people are bidding on, and continue in horror, “From this clipboard for Lakers courtside seats. They’re worth thousands. The lowest bid is thirty-seven dollars. And it’s Rascal.”
“Lakers courtside seats? Are you kidding me? Hand me that, for crissakes.” Dad takes the clipboard and writes down his name with a bid of $250, blowing Rascal and his bid out of the water. He hands me back the clipboard. I take a long hard look at him as he leans in front of me. Are we back to normal? He keeps the pen and puts it back on his clipboard.
“How come you don’t have to wear a name tag?” I whine. Dad lets out a small scoffing sound and smiles at me. “You’re getting more and more petulant in your old age,” I say, bending down and picking up the pen that I dropped before.
“Who are you calling old?” Dad picks up my clipboard and gives it the once-over. Then he looks at me. The look.
“What? No one was bidding. What was I supposed to do? There’s even more bids on”—pointing to the clipboard next to mine—“ringing the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange. Jesus, my pastries are looking like a steaming bag of shit next to this stuff.” Dad laughs as he studies my clipboard.
“A steaming basket of shit, honey,” he corrects. I’m holding the Lakers clipboard as if my life depends on it. Dad writes down a bid on mine and sets the clipboard on the table. He puts his hands in his pockets and ambles slowly across the parquet ballroom floor. The crowd parts like the Red Sea.
I sneak a peek at my clipboard and see that Dad has made a bid of $250. Julie will be so upset. Her bid of $163 looks embarrassingly paltry.
“May I?”
I look up. All I see is a baby-blue-and-yellow-striped tie. A ticky-tacky person. It seems to want the clipboard I’m holding.
“You want a series of baking lessons?” I joke. The minute I say it, I feel like a jerk. My face flushes, and I clear my throat in an attempt to regain my composure. I stop fidgeting for a second and look up at him. His height is deceptive. He’s a lot younger than I thought. His features are full and rough. Thick neck, wide chest, and a haircut only an ex-marine would sport. I imagine most women would find this man attractive—in that lumberjackian, real-men-eat-chili kind of way. Me? I seem to prefer a man whom I need a picture of to remind me what he looks like most days.
“Why wouldn’t I want baking lessons?” he says, settling into his stance. His voice is low, and his words meld and run in to one another. He holds out his hand, and I pass him the clipboard.
“No reason,” I offer. “Are you sure you’re not looking for the Lakers courtside seats?” I ask as politely as I can.
He scans the other clipboards and then proceeds to fill in his name and an amount. The smallest smirk creeps across his face. “A little full of ourselves, aren’t we?” he says, handing me back the clipboard.
“Why would it be full of myself to assume you didn’t want baking lessons? I certainly don’t have anything to do with it,” I say, playing it cool. I scan the clipboard. “Wait, this is the clipboard for the Lakers tickets. Ha!” I say. It comes out a tad louder than I meant it to. Mom eyes me from the stage. I shrink down and make eye contact with the man. I continue in a bit of a whisper, “I was right. See?” I set down the Lakers clipboard and pick up my own clipboard victoriously. The man just smiles. “Why don’t you prove me wrong?” I continue, flaunting my clipboard.
“About what?” he says.
“These baking lessons—why don’t you bid on them? Not that I know anything about them, but they look pretty great. This world-renowned chef is legendary,” I tease, calling his bluff while waving my clipboard around. The man deftly swipes my clipboard and fills in his name and an amount. I’m not sure why I’ve taunted someone that I might have to spend an entire day with. I don’t know whom exactly this joke is on. I must be really desperate for bids other than those of imaginary people.
“Courageous,” I say, taking it back.
He extends his hand and smiles in a down-home, genuine kind of way that politicians pay handsomely to perfect. “Well, it was nice meeting you . . .”
“Elisabeth. Elisabeth Page,” I respond, knowing my mother is in the vicinity and has me in her sights.
“Yeah, I know. You’re wearing a name tag,” he says. I instinctively bring my hand up to the tag and then look quickly to the clipboard with my name in bold letters. And then it hits me. I’ve just been caught flaunting and teasing about my own legendary status as a world-renowned pastry chef. He watches my realization unfold. I say nothing.
“So I guess I’ll be seeing you later, then,” he says, letting go of my hand with a smile and walking away. I stand there flushed and completely humiliated at my own vanity.
I look at the clipboard.
Daniel Sullivan. $251.
Chapter Thirteen
Elisabeth? What names did you get?”
Margot’s baby shower buzzes with conversation and laughter. We’ve all been trying to generate two baby names, one boy and one girl, using
the two first names of the expectant parents. Since arriving at the shower, I’ve been introduced to the other partygoers as “Samuel’s boss.” I’ve been relegated to the outskirts of every conversation, smiling as I crane to hear the goings-on of the guests who actually know each other or, for that matter, Margot.
We just started playing this precious little name game. Before that, I spent the most painful hour sitting by myself, passing the time checking e-mails on my BlackBerry and getting half in the bag on mimosas. I don’t know a soul here. Despite several attempts to break the ice, it becomes painfully obvious that no soul wants to know me.
I vowed I would limit my partygoing to the bare minimum when I was finally out on my own. And now I remember why. As children, Rascal and I were always trotted out for the benefit of Mom’s many charitable and social events, not unlike the von Trapp children—minus the lederhosen and farewell songs.
Julie arrives a full hour late. I honestly didn’t know one could do that. My mother would certainly not approve. Julie quickly sits down next to me.
We mull over sAMUEL and MARGOT for a full three minutes, trying to find the most appropriate boy and girl name options for the new baby. Eva, Margot’s sister, holds up an egg timer. “Get it?” she jokes, “an egg timer.” The crowd roars with laughter as I hang my head in embarrassment for a group of women so obviously devoid of humor that a joke about the contents of a woman’s ovaries is cause for hysteria. Even Margot and Eva’s ancient grandmother, burdened with an oxygen tank to help her breathe, lets out a rumbly, belabored giggle. The egg timer is set for three minutes, and we’re off. I come up with two names just as the countdown ends.
