Seeing Me Naked

by Liza Palmer

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Somehow the waters part, and by the time I pull up to the valet at the Biltmore Hotel in downtown L.A., I’m early but officially hyperventilating. Los Angeles traffic hasn’t helped me prepare for this meeting. I steady my breathing as I pull my purse tight on my shoulder. By the time the doorman opens the door to the grand old hotel, my head is high and my breathing is stable.

  I walk through the majestic foyer, past the huge mural, and head down the regal stairs into the Rendezvous Court. A huge fountain in the center anchors this hangar of a room. Tables and chairs swirl around the fountain. The room is filled with chattering patrons, uptight businessmen with open files and cups of coffee and tourists who don’t quite know what to make of all this pomp. I scan the room for the television duo.

  “Elisabeth!” Donna is standing in the entryway with her sunglasses on and an Hermès handbag that looks like an overnight bag. I wave and approach her. She extends her hand, and we gush and smile through our good-mornings. I’m somewhat relieved. I was worried about the greeting: Would one hug? Double-kiss? Open-mouth kiss? I mean, how badly do I want this gig?

  “Paul is on his way. How is everything?” Donna asks.

  “Great, just great. How was your weekend?” I ask. Think Mom. Just ask questions.

  “Great, how was yours?” Donna must subscribe to the same theory.

  “Oh, fabulous. Did you find the hotel okay?” I volley back.

  “Absolutely. My husband and I have season tickets at the new Walt Disney Concert Hall. What about you?”

  We’re at the net now—fast shots back and forth. I want to ask if the season tickets are great or fabulous “Well, I love it here, so . . .” I trail off.

  Paul walks down the stairs and Donna motions for him to come over. We shake hands. He motions to the waiter that our party is ready to be seated. The tuxedoed waiter approaches and seats us.

  Paul sits in a cushiony chair at the head of the little table. Donna and I sit on an antique couch. I still feel flushed from last night. Our waiter brings our water. I take a long drink.

  Donna tells the waiter she already had a huge breakfast, so she won’t be eating anything. Just coffee. Yeah, right. I know an L.A. diet when I see one.

  “Why don’t you order for us, Elisabeth?” Paul asks, studying me.

  “Why don’t we start with the Victorian tea service?” I ask, looking to Paul and Donna. They nod approvingly and motion for me to continue. “And for the tea, why don’t we do the Earl Grey? This service comes with a glass of champagne.” Paul and Donna nod again. The waiter smiles and leaves us.

  “You’re adorable,” Paul exclaims. Donna is nodding, nodding, nodding. How am I supposed to trust these people? They can’t drop the act for one second.

  “Thank you,” I say. Though I’ve had a lot of high-stakes interviews, I find myself becoming nervous. While I’m at the top of my game professionally, I also feel trapped in a velvet cage. Just enough money to survive comfortably, just enough freedom to create some good desserts. But there’s a line; a boundary. Don’t get too far afield with the desserts. This is a high-end French restaurant. Stay in line. Stay in line. Stay the same—cryogenically frozen—for how long?

  Paul dives in with the pitch. “We want to start with a television show. You, in and around Los Angeles. It’s a spin on the shows that focus on certain regions. Instead of a country, we thought it would be cute to have you move around L.A. We’d start with a field piece, and then you’d come back to your kitchen and bake off some recipes.” I love that he uses the same terms I use. I’m more aware of this after last night, when my love of the phrase “plate up” was outed and mocked. The term “bake off” is far more arcane. I’m among friends. This opportunity might be the one puzzle piece I need to make the rest of my life fall into place. I need to abandon all preconceptions about what Dad would think and whether this job is on his trajectory or mine.

  “You have such a way with people, and you know the city so well. We think it’d be stupid not to incorporate that in our pitch,” Donna adds.

  “Would you run it through all the way for me? Let’s say this meeting is successful, and we decide to do business together. Where do we go from here?” I ask.

  “Good question,” Donna says, and immediately looks to Paul. He easily picks up the invitation.

  “You say yes to us, and things will move very fast. Donna and I will meet with the executives at the Food Network and pitch them a beginning sketch of your show. If they’re interested, they’ll green-light a pilot, which we’ll film here in L.A.”

  “You’ll need to be thinking about possible themes for that first show,” Donna says.

  “Once we film the pilot, we’ll all travel to New York to pitch to the network executives. That would be a four-day commitment on your part. You’d need to have approximately one hundred recipes—three to four recipes per theme—ready to go, as well as the field pieces that would correspond with them,” Paul rattles off.

  “That’s your homework,” Donna jokes. I’m going to have to find extra hours in the day. Is sleep really necessary? The waiter returns with our tea service and Donna’s coffee. He tells us to make sure we allow the tea to steep for another three minutes.

  “I would like to impress upon you that we’ve already gotten great feedback from the executives over at the network, so this is a very real scenario I’ve laid out for you. I want you to understand that if you say yes to us today, we will need you to be open to this schedule. I feel very confident about the pitch,” Paul asserts. His body is relaxed and easy, but his tone is all business. Donna is nodding. She can’t stop staring at the beautiful pastries that came with the tea service the waiter brought over. She sips her coffee.

  Paul continues. “The network will provide you with a culinary team to test the recipes you provide. They have the best test kitchen in New York. But we’d like you to think about recruiting someone you feel comfortable with to assist you on-set. Someone who would work closely with our culinary producer.” Paul pours himself a cup of tea. It hasn’t been three minutes.

  “Assist me?” I ask. The tiny bubbles are sprinting to the top of my champagne glass.

  “The network provides everything behind the scenes. But we thought it might make a more attractive package if we gave you your choice of an assistant. He or she wouldn’t be on camera, but we’d offer an attractive salary,” Paul says. I think of Julie and Samuel. I can’t see either of them jumping at this chance. I hired them for their ambition; they’d be crazy to walk away from a job at Beverly for a chance at a less than glorious TV job. I’ll throw it out there, but if neither of them bites, I’ll ask the network to assign someone to me. Someone who is half as good as Julie or Samuel. I finally pour myself a cup of tea.

  Paul mentions a salary for me that is staggering. We discuss time lines and filming schedules. I have a sobering thought. I’m going to have to ask Chef Canet for vacation time. Something I have never done. I’ll lie and say it’s for Rascal’s book tour. Maybe he’ll want to join me on this jaunt. Rascal’s always up for an adventure.

  There’s no way I’m quitting my job yet. There are too many variables to even try to analyze the equation. I’ll see how the pilot fares. If it goes well, I can make my choice then. I can’t help but get a bit excited. What Paul and Donna are proposing here could transform my life. Completely. I know it seems like a small thing, but besides appearing on TV in front of millions of people, I’d probably get holidays off. I haven’t had a single holiday off in all my years in a kitchen. Holidays are the busiest times of the year in a restaurant. I’d have to work only long enough to film however many episodes per year we agreed upon. I’d get a ridiculous sum of money. I’d have a life. I’d have a future. I’d be making a decision based on who I am rather than who I’m not. Still, every voice in my head is telling me this is not something I should even think about—except one. Mine.

  “I’m in,” I say.

  At eight on the dot, Danie
l shows up at my apartment with a bouquet of flowers. The flowers make me blush at their promise of wholesomeness. Daniel is a man who brings flowers. Unable to help myself, I run my hand up the collar of his coat and pull him in for a kiss. Later, I give him the full tour of my apartment. “No slaughtering of hogs here,” I joke. He doesn’t think it’s funny. I wish I could get Superman to run around the earth enough times to take me back in time so I could take it back. I cut the stems on the flowers, pull a vase out of the cabinet over the sink, and make a promise to myself that I’m going to hire an exorcist to get rid of the schizophrenic pompous voices that plague me.

  Daniel and I decide on a blockbuster that’s playing at the ArcLight in Hollywood. We get a container of my favorite caramel corn, two hot dogs, and a couple of sodas. In the brief minutes before the movie begins, I quickly recap my meeting with Paul and Donna. As the lights dim, Daniel talks about the auspicious beginnings of something called Hell Week over at Pauley Pavilion. Dinner and a movie, just like he promised.

  When we finish “dining” midway through the movie, Daniel lifts up the armrest, and I fold in to him once again. I lose myself in the movie’s flickering light. The movie is in English, but our date should have had subtitles. I’ve never felt something more foreign in my entire life.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The next morning, after a chaste goodbye the night before, I find parking down the street from the restaurant and grab my purse from the passenger seat. I hear faint ringing from the depths and fish my BlackBerry out. I didn’t stop at the farmers’ market on the way to work; I’ve decided to do a chocolate pots de crème feature, with fresh raspberries that are already at the restaurant.

  “Hello?” I answer, shifting and situating.

  “You called?” It’s Rascal.

  “I have to go to New York. I don’t know the dates yet, but it’ll be around the holidays. Wanna go?” I ask, trying to butter him up to get his impossible approval.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I’ll e-mail you all the information as soon as I get it,” I say, stopping at the door to the restaurant.

  “I should probably let my agent know I’m coming,” Rascal says.

  “Where are you now?” I ask.

  “Montana,” Rascal answers.

  “I thought you said you were sticking around here until Christmas.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Rascal trails off.

  “Okay, well, I’ll get you those details,” I say, and we sign off. Rascal didn’t ask why I’m going to New York or explain his dire need to be in perpetual motion. I drop my BlackBerry back in my purse and enter the restaurant.

  Louis greets me with his usual kisses on both cheeks. I push open the kitchen door, but he stops me.

  “So?” He whips out a napkin and begins folding it expertly for one of the tables.

  “Oui?” I keep my hand on the door. How much does Louis know about the “fans” he introduced me to on that fateful night?

  “Did you have a good weekend?” Louis asks.

  “Oui,” I quickly say. I feel vulnerable about so many things, I can’t guess which one Louis is asking about. He’s never tried to keep me from getting into the kitchen and starting to work.

  “The fans? You . . . Do you speak with them?” Louis flips another napkin into a folding frenzy.

  “Mais oui. We had a meeting. It was nothing. Everyone has meetings in L.A.,” I joke, pushing the kitchen door farther.

  “You . . . you are not sure what to say, eh?” Louis asks.

  “Je ne comprends pas, mon cher.” I’m getting nervous. I’ve never been afraid of Louis, but he’s been Chef Canet’s right-hand man since the beginning. Even Michel, the chef de cuisine, joined Chef after Louis.

  “We are here, yes? This is our place,” he says.

  I don’t know whether it’s the language barrier or if he’s trying to be cryptic, but this whole conversation has been more than a little annoying. “Just say what you need to say,” I finally manage, dropping the attempt at bilingual pleasantries.

  “The television is for you. The television is for the clafouti and the flan. You are not here anymore, yes?” My first thought is, You bet your sweet ass I’m here. If I know anything about Hollywood types, I shouldn’t quit my day job yet. I’m not having this conversation until I know for sure I have other options. A girl makes one fucking pumpkin flan, and you’d think the entire world flew right off its axis.

  “I am here now,” I say, looking Louis right in the eye. I kiss him on both cheeks and turn to the kitchen door.

  I’ll be damned if I’ll forfeit everything I’ve worked for—not until I’m good and ready. I haven’t worked my ass off to stand in some dining room holding my goddamn purse while a maître d’ lectures me on how I should go into television because I’m not good enough for this restaurant anymore. Fuck that. I am certainly qualified. And I can redefine what is good and what customers want. I can show them it’s okay to order a dessert and be presented with something sweet, gooey, and comforting, not a complicated Erector Set of arcane ingredients and mystery. It’s okay to feel pleasure. It’s okay to want comfort. Simple and pure are not inferior or pedestrian.

  I hear a familiar woman’s voice: “Chef Page?” I whip around, still fuming.

  “Mademoiselle, we are closed. Please, please, you must leave,” Louis says. It’s Margot. A very pregnant and distraught Margot.

  “Margot?” I walk over to her quickly. Her face is crumpled and flushed. Is it bad news? Oh God, please, no. No.

  “This is Chef Decoudreau’s wife,” I explain to Louis. He looks at me as if to say, “So what? Why is she here? It’s unprofessional.”

  “Can you find Samuel for me, please, Elisabeth?” Margot is almost in tears. Louis whips a napkin into yet another folding frenzy. Oh my God . . . is Margot . . . is she losing the baby? Why isn’t she at the hospital? Where’s her fucking doula now? I’m scared to death.

  “Of course. Please sit down. Do you want water or something?” I ask.

  “No. You’re so sweet, but no, thank you.” Margot lowers herself onto a chair. I burst through the kitchen door in search of Samuel. I find him coming out of the walk-in with a flat of raspberries.

  “Samuel, Margot is here. She doesn’t look very well,” I say as quietly as I can. I take the flat of raspberries from him, and we hurry out to the front of the restaurant. I don’t know why I’m following. And why am I still carrying the raspberries?

  “Oberon is sick.” Margot quivers as Samuel kneels before her, taking her hands in his.

  “Oberon? You’re naming the baby Oberon?” I blurt without thinking. I assumed Samuel and Margot were a little more grounded than that. I mean, I like Midsummer Night’s Dream as much as the next guy, but please. There’s a fine line, people.

  “We named the dog Oberon, Chef Page,” Samuel says over his shoulder. Oh. I knew that. Margot went on and on about Oberon at the baby shower. He’s their giant Bernese mountain dog. Their first child, she likes to say.

  “What’s the problem?” Samuel purrs. Nothing matters. As long as Margot and the baby are okay, nothing else matters. And that the baby isn’t named Oberon. That matters a little bit, too.

  “He wasn’t eating, and he didn’t have any energy. I’ve got him in the car. We just got back from the vet.” The picture of a very pregnant Margot loading a hundred-and-fifty-pound bear of a dog into their Toyota Prius makes me kind of love her even more in that moment. “They said he has Addison’s disease,” Margot whimpers.

  “Addison’s disease?” Samuel repeats. Margot is sobbing. Samuel puts his arm around her and rubs her back as he tries to soothe her. Louis brings Margot a glass of water. She thanks him. He gives me the international sign to move this along. I wave him off.

  “Didn’t John F. Kennedy have Addison’s disease?” I offer. Samuel and Margot stare at me. For some bizarre reason, I continue butting into a conversation I wasn’t invited to join in the first place. “See? JFK lived a very ful
l life.” There is an obvious lull in the room. “Oberon just needs to avoid motorcades, that’s all,” I add, attempting to lighten the mood. Margot wails shrilly. Louis looks over. Michel pokes his head out of the kitchen and yells at Samuel that his mixer is still on. Samuel sighs. His eyes are twitchy, and I can see beads of sweat moving down his tense face. Julie zooms right past me and into the kitchen. She doesn’t give Margot’s sobbing a second glance.

  “What if our baby gets sick? I didn’t even realize Oberon was hurting! What if I don’t know when our baby is hurting? What if I don’t know how to take care of our baby?” Margot is hysterical.

  “Your mixer is on! Samuel? Samuel? The mixer is just on!” Julie bursts back into the dining room. “You’ve beaten the batter to shit, Samuel! We’re going to have to start over, which means we’re already in the weeds!” She quickly retreats into the kitchen. Samuel doesn’t look away from Margot, but I can see his hand twisting tighter and tighter around the back of her chair.

  “Chef Page, I’m going to need to take the night off,” Samuel says, standing and unbuttoning his chef’s jacket, not looking at me. He’s focused on Margot.

  She reaches up to him, grabbing his hands. “No, baby, you can’t take the night off,” she wails, looking at him, then me.

  “If you need the night off, you should take it,” I say. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the night without him. My tone of voice makes this absolutely clear, and I loathe myself for it.