A Second Bite at the Apple

by Dana Bate

  Heidi purses her lips in a moment of deep thought and then widens her eyes. “The guy who called you a loud talker? In the vest?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “No way! How did that come about?”

  I shove an empty crate under the table and reach for the container of snickerdoodles. “He stopped by the market the other week, while you were helping a bunch of people on the other side of the tent, and conned me into going out with him.”

  “And? How’d it go?”

  I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Well, the date went fine. Great, actually. Until I got home and Googled him and discovered he is a total shill.”

  “Explain?”

  “Do you remember the whole ‘cash for comment’ scandal at the Chronicle? In their food section? It happened back when we were in college.”

  Heidi arranges a stack of oatmeal loaves. “I think so.... Some young reporter got paid by a PR company to write a bunch of reviews, right?”

  “Yep. His name was Jeremy Brauer.”

  She pounds one loaf against another. “Yes! Okay. That rings a bell.”

  “Well, that’s who I went out with last night. Jeremy Brauer.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yep. Total disaster.”

  She stacks the loaves in a basket. “I hadn’t thought about that story in years.”

  “Well, if you have any interest, it’s all over the Internet, so you can refresh your memory at any time.”

  “That’s the glory of the Web, right?”

  “Something like that.” I sigh. “We are supposed to go out again on Tuesday, but clearly that isn’t happening. I can’t believe I fell for his act. I actually thought I liked him.”

  Heidi pats my shoulder. “I’ve been there. Approximately eighty-seven times. Totally sucks.”

  I nod in agreement, knowing that Heidi is somewhat of a professional when it comes to poor dating choices. She frequently falls madly, irrationally in love with complete losers, only to discover too late the full extent of their freakishness and potential mental instability. Hence my hesitation in going for a drink with this Drew character, who for all I know is a total psycho.

  “Do you think Jeremy will stop by this morning?” she asks as she reaches for a cake stand.

  “Oh dear God. I hope not.” The thought hadn’t even occurred to me.

  “If he does, just hide in the truck. I’ll cover for you.”

  “That’s the best plan we can come up with? Hiding in the truck?”

  “You have a better one?”

  “No. Unfortunately.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  We finish setting up the tables, arranging the baskets of almond croissants and raisin bran muffins at one end and the loaves of oatmeal bread and ciabatta at the other. Rick’s tattered Wild Yeast sign, whose ends are frayed and whose letters are faded and smudged, hangs on the back of the tent, flapping lightly in the chilled February air.

  The market bell rings, and a short man with olive skin and jet-black hair begins playing classical guitar on a grassy area abutting the park, filling the market with smooth, calming melodies. As much as I wasn’t looking forward to working this morning, I’ve come to realize my market gig is like therapy for me. I’ve always loved being surrounded by food, but what I have come to cherish most at these markets is the sense of community. I know Frank the cheese guy and Barbara the mushroom lady. I swap muffins for raspberry jam with Josie at Jefferson Family Farms and ciabatta for apples with Maggie and Drew at Broad Tree Orchards. They’ve started to accept me as one of their own, at a time when I could use the company.

  Two hours into the market, as I refill a muffin basket with more pumpkin muffins, a woman dressed in a red down parka approaches our tent. Her mousy brown hair is twisted into a knot atop her head, with a few wisps framing her heart-shaped face. Her skin is a study in wrinkles and laugh lines, but rather than aging her, they make her face look worldly and lived in and delightfully at ease. She smiles at me as she slows her step.

  “You must be Sydney,” she says. “I’m Julie, the market founder and director.”

  “Oh, right—hi!” I dust my palms on my jeans and reach out to shake her gloved hand. “So good to meet you in person.”

  “I figured it would be easier to chat in the flesh instead of e-mailing back and forth a dozen times.” She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “I had some ideas for the first few newsletters, if you can read my chicken scratch. There are lots of exciting developments on the horizon here.”

  I stare at her, wide-eyed. “Wait . . . so it’s official? I’m writing the newsletter?”

  “Sorry—yes. Was that not clear from my last e-mail?”

  I feel my cheeks redden. “Not really . . .”

  “See, this is why I’m not writing the damn thing myself. I’m great in person, terrible in writing.” She sighs. “But anyway, yes, it’s official. I love what I’ve seen on your blog, and I think you’d be perfect.”

  “This is so exciting—thank you!”

  I glance down at the crumpled piece of paper in my hands. Her handwriting is completely unintelligible. The notes consist of a series of bullet points, the first three of which are as follows:

  • Dust dial w GG

  • Wipo spender farm flask?

  • Winkly prof—RICK

  “So . . . about this list . . .”

  “Right. The list.” Her eyes flit in the direction of the bullet points.

  “What are ‘dust dial’ and ‘winkly prof’?”

  “What and what?” She snatches the list from my hands and scans it. “Wow, my handwriting really is appalling. I’m sorry. That first item should read ‘distribution deal with Green Grocers.’ ”

  “And the second and third?”

  She glances down. “Washington Chronicle to sponsor Farmland Festival, and weekly profile starting with Rick. Sorry—I abbreviate a lot and use unconventional shorthand. Doesn’t help that my handwriting looks as if I’ve had a stroke.” She looks up. “I haven’t, by the way.”

  “You want all of this in the first newsletter?”

  “No. Here’s what I’m thinking. Every newsletter should have a rundown of what’s fresh at market that week, a few recipes, and a weekly profile of one of the market vendors. I realize at some point you’ll run out of people to profile, but then you can move on to profiling some aspect of their business—a particular product they sell, a new farming technique they’re using. Something to humanize the market. All of this will go on our Web site, too.”

  “Okay. So what about this distribution deal?”

  “Ah. That’s one of the potential exciting bits of news on the horizon—though we’ll have to tread carefully. I don’t know how much you’ve read about Green Grocers’ new CEO, but he has made a big stink about prioritizing ‘local’ food more than his predecessor. There used to be so much red tape for any of these guys to sell their goods at Green Grocers, which is why they sell at these outdoor markets around town. But this new CEO—Bob Young—is lowering the barriers to entry for a lot of farmers across the country.”

  “But how is that good for you? I mean, if people can buy the same stuff at Green Grocers as they can buy here, why would they bother braving the elements?”

  She nods. “A fair point, which is why it’s taking a while to work out the details. But there is a huge customer base that never comes to the farmers’ market, so this will allow the producers to reach a wider audience. And the people who do come will keep coming because they love the one-on-one interaction with the people who grow and make their food. Plus, the profit margin at our markets is pretty thin, so by giving these guys more of a cushion, it helps us stay in business too.”

  “How do you want me to play it? As a quick news item? A full story?”

  She scrunches up her lips and wiggles them from side to side. “Nothing yet. Our family of DC markets is part of the pilot project, and we’re still working out the details of how all of th
is would work. Let’s see what happens in the next month or two, and we can go from there. In the meantime, you can start pulling together recipes and profiles.” She grins as Rick hobbles over to my side of the tent. “You can start with Rick—I’m sure he has plenty to share with you.”

  Rick hikes his pants up around his waist and licks his fat lips suggestively. “You bet I do.”

  I ignore his nauseating innuendo and tuck Julie’s notes into my coat pocket. “By the way, what sort of compensation are we talking about . . . ?”

  “You mean how much will I pay? I’m looking at fifty dollars a newsletter, plus reimbursement for any extra costs, like transportation or whatever. It’s not a lot, I know, but it’s all we can manage in the budget for now. And hey, it’s better than nothing, right?”

  I smile politely and nod, but as I look up at Rick, who is eye-raping me as he scratches his balls, all I can think is, I’m not so sure.

  CHAPTER 13

  That isn’t fair. Fifty dollars is better than zero dollars. Although when I divide fifty by the hours I’ll need to spend writing and formatting this newsletter, it’s basically slave labor. But at least I can use the columns as clips for an actual food-writing or producing job. By now, the stories I wrote and produced at Northwestern are almost five years old, so having fresh material will make me more employable. At least I hope so.

  The following Monday, I borrow Heidi’s car and drive out to Rick’s bakehouse in West Virginia, about an hour and a half outside Washington, DC. As part of my first profile, Rick agreed to let me visit the place where all of the “magic” happens, but as I turn onto a narrow, bumpy road in what seems to be the middle of nowhere, I sense this afternoon will be anything but magical.

  I bounce along in Heidi’s 1999 Honda Accord, swerving around potholes the size of Texas as I pass seemingly endless stretches of rolling hills and farmland. As I careen around a bend in the road, I spot Rick’s driveway, a dirt lane that winds up a broad hill to a white clapboard farmhouse at the top.

  From a distance, the house looks quaint, a bright white cottage perched atop a grassy knoll, looking down upon the apple orchards and cornfields. But as I get closer, the charm wears off. The roof shingles cling precariously to the top of the house, standing on end like flakes of dandruff. Several of the black shutters hang at a crooked angle, dangling by one corner like loose teeth, and the white clapboard exterior is covered in dust and dirt. It’s what I imagine the “Little House on the Prairie” might look like if it were run by Miss Havisham.

  I pull up beside an old, rusty pickup truck and make my way to Rick’s dusty black front door, where I rap a dingy brass knocker to announce my arrival. Flakes of black paint sprinkle to the ground like confetti.

  “Well, well, well, look who it is.” He frowns as he glances down at my tote bag, which is filled with a reporter’s notebook, pens, a digital voice recorder, and a small video recorder I bought in college, along with a mini tripod. “You know I’m not paying you extra for this, right?”

  “Julie said she’d pick up the tab for the gas.”

  “All this for some dinky newsletter?”

  “It isn’t dinky. Apparently the subscriber list is huge. You should be thrilled—your profile will be front and center.”

  “Do I look like the kind of person who gets thrilled?” I stare at him blankly. “Exactly,” he says. “Come on—let’s get to work.”

  I follow Rick around the front of the house and continue onto a crushed gravel path, which leads to a converted barn adjacent to the main farmhouse. Like the main house, the outside of the barn is made of white clapboard and, also like the main house, appears to be falling apart. But as Rick slides open the thick, black barn door, the glint of stainless steel and bright lights catches my eye as the interior of the bakehouse comes into view. Glistening, rectangular stainless steel tables fill the room, which is lined with wire bakers’ racks, fancy ovens, proofing racks, and dozens of scales, scoops, and plastic tubs. Two mixers sit in the back corner, both so large I could fit inside the mixing bowl and still have room for a friend. There are baskets and barrels of flour and more mixing bowls than I’ve ever seen. And unlike the rest of the property, which seems to be on the verge of collapse, the inside of the barn is immaculate.

  “Wow, Rick—this is amazing.”

  “For the amount it cost me, it’d better be. I’ll be paying off the loans on that oven until I die.” He points across the room to an enormous metal contraption that is attached to a wide chimney at the back of the barn.

  “Is that a wood-fired oven?”

  “You bet your tits it is.”

  I’d rather not involve my tits in any of today’s happenings. Frankly, when it comes to Rick, I’d like to keep my tits to myself.

  Rick gives me a quick tour of the bakehouse and a brief history of his business. He started Wild Yeast a decade ago, but before that he’d been baking for more than two decades, having spent time in France learning from many of the bread-baking greats: Lionel Poilâne, Bernard Ganachaud, Jean-Luc Poujauran. He has served his bread to four US presidents and two dictators, and in recent years, he has toyed with the idea of milling his own grain.

  “But unless a wad of cash drops from the sky, that ain’t happening,” he says.

  “I heard Green Grocers might start selling more local products. Maybe it’ll be a windfall for you.”

  “Doubtful,” he says. “And even if it were, I’m in debt up to my eyeballs. Between the loans for this damn bakehouse and the bills for my wife’s surgery, it’ll take a freaking miracle to get me out of this hole.”

  “I didn’t realize your wife was sick.”

  More to the point, I didn’t realize Rick had a wife. That poor woman. Either she is some sort of masochist, or she is as batshit crazy as he is.

  “She isn’t sick. The old cow needed a knee replacement. I’ve needed a hip replacement for years, but she got her surgery first. We lost our health insurance, so Lord knows when we’ll be able to afford mine. I used to be a much nicer guy before my hip started hurting like hell.”

  “Ah,” I say. For the sake of humanity, someone get this man a hip replacement immediately.

  “Anyway,” he says, “enough business talk. I thought you wanted to bake bread.”

  “I do. Let me just . . .”

  I pull out my video camera and tripod and begin setting up next to one of the stainless steel tables.

  “What’s all this?” Rick asks. “I thought this was for some stinking newsletter.”

  “It is. But I have a food blog, too, and I wanted to post a little video on it. Let people peek behind the Wild Yeast curtain.”

  He winks. “You can peek behind my curtain any time.”

  I set up my camera and begin filming as Rick pulls a large tub of sourdough starter from his walk-in refrigerator. The starter—or “levain,” as he calls it—is based on a strain of yeast more than a hundred years old, and as he dips his hands into the bubbling, liquidy mixture the color of café au lait, the air fills with the tangy, sweet smell of fresh yeast. He transfers a hunk of starter into a large blue plastic bowl and begins adding more flour and water, using his fat bear paws to knead the flour into the loose, sticky dough. He works quickly but with care, and I zoom in to make sure I get enough close-up shots of the silky smooth dough to edit into the sequence later. I have to admit: It’s refreshing to see Rick in this setting, to confirm that he can be someone other than a misogynistic troglodyte.

  “This batch won’t be ready to go into the oven for another ten hours,” he says as he removes the tacky dough from his fingers with a white plastic bench scraper.

  “Ten hours?” There’s no way in hell I’m staying here for ten hours.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” he says.

  Again: I’d really, really prefer it if Rick wouldn’t talk about my tits or my panties.

  “I have another batch ready to go in the oven in a few minutes,” he continues. “Relax.”

 
; He pulls out a proofing rack lined with baskets called ban-netons, each filled with a puffed mound of pale dough, and as he does, my cell phone rings from within my tote bag. I pause the camera. “Can you hold on just one second? I need to take this.” For all I know, it could be a response to one of my many job applications.

  “Oh, sure. Because I don’t have better things to do . . .”

  “I’ll just be a sec.”

  I run over to my tote and grab my phone. I don’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Sydney? It’s Jeremy.” He waits for me to respond, but I don’t. “I just wanted to touch base about tomorrow night.” He waits again. “Hello?”

  “Hi—sorry.” My mouth goes dry. I’d forgotten he might call about tomorrow night. I guess I’d been hoping he’d forgotten, too. “I think . . . I think we have a bad connection.”

  “I can hear you fine,” he says. “Can you hear me?”

  “I . . . Yeah, I can hear you.” I am my own worst enemy.

  “Okay, cool. Anyway, I was thinking we could meet up at Rasika—assuming you like Indian. It’s hard to get a table, but I managed to pull a few strings.”

  “Um . . . actually . . . I’ve had a change of plans. I can’t meet up.”

  “Oh. Okay. How about Thursday?”

  I hold my breath and rack my brain for an excuse. “That’s not going to work either. I have . . . a thing.”

  A thing? What does that even mean?

  Jeremy goes quiet on the other end of the phone. “Oh,” he finally says. “That’s too bad.”

  Rick slaps a huge hunk of dough onto one of the other steel tables, smacking it repeatedly against the surface with a loud bang. “You’re missing another crucial step, sweetheart,” he shouts above the din. “Post-mixing, pre-banneton.”

  “Where are you?” Jeremy asks as Rick slams the dough again with a loud thwack.

  “In West Virginia. Long story.” I glance over my shoulder as Rick heaves the dough onto the table, beating it into submission against the cool, steel surface. “I’m actually in the middle of something, so I can’t really talk right now.”