A Second Bite at the Apple

by Dana Bate

  As Rick seals up the truck, Drew wanders over, a big crate of apples resting on his arms. “Today’s leftovers, courtesy of Maggie.”

  Heidi’s blue eyes brighten. “Come to mama,” she says, waving Drew in her direction.

  She grabs a dozen and tosses them into a plastic bag, and I do the same. “So where are we heading?” I ask Drew.

  Heidi tucks her bag of apples into one of her totes. “Who’s heading where?”

  “Sydney and I are going to grab a quick cup of coffee,” he says, his eyes shifting between the two of us. “You’re welcome to join us, if you want.”

  “Oh—no. I’m . . . Never mind. You two have fun.”

  She gives me a gentle nudge and waves to Drew before disappearing behind Rick’s truck.

  “So where to?” I say.

  “If it’s okay with you, I wanted to drop these apples at my apartment first. I live just off Columbia Road on Biltmore.”

  “Sure. Isn’t that right by Tryst? We could go there after.”

  “Perfect,” he says.

  I grab my bag and head up Connecticut Avenue with Drew, breathing in the fresh spring air as I huff and puff my way past Dupont Circle’s myriad shops and cafés. The walk from the market to Drew’s apartment in Adams Morgan is mostly uphill, and though I try to conceal my acute lack of fitness, it quickly becomes clear I possess the athleticism and vigor of a Care Bear.

  “You okay?” Drew asks as we pass a French café on Columbia Road, whose tables spill onto the sidewalk around it, each one filled with young Washingtonians enjoying their Sunday brunch.

  “Fine,” I pant, calculating how much farther we have to go until we reach his apartment. We’ve been walking for about fifteen minutes, so by my estimation, we have about another block ahead of us.

  We pass a few more restaurants and cafés and round the corner onto Drew’s street, which is just one block shy of the infamous intersection between Eighteenth Street and Columbia Road. That’s where the rowdy strip of bars on Eighteenth begins, as if a slice of Miami Beach somehow made it to Washington, DC. On Saturday nights, cars and raucous crowds fill the streets and sidewalks, as the intoxicated masses make their way from one bar to the next.

  Drew’s building is an eight-story brick structure, dappled with air-conditioning units, which jut out from the windows like pushbuttons. He leads me beneath the green awning above the entrance and into the sparsely adorned lobby, which looks as if it hasn’t been updated since 1979. We ride the elevator to his studio apartment on the fourth floor, and when I step inside, I think, for a moment, that I have entered a seventeen-year-old boy’s bedroom. Random socks and T-shirts litter the floor of the apartment, and empty glasses and dirty plates cover his coffee table, whose blond wooden surface is streaked with coffee and wine stains. I had thought Drew carefully constructed his haphazard appearance, but given the state of his apartment, I am seriously questioning that assumption.

  “Sorry the place is kind of a mess,” Drew says as he kicks what appears to be a crumpled wad of tinfoil beneath his futon. “I didn’t expect to have company.”

  “That’s okay. . . .”

  I notice a pizza box sitting on a side table and wonder how long it has been there.

  Drew nods toward the futon. “Have a seat. I’m just going to throw these apples in the fridge.”

  I push aside an old T-shirt and sit down as I survey the rest of his apartment. A large, grid-shaped bookcase stands across from the futon, lined with books on US history and environmental policy, with a few books by Tom Friedman thrown into the mix. I also notice several framed photos of Drew dressed up as various animals: Drew as polar bear, Drew as moose, Drew as wolf, Drew as seal. I grab the framed photo on the table beside me, next to the pizza box, in which he appears to be dressed as some sort of whale.

  “That’s me as a beluga,” he says, sitting beside me on the futon.

  “As in the caviar?”

  “No. I mean, yeah, the name is the same, but caviar comes from beluga sturgeon. That’s me as a beluga whale.”

  “Right. Sorry. Dumb question.”

  “Can you guess which beluga whale I am?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly.

  “There’s more than one kind . . . ?”

  He widens his eyes. “Uh . . . yeah. There are like twenty-nine subpopulations.”

  I hunch my shoulders. “You’ve got me. Which kind?”

  “Cook Inlet. There are only like four hundred of them left in Alaska. They’re on the critically endangered list.”

  “So . . . what’s with all the other animal costumes?”

  “That’s part of my job.”

  “Your job is to dress up like animals?”

  “Well, I mean, that isn’t the main part of the job. Most of the time I work on conservation issues. But at fundraisers and stuff, I dress up as animals to increase donor interest.”

  “Oh.” I glance down again at the photo of him dressed as a beluga whale. “So what’s your favorite costume, then?”

  He scratches his chin. “Tough call. The polar bear tends to get everyone pretty excited. And most people can’t pass up a good sea otter. We all agreed the porcupine was a mistake.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Yeah, that didn’t go over so well. And some of the costumes are kind of uncomfortable. The sandpiper was pretty tough because of the beak.”

  I start to laugh, but stop myself when I notice Drew isn’t smiling. I clear my throat. “I can see how that would be . . . difficult.”

  He takes another glance around the apartment. “So should we head to Tryst?”

  “Sure,” I say, happy to relocate to someplace that doesn’t make me question his hygiene.

  We head down Eighteenth Street, passing all of the bars that twelve hours ago were probably packed to the brim with drunk twenty-somethings. The façades of the buildings burst with color—red, blue, gray, yellow—and a few are covered by giant murals, from the bawdy, redheaded “Madam’s Organ” to the scarf-clad Frenchman à la Toulouse-Lautrec. Adams Morgan always reminds me of a girl you might meet one night at a bar who comes across as vibrant and wild and fun but who, the next morning in the daylight, seems a little worn, a little garish, a little partied out. The sidewalks around me are littered with receipts, gum wrappers, and grease-stained paper plates, remnants of the so-called Jumbo Slice, a culinary abomination in the form of an oily piece of pizza the size of one’s torso.

  Drew holds open the door to Tryst, a coffee bar cum lounge whose interior is filled with big couches, barstools, and large wooden communal tables, where people sit with laptops and steaming mugs of tea and coffee. The space has a warm glow from the rust-colored walls, which are lined with contemporary works by local artists. Drew spots a table for two by an old fireplace in the middle of the room and races to save it before someone else takes it.

  “What can I get you?” he asks.

  “Oh. Um . . . a café au lait, I guess?”

  “Anything to eat?”

  “I’ve had my fair share of Rick’s almond poppy seed muffins today.”

  He smiles. “I’ll be right back.”

  He saunters over to the bar, which is lined with coffee makers, espresso machines, and every kind of liquor imaginable. A series of chalkboards lines the wall, outlining the various menu options in funky handwriting and wild illustrations. When Drew returns, he places my steaming, bowl-shaped mug in front of me and slides into his chair, holding a pint of Guinness.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  He waves me off. “My treat.”

  “Are you sure? I have plenty of cash from the market.”

  He smirks. “Considering I bailed on you at the last minute, a three-dollar coffee is the least I can do.”

  I cup my hands around the bowl. “That’s sweet of you. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure,” he says as he takes a sip of his beer. “So anyway, I was starting to tell you about the short-tailed albatross.”

  “Oh. Right.”


  “Habitat loss is a huge problem, but so is pollution. And the fisheries? Don’t get me started.”

  He goes on to outline the many threats to the short-tailed albatross and what his organization is doing to save the species, and as I sip my coffee I try very hard to focus and not let my mind wander to other things, like which Radiohead song is playing in the background or what Drew would look like dressed as a walrus.

  “So have you spent much time in Alaska?” I ask during a break in the conversation.

  “A bit. I spent the summer there in college. It was totally amazing.” He gulps more of his beer and wipes a bit of foam off his top lip. “Oh, but I meant to say—about the albatross? A major oil company is trying to drill near one of the nesting colonies, which would be totally detrimental to the species.”

  “Maybe you could dress as an oil executive and hang an albatross around your neck.”

  Drew frowns. “Why would I do that?”

  “As a joke. You know . . . the Coleridge poem. ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’ ” Drew stares at me blankly. “You didn’t read that in high school?”

  “I don’t remember. Is it about habitat loss?”

  “No. Never mind. It was a joke.”

  “Ah.” He takes a sip of beer. “Well, unfortunately, this whole drilling controversy isn’t very funny.”

  “Right. No. Of course not.”

  “Anyway, as I was saying . . .”

  He regales me with more facts about the short-tailed albatross and its habitat, and once we finish our drinks, he offers to walk me home. As we meander through Adams Morgan toward my apartment, we talk more about the Alaskan wilderness and a bit about Maggie’s farm, and by the time we reach my building, we’ve talked for a good hour and a half, and yet I still feel as if I don’t know much about him, other than the fact that he could talk about the short-tailed albatross for days and looks mighty fine in a beaver costume.

  “Well, I’d better head back to the hospital,” he says.

  “Send your family my best,” I say. “Sorry. That’s weird. Your family doesn’t even know me.”

  He smiles. “But maybe they will at some point, right?” He leans in and kisses me before I can answer, and as he does my shoulders stiffen. Eventually he pulls away. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  He heads down my front walkway, and when I enter my apartment, I head straight for the kitchen and open my junk drawer. I pull out the list I made yesterday and scan Drew’s pros and cons again:

  Pros: Kind (gave ride to orchard), extremely attractive /looks like model, interested in food, works at farmers’ market, cares about environment, million-dollar smile

  Cons: Beard is kind of scratchy

  Then I pull out a pen and, under cons, I add, “Isn’t Jeremy.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Apparently I want to die alone. It is the only explanation. Drew is not Jeremy, but why would I view that as a “con”? Drew wants to save the planet. He is willing to dress as an albatross to do so. Jeremy, on the other hand, is willing to take money from anyone who will pay him. Or at least that’s what his Wikipedia entry says. And Stu Abbott, my future dream boss, hates him. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Wednesday morning, I send Stu the edited cold storage video, along with an accompanying column, replete with links and photos. Stu e-mails back right away with a few editorial comments, but overall he loves it.

  “This is great,” he writes. “When can you send me the next one?”

  We bat ideas back and forth and try to line up an editorial schedule, but after seven e-mails back and forth, he finally calls me.

  “This is the problem with the digital revolution,” he says. “No one wants to pick up the phone anymore.”

  “At least we weren’t trying to do this by text message.”

  “Yes, at least there’s that.” He takes a sip of something and smacks his lips. “So I’m hearing a lot of buzz about this Green Grocers partnership with the farmers’ market consortium. What’s the word on the street?”

  “I think it’s nearly a done deal. Maybe a matter of weeks before an announcement.”

  “I’d love to get ahead of that. Could you poke around and see what you can find out?”

  “Sure.”

  “The business section would probably cover the story from a commercial perspective—what it means for the company’s stock, their overall business direction, blah, blah, blah—but I’d love to do something from the farmers’ perspective. Like that Rick guy, or the apple lady—what would this mean for their business? And what does this say about the food movement as a whole?”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.” I pause. “But this sounds like a bigger story. Given the amount of time I’d need to spend on it, I’d need more than one hundred dollars.”

  He sighs. “Let’s see what you come up with. I’d love to give you more than a hundred bucks, but I don’t control the purse strings. Believe me, I wish I did.”

  I’m about to tell him I understand but I’m running out of savings. Then I remind myself there are dozens of other hungry wannabe food journalists who would happily take my place. If I don’t want to do this for pennies, someone else will. So instead, I try a different angle.

  “What if I gave you something really juicy?” I say, remembering my earlier conversation with Jeremy about Bob Young, the new Green Grocers CEO.

  “What do you mean, ‘juicy’?”

  “Something about the new CEO’s past and what it could mean for the deal—an angle or tidbit no one else has. Some sort of inside scoop.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “I’d have to look into it, but if I could get you an exclusive angle, is that something that could get me on the payroll in a more serious way?”

  He takes a deep breath and exhales into the phone. “If you can bring me a big story that I can sell to my superiors, I’ll make sure you are appropriately compensated. How does that sound?”

  I break into a broad smile and pump my fist back and forth as I press the phone tightly against my ear with the other hand.

  “That,” I say, “sounds wonderful.”

  The problem with dangling a juicy story in front of Stu? Now I actually have to deliver a juicy story. And if I’m being honest with myself, sexy investigative journalism isn’t my thing. Those aren’t the stories I want to write. I want to write people stories, stories that humanize some aspect of our food system. But if a salacious story is what it will take to get my foot in the door at the Chronicle, then that’s what I’ll write.

  I spend early Wednesday afternoon looking into Bob Young’s background, but as far as I can tell, the guy is a virtual Boy Scout: bachelor’s degree from Stanford, MBA from Harvard, a run in the marketing department at Kroger before joining the Green Grocers team, where he has worked for the past fifteen years, first as the director of marketing and then working his way up the ranks to CEO. If there is an issue in Bob Young’s past, I can’t find it.

  As I plug various permutations of “Bob Young + scandal” and “Bob Young + controversy” into Google, Jeremy calls. This is the first I’ve heard from him since he returned from New Orleans.

  “So how was NOLA?” I ask. “Sufficiently wild?”

  “Pretty tame, actually. Ate some amazing food, though. New Orleans truly is one of the best food cities in the world.”

  “I hope you had some beignets at Café du Monde.”

  “Like a boss. Twice a day, every day.”

  “Ugh. I’m so jealous.”

  “You’ve been, then?”

  “I went with my mom and sister while my dad was at a sales conference down there. But that was like ten years ago.”

  “Well, take it from me: Even a decade later, the beignets are still to die for.”

  My stomach growls as I think about the beignets I ate that day, those magical deep-fried pillows of dough, covered in half an inch of powdered sugar. The exterior was crisp and golden, and when I took a bite—the airy, cloud-like interior stil
l warm from the deep fryer—the powdered sugar fell into my lap like snow. I’d known the beignet was a cousin of the doughnut, but somehow without the hole in the middle, it managed to surpass any notion I had of what a doughnut could be. My mom and Libby bought the baking mix at the Café du Monde gift shop and tried to recreate the beignets when we got home, but they weren’t the same. Zach suspected it had something to do with the leavening in the batter, but since my mom and Libby made them without me, as they did with nearly all of their cooking endeavors, I couldn’t be sure.

  “So what’s the plan for Saturday?” I ask, shaking myself out of my sugar-filled reverie.

  “We’re brewing beer, baby.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He laughs into the phone, sensing my uneasiness. “My place. Five o’clock. I’m teaching you how to brew beer. Then we’ll have dinner and, I don’t know, watch a movie or something.”

  “Beer. We’re brewing beer.”

  “Hells yeah, we’re brewing beer. And you’re going to love it.”

  “Should I wear my corset and lederhosen?”

  “You own a corset and lederhosen?”

  “No. Don’t get all excited.”

  “Ah. Bummer.” He hums into the phone. “You know, I could probably hook that up for you . . .”

  “I’m not wearing a corset and lederhosen. It was a joke. Let it go.”

  “Okay, okay. Fine.” His voice is smooth and relaxed, and I can tell he is smiling. “Anyway, it’ll be fun. I promise. Plus, my Flemish red ale will finally be ready for drinking. I’ve been working on that puppy for eighteen months.”

  “Eighteen months? It takes eighteen months to brew beer?” What am I signing myself up for?

  “Some beers—not most. Don’t worry, I don’t plan on keeping you in my apartment for eighteen months.”

  “Yeah, well, thank God for that.”

  “We’ll have fun. Trust me. It couldn’t be worse than falling in the Tidal Basin, right?”

  I picture that night: the pitch-black walking tour, my gargantuan flashlight, the plop and splash of Jeremy plunging into the water, his trembling shoulders. “No,” I say. “It couldn’t be worse than that.”