“How many people at your demonstration will have read the review?” asked one of the waiters.
Something in her stomach bubbled, but he kept talking. “Will you be chopping onions for the birds or will the seats be filled with hecklers?”
Whatever had been bubbling in her stomach was moving up her throat.
“Do you think they’ll have stuffed cats to throw?” Karen joined in with a giggle.
No one seemed to notice Tilly’s stomach was rebelling, even though her face was surely green.
“What do you think is worse, a tent full of empty chairs or everyone bringing their pets to Tilly’s demonstration?” Candace asked with a slight smile on her face.
Could no one see that she was about to be sick? How could they find anything about this situation funny?
Whatever was gurgling was ready.
Tilly jumped up, covered her mouth and ran to the bathroom. Her dream was about to go down the toilet.
CHAPTER TWO
DAN MEIER RELAXED against the wall, swinging his racket between his thumb and forefinger, waiting outside the racquetball court for Mike and feeling pretty good about himself. After hitting Enter and scheduling his next blog post for CarpeChicago, this one on a small taqueria in Cicero, Dan had rushed over to the gym for his weekly match. He wanted to make sure he was here and waiting so he could gloat in person. His blog post was ready two days early. Even Mike couldn’t deny that Dan had beaten him this week. Lunch at Dan’s favorite German bar on the Northside would serve as a good payment on their weekly bet. The kielbasa at Babka had been too salty to eat and Dan had been craving sausages ever since. He swung the racket up and smacked his other hand before letting it fall back into rhythm. Brats and sauerkraut weren’t kielbasa and pierogi, but they were close enough for lunch.
He closed his eyes and enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing he would win a bet.
“You even relax like a jerk.”
“Ah, Mike.” He didn’t need to open his eyes to see the contemptuously lowered eyebrows on his friend’s face. “I was just thinking about the brats you now owe me.”
“You should have eaten the kielbasa at that Polish restaurant. I scheduled my post four hours ago and I want Thai.”
“What?” Dan’s racket clattered on the floor. He picked it up and followed his friend into the court. “Not possible. You’ve never been this early.”
Mike’s weekly column on sports was posted to the blog every Thursday. Another friend from college, Shane, had a weekly post on the local music scene, which went live on Fridays. All other content on the blog, and the general management of the site, was handled by Rich, the fourth of Dan’s close college friends.
Dan had barely gotten his feet set when Mike served and the hard blue ball made its characteristic thwap off the front wall before flying toward Dan. So this was how they were going to play. Fine, two could play dirty.
Mike grunted as he swung his racket to answer Dan’s hit and laughed when Dan missed and the ball bounced along the floor. “I’ve never been so motivated to smack my dumbass friend upside the head as I was when I read your review of that Polish place. But I’m not a fool. You’d probably wrestle me to the ground and hold my arm in some unnatural position until I cried uncle. I’m settling for winning the weekly bet and I think we should up the stakes next week.”
“What did I ever do to you?” Dan tossed the ball up in the air once before throwing it at his friend’s head. Mike caught it and laughed.
“It’s not what you did to me—” Mike bounced the ball on the floor before swinging his racket and launching the ball back into play “—it’s your poor grasp of journalistic ethics that bothers me so much.”
Dan darted to the right, missing the ball again. “What the hell are you talking about?” He panted. “My journalistic ethics are better than yours.” When Mike served again, he swung his racket a little too hard, straining his shoulder, but he hit the ball before it bounced twice on the floor. “You’re a sports agent, which falls somewhere between a cockroach and a turd. Do agents even have ethics?” The ball careened around the court, hitting both side walls before striking the back wall and shooting back to Mike.
Mike waited until the ball was in just the right spot before he thwacked it with a hard swing. “I don’t know why Rich posted that piece of junk. I thought he had more sense.”
Dan tried to play the ball off the back wall and missed. “What the hell?” Dan asked, aggrieved. Rich had published the review because it was good, no matter what crap-ass side of the bed Mike had woken up on.
The next rally lasted longer, until Mike’s ball slammed against the front wall and shot back to Dan. He swung hard and missed, the court echoing with the brunt of his curse. The noise of the curse soon gave way to the lonely sound of the ball plopping its way down the court. “Do you want to share your problem with me or is this some bizarre guessing game?”
“He’s mad about your review of Babka.” Rich, the brains and brawn behind CarpeChicago, walked into the court. He stooped to pick up the ball, tossing it in the air as he spoke. “Shane called to say he can’t make it this morning. Wanna play a cutthroat?”
“As long as it’s us against Mike,” Dan said.
“No,” Mike said, “I think it should be Rich and me against you.”
“Fine.” Dan shrugged. Moral outrage was fueling Mike’s play so much so that he wouldn’t even wait for Dan to set his feet before serving. Dan was going to lose anyway. Might as well go down in a giant ball of fire. “If this is about my review of Babka, you can eat there next time. That was the worst experience I’ve ever had at a restaurant, including the place in Shanghai with rats at my feet. My mom’s birthday dinner was ruined and I ended up with fish spread in my lap. Should I have nominated Babka for a Michelin star?”
“Rich, the review was unjust and you know it.” Mike was indignant enough about the review that he almost lost control of the ball when he bounced it against the floor to begin the serve. “Even if his first experience was terrible, he should’ve gone back at least twice.”
Dan answered the serve and waited for Rich’s return. Mike could rely on Rich to be a steady player, reliable in a fast-moving game, even if he never seemed to move very quickly. Dan would like to believe Rich’s composed style meant he wasn’t nearly as angry about the review as Mike, but Rich was always even-tempered. Hell, Rich published it, Dan reminded himself. If he hated it, he has only himself to blame. Besides, Dan’s review of Babka had been harsh, but not worth Mike’s moral alpine ground.
The ball zoomed around the court, the loud bounces against the walls and floor killing any hopes at conversation. Dan just tried to stay on his feet and keep his head in the game as two of his closest friends plotted his death by exhaustion. Once, Dan wondered if Mike had aimed the ball at his nuts.
Mike smacked the ball low against the front wall. The perfect kill shot dropped and bounced twice against the floor before Dan had a chance to think about saving it.
“That’s fifteen,” Mike said as he left the court, his face as smug as an angel in the choir. The jerk didn’t even look winded. Jerk also had a partner. Dan was playing on his own.
After following Mike and Rich off the court, Dan bent over and rested his hands on his knees as he huffed in air. This game is going to kill me. Mike was the better racquetball player, but Dan could usually count on at least holding his own in the first game. He didn’t have a chance against a pissed-off Mike, much less a pissed-off Mike aided and abetted by Rich.
“We got more hits on that one review than we do on anything other than the big political scoops. It’s worth the negative comments and Mike’s little temper tantrum,” Rich said simply.
“We’re The Enquirer now, sacrificing truth for sales?” Mike took a long drink from a water bottle and wiped his forehead with a towel. “Oops,” he said, handing Dan the sweaty towel. “It seems that one was yours.”
“What is this passive-aggressive shit?”
“What’s passive a
bout it? I’m actively handing you your towel and I actively beat your ass into a sniveling turd hiding in the corner.”
“Mike...” Rich sighed, ever the voice of reason. “We want the blog to be read. Dan’s a nationally known food writer who enjoys trends before they make the New York Times. I’m lucky he still slums it to write for this dinky outfit when he could be writing his next feature for Bon Appetit. If he prematurely ejaculates out a review and I know it will be liked on Facebook up and down Lakeshore Drive, who am I to turn it down?”
“Ah, Rich, you say the sweetest things. If we had that kind of relationship, I’d give you a fat kiss on the lips.”
Mike rolled his eyes at them, but what Rich said was true. Dan was a sought-after freelance food writer and had been wooed by the New York Times and much-missed Gourmet as a staff writer, though he had turned both publications down in favor of the independence of freelance. He was lucky enough not to need the money, and most writers, even the good ones, couldn’t say that. He kept writing as The Eater for CarpeChicago out of loyalty for Rich and, well, blogging anonymously was fun.
Rich had started the blog in college as a part of an assignment on alternative forms of voter education. At first, it was little more than city government updates and summaries of the news found in different city papers. It had gained popularity during a presidential election and it hadn’t taken long for Rich to envision a project bigger than a political blog. He recruited Dan, Shane and Mike to write weekly columns or reviews on their areas of expertise and supplied most of the rest of the content himself. The heart of the blog was still citizen education, and Rich’s position as a professor of political science at DePaul allowed him both the freedom of schedule to track down public review documents and a willing army of student volunteers interested in padding their résumés. Now the former school assignment got more visits from Chicagoland IP addresses than either the Tribune or the Sun-Times, though neither paper would admit it. Rich didn’t touch nationwide or worldwide news, but no better website existed for basic information important to Chicagoans.
Dan was proud to work on a website his adopted home city relied on. There may be more prestige in writing articles for The New Yorker on a breeder of heirloom tomatoes in Iowa and his fight against Big Ag, but CarpeChicago gave Dan a chance to explore the city’s constantly evolving food scene. Rich didn’t care whether Dan did reviews or columns, as long as he provided engaging writing and attention to detail. Dan wasn’t stupid. Rich had asked him to write for the blog because they were friends, but there were any number of Chicago foodies who would poison his Italian Beef for the chance to be The Eater. Rich expected good work and would boot Dan’s freelance butt to the door if the quality of the blog suffered.
Authenticity kept readers coming back to CarpeChicago day after day.
“I expect, like your belief in the chocolate and bacon craze from several years ago, which I still think sounds nasty, that you will prove to be correct about Babka,” Rich said. “And I’ll give you a chance to prove it. Tila Milek is demonstrating at the Taste of Chicago today.”
Dan groaned. Rich wasn’t his boss and couldn’t force him to go, but Rich’s words implied a challenge and Dan wouldn’t back down. He hated to be wrong, and the Taste would be a good opportunity to prove to both Rich and Mike that his review was spot on. Rich had published Babka’s review because he trusted Dan’s instincts and knew the review would garner a lot of hits. Now Dan had to prove he was justified; his pride was on the line.
Dan turned to his scoffing friend. “Your Thai lunch will have to wait until tomorrow. I’m having a smorgasbord for lunch today.”
“I can wait. That review will come back to bite you in the ass and I’m going to enjoy that more than any Thai lunch.”
“Care to bet it?”
“You’re on.”
Rich sighed. “Are we going to finish the racquetball game or stand here? I have a class to teach.”
“Dan won’t make it another round...” Mike smirked. “Besides, we need you to be a witness to the bet and determine who wins. Since you also lose when the review makes a meal out of Dan, you get to decide the winner.”
“Fair enough,” Dan agreed. “What do I win when I’m right?”
Mike looked up at the ceiling while he pondered his answer, which meant he’d probably had this bet planned since the review published, the rat bastard. “I foresee...” He stalled for suspense and Dan was tempted to head to the lockers so he could deny Mike the satisfaction of dragging out the bet. “A White Sox game in your future, complete with a black-and-white jersey, purchased by you for you. There’s a Crosstown Classic game at the beginning of August. Get out your markers, because some signage about the Cubs’ curse and the dominance of the White Sox will be required.”
“Fine. The Cubs are playing the Cards in late August. I hope you’re prepared to sit in the Wrigley Field bleachers in a Cardinals uniform.” Dan arranged the proper level of concern on his face, making both Rich and Mike laugh. “I’ll try to prevent Cubs fans from inflicting permanent bodily harm, but please remind your mother that no one ever died from a shiner.”
“You’re on.” Mike stuck his hand out and they shook.
“Great. We can get back to the game now.” Rich turned to walk back into the court.
“Dan,” Mike said quietly as he turned to follow Rich, “I’m not just angry about the quality of your review. The whole thing stank a bit of your father, and your father is a douche. Think about that before you judge Tila Milek and her restaurant.” Point made, Mike pushed past Dan through the door into the court.
Mike was right about one thing; Dan’s father was a douche. But Dan had had one goal after graduating high school, to be the very opposite of his father. It was impossible for the review to “stink a bit” of the old man.
Even though his mom had accused him of being judgmental and unfair, which was pretty much the same thing.
Dan shook the miserable thought out of his head and followed Mike into the court. Mike was trying to get under his skin and affect his game. What was usually a low-key racquetball game turned into a blood match, dirty tricks and insults included.
CHAPTER THREE
GOOSE ISLAND LAGER in hand, Dan Meier followed his nose to the Vienna Beef line. Twenty people were in line ahead of him, but the hot dog was worth waiting for. He had even indulged and gotten extra food tickets so he could have two. He could have a Vienna Beef anytime, but it was a requirement at the Taste.
As he waited, the crowds got thicker, with sleeves and summer dresses brushing against him as people walked past the line to other food booths. He smiled. The crowds were part of the fun and he was determined to enjoy himself, even if he had been manipulated into coming. His mom’s insinuation stung worse than Mike’s moralistic taunting. His father was a manipulative and hypercritical asshole. Dan was a critic who had written a bad review of a restaurant that deserved it.
Maybe he had been oversensitive because his mom’s birthday dinner had been ruined. Or because his mom had blindsided him with Beth’s ridiculous plan to get pregnant, and his father had chosen that moment to offer him the company again. Or because when he complained about his oversalted soup, his mother had flinched in expectation that he would demand an apology, telling every employee how they were a waste of space until they lost a bit of their soul and bent to his will. It’s what his father would have done. But even after the cat-and-dog fight in the restaurant, and his oversalted soup and his oversalted kielbasa, Dan had been perfectly polite. By the time he’d sent his entrée back to the kitchen, his mother had looked so nervous and uncomfortable he’d left cash on the table and taken her somewhere else for dinner.
So he was here at the Taste to watch Tila Milek’s cooking demonstration and prove his review was justified. Distasteful, and not a venture he was looking forward to, but he wasn’t going to let unpleasantness get in the way of a perfect summer day.
Tasty food, crowds, street performers and jazz. Even the
normally stifling summer Chicago weather had eased with a light breeze. He had spied some craft tents with doodads for his sister. One of the tables had a garishly flowered, knitted scarf Beth would hate, but feel the need to gush with pleasure over before repurposing it into a dog bed. Getting each other truly inappropriate and unwanted presents was a time-honored tradition between the Meier siblings.
The line inched forward and people with hot dogs, deep-dish pizza, pierogi, beer, Italian beef and all the other treats Chicago offered a hungry man wove through the crowds. When Dan scooted back to make room for a family with ice cream to go through the line in front of him, he backed into something solid. His beer sloshed over the rim of the plastic cup and spilled onto his shirt.
He grimaced. The beer was going to get sticky as it dried and he’d have a big stain on his white shirt. Annoying, but plenty of people would be hawking T-shirts, so he could always buy himself a new one. He wouldn’t let this ruin his day.
“Oh.” The something solid had a sweet, soft voice, much more interesting than his wet shirt. “I’m sorry. I went forward and, well, you went back.”
He turned, his eyes cast downward at the large wet stain on his shirt. The nice voice had well-shaped feet with blue polish on the toes and a toe ring. They were wearing Roman-looking sandals. He moved his gaze up. She had a flowy white skirt with a large beaded belt, nice curvy hips, a pink strappy tank top, firm, round breasts, a chunky wooden necklace, cute round face, deep brown eyes and...blue hair?
Even with the strange hair, she was attractive. Artificially colored hair wasn’t normally his thing, but the hair wasn’t just blue. It was like an ocean wave in the Caribbean, a cascade of every color blue he could imagine. Catching him staring, she lifted her hand self-consciously and fluffed its ends. The wave of blues flowing through her fingers was mesmerizing. It made her whole appearance more interesting, and today he was in the mood for interesting. He wanted to take his mind off the upcoming demo, and she looked like the woman to distract him.
Reservations for Two Page 2
