The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs
Page 15
If possible, this weekend’s dinner is even more successful than the last one, and the table hangs on my every word as I put the dinner in context. I tell them about Philadelphia’s Italian neighborhoods and how they gave rise to the famous cheesesteak and lesser-known roast pork sandwich, and about the Pennsylvania Dutch and how they introduced the pretzel to North America. I talk about water ice and The Commissary, Tastykakes and South Philly, the ongoing cheesesteak rivalry between Pat’s and Geno’s and my personal preference for Delassandro’s Steaks over either one. One diner originally from Chicago jumps in with his own stories about Lou Malnati’s pizza and Chicago-style hot dogs, and another from New Haven talks about white clam pizza at Pepe’s and burgers at Louis’ Lunch. Before long, everyone at the table is talking about the foods they grew up with as kids and crave whenever they visit home. In my mind, it doesn’t get much better than this.
As the crowd digs into their slices of carrot cake, Cynthia Green nods toward the living room and steals away from the table. I undo my apron and lay it over the back of one of Blake’s kitchen barstools.
Rachel grabs me by the elbow before I leave the kitchen. “Remember—if it starts to get weird, just tell her you need to aerate the scotch.”
“Rach, we’ve been over this. Under no circumstances would I need to aerate the scotch. That doesn’t even make sense.”
“To you.”
“To anyone.”
“Hey,” she says. “I’m only trying to help.”
“Yeah, well, why don’t you focus on not burning down the kitchen? I’ll handle the interview.”
Rachel rolls her eyes. “Whatever you say …”
I slip into the living room and find Cynthia sitting on Blake’s leather couch, her legs crossed as she scribbles in her slim reporter’s notebook. She looks up as I walk into the room. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll make this quick. Like I said, this will only be a small feature.”
I park myself on the edge of Blake’s recliner, my back straight and tense as I watch her flip to a blank page.
“So how long have you been cooking?” she asks.
“Ever since I can remember,” I say. “My grandmother used to babysit me a lot when I was a kid, and when I was seven or eight, she taught me how to make scrambled eggs. Then she upgraded me from eggs to brownies, then on to more complicated stuff like bread and strudel and brisket. By the time I was twelve, I was making my own pie dough. From there, my interest in cooking sort of took on a life of its own.”
She smiles as she scribbles notes in her notepad. “Excellent. Do you have any professional training?”
“A little. I took a short course after college.”
“And where was that?”
I blink rapidly as she flashes a friendly smile. “I’d rather not say, if that’s all right.”
She sticks up her hands defensively. “Fair enough.” She pauses. “Was it a certificate or a degree?”
“Um … a certificate.” She doesn’t need to know the certificate was printed off the instructor’s computer using Microsoft Word.
“So what inspired you to start an underground supper club? Other than your general enthusiasm for food and cooking.”
That’s easy: a boyfriend who dumped me and kicked me out of our shared apartment, and parents who would poop their pants if I ever became a chef for real. But I can’t say that. Not to a Washington Post reporter, anyway.
“It’s something I’ve always wanted to do,” I say. “And the timing seemed right.”
Cynthia glances around the room, at Blake’s leather furniture and framed artwork and marble fireplace. “What’s your day job, then? I’m guessing these supper clubs aren’t paying for this house.”
I gulp loudly as my face grows hot. “I … work in public policy.”
“Lobbying?”
My heart pounds in my chest. “Kind of. Something like that.”
“And how long have you lived here?”
I peek at my watch as I tap my foot rapidly against the floor. “You know what? I really have to get back to the kitchen.”
“Just two more questions,” she says, flipping to a fresh page. “What other themes can we look forward to? What’s on the schedule?”
“Not sure. Maybe diner food. Or carnival treats. When we set the menu, it’ll be on the Web site.”
“And how often will The Dupont Circle Supper Club hold dinners?”
I fiddle with my ponytail. “Every few weekends. The next one is over Columbus Day. It depends on our schedules.”
“Whose schedules?”
I clear my throat. “Mine. And … my assistant’s.”
“Speaking of which—”
“I’m sorry,” I say, cutting her off before she can continue. “I really have to go.”
She folds her hands together and nods. “I understand. If I have any follow-up questions, could I send an e-mail to the supper club e-mail account?”
“Sure.” I jump up from my seat and start heading back to the kitchen, but I spin around before I reach the doorway. Cynthia is still sitting on the couch, furiously scrawling notes in her notebook. “You promise not to use my name and address, right? Or anything about my appearance?”
She looks up as her hand continues writing. “Hmm? Oh, yeah. Sure. No, nothing like that.” She looks down again and flips to the next page in her notepad.
“Promise?”
But this time she doesn’t answer and keeps writing, and as I disappear into the kitchen, I can’t shake the feeling that I just made a terrible mistake.
CHAPTER
nineteen
Under normal circumstances, the Cynthia Green interview would trigger an angst spiral of hideous proportions. I would bite my nails down to the quick and suffer from insomnia and descend into an abyss of stress eating and drinking. But with the demands of a second dinner Sunday night, I don’t have time to indulge my anxiety. I need to make the second dinner as successful and seamless as the first, and, in an unexpected stroke of luck, I do.
The stories are different the second night—the hometowns of note now including Mumbai and Austin instead of Chicago and New Haven—but the spirit is the same. The guests swap stories and compare food notes and wolf down their helpings of pork belly and carrot cake. By the time the weekend is through, Rachel and I are relaxed and exhausted and, combined, approximately $1,220 richer. Thanks to Shauna’s discount and some leftover ingredients from the Rosh Hashanah dinner, we had fewer expenses to cover this time, which means a larger chunk of the proceeds end up in our pockets—$305 to Rachel, $915 to me. Combined with the profits from last weekend’s dinner and my parents’ $200 contribution to my back account, my take will cover almost all of my moving expenses and make up the deficit created by September’s rent and my security deposit. That’s enough to make me forget about an inquisitive Washington Post reporter and her supper club feature.
Until Wednesday. Wednesday morning, Rachel slams a copy of the Washington Post food section on my desk. “Check it out.”
I run my finger down the page to a small headline in the bottom right corner, which reads: “Shhhh: Dinner Is Served”:
In a city known for classified documents, situation rooms, and top secret reports, there’s a new covert operation in town: The Dupont Circle Supper Club. Featuring luscious fare and lively storytelling in a secret Dupont Circle town house, guests are greeted by the young hostess, a buxom twenty-something with a penchant for pork sandwiches and carrot cake …
I gasp. “Carrot cake? She mentioned carrot cake?”
Rachel grabs the paper from me and has another look. “Yeah, so?”
“I told her not to reveal anything about me.”
Rachel throws the paper back on my desk. “You do realize there are other people in town who like carrot cake, right?”
“Not as much as I do.” I glance down at the paper again. “And ‘buxom’? Really?”
“Have you seen your boobs lately?”
I jab Rachel with
my elbow. “She wasn’t supposed to reveal anything about me. That was our deal.”
“Yeah, well, since the article came out, fifty more people have e-mailed about reserving a spot over Columbus Day. So I wouldn’t get too worked up.”
“Fifty?”
She nods. “Fifty.”
I sigh and rest my chin in my hands, stealing a quick look at Jacob Reaser’s business card, which I’ve taped to the bottom of my computer screen. Rachel follows my gaze and clicks her tongue.
“Have you e-mailed him yet?”
I grab an economics paper Mark left on my desk and pretend to leaf through it. “Not yet.”
“It’s Wednesday.”
“I know it’s Wednesday.”
She throws her head back and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Stop being lame and e-mail him. I’ll stand right here and talk you through it.”
“I don’t need you to talk me through it.”
“Apparently you do.”
“Just—go back to your desk. I’ll handle it. See? I’m clicking ‘compose message’ right now. Happy?”
Rachel lets out an exaggerated sigh and disappears from behind my desk, and I start writing Jacob a message:
SUBJECT: (none)
Hey stranger …
Great running into you at CVS the other week. Sorry if it got a little awkward, but that guy you met was my ex-boyfriend, and the whole situation is still a little raw.
Why am I telling him about Adam? Am I insane? Do I want this guy to run away screaming? No. No Adam. Also, no calling Jacob “stranger.” He almost is a stranger. No need to dwell on that. Start over:
SUBJECT: Hey!
Hey there!
Great running into you the other week! I didn’t realize we lived in the same neighborhood! That’s so funny!
Seriously, what is wrong with me? There is nothing funny about running into someone at CVS. Also, why am I suddenly ending every sentence with an exclamation point? God, I suck at this.
Maybe I shouldn’t have told Rachel to leave me alone. I haven’t sent a flirty e-mail in … years, I guess. And I was never any good at it. Why is it so hard to write a friendly e-mail without seeming desperate or crazy? Probably because, by its very nature, an e-mail is a snapshot of yourself, a glimpse into your wit and desirability. I wouldn’t send an ugly photo of myself to a potential date, would I? No. I’d find the best one, the one where the lighting was just right and I maybe didn’t even look fully like myself, but I nevertheless looked approachable yet sexy, the way I’d like to appear rather than how I actually do.
But I have to create this snapshot from scratch, and the more I do to punch up the color, the more I sound like a total lunatic. I should keep it short and sweet. Get in and get out:
SUBJECT: Cinnamon buns
You pick the date and the location, and I’ll bring the cinnamon buns. Warning: your mom’s reigning title is in danger.
Hannah
I take a deep breath, click SEND, and launch the message into cyberspace.
No more than ten minutes later, I get a reply from Jacob:
RE: Cinnamon buns
Why don’t we meet up tonight? Your place?
Okay, whoa. So many things wrong with that plan. Number one, I live in a basement apartment the size of a shoe box, in which the only furniture is an air mattress, a beanbag chair, and some secondhand drawers and shelves. Also, the room still smells like rusty ass. Also, Jacob doesn’t realize I don’t live in the house upstairs. Number two (or are we up to four?), I was running late this morning and didn’t have time to shower, which is gross, period, but also means I look as if I dipped my head in a tub of olive oil. And, on top of all that, it’s almost lunchtime, and I don’t get out of work until six. How am I supposed to whip up a dozen cinnamon buns in an hour or two? And shower?
No. I will push him off until next week:
RE: Cinnamon buns
How about next Tuesday? And why don’t we say your place?
I click SEND and shuffle through the stack of papers on my desk, in search of another report Mark asked me to read, when my cell phone rings. A 202 area code. A local call. A number I recognize as the one on the card hanging off my computer.
“Hello?”
“So you’re playing hard to get, huh?”
My heartbeat quickens. “Who is this?”
“Who do you think? It’s Jacob.”
“How did you get this number?”
“It’s in your e-mail signature.”
“Oh. Right.” I really need to change that.
“Anyway, I saw the article in the Post today. Now that you’re an unnamed minicelebrity, you’re too good to go on a date with me?”
“No—I didn’t mean … it’s just …”
Jacob chuckles into the phone. “Relax. I’m kidding. I totally understand if you already have plans tonight. But I’d love to see you, and I’d rather not wait until Tuesday if I don’t have to.”
I cup my hand over my mouth and the phone, not wanting everyone else on the eighth floor to bear witness to my social ineptitude. “Well … um … the thing is … this is kind of short notice. For me to bake, I mean.”
He laughs. “You know what? I’ll give you a free pass on the baking. We can just hang out.”
“Right. Okay. But … it’s still a little … complicated.”
“Listen, if you’re not interested—”
“No!” I shout into the phone. “Sorry, no, it’s not that. I am interested. It’s that … well …” I haven’t showered today and look like a greaseball.
“How about this,” he says. “I have to work a little later than normal tonight, so why don’t you meet me on the corner of Fifteenth and F at eight o’clock? We’ll have one drink, and if you decide I’m totally lame, you can leave, and I’ll never call you again. Does that sound reasonable?”
“Um … okay …”
“Good. See you soon.”
Jacob hangs up, and I scurry to get myself organized so that I can leave work early because, apparently, I have a date tonight.
CHAPTER
twenty
For the first time in many years, I am early. Well, not early in the sense that I’ve arrived before eight o’clock, because I haven’t. But I’ve arrived before Jacob, so I am early in a relative sense. I stand on the corner of Fifteenth and F in front of the W Hotel, facing the Treasury Building on the other side of Fifteenth Street. The vast Ionic columns shine brightly up and down the street, regal white pillars set against the darkness of the evening sky. The building towers over the sidewalk, as if an ancient Greek temple fell from the sky and landed smack in the middle of a city block.
I check my watch and cell phone for the twentieth time, and when I look up I see Jacob crossing the street toward me. He wears dark gray pants, a white button-down, and a narrow black tie, with a black messenger bag slung across his body, and his face is again covered with a smattering of stubble. He struts across the street with a cool confidence, gripping the strap of his bag with one hand and offering a nonchalant wave with the other. I wave back, pleased I had time to shower and change after work. Rather than wearing a pair of matronly wool slacks and a shirt with a mustard stain on it, I am now wearing a pair of skinny black pants, flats, and a silky jade tunic. I also managed to whip up and scarf down a small fines herbes omelet, since I wasn’t sure if tonight’s date would involve food and, as always, am perpetually afraid of missing a meal.
“Hey,” he says as he reaches my side of the street. “Sorry I’m late. My editor needed me to file one more blog post before I left for the day.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m never on time anyway. I just got here.”
He points up to the large W sticking out from the hotel behind me. “Shall we?”
“Oh—is this where we’re going?”
He laughs. “Yeah, is that okay with you?”
“Of course. I’m surprised, that’s all. I assumed we were going to Old Ebbitt Grill or something.”
Whatever that means. I follow Jacob through the lobby, treading along the black-and-white checkered floor until we reach an elevator, in front of which stands an enormous bald man wearing a black suit. He holds a clipboard and wears an earpiece and looks completely out of place.
“Name?” he asks.
“Jacob Reaser. Eight o’clock reservation for the POV Lounge.”
The man utters something into his jacket sleeve, as if he is a member of the Secret Service, and then he checks off something on his clipboard and ushers us into the elevator. The doors close, and we ascend to the top floor.
“Talk about taking yourself too seriously …”
Jacob furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”
“This place is located in Washington, not New York or LA. What’s with the clipboard and the earpiece? Washington isn’t that cool.”
“What? Washington is totally cool!”
“My boss’s briefcase has wheels. My colleagues regularly wear tweed and sweater vests. My landlord talks like a pirate. Washington is not cool.”
The elevator doors open, and we walk into the bar’s reception area. “You live in Washington, and I think you’re pretty cool,” he says with a smile. “Very cool, actually.”
And I decide there’s nothing I can do with that but giggle stupidly and shrug my shoulders and try my hardest not to wet myself.
The POV Lounge pulses with a chic Euro-trash soundtrack, administered by a man in the corner wearing oversize headphones and a very tight T-shirt. The room is dark and sultry, with bright red couches and zebra-striped chairs and a bar that glows like a light box. Jacob and I sit down on one of the red couches in the middle of the room.