The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs

by Dana Bate

  “Yeah, if you don’t mind. I don’t set the alarm or anything, so you should be fine. Sorry. I know it’s a weird request, but my electricity bill was insane last month, and I can’t figure out why, since I was away so much. The only explanation is that I’m leaving lights on by accident while I’m away. Either that, or I’m totally losing my mind.”

  Those aren’t the only explanations … “O-okay. Sure. I’ll run upstairs and let you know.”

  “Great. Thanks.” He laughs. “Sorry to make you do this. I know you have better ways to spend your Saturdays than wandering around my house.”

  “Ha,” I say, my eyelids batting at one hundred miles an hour. “Right.”

  Of course I do.

  I can’t keep up this charade forever. Can I? No, I can’t. But that’s fine because I never intended to run this supper club out of Blake’s house forever. Frankly, I never intended to run it out of his house at all. But now that I have … No. I’ll get through this weekend, and then I’ll find a new location, and that will be that. The only reason I’ve continued to use his house is because my apartment is too small and I haven’t found a better place to host these dinners. But I’ll start looking. Soon. As soon as this weekend is over.

  By the time our guests arrive that night, I’m already a sweaty mess. All six burners on Blake’s Viking range are firing like mad, and both ovens are cranking at high heat. In two huge skillets, I am frying up the grilled cheese sandwiches, the buttered brioche sizzling in the pan as the Gouda and Taleggio melt into the slices of pear and grappa-soaked grapes. A huge skillet of water bubbles away in the back corner, ready to poach the eggs for the bacon-and-egg crostini. My braised green beans are hanging out in the other back corner of the stove top, swimming in a sauce of fire-roasted tomatoes and sweet fennel seed, and on the middle burners sit a pan of frying pancetta and a bowl of celery root puree atop a bain marie. Two weeks ago, the mere sight of all of these pots and pans and total strangers would have been enough to send me into cardiac arrest, but now, aside from shedding a few gallons of sweat, I’m fine. Although, admittedly, Adam’s subzero apartment doesn’t sound so bad right about now.

  Rachel buses the grilled cheese squares out to the living room like a pro, and in what feels like no time at all, the guests are seated at the tables in the living and dining rooms, working their way through their bacon-and-egg crostini and hunks of smoky-sweet meat loaf. As usual, I give a little background about myself, as well as some background on the history of the diner, this time standing along the invisible dividing line between Blake’s living and dining rooms and speaking to two tables at once. I tell them how the first diner was invented in 1872, when a guy named Walter Scott decided to sell food out of his horse-pulled wagon, and how diner cuisine varies by region, depending on whether you’re in Pennsylvania or Michigan or New Jersey. Everyone jumps in with stories about their own diner experiences, many of which involve postdrinking binges, and once again, the dinner takes on a life of its own.

  Rachel and I slip back into the kitchen to prepare the mini root beer floats, and as Rachel pulls out the shot glasses, she clears her throat. “I’m going to slip out a little early tonight, if that’s okay.”

  I grab the quart of homemade vanilla ice cream from the freezer and toss it on the counter. “Yeah, sure. Any reason?”

  Rachel nervously bites her fingernail. “Um … well … actually …”

  As Rachel stutters through an answer, a slender Indian woman with almond-shaped eyes and long, delicate fingers wanders into the kitchen.

  “Sorry to bother you,” the woman says, interrupting Rachel. She tucks her jet-black hair behind her ear. “I just wanted to thank you for everything so far. Dinner has been fantastic.”

  I offer a friendly smile and begin to line the shot glasses along the edge of the counter. “Thanks.”

  She plays with one of her dangly, silver earrings, staring at me intently as I make my way along the counter. “I’ve also been meaning to ask …” She pauses and gives her earring another flick. “Do you guys know Blake Fischer?”

  Rachel coughs violently, and my palms begin to sweat until I nearly lose my grip on the remaining glasses. “I—sorry?”

  “Blake Fischer? I think he used to live here. He was friends with my ex-boyfriend. We only hung out once or twice, but I could swear his house looked just like this.”

  “Nope,” I blurt out, too quickly and too loudly. Rachel sidles up next to me and gently steps on my toes. “Never heard of him.”

  “Huh,” she says. “I guess I’m thinking of a different house.”

  “Guess so.”

  She glances around the kitchen. “Now that I look around, this kitchen looks different than his did.” She shrugs. “Oh, well. I hadn’t thought about those guys in ages, but this house brought back a wave of nostalgia.”

  I force a smile as I fidget with one of the shot glasses. “It’s probably all the diner talk. Trolley cars, meat loaf—diners are all about nostalgia.”

  “That’s probably it.” She gives the kitchen another once-over, narrowing her eyes as she studies the back windows and granite counters. Something about her expression tells me she isn’t entirely convinced, but eventually she refocuses her gaze on me and smiles. “Anyway, sorry to bother. I’ll let you get back to work.”

  She starts to head back into the dining room, but I stop her before she leaves. “Sorry—I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Geeta,” she says. “Geeta Kapoor.”

  Congratulations, Geeta Kapoor: you have earned a premier spot on The Dupont Circle Supper Club’s blacklist. “Nice meeting you, Geeta,” I say.

  “Likewise.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and rubs her lips together, smoothing out her shiny raspberry lip gloss, and then disappears into the dining room.

  As soon as Geeta is out of sight, Rachel turns to me with raised eyebrows. “Ruh-roh,” she says with a frown.

  “That’s all you have to say? Ruh-roh?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “That this is horrible? That this is a total freaking disaster?”

  “It isn’t a disaster.”

  “Oh, really? Tell me how this isn’t a disaster.” Rachel has no response. “What if Geeta says something to Blake?”

  “She isn’t going to say anything to Blake. And, anyway, when would she say it? She said she never sees him anymore.”

  “Yeah, but what if she runs into Blake or one of his buddies and mentions this dinner?”

  Rachel offers a conciliatory shrug. “It’s possible, I guess. But think about all the acquaintances you have in this town. How often do you run into any of them?”

  I stare at Rachel with arched eyebrows. “Hmm, let’s see. Oh, that’s right: three weeks ago, I ran into Adam, Millie, and Jacob at CVS, all at the same time.”

  “True.”

  I let out a deep groan. “This has disaster written all over it. What are we going to do?”

  Rachel grabs one of the bottles of root beer, pops off the cap, and slides the bottle to me across the counter. “The only thing we can do—finish this dinner, clean up the house, and hope for the best.”

  Because, of course, nothing could possibly go wrong with that plan.

  CHAPTER

  twenty-six

  I don’t like close calls. I never have. In tenth grade, I made the colossal mistake of throwing a party while my parents were in Boston for a conference. My friend Gabby convinced me the party would be my ticket into the cool crowd, but instead, the popular kids showed up, drank all my parents’ liquor, and trashed my house before ditching my party for something better. I spent the entire weekend scrubbing vomit and mud off the floor. I vowed never to tempt fate again.

  But what am I doing now? I’m more than tempting fate. I’m pole dancing in front of fate in a leopard thong. Topless. Doused in Love Potion No. 9. What is wrong with me?

  Okay, yes, the rest of the weekend went off without a hitch, and we made our biggest profit yet: a
whopping $2,600 after expenses, $1,950 of which ended up in my pocket. But still. Between the run-in with Geeta and Blake’s call Saturday morning, this whole operation is getting uncomfortably dicey. I need to explore other locations. I suppose I could call off the entire supper club, but … No. No, I couldn’t do that. I made a killing last weekend, and for the first time, I’ve realized I could make money doing what makes me happier than anything else. I can’t give that up. Or, more accurately, I don’t want to.

  Resolved: I will find a new location for The Dupont Circle Supper Club. As soon as I think up our next menu. And talk to Rachel. And call Jacob.

  Jacob. I haven’t heard from him since our conversation more than a week ago, and I’m beginning to wonder if he forgot about our plans for a date this week. He did say Wednesday, didn’t he? And that he already had something in mind? Or did I make that up? Maybe I misheard. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Tuesday morning, I peer into Mark’s office, and when I see he has stepped out, I pick up my phone and call Jacob, after briefly hyperventilating into a brown paper bag under my desk. He picks up after the second ring. “How’s it going, hot stuff?”

  I crumple up the brown paper bag and toss it into the trash. He called me hot stuff. The hyperventilation was overkill, I see.

  “Pretty much unchanged since the last time we talked,” I say.

  “Gotcha.” I hear him type a few strokes on his keyboard. “So what’s up?”

  “I was just wondering if we’re still on for tomorrow night …?”

  “Ah, right,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to call you about that. One of my colleagues is out on maternity leave, so work has been insane. I’m covering for both of us. Unfortunately Wednesday isn’t going to work.”

  I slump back in my chair. “Oh.”

  “Hey—you’re not getting off that easy. How about Saturday?”

  I perk up. “Sure—Saturday is great. What time?”

  “Let’s say … four-thirty?”

  “In the afternoon?”

  “No, in the morning.” He laughs. “Of course in the afternoon.”

  Who goes on dates at four-thirty in the afternoon? That’s friendville. Platonic station. Nonsexual junction. I am the mayor of those towns. I know them well.

  “Sure. Okay. I guess four-thirty works.”

  “Excellent. Meet me outside the Federal Triangle Metro stop, and we’ll go from there.”

  “Go … where exactly?”

  He chuckles. “Patience. You’ll see.”

  “But I mean … Federal Triangle? Are we taking a tour of the EPA or something?” Talk about the least romantic atmosphere ever.

  “Relax. I’ve got something special planned. Just take a deep breath and roll with the punches.”

  I titter like a drunken sorority sister and fiddle with a loose thread on my sweater. “Right. Roll with the punches. I can do that.”

  As if I’ve ever been that kind of girl.

  Late Saturday afternoon, I put the finishing touches on my cinnamon buns, drizzling the silky white icing on top of the feathery, cinnamon-filled coils. My grand plan: to bring Jacob back here after whatever uber-platonic date he has planned and make him fall for me. Hence, the cinnamon buns.

  I wrap the tray of buns in foil, throw on the outfit Rachel picked out for me (black V-neck wrap cardigan, dark jeans, black boots), and work my way through the appropriate combination of mascara, eye shadow, and lipstick. Given that our date begins at four-thirty, I don’t want to look overdressed, but I also don’t want to look frumpy or completely asexual. For me, this poses a great challenge and explains why I needed to call on Rachel for advice.

  Once I’ve put a sufficient amount of effort into making my style look effortless, I hustle down Eighteenth Street toward the Farragut West Metro stop and board an orange line train, which bumps along for three stops until we reach Federal Triangle. I hop off and ride two short escalators toward the exit until I reach the top, which empties onto an airy portico within the Environmental Protection Agency’s complex. The building is neoclassical, with grand columns, broad archways, and a sweeping semicircular edifice made of pale gray limestone.

  As soon as I step off the escalator, I spot Jacob standing beneath a sign for the Post Office Building, which is what I imagine this used to be before it became the EPA. He wears dark jeans, gray-and-yellow Adidas sneakers, and a black-and-white Arcade Fire T-shirt, broadcasting once again his undying support of indie music.

  “Don’t you look like a million bucks,” he says as he notices me walking toward him.

  “A million might be a little generous,” I say.

  He grabs me by the hand and pulls me toward him. “I’m a generous guy.”

  I’m not sure whether I find that comment sexy or unspeakably cheesy, but he looks so adorable with those mesmerizing eyes and that tousled mop of hair that I have trouble finding fault with anything he does. Jacob, I am learning, is the type of guy who makes you feel cooler simply by spending time with him—the kind of person who follows a band two years before anyone else has heard of them and who has probably dabbled in a little bit of everything, from women to drugs to unnecessarily complicated sexual positions. He skates right up to the line of trying too hard, with those aggressively hip T-shirts and that carefully unstyled hair, but he somehow manages to glide along without devolving into a total poseur.

  He pulls me closer and plants a kiss on my cheek, at which point I have to make a conscious effort not to start making out with him right in the middle of the EPA complex. How is this guy so freaking smooth?

  “Shall we?” he says, gesturing down a long arcade toward the Mall.

  He leads me down the covered passageway, which hugs the curved side of the building all the way down Twelfth Street. The walkway is peppered with alcoves and hidden recesses, and a series of lanterns dangles from the arched ceiling.

  “So where are we going?”

  He casts a sideways glance, smirking. “You really want to know?”

  “Is there a reason why I shouldn’t?”

  He grins. “Nah, okay, I’ll tell you. We’re going to the Museum of American History. It closes at five-thirty, which is why we’re meeting so early.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I don’t know what I was expecting, but by the tone of my voice, it sounds as if I expected something else.

  Jacob slows his step. “We don’t have to go there. It was just an idea.”

  “No, no—it’ll be great. I used to love that museum. I haven’t been there since I was a kid.”

  “Exactly. When you move to a city, all the tourist attractions become dead to you. I hate that. It’s like, we have all these free museums right on our doorstep and never bother to visit them. It’s crazy.”

  “You’re right. In the three years I’ve lived here, I’ve been to the Spy Museum, and that’s it.”

  “And that one isn’t even free,” he says. “Come on. Let’s get cultured.”

  He grabs my hand and whisks me through the doors to the Museum of American History, which sits on the northwest corner of the National Mall and takes up an entire block. I first visited this museum with my parents as a child, and I remember pressing my face against the glass case holding Dorothy’s ruby red slippers and wondering if they were really as magical as they were in the movie. Did they really help Dorothy get back to Kansas? Could I try them on? My dad proceeded to tell me that in the book on which the movie was based, the ruby slippers were actually silver slippers, which some of Daddy’s colleagues believed was a populist allegory about the gold standard and the move to a bimetallic monetary standard in the late 1800s, a time of great social and industrial change, but Daddy wasn’t convinced. I was six.

  Jacob and I work our way through the security line in the vast marble lobby, and as soon as the guard inspects my bag, I spot an old powder blue “Detroit Jewel” stove top in one of the artifacts cases to the right.

  “Check it out,” I say, running over to check out why a big blue oven is on di
splay at one of the nation’s preeminent museums.

  “Uh-huh,” Jacob says, grinning. “I knew you’d like this. And now you have an idea why I brought you here.”

  I wrinkle my eyebrows together. “To look at old cooktops?”

  “Exactly. Come on.”

  He pulls me into the West Wing, toward the exhibit for Science in American Life, when I suddenly see what he’s talking about.

  “Julia Child’s kitchen!”

  “Ding, ding, ding!” Jacob laughs. “As Washington’s supper club doyenne, I thought you’d appreciate this.”

  We wind our way into the curved alcove housing Julia Child’s kitchen and collection of utensils, the entire kitchen preserved as it appeared in her Cambridge, Massachusetts, home: the blue cupboards, the Peg-Board walls, the central table, now covered by a laminated tablecloth. Along the walls of the exhibit bay, the curators have hung collections of her pots and pans and cooking utensils, everything from her copper saucepans to her meat ten-derizer.

  “Don’t tell me you actually know what all this stuff is,” Jacob says, pointing to a pair of poultry shears.

  “Of course I do. Most of it, anyway.”

  “Okay, then what’s that?” He points to a tapered knife with a funny jagged underbelly.

  “Shrimp knife,” I say.

  “And what about that?”

  “Cherry pitter.”

  “And that?” He points to a strange clamp that looks like medical forceps.

  “I …” I glance at the explanatory key next to the objects. “A lamb bone holder? Okay, in all fairness, I’ve never seen that one before.”

  “Ha! Well at least there’s something you don’t know.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty more where that came from. Trust me.”

  “I hope so. Otherwise you’re like freaking superwoman. She cooks! She bakes! She writes about quantitative easing and currency valuation! You put me to shame, girl.”

  He grabs my hand and pulls me out of the exhibit to the escalator, and as he does, I feel as if I’m flying. No one has ever spoken about me that way. No one has ever called me superwoman. Even in our early days of dating, Adam wasn’t nearly as impressed by my cooking abilities. That’s probably because he was an asshole.