The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs

by Dana Bate

  For the party to be a launching pad to a new career, however, the food has to be perfect. So far I’m off to a good start. I pawned the menu for tomorrow night from my ideas for The Dupont Circle Supper Club, where I tied each dish into the Halloween theme. There will be curried deviled eggs and barbecued “skeleton” ribs, blood orange sorbet and devil’s food cupcakes. Tomorrow morning, Blake will help me with my last-minute prep work, and from there … well, I guess the rest is up to chance.

  Unfortunately, Rachel was mysteriously unavailable to help with the decorations, and so I was left to my own devices and those of Washington’s resident pirate. Despite that significant handicap, I must say, the rooms look pretty great. I strung yards of cobwebs across Blake’s living room walls and strategically pinned a bunch of plastic black widow spiders into the cottony strands. Then I unwrapped six packets of bat clusters, minimobiles that flap and squeal when a gust of air moves through the room, and hung each cluster in the perfect location along the ceiling in both the living and dining rooms. After searching through Blake’s storage closet, I rustled up a lifelike witch, one covered with warts and wrinkly skin and brittle gray hair, and stuck her in the corner of the living room next to the fireplace.

  Admittedly, the longer I sit here without Blake in the house, the scarier all of these decorations become, but thankfully I’m smart enough to know they are only decorations. As in, they’re fake. And it’s not like witches even exist. So I’m fine. Halloween is stupid, anyway. I never bought into ghosts and goblins or any of that spooky stuff. Someone else might be frightened by my exemplary decorating skills, but not me. Nope. I’m just impressed with what a good job I did.

  One of the spiders just moved. It was sitting to the far right of the cobweb, and now it’s more toward the center. By a centimeter, I think. And something is scratching inside the walls. And the ceiling. Holy shit, that witch is scary. Why does she keep looking at me? Stop looking at me. And those bats. They won’t shut up. Someone make them shut up.

  Just as I’m about to search for a pickaxe and a garlic cross, Blake returns with a large pizza. I run to the front door and grab the pizza from his hands.

  “You’re back! Great! Let’s eat!”

  Blake follows me into the kitchen. “Someone’s hungry …”

  “There’s something crawling in your walls,” I yell over my shoulder. “I thought you should know.”

  “Oh, that’s just the pipes. They make noises sometimes. Don’t worry about it.”

  The pipes. I knew that.

  Blake opens the cupboard and grabs two plates, but then he picks up the top plate and flips it upside down. “That’s weird,” he says.

  “What?”

  He stares at the writing on the bottom of the dish. “This isn’t my plate.”

  Christ on a cracker. “You sure about that?”

  He scrunches his lips together and rubs his chin. “Yeah. My plates are from Williams-Sonoma. This plate is some brand called Tuxton.”

  “Maybe a friend left one of theirs?”

  “But then I’d have thirteen.” He quickly counts the plates in his cupboard. “I only have twelve.”

  “Maybe you broke one and forgot.”

  “I don’t think so …” He shrugs. “Or maybe I did. Like I said, I feel like I’m going crazy these days. I guess sleep deprivation will do that to you.”

  “It will,” I say. “Definitely.”

  Blake lays the plates on the counter and serves up the pizza—the Atomica, with tomato, salami, black olives, and pepper. I can smell the charred crust and fiery salami from across the counter. Blake opens two bottles of beer and pulls up a stool along the breakfast bar.

  “Bon appetit,” he says, clanking his beer bottle against mine.

  I swallow a hunk of pizza and wipe the grease from the corners of my mouth, quickly mulling over a way to change the subject to something other than the mystery surrounding Blake’s plates. “So … that was a pretty fragrant afternoon, no?”

  Blake furrows his brow. “How do you mean?”

  “The fish market? The smell of fish entrails?”

  “Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad,” he says, taking a swig of beer. “Trust me, you don’t know from bad fish smells.”

  “But I’m sure you do, Santiago.”

  Blake pauses, his beer hovering before his lips. “Is that a Hemingway reference?”

  “It is—well done.”

  Blake laughs and shakes his head. “So I’m into boats and fishing? So what?”

  “So nothing,” I say. “It’s your hobby. I get it.”

  “A hobby makes it sound so trivial.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Blake smiles. “I know. I guess it’s hard for me to explain sometimes. Being around boats and the water—I don’t know, it brings back a lot of good memories. I spent a lot of time around boats growing up as a navy brat, and my uncle ran a restaurant in Tampa. Every spring break we’d pay my uncle a visit, and he and my dad would take my brother and me fishing almost every day. That’s where I got hooked—no pun intended.”

  I raise an eyebrow as I bite into my pizza.

  “Okay,” he says, “you got me. Pun intended.”

  “Thought so.”

  “But what I remember most about those trips to Tampa is how happy I was—fishing with my dad, helping Uncle Jack in his restaurant, getting into trouble along the harbor. It was this amazingly innocent time, where the most I had to worry about was getting sunburned or eating too much fried shrimp. Everything was so much simpler then.” He picks at the label on his beer bottle. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. The point is, boating and fishing—those things are more than hobbies. They symbolize one of the happiest times of my life.”

  Well, aren’t I the asshole?

  “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to trivialize your interests.”

  “Nah, you didn’t trivialize anything. Don’t worry about it.” He grabs another slice of pizza from the box.

  “Is that why you represent a congressman from Tampa? Because of your uncle?”

  He nods. “I moved around a lot as a kid before we finally settled in Annapolis when I was a teenager, so I never really felt like I was from anywhere. But I always had a connection to Tampa because of my uncle. Plus, after my dad died, we got a lot closer, so it’s nice to have an excuse to visit him every once in a while.”

  “Have you ever considered moving there?”

  He shakes his head. “To be honest, after going to Georgetown and working in DC for more than a decade, Washington feels like home more than anywhere else. That’s why I’m trying to get more involved in local politics. Working on the Hill is great, but I feel like I could make more of a difference here, at the local level.”

  By shutting down underground supper clubs like mine …

  I nibble on my pizza crust. “Why get involved with politics at all? Isn’t it just one big power trip?”

  “It doesn’t have to be. I just want to make my neighborhood and city a better place to live. The Advisory Neighborhood Commission is a good start.” He smiles as he glances at his watch. “T minus four days until the election. You could be talking to a future Dupont Circle Neighborhood Commissioner. How does it feel to be this close to a future celebrity?”

  “Wow. Do you think if you signed this napkin it might be worth something someday?”

  He chuckles. “At least fifty cents. Maybe a dollar if I work a few miracles.”

  I take a swig of my beer. “Yeah, well, if you could throw a few miracles my way, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Hey, I’m letting you cater my Halloween party, aren’t I? That may not be a miracle, but it’s a step in the right direction. Who knows? Tomorrow could be the start of a new career for you.” He fixes his gray-blue eyes on mine. “I hope it’s the start of something great.”

  I smile softly as I take another sip of beer. “Thanks. I hope so, too.”

  Blake is right. Tomorrow could be
the start of something wonderful, a chance for me to parlay my experience from The Dupont Circle Supper Club into something new and meaningful and legal. Tomorrow could be the moment when I finally go legit.

  Of course, that assumes everything tomorrow night goes as planned. Which, if I’m being honest, it rarely does.

  CHAPTER

  twenty-nine

  I show up at Blake’s front door the next morning at our appointed time of nine o’clock to keep plugging away at the party prep. Blake whips open his door, holding a steaming mug of coffee. His pin-straight hair sticks out in all directions, a haphazardness outclassed only by his red Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pajama pants and a faded orange T-shirt. A gust of fishy air floats past my nostrils.

  “The olfactory extravaganza continues,” I say.

  Blake smiles. “Come on in.”

  He lures me back into the kitchen, and the smell intensifies as we make our way down the hall. “I’m a pretty fearless cook, but I’m not gonna lie—the smell of raw seafood is a little much for a Saturday morning.”

  Blake shrugs. “The shrimp aren’t going to peel themselves, right?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  He points to the heap of shrimp sitting next to the sink. “Why don’t you start with those, and I’ll start prepping the oysters.”

  Peeling ten pounds of shrimp: an activity slightly more enjoyable than gutting a fish or de-feathering a chicken. These are the moments where I wish I had a kitchen assistant or sous chef, but alas, this morning it’s just me and a thirtysomething Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fan.

  I start peeling the shrimp, tossing the shells in a big container for stock, and slipping the black veins out of their backs. Blake stands on the other side of the sink, scrubbing the dirt and grit off the oyster shells with a stiff-bristled brush. He dumps the cleaned shells into a big bowl lined with damp paper towels.

  “So,” Blake says, plucking another oyster from the pile, “anyone special in your life at the moment?”

  I shoot him a sideways glance as I slip another shrimp from its shell. “You mean like a boyfriend?”

  “Sure.”

  “Not really.”

  No one except Jacob, who hasn’t called me in two weeks and, in a bothersome development, still hasn’t approved my friend request on Facebook. I would say my request simply got buried somewhere in his in-box, but considering how plugged in he is, I doubt that’s the case. However, last night I noticed we have a friend in common: Becca Gorman, a friend of mine from Cornell who seems to know pretty much everyone in the universe. And, because I have turned into an obsessive stalker, I sent Becca a message through Facebook to see what she knows about Jacob. Her status update from a few days ago said she’d be AWOL until next week while she travels around Cambodia with her sister, but with any luck, she’ll be able to shed some light on Mr. Reaser when she returns. Maybe she can explain why he’s been such a flake.

  “What about you?” I ask, tossing another peeled shrimp into the bowl. “Any girlfriends to speak of?”

  Blake shakes his head. “I don’t exactly have the best luck with the ladies.”

  I look up at him, with the intention of making a joke about his Ninja Turtles pajama pants, but I clam up when I see the sad, lonely look in his eyes. I know that expression, more intimately than I’d care to admit.

  Blake plows his way through most of the oysters, and then he throws on a pair of gloves and plucks one of the oysters from the cleaned pile. With gloved hands, he jabs a small oyster knife into the side of the shell and, with a gentle sawing motion, pries it open, like a thief jimmying a locked door. He runs the knife around the oyster meat and tilts the shell up to his lips, slurping down the oyster in a single gulp.

  What I can’t get over, aside from Blake’s willingness to knock back oysters before ten in the morning, is how quickly Blake does this. His movements are almost balletic, prying the oyster meat from its shell in one graceful movement. I always thought Blake was a little on the doughy side, but watching him shuck that oyster, I realize he’s more muscular than I thought. Between the button-downs and pajama pants, I guess I never noticed.

  Blake catches me staring at him and smiles. “Want one?”

  “No thanks. It’s a little early for raw seafood. For me at least.”

  “Ever shucked an oyster before?”

  “Believe it or not, I haven’t.”

  “Wanna try?”

  “Oh—no. I’m fine. I was only watching to see how you do it.”

  “Aw, come on,” he says, waving me over. “I’ll show you. If you’re going to be a famous cook someday, you’ll need to know how to shuck an oyster.”

  Blake offers me a pair of gloves, which I slip on as he grabs my shoulders and gently positions me in front of him at the sink. “Hold down the shell with your hand like this,” he says, pressing his broad hand over mine as I hold the shell against the counter, “and stick the knife in the hinge of the shell. Like that.” I dig the knife into the oyster and start rocking the knife back and forth. Blake grabs my wrists. “Careful—you’re going to cut yourself. You don’t want to rock the knife. You want to twist it until you hear the shell snap. There. Better. Now start carving around the outside.”

  He lets go of my wrists and rests his hands on either side of me against the counter, poking his chin over my shoulder as he watches me pull the knife around the oyster shell until I feel the top release. I pop the shell open and look over my shoulder at Blake, my nose nearly touching his. “I did it!”

  He pulls away and chuckles. “I had no doubt you would.”

  I inspect the slimy, gray blob nestled in the shell. “My dad always says oysters look like big boogers.”

  “Wow. That’s gross.”

  “I know. But I’ve never been able to shake the visual.”

  “So you don’t eat them?”

  “Oh, I eat them. Just not at ten in the morning. And I kind of feel like I’m eating big boogers. Which sort of detracts from the experience.”

  Blake laughs and grabs the shell and knife from my hands. “I’ll stick to the boogers then. You stick to the shrimp.”

  I scoot back to my station next to the sink and carry on with the eight remaining pounds of shrimp.

  “So take me through the menu again,” Blake says.

  “Okay, first there are the angels on horseback and devils on horseback.”

  Blake shakes his head. “Remind me what those are?”

  “An English thing. Angels on horseback are baked oysters wrapped in bacon. Devils are the same thing with dates instead of oysters.”

  Blake nods. “Got it. What else?”

  “I’m going to slow-cook the barbecued ribs and serve them as ‘skeleton ribs,’ and I’ll serve up the calamari tentacles as ‘deep-fried spiders.’ Then I’ll roast the shrimp and arrange them in glasses of ice to look like claws or fingers, which people can dip into a ‘Bloody Mary’ cocktail sauce. And I’ll scatter platters of deviled eggs around the living and dining rooms.”

  “Think that’ll be enough food?”

  “Definitely. I’ll throw some cheese and crudités into the mix, too. Oh, and dessert—spiced devil’s food cupcakes and blood orange sorbet.”

  Blake leans his back against the counter and crosses his feet. “Well aren’t you the most creative cook I know?”

  I shrug. “Like I said, food is sort of my thing.”

  I rinse my shrimp-covered hands under the kitchen faucet and wipe them on one of Blake’s dish towels, and then I grab a sheet pan from one of Blake’s cupboards, along with a pair of tongs and a spatula from one of his drawers. I dump the shrimp onto the sheet pan, sprinkle them with salt and pepper, and toss them with some of the olive oil from Blake’s pantry. When I look up, Blake is staring at me with raised eyebrows.

  “Wow,” he says. “You really know your way around this kitchen, huh?”

  I freeze. “Beginner’s luck, I guess.”

  Blake smiles, pulling a new roll of paper towels
from beneath his kitchen sink. “That or a sixth sense.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”

  “Well, let me know if you have any questions about where I keep pans or ingredients or whatever. But for now it seems like you have a good handle on things.”

  I smile politely and nod and think, You don’t know the half of it.

  Blake and I finish prepping the food by four o’clock and arrange to meet back in his kitchen in two hours. I will need to take at least three showers to wash off the smell of raw fish, which has embedded itself into the fabric of my clothes and my entire earthly being.

  “Oh, but don’t worry about what you wear,” Blake says. “I’ve got you covered. You can get dressed in the guestroom upstairs.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I already took care of your costume. For the party.”

  “You … took care of my costume.” I hope my tone adequately conveys my skepticism.

  “It’s part of my costume, so yeah. I’m going to be Sweeney Todd, and you’re going to be Mrs. Lovett.”

  “Mrs. Lovett?” As I recall, Mrs. Lovett is Sweeney Todd’s accomplice, who chops up Todd’s victims and bakes them into pies. She was portrayed most recently on film by a psychotic-looking Helena Bonham Carter.

  He grins. “Yup.”

  “But I’m the caterer. I don’t need to dress up.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “But … Mrs. Lovett is supposed to be hideous and freaky.”

  “It’s Halloween. You’re supposed to be hideous and freaky on Halloween. Unless you’re a college girl, in which case you’re supposed to dress up like a slut.”

  I hate to break it to Blake, but that is what women of all ages do on Halloween. The holiday serves as an excuse to wear as little clothing as possible, where all creatures—from rabbits to schoolgirls—exist only in their “sexy” forms. This year Millie will don a “sexy soldier” ensemble, and last year Rachel dressed as a “sexy crayon,” bestowing sexiness on burnt siena for possibly the first time in history.