And makes me feel worse.
“I promise I’ll try.”
Noah leans forward and gives me a hug.
“Ready to go?” Wayne returns.
“Just as soon as you zip up your fly, Dad.”
“Ooops!” Wayne says, looking down at his gaping khakis.
Noah shrugs, as if to say, “what can you do?” and goes to put his coat on. Wayne and Noah make the rounds to kiss and hug us all good-bye, and head out to their next adventure, hand in hand, and looking pretty happy.
“Now that is enough to make me pretty thankful.”
Indeed. Indeed it is.
And I turn around and head back to our friends to make things festive. Maybe if I put enough light and color and sparkle around me, some of it might just seep in a little.
“Fake it till you make it.”
“Jenna! Come be in charge of tinsel, Andrea is clumping,” Benji says in a tattletale whine. Volnay stretches in her dog bed, and comes over to get some love from Andrea, who is starting to look like her long night with the new doctor is taking its toll, and I sense that there is a serious nap imminent as soon as we finish.
Lois hands me a steaming mug of spiced cider, with a small shot of bourbon I can smell, and winks at me.
Eloise offers up the box of ornaments for me to choose, and I grab an odd-looking reindeer that looks more like a cat, and find a good bough.
And pretty soon I find I don’t have to fake it after all.
11
Volnay nudges me with her nose. Probably because I’ve been standing in my closet in my underwear for the better part of a half an hour, staring blankly at a wall of pants.
“They’re pants, not brain surgery. Pick a pair before you get pneumonia.”
Except these days, most of my pants are fitting tight, if they’re fitting at all. You know all those stories about the ladies who grow pale and wan and all skinny in their grief? The ones who wake up a size 6 without noticing? I am not one of those ladies. I’ve probably gained at least eight pounds since Aimee died.
“It’s not your fault Hostess announced bankruptcy; you had a moral obligation to revisit those childhood treats.”
Yeah, just what I needed, a massive three-day Hostess binge, followed by a week of trying to replicate recipes so that if no one decides to buy and reissue Twinkies and Suzy Q’s, I’ll be all set. It was a ridiculous endeavor, since most of the experience of Hostess is in the slightly plasticky tastes and textures, which cannot be replicated in a home kitchen. You can make a delicious moist yellow cake and fill it with a marshmallowy vanilla cream, and it will be spectacular, trust me; I ate at least a dozen. But it won’t taste like a Twinkie. The cake won’t have that springiness, the filling won’t have the fluff, and it is impossible to get those three little dots in the bottom. Which should be fine, since I hadn’t actually eaten a Hostess product for the better part of a decade, hadn’t missed them either. But that little news item hit, and in a Pavlovian fit of nostalgia, I was off to the local gas station to load up on white boxes with blue and red details. Twinkies, Sno Balls, Ding Dongs . . . even a cherry Fruit Pie. All of them the flavors of my youth, and proof that there are certain things you should leave as fond memories, since they don’t really hold up.
Case in point? Real Genius. Trust me. Don’t watch it again. It will make you sad. Hold the memory in long-time-ago soft focus, when you thought Val Kilmer was HOT and that the movie was edgy and the popcorn scene hilarious. It is a 1985 movie and needs to stay there. If you’re feeling itchy, go Sixteen Candles. It hasn’t lost a thing.
The Hostess Insanity, after the binge of Thanksgiving, and the fact that I was already generally off the rails diet-wise, and that the only time I felt like I had a good reason to use the “my best friend died” excuse was to avoid the gym, and here I am. Pantsless.
“Wear the J. Jill flowy ones. Elastic waistband.”
Sigh. My official Fatter Pants. Since, let’s be honest, all those size 14/16s I’m not squeezing into so comfortably are not exactly Skinny Pants. Good idea. I reach over and pull the black loose-fitting pants, one step up from pajamas, off their hanger. An oversized gray sweater will mask the fact that even these are clinging around the thighs more than they are supposed to. I just can’t bear the thought of Spanx today. Mama needs to breathe. Plus I can wear my black Frye motorcycle boots, which have taken the last decade to break in “just right.”
“There you go. Now slap on some jewels and lipstick and get out of here already. You want Brian to beat you there?”
The Voix has a point. I’m debuting Brian as “the guy I am seeing” at a very special event at the Library, and he is meeting me there straight from work. I definitely don’t want him to get there before me and face the team alone. Thomas Keller and his pastry chef Sebastien Rouxel just released their amazing cookbook, Bouchon Bakery. They are in Chicago to do some events, one of which is a tasting and signing at the Library, a huge coup for Andrea, and an event that has been sold out for weeks, even at one hundred dollars per person, which includes a copy of the book.
We have seventy of Chicago’s most passionate foodies descending on us in an hour, the maximum our space can handle. Lois and Eloise and Benji have been cooking from the book all week in preparation, making everything from homemade marshmallows and chewy pâtés de fruit, to homemade Oreos and Better than Nutter Butters. Caramels, macarons, miniparfaits filled with apple compote and vanilla custard and olive oil cake. Insane little chocolate tarts. Shortbreads and chocolates and my personal favorite, the Chocolate Bouchon, essentially a cork-shaped brownie that is one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted.
“You are going to be diabetic by the end of the night.”
I will not. You know I never eat at events.
“Because you are queer. All that yummy just sitting there.”
Because I invariably have a mouthful when someone needs to talk to me, or walk around with kale in my teeth all night that no one tells me about.
“ONE TIME. One time you had kale in your teeth. You are going to have to forgive me for that, I apologized fifteen times. Oh, and I DIED. So I’m off the hook.”
I’m getting really sick of the whole “I’m dead” excuse.
“Well, I’m sick of being dead, so we’re even.”
I put on a chunky clear Lucite cuff bracelet, my granddad’s old Rolex that I always wear as my good watch, a pair of dangly drop earrings with pear-shaped aquamarines surrounded by teensy tiny black diamonds. Aimee taught me that some stones that you might not like usually, like the aquamarine, which I always found watery and fake looking, can actually be really gorgeous if you buy really bad quality. Cheap aquamarines are opaque, not clear, and somewhere halfway between turquoise and teal in color, rich and interesting, not to mention about ten times less expensive. Aimee was very proud of me when I bought these earrings, which I found in a hole-in-the-wall pop-up store in SoHo. Despite being over ten total carats of aquamarine, they were less than ninety bucks.
“Love those. They make your eyes pop.”
So you have told me.
It’s still been unseasonably warm, so I just throw a large black wrap around my shoulders, and head out. I’m grateful for the weather, in the 50s today, so that I can walk to the Library, since parking over there will be a nightmare with the event going on. Plus it means Brian can drive me home and hopefully spend the night. I’ve been enjoying his company, and the fact that while it feels regular and mostly comfortable, it doesn’t feel fraught with pressure to be anything other than what it is, for which I am deeply grateful. He is the man I am dating. Not boyfriend; I’m still not ready for a boyfriend.
“He isn’t boyfriend material.”
By which you mean?
“You don’t sparkle enough. He is perfect for now, a little sumptin’ sumptin’ to keep you relaxed. You can boyfriend later.”
You mean when I’m better.
“I mean when you meet someone worthy.”
I toss Volnay a treat as I head out the door, and enjoy the walk down the boulevard, all lit up. I pass by the famous Christmas house, lit up from top to bottom in a way that I am sure can be seen from space, and for the millionth time wonder what their electric bills must be like.
By the time I get to the Library, there is a wonderful buzz in the building. The event is spread over both of the two floors of the space; on the first floor people are shopping, nibbling from the main buffet and getting glasses of champagne and sparkling water, and then they are sent upstairs where there are the two small rooms with more formal tastings, and the larger event room where Thomas and Sebastien are signing at a big table. People are milling around, buying lots of books and some small cookware, and the staff seems to be relaxed and having a good time interacting. We have brought in a duo from The Paper Source, who are doing spectacular wrapping for a small fee, and Eloise and Benji are both ringing up customers while Lois is meeting and greeting and working the floor.
“Hey, you.” My friend Alana comes over with her husband RJ, and they both kiss me simultaneously on my cheeks. They live in the neighborhood, and we sometimes have doggie playdates with Volnay and their dogs Dumpling and Pamplemousse.
“So much love. How are you guys?”
“Good,” Alana says. “Busy. But considering the alternative, we can’t complain. How are you doing?”
“You know me, I’m fine.”
Alana and RJ seem to not really know what to say after that. I help them out.
“Have you guys been upstairs yet?” I ask. “Met the man?”
“Oh yes,” RJ says, beaming like a true fan. “So cool.”
“We haven’t seen him since I took RJ to the French Laundry for his fiftieth. It was great to catch up a little,” Alana says.
“He is a great guy, very genuine,” I say, having met Chef Keller a few times over the years.
“Very.”
And then we are all looking at each other. RJ jumps in.
“You have to come for dinner soon. Alana seems to have perfected this insane braised chicken with chorizo and chickpeas that is perfect for this weather,” he says, bragging about his wife. Alana is a terrific chef, best known for her role assisting Patrick Conlon on Master Chef Battle, and her own new show, Abundance, both staples on my TiVo. I’ve known her since I catered a cocktail party for her former boss Maria De Costa, the talk show host, about fifteen years ago, and we have stayed in casual touch ever since. When she moved into the neighborhood, we got a little closer, but since Aimee got sick I haven’t been as good about staying in touch. But considering that was around the time she met RJ, she’s been too busy to really notice.
“Yes! Andrea says you have a new man in your life, you should bring him to dinner!”
Dinner parties at Alana’s are awesome, and for the first time in a long time, I feel in the mood to be social.
“Anytime. Shoot me some dates, and I’ll bring the dessert.”
“Mmmm. Will you make the dark chocolate pudding?” RJ asks. The man is addicted to pudding. The last time I went to their place for dinner, over a year ago, I brought a recipe I’d been working on and he clearly approved.
“Of course.”
“Good. Honey, we’re going to go, but we will see you very soon. I’ll e-mail you dates this week.” Alana leans in to give me a hug, and RJ kisses my temple, and they head for the door.
I make the rounds, checking in on the team, all of whom are glowing with the excitement of having a true culinary icon in the house. So far so good. I check my phone, and there is a text from Brian saying he should be here by seven thirty or so, about a half an hour from now. So I head upstairs to see how Chefs Keller and Rouxel are doing.
“Hello, Chef,” Keller says as I approach the table, winking at me over the head of the person whose book he is signing with practiced flourish and a felt-tipped calligraphy pen. “My goodness. I don’t think I have ever done a J like that before,” he says to the woman in front of him. “You have a rare and special book now, with a one-of-a-kind J.” The woman preens and begins gushing about her experience at Per Se the month before.
“How goes it?” I ask him.
“Okay. I have a little headache . . . caught a shelf in my hotel room with my head earlier, but this is helping.” He gestures to the glass of bourbon at his side.
“It doesn’t cure the pain, but it makes you not care,” I say, smiling.
“Exactly. Thank you, Jenna, this is a very lovely event. And . . .” He pauses, and reaches a hand out to squeeze mine. “I’m so sorry about Aimee. She was a firecracker.”
“Yes I was.”
“Thank you, Chef.”
“Thank you for having us.” And then he turns to the next person in line.
“Bonjour, Chef,” I say to Sebastien, coming around the back of the table. “Ça va bien ?”
“Oui, Chef. Tout va bien. Et vous ?” he says smiling, looking about twelve years old, and not what you would expect of one of the world’s finest pastry chefs.
“Pas mal. Avez-vous tout ce que vous avez besoin ?”
“Oui, bien sûr.” He raises his full glass of champagne at me.
“Bon. Je retour.” I love speaking with Sebastien in French; I rarely get to practice these days. I leave them to their work, knowing we will get a brief chance to catch up when they are finished. Andrea is posted in the room, making sure that they have water, that the line moves along, and keeps a watchful eye out for anything funky.
All in all, I’m enormously thrilled. It’s a lovely event, and I’m so proud of my staff, and our little store. I spot Allen and Ellen Sternweiler in a corner chatting with Paul Kahan, probably about burgers. Chris Pandel from The Bristol is talking to Naomi Levine from TipsyCake and Jason Hammel from Lula Café a few doors down, who must have scampered over in the middle of service, wearing his chef’s whites, spattered with something presumably farm to table and delicious.
It’s a rock star kind of night, just enough star power to make the civilians feel like they are going to have plenty to Facebook and Tweet about and make the rest of the foodies jealous. Which means they will come back for future events, even if the headliners are not quite this megawatt.
And then I hear it. The unmistakable sound of something big and messy crashing to the floor. Oh no. Please let no one be hurt. Keller and Rouxel look up at me quizzically, and I wave them off with a smile and scurry out of the room and back down the stairs.
The crowd downstairs is gathered around something, and I push my way through to discover the buffet table in the center of the room completely upended. The floor is awash in champagne and fizzy water and a zillion shards of broken flutes. A week’s work for three people in meticulously crafted small desserts has been reduced to crumbs and spatters, mingling with the spilled beverages and glass in an epic sludge of horribleness. And sitting in the middle of this catastrophe, is Wayne. Cookies on his shirt, pants soaked, hands bleeding.
“Wayne?” I say.
“Oops,” he says.
Eloise and Lois are shuttling people away from the mess, sending most of them upstairs, while Benji has a few people, the ones who obviously got caught in the cross fire, off to the side, getting names and addresses so that we can reimburse dry cleaning costs.
“Upsey daisy, big boy.” Brian, who has appeared out of nowhere, steps up gingerly behind Wayne and grabs him under the armpits to help him stand. As soon as he is up, Lois, ever the mother, motions for him to follow her to the back staff bathroom, first aid kit under her arm.
I’m paralyzed. I can’t move. I’m staring at the floor. It looks like high tea exploded in here.
“Hey, honey. Sorry I’m late.” Brian comes around, wiping his hands on a napkin and leaning in to kiss me. I can’t even kiss him back.
“I hate him.”
“Careful, Princess.”
“I HATE him. He ruins everything.” My whisper is violent, vehement, the bile rising in my throat. Benji, finished with the spattered guest
s, sends them upstairs and quickly runs to get the mop and bucket.
“No prob, Jenna, I’ll get it clean in five minutes. Time me,” he says, trying to be light, clearly shocked by my face.
“He is the most ridiculous, oafish, stupid asshat, and he fucking turns everything he touches into shit. I wouldn’t be surprised if Aimee’s fucking disease was because of her constant proximity to that complete monumental waste of space.” The tears prick at my eyes, and Brian reaches out and hands me his napkin, a sweet gesture that completely sends me over the edge, the tears spilling loose and an enormous lump taking up residence in my throat.
“I’m really sorry Jenny, I had no idea the table would go over like that if I leaned on it,” Wayne says, having come back in the room god knows when and having heard god knows what. And I? Don’t care.
I spin on my heel and face him with every bit of my venom. “Get. OUT,” I spit at him.
“Let me help clean . . .” he starts.
“GET OUT! You have done enough. More than enough. Just get the fuck out of my store. You are not welcome here.” And then I am done. Sobbing like an insane person, hiccuping and snorting, snot on my upper lip, crying like a four-year-old and finally burying my face in Brian’s chest.
“You’d better just go, okay buddy?” Brian says in a tone that is firm and essentially says get out or I will throw you out.
“I’m so sorry Jenny, I’m . . . I’m going.”
I can hear the catch in his voice, and I know he feels like hammered shit, and all I can think is, Good.
* * *
Benji is true to his word, the mess is dealt with in five minutes, and the buffet table put back on its feet. Lois and Eloise have gotten the last of the baked goods, the ones in reserve to restock platters, out on the table, and while it has lost some of its glorious abundance, it isn’t horrible and there is still plenty to nibble on. Jason, who came down to head back to Lula to finish service in the middle of the cleanup, sends two of his busboys over with crates of clean champagne flutes, and I thank god that we didn’t have bottles on the table, just filled glasses, so there are still bubbles to put in them.
Out to Lunch Page 11
