Georgia's Kitchen (29 page)

She offered a noncommittal shrug before turning back to the pocket-size notebook on the table in front of her. On a fresh sheet of paper she’d written the words
Pros
and
Cons.
A list. She was still master of The List.

“What does
this
mean?” The man mimicked Georgia’s gesture, except that his lips turned into a sneer.

She sighed. “It means I don’t really care about it right now, okay?”

“Fine.” He stuck his fork into the seaweed salad on his plate, then jabbed it into his mouth. A string of
hijiki
clung to the corner of his lips, and ginger dressing dripped down his chin. Georgia looked away.

“Here ya go, dear.” The server, a freckle-faced boy who didn’t look a day over twenty-two and was way too young to call anyone dear, set down a sandwich and a mug of green tea on the table in front of her. Since returning from Italy she’d had a
hard time stomaching American coffee, agreeing with the Italians that more often than not it was burnt, bitter, or bland. Her head raged from the lack of caffeine; green tea was no match for her four-espresso-a-day habit. The cell-phone hater eyeballed Georgia’s food, then quickly buried his head back in his own.

“Thanks,” Georgia said, taking a bite of the fig-and-ricotta sandwich.

She edged the plate aside and picked up her pen, a graceful Elsa Peretti that was, of course, a gift from Glenn. After endless vacillating, she’d concluded that—engagement ring excluded—it was okay to keep the gifts Glenn had given her in their relationship. With seven years’ worth of birthdays, Valentine’s Days, Christmases, and the odd guilt-induced “just because” gift under her belt, the bounty was impressive. A few days earlier she’d collected every last bag, belt, or boot he’d gifted her, making a pile in the center of her living room. Blood presents, Clem had scoffed, eyeing a buttery Balenciaga bag. Lo was quick to point out that if Georgia ever fell on hard times, she could sell off the booty at Michael’s, the consignment store where Lo unloaded her wardrobe at the end of each season. For all her griping about her upper-crustiness, Lo was as dedicated a shopper as any Park Avenue princess.

The Tuscan Oven,
Georgia wrote above
Pros
and
Cons,
drawing a line smack down the center of the page. Her only chance to draw a paycheck in the foreseeable future. Her hand automatically slid to the column on the right; it was always easier to start with cons.

1. Humiliating

2. Location, location, location

3. What if someone I know eats there?

4. What if Glenn hears I work there?

5. What if Marco hears I work there?

6. Will people think I work at the Olive Garden?

She crossed out numbers 3, 4, and 5, rationalizing that they really belonged to number one: humiliating. And 6 was just petty, so she slashed a line through that too. That left her with a respectable two cons. On to the pros.

1. It’s a job

2. It pays

And that, she thought, was all there was to it. After nearly two weeks of making calls, talking to everyone she knew, even, mortifyingly, responding to a couple postings on Craigslist, she needed cash. Though all were quick to congratulate her on the
Taste
article, to ooh and aah as she regaled them with tales of Tuscany, to ask about the famous Claudia Cavalli, and then, finally, to raise an eyebrow and whisper, so tell us what really happened at Marco, as if they were her closest confidant, no one offered up a job. They’d either just hired someone or were scaling back, going in a different direction, didn’t have the right job, the money, the need, the fill in the blank. With her bank account dwindling as fast as her confidence, she actually considered calling up Gianni and telling him she wanted the job at the Lazzaro after all. She also considered moving back in with her folks. For a nanosecond.

Enter Effie. Good old Effie, who even a whole ocean away still managed to come to her rescue. His uncle Aldo, a big-time businessman in Bari, had a grade-school pal who owned a restaurant in New York. A couple times a year the guy jet-setted into the city and liked to have a place where he could entertain
his lady friends and throw his name around. If she was interested, Uncle Aldo would hook it up. She was interested.

The Tuscan Oven, Georgia discovered, was a bi-level tourist trap at Rockefeller Center where murals of the Italian countryside covered the walls, shiny chandeliers dripped with clusters of faux-Murano grapes and olives, and Adam, Eve, and various fig-leaf-covered people frolicked with Bacchus across the dining room’s domed ceiling. When Georgia arrived for her interview with Daniel, the GM, he had only one question: when would she like to start? Oh, and could she please name the shifts she’d prefer. Clearly, Uncle Aldo had clout.

“
Buon giorno,
Georgia!” Clem strode into Pain Quotidien, breezing by the hostess and plunking down her bag on a chair between Georgia and the cell-phone hater. Her ginger hair swished at her shoulders and a fringe of bangs fell into her eyes. She wore maroon leggings, a slouchy sweater, and a pair of tall riding boots, which, she’d tell anyone who’d listen, she was wearing way before they became chic. She bent down and kissed Georgia’s cheek. “I’m still not used to having you back. I can’t believe we get to meet for coffee again.” She frowned at Georgia’s green tea. “C’mon, George. You can’t have a coffee date with tea, especially that naked green stuff.”

“Get over it, Clem.” Georgia smiled. Coffee dates with Clem and Lo and extended walks with Sally were the biggest things going on in her life.

“Oh, pardon me. I forgot that you’re now a coffee connoisseur.” Clem turned to the server. “Excuse me? Large pot of
American
coffee, please. And cream, if you have it. Doesn’t that just turn your tummy, Georgia?”

“Actually, it kinda does.” She sipped her tea.

“What’s this about?” Clem grabbed the notebook. “The Tuscan Oven? You have got to be kidding me.”

“Not kidding.”

“Georgia, are you insane? Four words, my friend: Rockefeller. Center. Holidays. Upcoming. Need I say more?”

“No one will hire me, and my rent doesn’t take care of itself. I need a job.”

“But I thought you were finally going to make your move, finally do it.” Clem swigged a sip of coffee and wrinkled her nose. “This coffee does taste sort of crappy.”

“Do what?” Lo slid into the seat next to Clem, removed her paisley-patterned shawl, and draped it over the back of her chair. Her black hair hung in ropy, dreadlike chunks, completing the boho-chic look she was currently cultivating. The coif had probably set her back three hundred bucks at her chichi Madison Avenue salon.

“Open her own place, for God’s sake,” Clem said. “Hasn’t that always been the plan, Georgia? Especially now that you’re—”

“Essentially unemployable?” Georgia said. “Unless you count the Tuscan Oven, which you, Clem, obviously don’t.”

“She can’t just open her own place, Clem. She needs backing. A lot of it,” said Lo.

“What about your dad?” Clem asked Lo. “He’s got more than enough to go around.”

“Yeah, right. My dad would never invest in someone who’s friends with
me
.”

“True.” Clem sighed, turning to Georgia. “You really need the money? I mean, you really need a job?”

“Um, yes. You do realize we’re talking about me, Georgia, and not Lo, right?”

Clem rolled her eyes. “What about the money from Grammy?”

“Almost gone. Besides, I need to cook. I love to cook.”

“So throw a dinner party.”

“Funny. Besides, working on the business plan, walks with Sally, and coffee dates with you two aren’t cutting it. No offense, guys.” Especially since “working on the business plan” had been limited to checking out spaces she couldn’t afford and fantasizing about turning away Mercedes Sante and Marco on opening night. She’d started to think the right partner might help get the restaurant off the ground, but so far the list of potential candidates hovered at zero.

“Tea dates,” Clem said. “I think I’m quitting coffee too.”

“Hey, how is Sally?” Lo asked. “And did you see Glenn when he dropped her off?”

“No, the lame-o had his
cousin
do the drop-off,” Clem snorted.

“Sally’s amazing, as always. And believe me, I’m glad I didn’t have to see him.”

“I’m sure. How awkward, especially since—” Lo cut herself off. “Where is the waiter? I want a tea too.”

“Since what, Lo?” Georgia asked.

“Since you haven’t seen him for so long?”

“Since what, Lo?” Georgia repeated.

“Oh, Jesus, Lo, just tell her. She’s going to find out soon enough anyway.” Clem flagged down the waiter. “Two more green teas. And you better send over a chocolate bombe too.”

“I’m not really sure how to say this.” Lo took a deep breath. “Glenn is engaged. To Lila Fowler.”

“How do you know?” Georgia asked.

“I ran into Mrs. Fowler at Doubles. I’m sorry, George.”

“Does Lila Fowler have a dog?” Georgia pictured the cockapoo sitting next to Sals on the beach in Bridgehampton.
Her new best friend,
Glenn had written.

“
That’s
the first thing you want to know?” Clem asked.

“I’m not sure,” Lo answered. “But I can find out.”

“Forget it.” Georgia tucked her head into her chest. Her black cardigan pouched out at precisely the wrong place, making her belly appear even bigger than it was. A shiver ran down her neck and she hunched her shoulders against the chill. “I don’t love him anymore,” she said without lifting her gaze. “I haven’t loved him in a long time.”

“We know,” said Clem.

“We know,” said Lo.

“But still,” Georgia said.

The server brought over the teas and the chocolate dessert. He looked at Clem, who pointed to Georgia. “I guess this is for you, dear.” Clem slid the notebook out of the way, and he placed the oozing orb in front of Georgia. “Enjoy it.”

Georgia smiled wanly, her eyes still resting on her pouchy sweater, expanding and retracting with each breath. But still.

T
he giant snowflake flickered over Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue, the commercial crossroads of the world for the holiday season if not the whole year through. The streets were thick with cabs, the sidewalks clogged with tourists speaking languages as far-flung as Ukrainian and the slightly closer-to-home dialect known as Brooklynese. Bergdorf’s street-level windows overflowed with one-of-a-kind treasures and so much sartorial splendor one could only dream. Across the street, Tiffany was knee-deep in tourists ogling the important jewels on the ground floor before shuffling off to four to buy key rings, a charm, or maybe an egg-size picture frame. Down the avenue, Salvation Army workers collected Christmas cheer for the less fortunate, ringing their bells in front of St. Patrick’s, Saks, and the trumpeting angels at Rockefeller Center. All roads led to the tree: a ninety-foot Norwegian spruce covered in blue lights, a five-pointed star perched atop its highest branch. Holiday season in New York was in full swing.

Like any schooled New Yorker, Georgia avoided the tourist-rich stretch of Fifth Avenue from Thanksgiving straight through
the New Year. The lone exception to this ironclad rule had been her and Glenn’s annual pilgrimage to behold the tree. The tradition began innocently enough one clear December evening after drinks at the Four Seasons, a couple of those ghastly green apple martinis that had enjoyed a fleeting moment of fame in watering holes across the city. Glenn suggested a walk, and arms linked, they strolled down the avenue, pausing at each overdecorated window and picking out gifts they’d never buy for everyone they knew. Rock Center was almost deserted, and they held hands and gazed at the tree, forgetting for the moment how cheesy it all was. The next year they repeated the tradition, even sitting on the same uncomfortable barstools. The only difference was the champagne that filled their flutes, a necessary upgrade.

This year, she’d skip the trip. First, there was the Glenn-is-engaged-to-someone-else issue. Second, she now passed the tree twice a day, once on her way to the Tuscan Oven and once on her way from the Tuscan Oven. She’d started as head chef in the middle of October and now, two months in, was fairly cozy in her new position. The job was virtually stress-free: absentee boss, no chance of getting reviewed, customers who barely spoke English. The more comfortable she got, the harder it was to start working on her own restaurant. Plus, she rationalized, everyone knew that nothing was ever accomplished over the holidays. The question of a partner gnawed at her, but she pushed it aside. Her grand plans would wait until the new year, which, Claudia’s astrologer would surely confirm, was a much more auspicious time to start a new venture anyway.

Wearing a chunky knit hat pulled low over her head, a trim down coat, and jeans tucked into knee-high boots, Georgia arrived at the Oven. Snow was forecast for later in the evening, and the city eagerly awaited the first flakes of the season to
fall. The door blew shut behind her, letting out a little squeal. If the wind kept up, the snowstorm would become a blizzard and the restaurant would be dead. Even tourists knew how to order takeout. She walked under the distressed-brick archway into the dining room, heading for her locker.