Out to Lunch (19 page)

“I was thinking the Leia gold slave bikini. Too much?”

“You wear that, you’d better bring a justice of the peace, because I’ll marry you on the spot.”

“Better not, then. My lawyer is stuck in Aspen, and I’m a strict pre-nup kind of girl.”

“Safer that way. I’d go with jeans, then.”

“Okay. And Elliot?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

God help me. I’m off to Geek Central New Year’s.

* * *

O
ne of my favorite stories about Aimee, is from the summer we spent touring Europe after college graduation.” I’m having, despite myself, a very good time. Elliot lives in a very cool restored Victorian in Old Irving Park, and blissfully the décor is like his office at the store and not full of collectibles and movie posters. He has a great buffet set up with my favorite kind of nibbly foods, cheeses and sweet-and-sour meatballs, a glazed ham with little biscuits to make sandwiches, some sort of savory spinach bread pudding, mini quiches, pigs in blankets. The people are all very nice, very welcoming, and not one of them has head tilted at me. It’s actually pretty normal, despite the fact that Georgie keeps coming up to me and giving me odd bits of information about himself. Tonight I have learned that his work as a computer networker is going really well, and that he was just hired to work on a big movie that is filming locally. That he is allergic to shellfish. And peanuts. And dust. And sunscreen. And apparently, you know, everything.

But this small group, even the one couple I’ve never met before, they don’t look at me like I am supposed to collapse or burst into tears at any moment. Instead, they’ve asked Wayne and me to tell good Aimee stories, and now that I’ve started I kind of can’t stop.

“I was getting ready to start culinary school at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, and Aimee was coming back to Chicago to go to business school at Northwestern. We had saved up to spend three glorious months just playing and being young and free. We were in the south of Italy, and Aimee decided we should pop over to Monaco for dinner. There was a restaurant she had heard of, and as we all know, Aimee always knew where the best and newest places were. We took the train into Monte Carlo, and found a small restaurant on a tiny side street just off the center of town. It was nondescript on the outside, but spectacularly elegant inside.

“We didn’t have a reservation, but with her broken French, and fabulous smile, Aimee had the maître d’ eating out of her hand and we were shown to a quiet table for two. Before we were able to open our menus, they were whisked away, and we were told that the chef wanted to cook for us, and that the meal would be on the house. We giggled, and I told Aimee that she was the only person I knew who could have pulled that off, and hoped she hadn’t promised anything unladylike. The meal was epic. Twelve, maybe thirteen courses, each more delicious and intricate than the last. Wines specially matched for every course, and the most attentive service. With every dish we sent effusive compliments back to the kitchen along with clean plates, and I surreptitiously kept notes of every dish and every wine in my little notebook in my lap, wanting to replicate flavors and remember every detail.”

Elliot refills my glass with Pierre Gimmonet champagne, a pretty sophisticated choice, and very delicious.

“Thanks, El. Anyway, we were lingering over post-dinner drinks when the chef came out to greet us. He seemed perplexed when he saw us, but recovered quickly, and sat down to join our table for a brief chat. The mystery was quickly resolved. Aimee, in her indomitable way, had tried to tell the maître d’ that we were traveling from the states and that she had heard about the restaurant being recommended by M. F. K. Fisher and Alice Waters. Turns out the young man misunderstood and thought that we
were
M. F. K. Fisher and Alice Waters, hence the amazing comped meal.” Everyone breaks up; the story was legend in our inner circle, but the people here are hearing it for the first time. And Wayne is nodding and beaming at me while I tell it.

“We laughed with the chef about the mix-up, and offered to pay. He smiled and said it was his pleasure, we had been wonderful guests to cook for, and he hoped we would return someday. So, flash forward. My first week at culinary school, they were honoring some alumni, and we were all invited to attend the ceremony. Imagine my delight and surprise when I saw our chef from Monte Carlo among the honorees! I went up to greet him after the ceremony, and he kissed me three times, then put his arm around me and in rapid-fire French, explained our connection to the other chefs, who laughed heartily at the mix-up. Later, in talking to one of my instructors, I found out that the gentleman I thought of as ‘Chef Louis’ was in fact Louis Rebluchette, and that the restaurant was his three-Michelin-star Louis, and the meal Aimee and I had so enjoyed would have cost us nearly two thousand dollars if we had been paying customers! After culinary school, I was able to do a six-month series of stages in all of his restaurants, a gig that no recent graduate had ever been blessed with, all because of Aimee’s audaciousness.”

“That is amazing. And so like her,” Carolyn says. “She once got us house seats to the opera by pretending to be one of their board members!”

“She sounds pretty awesome,” says Beth, a very nice woman who apparently runs a successful accounting firm during the day, and is a Steampunk goddess by night.

“I was pretty awesome.”

“She was exceptionally awesome,” Wayne says.

“Thank you, my love.”

“Hey everyone, make sure your glasses are full, we are one minute away!” Elliot says. I look at my watch, and can’t believe it’s already almost midnight.

We gather around the television, glasses in hand, watching Ryan Seacrest, and missing Dick Clark.

“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

The couples kiss.

Wayne and Georgie indulge in a solid back-slapping man hug.

And Elliot? Pulls me close and plants a kiss right on my lips. His lips are soft, but the kiss is firm, and while no one would ever claim that it was anything other than New Year’s friendly, it makes my girl parts go all tingly.

“Happy New Year, Jenna. Here is to a year that is full of all the happy that last year missed.” He squeezes my shoulder, and then heads for the kitchen.

Before I can even process what just happened, I am grabbed in a classic Wayne bear hug. “Happy New Year, Jenny! Here’s to us. Surviving last year, and surviving next year.” His eyes are sparkly with tears.

“Happy New Year, Wayne. I’ll drink to that.” I raise my glass to him.

“To Aimee,” he says.

“To Aimee.” I clink his glass with mine.

“To me!”

“Milk and cookies, anyone?” Elliot reappears from the kitchen with a large platter of chocolate chip cookies, and a little wire holder containing a dozen little milk bottles with striped paper straws, that turn out to contain vanilla malted milk shakes.

“Elliot, these are amazing,” I say, slurping the bottom of my bottle.

“No one ever thinks about malt in vanilla, but I like it better than chocolate.”

“Look at you, sneaky foodie.”

“No so sneaky,” he says, winking. “C’mere.” He takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen. Through the door is a kitchen that appears to be practically as well kitted out as my own. A wall of spices that might actually beat mine. High-quality equipment as far as the eye can see and all of it clearly well loved and well used.

“Elliot! I had no idea!”

“Shhh. Most of my circle thinks that any self-respecting geek needs to live on pizza and cereal. If they find out I cook, I’ll totally lose street cred.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“We should cook sometime.”

“You got it. Maybe next time Noah is down you and I can knock out some roasted chickens!”

He smiles, a little wanly. “You bet. That will be fun.”

“I should go, have to get the dogs out. Thanks so much for a lovely evening, Elliot, really.”

“Anytime. I’ll go call the car for you.”

I head out of the lovely kitchen and make my good-byes to the rest of the group. Georgie, the third musketeer, kisses me wetly under my ear and whispers that he will call me later. I’m not really sure what that is about.

Elliot walks me out and opens the car door for me. “Good night, Jenna.”

“Good night, Elliot, thank you for saving my New Year’s.”

“The pleasure was entirely mine.” And then he kisses me again, the same tender kiss as before, and my physical reaction is the same, which I attribute to being full of champagne.

I get into the car, and he closes the door.

“Back to Maplewood, miss?” the driver says, and I realize it is the same guy as earlier.

“Yes, please.”

And I’m almost home before I realize that I’ve completely broken my promise to Brian; not only didn’t I think about him at midnight, I haven’t thought about him at all, all night.

18

T
urns out all the strange attention from Georgie wasn’t actually out of nowhere. He called me the week after New Year’s, as he said he would. And asked me out. I politely declined. Then I called Wayne.

“Did you give Georgie my number and tell him I would go out with him?”

“What? You said you weren’t exclusive. Georgie’s a great guy.”

“Wayne. I know what I said, but I’ve been single a long time. Don’t you think if I were going to spark to Georgie I would have done it already?”

“I thought you needed a nudge.”

“Wayne, please don’t try and fix me up.”

“But you aren’t exclusive.”

“I’m also not actively on the market.”

“That Brian guy is slippery, he’ll trap you.”

“I promise you, Georgie is not the guy to prevent Brian from trapping me.”

“Okay. I was just trying . . .”

“I know. It’s very sweet. Just don’t, okay?”

“Okay. Am I still house-sitting with the dogs next weekend?”

“Yes, please, if that’s still fine.”

“It is. But I wish you weren’t going.”

“It’s just a weekend in Saginaw. Two nights. I’ll be back Sunday.”

“Weekends like that lead to exclusivity, and you know my vote on that.”

“He just wants you to have the right love.”

He wants a punch in the mouth. GEORGIE?

“He’s trying.”

Yes. Yes he is. VERY trying.

“Thank you, Wayne. If I promise to not come back exclusive, can I still go?”

“Yes. I’ll be there Friday.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

B
rian made it back from Aspen in time for dinner on New Year’s Day, demolished the food and wine with me, and asked if I would join him for a weekend away in a friend’s weekend home in Michigan in a couple of weeks.

“Boy, do all your friends have extra houses to loan you?”

“Yep. I only hang out with people who have multiple houses.”

“Guess I’m going to be off the list.”

“You just haven’t found your second home yet.”

“Yes you have.”

“Guess I haven’t.”

“YES YOU HAVE.”

Aimee and I fell in love with an old stone
mas
in the south of France. It used to be a mill, and had a huge main house with three outbuildings on the property. We swore we would buy it and renovate it as our vacation home together. We got close to doing it too, but then she got sick and there went the dream. The Voix keeps telling me to do it anyway, but I know better. It’s too much; I can’t do it on my own, and wouldn’t want to.

I agreed to the weekend away. Wayne agreed to dog sit. Originally I wanted him to just take the dogs to his house, but then he said that he had some sort of massive Terminix bomb thing he wanted to do and that he would just house-sit and dog sit. At that point, despite the fact that I’m reasonably sure that between Chewie and Hurriwayne my entire home will be leveled while I’m away, I couldn’t really say no. Plus I really didn’t want to know why he was having the house bombed, and once he assured me that whatever the issue was it wasn’t transferable to my house, I caved. Thankfully, Wayne needs access to a television at all times, so he will stay in the guest room. The idea of Wayne in my bed just completely makes my skin crawl.

Meanwhile, why can I have a TV in the guest room and not the bedroom?

“Because a guest room is like a hotel room, and guests need a TV. Your bedroom is your sacred space, and you need quiet.”

You and your freaking rules.

“You’re the one who always listened.”

I’m starting to wonder why.

“Because I’m always right.”

Well, there’s that.

* * *

I
may be a little nervous about going away with Brian, but I’m very ready for a break. Chewbacca continues to Jekyll and Hyde all over the place, two days of being an angel, followed by a day of eating the furniture. Plus now he has begun humping everything in sight. Volnay put the kibosh on things quickly when he attempted to violate her in her sleep, but my couch cushions, table legs, and guests have not been so lucky. The breeder said we should wait till he is six months old to neuter him, so I have another two months to live with a horny humpmonster. Plus he is apparently in the ninety-ninth percentile for weight and height, clocking in at nearly fifty-five pounds already. My vet said he is likely to end up somewhere in the 125– to 135-pound range when he is full-grown. Great. My dog is going to be MY ideal weight.

Yesterday he did his test run at the doggie day care that Alana uses, and it was gently suggested that I not bring him back. Ever. Something about him getting out of his crate and into the office and eating most of a printer and someone’s shoes, and going all date rapey on a shy Bernese during playtime. So embarrassing. Now I have to try and find another place to take him so that he can get some good socializing when puppy kindergarten is over next week. I’m just not really a good dog park person. Probably because I’m not really a good dog person, come to think of it.

I’m up and packed early, even though Brian isn’t picking me up till three thirty. Wayne is coming at three. By nine, the dogs are walked, the house is pretty Wayne-proofed. I’ve moved anything both breakable and valuable into the butler’s pantry cabinets, which lock. I’ve put all of my small valuables and personal papers in the safe. Yesterday I roasted a chicken and grilled a large steak, both of which are in the fridge along with a case of beer. There are carrots and green beans blanched, so he just has to heat them up, and two bags of frozen French fries. I’ve got a folder ready for him with instructions for all the appliances and electronics.

By ten, I realize that I have to do something, or I’m going to twiddle my thumbs all day. I decide to bake something for Wayne, leave a little bit of delicious for him for the weekend.

In the pantry I look to see what ingredients I have on hand. Bars of bittersweet chocolate and dark cocoa powder put me in the mind for something decadent and rich. And then it hits me.

“Blackout Elevator Cake.”

Exactly.

Aimee and I once got stuck in a load-in elevator at an event venue en route to an engagement party due to a blackout. We were there for nearly four hours. The only thing we had with us was the dark chocolate layer cake I had made as a surprise for the groom, who hated the lemon chiffon his bride-to-be had chosen. I meant to sneak it into the party, and serve him a special slice, and then send the rest home with him. He never got it. Aimee and I sat in the dark, eating cake with our hands by the light of our cellphones and laughing and telling stories and sharing our mutual fear that we would have to go to the bathroom before they found us. We did not. But when they finally got us out, our teeth were black from the chocolate cookie crumbs, Aimee had frosting in her hair, I had chocolate pastry cream dolloped in the middle of my bosom, and we both had fudge frosting under our fingernails. We were both half-sick, and the cake was half-gone, and it was one of the best days of my life.

The cake turns out to be the perfect idea. The focus baking requires settles my mind and my nerves, doesn’t let other thoughts sneak in. Stirring the pastry cream and putting it in the blast chiller in the island, a total chefly indulgence that I have never once regretted. The house filling with the scent of rich, dark chocolate as the cakes rise in the oven. The treat of the moist trimmings as I even up the layers before spreading the thick custard filling between them. The fudgy frosting smoothed perfectly over the whole thing, and then immediately marred with chocolate cookie crumbs.

Blackout Cake is almost enough to make me want to stay home. But more than that, I think Wayne will be delighted. It weighs about forty-two pounds as I shift it out of the kitchen and onto the counter in the Kitchen Library, shutting the door behind me. Chewie is not just getting heavier by the day; he is also getting taller, and has become something of a counter surfer.

By the time the cake is finished, I’m calm and collected. I forget how much my sense of self is connected to the kitchen, to cooking. From the moment I went to culinary school twenty years ago, right up until the moment Aimee got sick, cooking was my center and the main occupation of my mind. Even when we sold the business, just four months before Aimee’s official diagnosis, back when we thought that her permanent fatigue was a result of the relentless nature of the company, I went from overseeing the catering aspect of the company, to a return to the cooking I loved most, hosting dinner parties for friends and family, hanging out at the Library testing new recipes and making customers and staff my guinea pigs, teaching the occasional class with Andrea.

“You have to get back in the kitchen.”

I know. I just . . .

“No excuses. You have to cook. You need to get the Notebook out again.”

The Notebook has been with me for twenty years. Aimee gave it to me for a graduation present when I finished at Le Cordon Bleu. It’s a handmade journal, must have over four hundred pages, ten by twelve inches, and bound in soft gray distressed leather. It looks like a witch’s grimoire of spells, or the kind of notebook Marie Curie would work problems in. And it is about two-thirds full of my chicken scratch, notes for recipes, ideas of flavors that might pair well together, techniques I want to try and improve, drawings of plating ideas. It used to be that when I was stressed, or excited, or sad, or bored, I would go to the Notebook and then to the kitchen.

“It’ll cure what ails you.”

And maybe she’s right. Maybe some of my aimlessness is simply not feeling useful or needed or productive. It’s ironic really. We did such a good job of building our business, it didn’t need us anymore. And such a good job of training our staff at the Library, it runs like a clock without us. If only Aimee had been as successful in preparing me to live without her.

* * *

H
ere we go!” Brian says, opening the door of the cozy-looking cottage tucked away on a lovely street in the very quaint village. We step inside and he turns on the light. It is a little bungalow, the perfect kind of place for a quiet weekend away. Saginaw is about a four and a half hour drive from Chicago. We got through two of Wayne’s ’80s driving CDs that he gifted me after our road trip before Brian called uncle in the middle of Adam and the Ants. He’s not a car karaoke guy, apparently.

We get the car unloaded, and head out to a place called Jake’s for burgers, since it is already after eight, and neither of us is much in the mood to try and cook anything. Back at the cottage, Brian lights a fire, and we open a bottle of calvados that I brought with me.

“This is nice. Thank you for bringing me.”

“Thank you for coming. Am I allowed to say that I appreciate the peacefulness?”

I laugh. “You mean because there isn’t a huge puppy alternately humping your leg and eating your pajamas?”

“Yes. That.”

“Well, the good news is that I signed him up for the next level of training, so we are going to commit to making him a good Canine Citizen, and the vet says the humping and rambunctiousness will go away once I get him neutered.”

“Well, I suppose that is something. And finally you found a good use for Wayne. Maybe you could get him to dog sit now and again at home. I’d like to wake up with you at my place once in a while.”

I lean forward and kiss him. “I bet that could be arranged.”

What we begin on the couch in front of the fire, we continue in the bedroom, and after, I fall into deep and satisfied sleep. The phone wakes me at six.

“Whaddizit?” I whisper sleepily, having tiptoed out of the bedroom and downstairs.

“First off, everything’s fine,” Wayne says.

“I’m pretty sure that isn’t really true if you are calling me at six in the morning on a Saturday. What happened?”

“Well it’s a funny story, really . . .”

“Pretty sure that isn’t true either.”

“Well, the thing is, we’re at the emergency vet.”

Well, now I’m awake. “What happened? Is it Volnay?” The idea that my sweet old girl might go without me there makes my heart clench.

“No, she’s fine. But, um, I sort of left that cake, which was totally awesome, by the way, you should be a professional chef or something!”

“WAYNE!”

“Oh, yeah, anyway, I left the cake on the kitchen counter when I went to bed, and then Volnay came and woke me up at three, and I thought she needed to go out, but it turns out Chewie got onto the counter and ate the rest of the cake, and he looked really uncomfortable, and when I checked online to see if I could, you know, give him some Tums or Pepto or something it said that chocolate is like toxic to dogs so we hightailed it to the all-night emergency place, and they pumped his stomach, poor guy.”

Shit. Shitshitshitshit. One weekend. I wanted ONE weekend. I can feel my recent goodwill toward Wayne, well, waning. “Is he okay?”

“Oh, yeah, a total trouper. The doc said he probably prevented most of the damage when he threw up.”

“You mean when they pumped his stomach?”

“Nah, I mean when he threw up at home. I dunno if the living room rug is gonna be the same, but it probably saved his life.”