Recipe for Disaster (4 page)

“How are things at the Palmer Square house?” Grant asks, wiping his plate with a chunk of bread.

“Never got there today, the day got sucked up with the endless bids, I had to run all the way out to Park Ridge to put out a fire, and then the bathroom door debacle. But hopefully tomorrow after work I can swing by and do a little something. When I’m there it feels great, and what little I’m able to do is going well. And it’s going to be freaking gorgeous.”

“Well, there’s no doubt of that. How are you feeling about the timing? Another two years?”

I think about what’s left to do. It seems endless. When I found the property it was in foreclosure; the previous owner had overextended himself assuming that the three-flat, which had been converted to apartments, including an illegal one in half of the basement, would generate enough income to be self-supporting. But he overestimated the rents he could charge for spaces that hadn’t been updated since the 1970s, and when the housing market crashed, he was so underwater he just abandoned the property completely and declared bankruptcy.

Grant and I thought it would be the perfect first venture for us in the realm of flipping, to restore the place to its original glory and sell it as a spectacular high-end single-family home. Or rather I thought it would be, and Grant was easy to convince. I sold the little house I had gotten from Joe when he died to the people who had been renting it from me, and used half of the profits to buy the Palmer place outright; Grant has been funding the renovations. We got it for a song; it couldn’t be torn down due to the historical landmark status of the street and needed so much work no one wanted to touch it. We took it off the bank’s hands for literally pennies on the dollar. I’ve done most of the renovations on my own, bringing in some specialty help for the major projects like upgrading the electricity and plumbing. It’s been just over a year, and as of right now, the only room in the house that’s completely finished is the kitchen, since that’s always the most fun to design and is the only thing Grant really cared about in the project. I may not cook, but I can do a seriously spectacular kitchen design. Grant actually hasn’t been to see the place since the final kitchen fixture went in, but he’s good about checking the progress verbally.

“I’d like to say two on the outside, but you know how it goes. Verrrry sloooooowwwwly.”

“But you love it?”

“So much. It’s like a gift to get to go there and work.” There have been wonderful surprises, original treasures covered up by drywall and paint and carpet and linoleum. For every bad discovery—asbestos in the basement, lead paint throughout, a horror-movie nest of rats in the old coal hopper—there has been a glorious one: marble wainscoting behind drywall in a bathroom, a covered-up fireplace in the living room, gorgeous coffering in the dining room hidden by an industrial drop ceiling.

“What if you did it full-time?” Grant clears our plates and pours us both more wine.

“Leave MacMurphy?”

“Why not? What do you figure we can clear on this flip when you are done?”

“If we stay on budget, and the market stays strong, we should net about 500K, maybe a smidge more if we get lucky.”

“That seems like enough to get a second project under way. You hate it where you are. They don’t begin to deserve you, and you almost never get the kinds of projects that make it worth putting up with their bullshit. And you love working on that house. Maybe it’s time to do it full-time, get it finished, let it take you to the next step? I mean, don’t you want to just find wonderful houses like that and restore them and then sell them and stop with all the boring cookie-cutter work for ungrateful clients and shithead bosses?”

My heart flutters. I’d never thought seriously about going out on my own full-time so soon; I just thought it would be fun to do a project here and there. To get a lot of experience under my belt, and then MAYBE in another ten years or so to take the leap. If things were good financially, if the market was conducive. In the meantime, I just figured that working on one personal project at a time, for as long as it took, would be enough to fill that need in me. To have control, to make the decisions, to fully realize a single vision from start to finish. I’m always proud of my work, but when you work for other people, their input takes precedence. The end result is your execution of what they want and need. Hopefully, you’re able to convince them to trust you on details here and there, to make them fall in love with your ideas, but at the end of the day the purity is lost. But the thought, the mere mention, of just getting up every day and going over to Palmer Square and working the way I crave? To finish it and then find another project to fall in love with all over again? That makes me all tingly.

“I don’t know; that is a huge risk.”

“I don’t think it is. You’re really good at what you do, honey, you know that. You’ve got all the right instincts, and great taste. You know the market. I just think that life is short, and waiting around for some magical sign that it is time to stop wasting your talent on projects and people so far beneath you is silly. Go big or go home, right? What is the worst thing that could happen?”

“We could lose money on the house and not have any profit to find another project and then I would not have a job to go back to. The whole thing is very risky. Not to mention an expensive proposition for you. You’d have to be the sole breadmaker AND breadwinner.”

Grant smiles. He reaches across the counter and traces his fingertip down the length of my nose. “You’re worth it. Besides, when the TV thing gets signed this week, the money won’t be much of an issue.” His idea for the show is a wonderful one. Each episode he would get together with one other chef so that the two of them could cook dinner for a small gathering of chefs, foodies, critics, and other interesting cultural figures who happen to love food. Sort of half cooking show, half salon. The deal would be for a guaranteed full twenty-six-week season, and would pay him handsomely. Even better, he would get to work with his friends Patrick and Alana, whose production company put the deal together, and who would serve as co–executive producers. Grant always said that after the
World’s Supreme Chef
experience, he would only do more TV if he was sure about the people he was working with. He’s turned down half a dozen offers, everything from
The Next Iron Chef
to recurring judging on various shows. He does a once-a-month lunchtime spot on WGN locally, because they are near to his heart and he loves that Tom Skilling always sneaks in to taste and rave about whatever he’s cooking. When Patrick and Alana approached him, he recognized that he could really create a show to be proud of, and that they wanted him to have a tremendous amount of creative control, and that was what sealed the deal for him. With the TV show plus the anticipated numbers for the new restaurant he is about to open, and the second cookbook that comes out this summer, we aren’t going to be buy-an-island rich, but the cash flow is going to be really very comfortable. And since neither of us wants kids, it isn’t like we have to sock money away for college educations or to try to create intergenerational wealth. We’ve both been diligent about retirement savings, and will obviously continue to be, but the big bump in disposable income that is imminent does present some wonderful opportunities.

“Well, let’s think about it after, then. You know my motto. No drinking till the inking!” I carry the chip on my shoulder of almost every self-made person. On the one hand, you can see clearly where the financial assistance will help you achieve what you want faster or more completely. Yet, your very soul chafes at the idea of accepting, even when offered as generously and openly and with as much love as Grant offers. Since he is also self-made, he knows better than to push too hard.

“Okay. But know that I’m more than prepared to support you in every way. I think you’ll be happier, and I like you happy.”

He comes around to my side of the island and gives me a powerful hug. Grant is a great hugger. I look up at him and he kisses me softly on the lips. “Dessert?” he asks.

I grin at him. “Absolutely,” I say, waiting for the slide of his hand up my robe or a deeper kiss.

He grins. “Coming up!” And he walks over to the fridge to fetch something new the pastry chef has been working on.

Oh well. I’m probably too full and tired for bedroom acrobatics anyway. Grant brings over a plate with what looks like a chocolate pyramid on it, and hands me a fork, and we have our cake and eat it.

I
’m dreaming about getting a facial, Grand-mère standing over me saying that my skin is horrible, that I don’t take care of myself, and blowing sulfurous steam at me to open my pores. Then she leans over and scratches at my face with her always impeccably manicured fingers, telling me that I have neglected my exfoliation. I open one eye to find Schatzi pawing at my forehead and breathing foul kibble breath up my nose.

“Seriously, dog? You hateful bitch. I know Grant already walked and fed you.” I give her a shove, and she drops lightly off the bed, clicking her claws down the hall in a perfect replica of Grand-mère’s kitten-heeled cadence, making me shudder. Two years gone and she still haunts me. Schatzi is only six, so barring some unfortunate accident or unexpected illness, I could have another good eight to ten years of this abuse ahead of me.

I swing my legs out of bed and drop to the floor to stretch. I may be still a few months shy of my thirty-fifth birthday, but my body bears the signs of a life of physical work. My joints take a few minutes to loosen, my neck and back require some coaxing to unclench. My girlfriend Marie tried to get me to do yoga, but I got twisted into some warrior pose and accidentally lost control of a massively loud and horribly smelly fart, the unfortunate result of a La Pasadita carne asada burrito for lunch. Needless to say, I’ve never had the balls to take another class. I do my own little stretch routine in the morning for a few minutes, and it seems to help limber me up for the day. And if a foul wind escapes me, there is only me and the dog to witness, and frankly, crop-dusting that satanic canine is one of my few deep pleasures. I throw on an ancient pair of jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a zip-up fleece vest. It’s Saturday, my favorite day of the week. I get to spend a whole day at the Palmer house, and then dinner with my best girlfriends, my total me-day.

Saturday is Grant’s longest workday. He hits the markets in the morning, plans menus for the coming week, places orders with vendors, and then goes to the restaurant to prep and do a grueling Saturday-night service, usually getting home between one and two in the morning. I try to stay up for him. When he gets home he’s usually wired, and we often have a snack and a small glass of bourbon or calvados, which is a very nice way to jump-start our Sundays. If Grant isn’t out of town for an event or press thing, rarer and rarer these days, he and I spend Sundays blissfully together, sleeping in, having some sort of brunch adventure, watching shows and movies on Netflix, napping, and having something wonderful for dinner. Since the restaurant is closed Mondays, he often has to get up early on Sunday and fly somewhere for Sunday night and Monday appearances, returning late Monday or early Tuesday to get back to the grind of the restaurant. He’s frantically training his executive sous chefs for both restaurants in anticipation of the television work, which will take him away from them even though it will film in Chicago. When we get them, maybe only once a month, Sundays are the days we make up to each other for having jobs that keep us apart and exhausted the rest of the time.

Grant has left me an everything bagel, the crusty seeded roll smeared thickly with herbed cream cheese and covered with a thin shingling of cucumbers and a slice of the white ham La Quercia makes specially for his restaurant. I wrap it in a paper towel, toss Schatzi a treat from the bowl, and head out. The day is Arctic Circle cold, but sunny and bright, a welcome change from the overcast gloom that is typical of January in Chicago. Luckily we have garage parking next door to our building, so I don’t have to scrape ice off the car, but it isn’t a heated space, so I always give Lola a good eight to ten minutes to really warm up before I make her drive in winter. This gives me a chance to devour the sandwich, naturally dropping a glob of cheese on my huge puffer coat, and sprinkling sesame seeds, sticky bits of onion, caraway, and salt crystals all over myself. In addition to having no cooking skills, my eating skills also lack finesse. Most everything ends up on my not-insignificant boob shelf, or lost off the fork into my lap. Grand-mère sent me to actual etiquette classes when I was seven and again when I was twelve, but while I understood everything intellectually, it never really sank into my bones. As a result, I get giddy if I get to wear anything nice more than once before I spatter it with stains. I’ve always known that I’m very lucky to have a career that requires grubby dress 99 percent of the time. If I’d wanted to be a lawyer, it would have cost me a fortune in blouses and dry cleaning.

I swing Lola into a parking space in front of Intelligentsia on Milwaukee, and scamper inside to get some fuel.

“Hey, Anneke,” Rainn, my favorite barista, says. “The usual?”

“Yes, please.” I take a seat at the bar while she efficiently pulls shot after shot of dark espresso. Every Saturday is the same; I get a rich double-shot latte with whole milk to prime my motor, and then two quad-shot iced Americanos with four sugars each to give me bits of pep through the day. And yes, I’m aware that ten shots of espresso in a day seems ridiculous, to say nothing of the eight packets of sugar, but Saturday is my cheat day for caffeine, which I limit to one latte a day during the week, and I believe in full indulgence.

I take my tray of enormous beverages, and head over to the Palmer house. It is so much more fun to work here in daylight, to fully appreciate the high ceilings and oversized windows and architectural details. She is a classic graystone, like a little castle, complete with a turret, the subtly wavy glass in the windows curved to match the curve of the stone. I love doing a full walk-through on Saturday mornings, to visualize the plans, to center my thoughts, to let the building tell me what it needs. I drop my coat and Joe’s old leather tool bag on the first floor and put the two iced coffees in the small fridge I’ve rigged up in the dining room. Then I take my latte and begin my walk-through.

I start at the front foyer, cringing as I always do at the horrid vinyl faux-grass-cloth wallpaper. But the intricate plaster ceiling molding is mostly intact; it will need some repairs, but I should be able to save it. And the original penny tile floor was essentially perfect when I pulled up the industrial carpeting a previous owner had put down; I just needed to strip some old adhesive off and give it a seal. It gleams like new under the protective thick paper I’ve taped over it to keep it safe and clean. I’ve been putting off dealing with the wallpaper because I hope that the murals that adorned the walls of the entrance are still there and can be restored.

When I researched the history of the building, I found a lot of newspaper articles on the family who built it, and a couple of them included faded photos of some of the interiors. That was how I knew where to look for the fireplace in the living room.

I love a building that has good history in addition to good bones. The Rabin family emigrated from Russia to Chicago right after the Great Fire, losing the “owitz” from the end of their name, and establishing a profitable family firm of accountants and insurance agents that continues to thrive today. The youngest of their three sons, the only one born here, married the daughter of a wealthy department store family, and they built the house in the up-and-coming Palmer Square neighborhood just before the turn of the century. The mansion was host to grand parties and philanthropic events that pop up in the society pages from 1900 to 1940, when the widow Rabin sold the house to a cousin who used it as a boardinghouse through the late 1950s. The cousin’s son took over the building and decided its value was more as a rental property, doing a shoddy conversion to the three upper floors to create apartments, and creating a garden apartment in the half of the basement that used to house the maid’s quarters. He sold it in the early 1960s, and nothing is known about it until 1978 when it changed hands again. The new owner did a halfhearted upgrade to some of the systems, and covered everything that could be covered in durable carpet and linoleum. The building passed to his daughter when he died, and she sold it to the guy who lost it to the bank.

It kills me that these rooms that knew generations of family parties, wedding receptions, and holiday celebrations got chopped up into unnatural bedrooms and closets, their details hidden and made generic in the name of commerce. Lucky for me, I had access to the original plans for the house, which had been filed with the city, and was able to gut the walls that had been added over the years, without disrupting the load-bearing originals. I’ll give those turn-of-the-century builders their props. This place is like a fortress. Whatever went on with fixtures and finishes, the structure is as solid as the day she was born.

After the Great Fire, the wealthy didn’t take any chances with their mansions, so the structure here is steel, not wood, and will support this old girl for another one hundred years at least. The walls are sound; the roof is solid, if in need of new insulation and a fresh coat of tar. Inside, the place may be something of a disaster, but at least the layout is getting back to what it was, if not yet what it will be. I still have massive demo to do in the basement; since that is a gut job, I’ve been saving it for a time I can take a few weeks’ vacation to really handle it right.

In my mind’s eye, I can see the place coming together. The spacious formal double-parlor living room with its restored fireplace surrounded by a carved limestone mantel I rescued from Liam’s Fremont job. The long dining room, anchored by built-in buffets with glass-door china hutches. The butler’s pantry with its double pocket doors and floor-to-ceiling cabinetry. The new state-of-the-art kitchen, practically restaurant quality, which sits upstairs with its shiny appliances all still covered in their protective blue plastic, waiting for a passionate home cook to fire it into life.

The bonus rooms I’ve planned for the basement, waiting to tell me what they should be. A man-cave? Exercise room? Home office? Guest suite? Mother-in-law apartment? I’m not pushing myself to decide quite yet. I may leave them as what Joe always called a “vanilla box,” just framed-out walls and roughed-in plumbing and electrical, and put it on the market for the buyer to determine what they need and let me custom finish it to their specifications.

Despite the gaping holes in walls where the electrician ripped out the old knob-and-tube wiring that was sitting scarily live underneath the lath, and the ghastly 1970s bathrooms sprinkled about, there are things about this house you cannot help but appreciate. Twelve-foot ceilings with custom crown moldings a full fourteen inches wide, albeit covered in god-knows-how-many layers of paint. The windows, which shockingly are in terrific shape, need a little love and all need the casements stripped and resealed, but they aren’t drafty, and the storm windows appear to be one of the only places the previous owners didn’t cheap out on. The spacious attic with its built-in closets and cupboards and shelves, all of them lined in cedar for storing seasonal clothes and party linens.

I always finish my tour on the second floor, where a pair of tall, slim French doors open onto a small Juliet balcony. I’ve planned this room as an office, imagining it with a beautiful antique desk, maybe a chaise longue, picturing a creative type, a graphic artist or an illustrator or a writer, someone who would be inspired by the light, by the ability to open these doors and let in fresh air. Unless it’s raining or snowing, this is where I finish my coffee, looking out onto Palmer Square Park and clearing my head for the day.

M
y phone rings just as I’m finishing the grout on the bathroom floor, bemoaning the fact that it has taken me three weeks to get back here to finish. I figured out a long time ago to keep a pencil nearby when I’m doing grubby work like this, so that I don’t have to take off my gloves. Caller ID says it’s Hedy. I use the eraser end of the pencil to put her on speaker.

“We’re going to Caroline’s tonight,” she says without saying hello.

“We always go to Caroline’s.” Which we do, despite the fact that she lives in Evanston and the rest of us live in the city.

“I know, but she’s making dinner.”

“That’s how she gets us.” Caroline is a very good cook, and I live with a professional chef, so I know whereof I speak.