“I’ll go over to Kerrie’s. I’ll take Oberon, and we’ll go to Kerrie’s. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m so sorry, Chef Page. We’ll be fine,” Margot reasons, heaving herself up from the chair. Samuel steadies her, helping her up with a grace that only intimacy can establish.
“No, I should—” Samuel starts.
“We’ll be fine,” Margot says, her hands on her belly.
“If you need me . . .” Samuel’s voice is barely a whisper. He’s inches from Margot, imploring her to tell him the truth: the only thing he can’t bear to hear right now.
“They need you here.” Margot reaches up to Samuel and buttons up his chef’s jacket. He bends in to her.
“I’m going to head on back into the kitchen,” I say to no one.
“We’ll know exactly how to care for our baby,” I hear Samuel say to Margot as I push open the kitchen door. His voice is private and wrenching.
As the night wears on, I look over at Julie and Samuel buzzing around the kitchen. Samuel is intent yet detached. His desserts are even more immaculate, even more controlled, than usual as he attempts to contain and suppress what happened earlier. I watch him attempting to balance his messy, out-of-control love for his wife and child and this restaurant. Try balancing that with anything else. Impossible. My stomach lurches, and I think of Daniel.
“Hey, I’m going to the bathroom. Just real fast,” I announce. Julie and Samuel don’t look up. I walk hurriedly to the lockers, grab my BlackBerry, and walk into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I dial Daniel—and quickly hang up. I can’t. I can’t. I dial Will. He knows me. The real me. He fits.
“Hello?” Will answers. I snap back into the moment. He sounds tired. I’m hunched over on the toilet with one finger in my ear. The noise from the kitchen distracts me.
“Hey, how’s your mom?” I begin.
“She went out about a week ago, but she’s been sober again for almost six days,” Will informs me.
“She went out?” I ask.
“She said she was craving a White Russian. Serves me right for renting The Big Lebowski.” Will’s voice is quiet and beaten.
“How are you doing?” I’m asking a question people ask a thousand times a day. But when you actually mean it, it has a global giantness to it that still yields the tiniest of answers.
“Fine,” Will answers.
Someone knocks on the bathroom door. “You done?”
“Just a second,” I answer. “I had a big meeting today,” I say to Will. My chest tightens.
“Oh yeah, Ras was telling me about that. Is this the TV thing?” Will says “TV” as if it’s some kind of sexually transmitted disease.
“Yeah, the TV thing,” I say, deflating slightly.
“We can talk more later—I’ve got to get back. See you soon, I promise.” Will hangs up quickly. I sit there, and the room closes in around me. I stare at my BlackBerry and scroll through the list of calls. Daniel has left two messages, asking me to stop by after work; he says he doesn’t care how late I am. I returned his call from this morning and told him that we’d have to wait until the weekend—too much to do in the morning. I need all the sleep I can get, as the homework Donna and Paul gave me is piling up. It all seemed so logical. Daniel understood. I flip my phone around in my hands. Around and around. He understood. I just can’t . . . I mean, look at Samuel and Margot. Will has never even come into the restaurant, let alone caused a scene like Margot. It’s just—it just can’t work. It can’t work.
“Will you come on!” the person on the other side of the door demands. The pounding startles me.
I stand, position myself in front of the sink, turn on the cold water, and splash my face. As I open the door, my BlackBerry begins to ring once more. Loudly. It has an old-fashioned brrrriiiinnnnnggggggg type of ring. The sous chef who was trying to get into the bathroom squeezes past me and shuts the door. I beep my phone on, trying to shut it up. I duck into the back room. “Hello?” I answer in a whisper, not recognizing the number.
“Elisabeth? Hi, it’s Paul.” His voice is smooth, even through the crackling phone.
“Hi, Paul, what’s going on?” I say. What’s going on? Who am I? Dwayne from What’s Happening!?
“The executives loved the pitch. They want to see the pilot ASAP,” Paul announces.
“Oh, wow—that’s fabulous!” I say, slinking farther into the back room.
“I just wanted to confirm our next meeting and finalize the dates for New York,” Paul rattles off. “We’re meeting at Campanile this coming Tuesday, and the trip to New York is slated for the second week in December—the fourth through the eighth—I believe it’s a Monday through Friday. You’ll be back for Saturday night at the restaurant. I’ll messenger over the details—flights, hotels, that kind of thing. We’ll go over our schedules at Campanile so we can set up some dates to shoot the pilot. Got it?”
My mind is racing. “I’d like to have my brother travel with me,” I ask, trying to keep up.
“That’s fine. We usually plan for spouses, but we can make arrangements for him. Rascal, right?” Paul asks.
“Right,” I say.
“That’s not his real name, is it?”
“No, his real name is actually worse,” I say.
“What shall I put on the ticket?” Paul presses.
“Raskolnikov. His full name is Raskolnikov Page,” I say, and spell it out.
“You’re right, it is worse. Okay, I think we’re done here. I’ll see you at Campanile with all of your homework. Congratulations, Elisabeth. This is going to be a very exciting time for you.”
“Thank you, Paul. See you then,” I say. I think about Samuel and his “excitement” of the night. I wonder, if I call Paul back, could he maybe bring my old life to the meeting at Campanile.
Could he do that for me?
Chapter Twenty-five
The days pass, and I fall into a rhythm with Daniel. We catch up about our days during midmorning phone calls as I drive from my apartment to the farmers’ market. We’ve obsessively planned our next outing, and every time we say goodbye, Daniel makes sure to say he’s looking forward to seeing me again. We’re mere miles from each other, but Daniel might as well be back in Kansas. Maybe it would be better if he were.
I open the restaurant with my key and walk in through the empty, darkened dining room. I rushed all morning and arrived super-early for work. I pop two Pepto-Bismol chewables and pull my purse strap tighter on my shoulder, shuffling a bit with the baskets of fresh raspberries as I push open the kitchen door. Julie turns around; she’s steaming some milk for her latte.
“Hey, you’re early,” I say, walking into the back room. This is the perfect opportunity to approach her about the possibility of working on the TV show.
“Yeah, I thought I’d . . . Well, I could use a few brownie points. What’s up?” Julie takes three shots of espresso and dumps them into her cup.
I set the raspberries down at our station. “I have a proposition,” I begin, walking back over to her.
“Spill it, Chef,” she says.
“I got an offer to do a pilot for my own television show,” I say, my voice calm. Julie crosses her arms over her ample chest. I continue, “It’s not final; there are a few meetings still, details to hammer out. And I’m not even sure I really want it.” Maybe it would have been good to know how I felt about this proposition before I said anything.
“Wait . . . what?” Julie is broadsided.
“Some people came into the restaurant, and one thing led to another, and they offered me a television show on the Food Network,” I say.
“You’ll still call, right? When you’re a big star?” Julie asks, eyeing the kitchen like a fox in the henhouse.
“I want you to come with me,” I say.
“Come with you?” Julie asks, focusing back on me.
“I get to bring an assistant. You’d be behind the scenes, but it’s essentially what you’re doing now, only for TV,” I say. We’re
silent. Is she looking around the kitchen knowing she can hate it now, too? Visions of wide-open poppy fields. A social life. A get-out-of-jail-free card. Or is she seeing that famous shot in the Tour de France when the lead bicycle blows a tire, falls, and causes a huge pileup, but the camera catches a blur as a single cyclist zooms past the carnage, unscathed, to the finish line?
“Your assistant?” Julie says pointedly.
“Holidays off. Summers off. And the money is great—-double what you’re getting now,” I explain. Shit, it sounds great even to me. Then again, I’ve been where Julie has wanted to be for three years now.
Julie is smiling. She begins to laugh. I laugh, too. I don’t quite know what we’re laughing at, but I don’t want to ruin the moment. Maybe she’s thinking about it. Right then the door to the kitchen swings open, and Samuel walks in.
“Hey, Samuel.” I wave. Julie is still chuckling. More and more people will be arriving soon. She’s going to have to hurry this along. Turn me down or laugh maniacally. Can’t do both. Samuel nods a quick hello and walks back to his station.
“I’m going to stay,” Julie says. She’s stopped laughing.
“Yeah, I kinda thought so,” I manage, allowing the laugh to crumble into my throat.
“It’s just that with you gone, Chef Canet will definitely make me head pastry chef,” she says, walking into the back room.
I follow. “I haven’t quit yet. The pilot might not track well,” I say. But there’s blood in the water. I’m on my way out. All she has to do is circle long enough, then go in for the kill.
“I could really make a name for myself here,” Julie says.
“I thought I’d give it a shot. With the hours being better, the money being so good, I just thought—” I continue.
“I’ll do it,” Samuel says from behind me. His voice is low.
I spin around. “Do what?”
“Yes!” Julie pumps her arm back à la Kirk Gibson circa the 1988 World Series. Samuel was the slight hitch in her plan to take over the world. The finish line is hers to burst through.
“Julie just said no to a job you offered her, right? Fewer hours . . . more money . . .” Samuel says, leaning against the doorjamb.
“Yeah, she . . .” I begin. Samuel has been working toward the goal of head pastry chef since he was eleven years old. Sneaking into kitchens as a kid, apprenticing as a teenager, and finishing first in his class at the Culinary Institute. He’s pursued this dream even longer than I have.
“I’m worried I’m not going to know my own kid, Chef,” Samuel says. His voice is quiet.
“Do you even care what the job is?” I ask.
“I trust you, Chef Page. I’d be honored to go anywhere with you. If you’ll have me,” Samuel adds.
“I’m . . . I’m flattered, Chef Decoudreau,” I say, pinching my eyes shut, trying to block any emotion. Julie looks away. Samuel calmly pulls a handkerchief from his checked pants and hands it to me. “You have handkerchiefs? Who has handkerchiefs?” I ask, dabbing at my runny nose.
“What are we talking about?” Samuel asks, motioning for me to keep the snotty handkerchief. Julie grabs her chef’s jacket out of her locker and slams the door shut.
“TV. One of those cooking shows for the Food Network. A whole L.A. thing. Local food and places of interest,” I say, still sniffling. Samuel’s whole face contorts into that wide, beautiful smile I saw at the Silver Lake farmers’ market long ago. I can’t help but smile myself.
“That’s definitely—I wasn’t expecting that,” Samuel confesses.
“We’ll film a pilot, and then I’ll go to New York the second week of December to meet the executives and pitch the show. I’ll know then if we get picked up. So it can be business as usual until then. Julie? Business as usual until then? Julie?” I prompt.
“Yes, I got it. Business as usual. You’re not going to be here for a full week, huh?” Julie taunts, trying to change the subject.
“Just that Tuesday through Friday, as far as the restaurant is concerned. Four days. Not a full week. December fourth through eighth,” I clarify.
“What’s this, Elisabeth?” Chef Canet comes around the corner. Samuel and Julie quickly walk out of the back room and into the kitchen.
“Rascal has a book signing in New York, and I’d like to go, Chef,” I lie.
“You’re saying words that I do not understand. Rascal? Is this a person?” Chef Canet sits on the long bench in the back room.
“Rascal is my brother,” I say. Goddamn my dad. He’s the gift that keeps on giving.
Chef Canet laughs. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I didn’t name him, Chef,” I explain.
“So this Rascal—he’s doing what in New York?”
“He wrote a book, and he’s doing a signing in New York,” I say. Why lie at all?
“Where?”
Oh, shit. That’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t make up a lie about a book signing to someone who just got back from his own book tour. “Columbia. He’s speaking at Columbia.” I offer.
“Hm.”
Great. Now Chef Canet is going to call his publisher and ask why he doesn’t get asked to speak at Columbia.
“It’s for their English department. Young Lions—it’s connected to the public library there,” I say. I’m throwing out anything literary I ever remember Dad talking about.
Chef Canet stands. “How long will you be gone?”
“Just four days—the fourth through the eighth of December. I’ll be back that Saturday,” I say.
“Feh,” Chef Canet huffs as he walks out of the back room. Not a nod of agreement. Not a middle finger and a big “fuck you.” Not a shave and a haircut, two bits. Nothing. I stand there next to my open locker. What the hell happened? I think I just got my first bit of vacation time. I grab my chef’s jacket and shut my locker.
Samuel turns the corner of the back room. He quickly looks over his shoulder, making sure Chef Canet is out of earshot. I slip on my chef’s jacket and button it up.
“So the hours are good?” he asks, speaking on behalf of his wife, his unborn child, and their newly acquired home in the hills of Silver Lake. It got a whole lot more serious in here all of a sudden.
“If the show gets picked up, we’ll have to film enough episodes for each season—about twenty-six episodes altogether. We’ll also get substantial signing bonuses, a salary that makes this look like welfare, and . . . and it’s like the great glass elevator, you know?”
“Up and out,” Samuel says.
“Exactly,” I say. We stand there for a couple of seconds in silence.
“We’re having a little boy,” Samuel says, smiling.
“Really? That’s . . . Congratulations,” I say, smiling back.
“Thank you,” Samuel says. He and I shake hands. He takes my hand in both of his. His hands are as rough and cut up as mine.
Chapter Twenty-six
I’ve spent all week with every cookbook I own, every slip of paper, every secret envelope with recipes written in chicken scratch, strewn out over my entire apartment. I’ve come up with enough recipes and field-piece ideas for my meeting with Paul and Donna this morning. I’ve decided to start out with a boxed lunch as an homage to my own culinary origins.
As I drive over to Campanile on La Brea for the morning meeting, I return Mom’s phone call from the night before.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, making my way down Third Street.
“Sweetheart, don’t scream into the phone. Did you get my message about planning Thanksgiving?” Mom asks.
“We can meet this Saturday morning before work, if you’re willing to come out here,” I say.
“Absolutely. I can visit Roberta in the Palisades for lunch. So we’ll meet at your apartment? How’s eight?”
“Why don’t we meet at Toast—it’s right there on Third. You know, Rascal took you there the last time he came out?” I say.
“Yes, that’ll do. I’ll meet you at Toast at eight, then.”
&nbs
p; “See you then,” I sign off. I pull into the parking lot at Campanile and stop the car in front of the valet’s booth. I grab my purse and the binders filled with my “homework” and hand my keys to the valet. When I go in, I see Paul and Donna sitting in the bar area to the left of the entrance. I smile at the hostess and approach. “Good morning,” I announce, checking my watch. Right on time.
“Elisabeth! Good morning!” Donna kisses me on both cheeks.
Paul places his hand casually on my shoulder. “Shall we?” He hops down off the bar stool and gestures to the hostess that we’re ready. She leads us through the restaurant, to a table in the corner of the back room. I usually like to sit in the front part of the restaurant, with the beautiful fountain and natural light, but I understand the need for quiet and privacy. Our waitress introduces herself and asks for our drink order.
“Just tea, thank you. Earl Grey, if you have it,” I say to the waitress, knowing that they probably don’t have yogi tea, and forget about the comfort of Daniel Sullivan, to quiet my stomach.
“Oh, just the coffee. I already ate,” Donna says, giving the waitress back the menu.
“Double shot of espresso, please—and keep them coming,” Paul orders.
“I’ve pulled together all the information you asked for,” I say, presenting each of them with a binder. The binders contain the hundred recipes I’ve collected, along with the field pieces they should be paired with. They’re all color-coded, with illustrations and organized to perfection. The waitress comes back over and sets down my pot of steaming tea, Paul’s espresso, and Donna’s cup of coffee.
“Excuse me, I just want to wash my hands before I dive in.” Paul sets his napkin on the table and walks toward the bathroom.
“This is great work. We’re quite relieved,” Donna confesses.
“Oh? Why?” I ask.
“Paul wouldn’t want me to say anything, but we already had another pilot ready to go for the executives at the network. Edited. Filmed. Everything. We had to shelve it.” Donna’s eyes are wide. Her entire demeanor is that of an adolescent girl gossiping at a school cafeteria table.