Off the Menu Page 15

  Goddamnit all to hell. “Patrick, I have plans, I—”

  “YOU cannot have PLANS when I NEED YOU. This is a catastrophe.”

  “Patrick, I have a date …” This is the first time I’ve ever said these words to Patrick in all the time we’ve worked together. He doesn’t notice.

  “So what? I have a CRISIS. Get it together, Alana. What the fuck are we going to do?”

  I stand in my bedroom, hair dripping, trying to pull something out of my ass that won’t totally screw up my night. “Pick me up in ten minutes. We’ll go to the test kitchen. You’ve got me till seven, and not one minute later, Patrick, I mean it.”

  “I love you, my little Alana-guanabana. I’ll see you soon.”

  So much for primp time. I throw my wet hair in a loose bun, slap some makeup on, and put on a pair of cargo pants and a work shirt. I bring the black wrap dress and boots I am planning on wearing tonight, and call RJ.

  “Hi, slight change of plans. Would it be okay if you picked me up at work instead of at home?”

  “Of course, but why are you at work?”

  I briefly tell him about Patrick’s disaster. “I told him he had me till seven, and not a minute more.”

  “Of course. Don’t worry. Did you want me to meet you there early? Can I help in any way?”

  ACK! Cannot let Patrick at him yet. “You are the sweetest man on the planet, and no, we’ll have it under control. Call me when you are getting close to the studio and I will meet you outside. And thank you so much for understanding.”

  “Of course, honey, just do what you have to do.”

  Patrick picks me up in his new Hummer, which I think is probably the single most unnecessary and obnoxious car on the planet, and we go to the studio. Once we get into the test kitchen, I look through the walk-in and get a handle on what our options are. And then it hits me.

  “Flatbreads,” I say.

  “Flatbreads?” He looks at me like I am insane.

  “Flatbreads. You’ve got four ovens in that kitchen of yours. You’ll set up a DIY flatbread station. Everyone gets a round of dough, you set up all the toppings on the island, and they make them up however they like. They only take twelve minutes to cook, and you can do four sheet pans per oven, so sixteen flatbreads at a time. We’ll make a big salad, and some easy pasta to fill in, and steal all the nuts and olives and cheese to put out for antipasti. Everyone ends up in the kitchen anyway, this way they can participate. One step up from ordering pizza.”

  He pulls me into an embrace. “You’re a genius. I’ll do pasta, you work on the dough so it can rise, and then we can knock the rest out.”

  In a frenetic whirlwind we chop and dice and mince, turning anything we can think of into a possible pizza topping, and packing them all in small hotel pans in the rolling coolers we use for field shoots. When the dough has risen, I roll out fifty twelve-inch rounds, separating each with sheets of parchment, and stacking them in sheet pans, and putting them into Patrick’s car. He whips up two pastas, a rotini with a creamy sauce with ham and peas, and a simple rigatoni with vegetables in a light tomato sauce. Patrick discovers a big bowl of leftover risotto from Friday’s testing, and heats up the deep fryer, yelling at me to set up a breading station so he can do some arancini. While he is frying the little rice balls, I grab a huge prep bowl and fill it with romaine, shaved Parmesan, croutons and crispy capers, and I mix together a quick peppery pseudo-Caesar-style dressing. By the time it is nearly seven, Patrick’s car is filled with the makings of a fine party, and I am a limp, sweaty mess.

  I go to the ladies room to change into my dress, and find that my hair is a frizzed Jew-fro, my makeup has melted off, and I am flushed from exertion and the heat of the kitchen. I know it is going to take me at least an hour and a half before I stop sweating. I put on my dress and boots, try to fix my hair, fairly unsuccessfully, and get the runny mascara mostly out from under my eyes. I am presentable. But I am not fabulous. And I so wanted to be fabulous. I’m exhausted. I smell of the kitchen. I have prosciutto under my fingernails. I want a hot bath and a cold, clear, high-proof adult beverage and my pajamas.

  My phone rings just as I get back out to the kitchen. “How is it all going?”

  “We just finished.”

  “Perfect timing, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Thanks, RJ. See you soon.”

  “That the guy?” Patrick says behind me, making me nearly jump out of my skin.

  “Yes. That was the guy.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s a guy. A nice guy. You wouldn’t know him.”

  “You like him, this nice guy I wouldn’t know?”

  “Yeah, Patrick, I like him. I like him a lot.”

  “But not more than you like me!” He grins, very sure of himself. “I’m still your favorite.”

  I have neither the time nor the inclination to engage with him. “Patrick, you should get going, you still have stuff you have to get set up at your house, and you have people coming in an hour.”

  “Right you are, my sweet. You’ll close up here?”

  “Of course. And you’ll have to explain to Gloria what happened here. She is going to kill you for decimating the stores.”

  “She loves me too. I’ll fix it, no worries.”

  “Okay. See you later.”

  “See you later.”

  And then he leaves.

  No “thank you,” no “happy New Year.” No mention that I have just saved his ass. Not even the tiniest acknowledgment that I had done anything above and beyond the call of duty. Because with Patrick, there is nothing above and beyond his expectations. I’m so angry and hurt I can’t even think about it, and I feel tears prick my eyes. I put my whole day on hold, dropped everything to help him out of a jam, even though he KNEW I had other plans, KNEW I had a date. It is New Year’s Fucking EVE, and he doesn’t even have the common courtesy to THANK ME.

  I will not let myself cry over that ass. I blink back the tears and swallow the lump in my throat. I shut down the kitchen, locking up as I leave, and head out the front door, wishing Jimmy the security guard a happy New Year.

  RJ is waiting, standing next to his Acura MDX, looking very handsome in a long black cashmere overcoat with a gray scarf and a black fedora. He is having a Cary Grant/Gregory Peck/William Powell sort of night, and my heart skips a beat. His whole face lights up when he sees me.

  “Hello, beautiful girl. Happy New Year.” He leans down and kisses me, and I can feel my disappointment begin to melt away. “Shall we?” He opens my door, and I get in, mentally readying myself for a party.

  “So, did you get everything done?” he asks as we head north toward Ravenswood Manor and his friends’ house.

  “We did. It was insane, but once we knew that make-your-own-pizza night was the way to go, we just had to make the dough, and prep a lot of toppings. Patrick made a couple vats of pasta and some little fried risotto balls, we threw together a salad and some impromptu nibbly bits. We pretty much ransacked the walk-in and storage, so Gloria is going to be pissed, but at least his precious party will go off. Which means he might not even call me again tonight, which would be a blessing.”

  “Well, it’s good you were able to help him.”

  “Comes with the territory, unfortunately.”

  “Can I ask a silly question? Doesn’t he own five restaurants in this city?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why wouldn’t he have just called one of them to help him out? I mean, I’m sure the fancy place is booked with some special dinner for the holiday, but surely those casual places could have knocked out some food for him, especially since he knew in the afternoon before they would be opening for dinner. I mean, I know if I had a crisis I would want Alana with me, but it seems a little weird that he wouldn’t have just had his people take care of him.”

  I’d never even thought of that. Why didn’t he call the PCGrub near his house and have them prep burgers and stuff for him? The menu isn’t any more casu
al than what we put together; they would have been fully stocked for the weekend. He could have gone over there and had six people help him get something together. Six people who were already working that day. Instead of just me. “I have no idea. But I wish I had thought of it.”

  “Well, no harm, no foul, I suppose. At least you guys were able to finish in time so that we could still have our evening.”

  “Thank goodness for that.” I sniff the air. “What is that I smell?”

  He grins. “Gougères. My contribution to the party.”

  “Rascal. I thought you said we weren’t going to bring anything? I would have cooked something.”

  “We weren’t going to, but um …”

  “What?”

  “Well, see, I asked about the menu and she is doing her famous spicy tuna tartare for an hors d’oeuvre, and I know you can’t eat raw fish, especially spicy raw fish, so I asked if I could bring gougères. My baby can’t just sit there with nothing to nibble on.”

  I love that he just called me his baby. I love that not only does he know me well enough to know about my food bullshit; but that he ensured that I would be taken care of. “You are so sweet, thank you for doing that for me. I am very touched.” I reach over and take his hand.

  “You’re very welcome. And I think it’s about time someone was making sure you have what you need in life for a change.”

  “You are a very wonderful man.”

  “I’m not really, but you make me want to fake it as best I can manage.”

  He squeezes my hand and we sit in companionable silence, listening to the radio and winding through the city.

  The evening is wonderful. There are four couples total, all very nice and interesting people. RJ’s gougères are delicious, and everyone makes me feel very comfortable. They are all foodies and wine people, so I get to win some points by sharing some gossipy dish about a few of the famous TV chefs. Dinner is a perfectly cooked rack of lamb, and I smile, thinking about what Bennie said earlier. There is a gorgeous chocolate cake for dessert and some excitement when the host’s Lab-mix pooch, Harry, does a little counter surfing, nearly knocking over the cake, and scampering off with a pilfered lamb bone. Everyone makes fun of her for sounding surprised, when in fact it appears that Harry is a veteran food sneak from way back. RJ tells the Dumpling-Pomi story, almost pridefully, and I love hearing him tell a cute tale about my dog. There are spectacular wines, and a brief countdown, and then it is the New Year and RJ is kissing me and every bit of my frustration and annoyance from earlier in the day is just a distant, faded memory.

  “I was so proud to be with you tonight,” he says in the car on the way back to my place. “They all loved you.”

  I look over at him, and my whole heart just swells. “They were so nice. Thank you so much for including me. It was a truly lovely evening.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I don’t really want it to end.”

  “Me, either.”

  I take a deep breath. We’ve been taking things slow, and he is such an old-school gentleman, I don’t want to sound like a harlot. “Would you like to stay over tonight?”

  He turns to look at me, and smiles as if I have handed him a present he has always wanted. “I can’t think of anything I would like more.” He reaches for my hand, and we both grin and hold hands all the way home.

  14

  Ouch!” I wake to the bed shaking and the noise next to me. I turn over to see Dumpling standing on RJ’s chest, glaring down at him. RJ reaches up to pet him. “Hey, boy. You are shockingly heavy for such a little guy.” Dumpling grudgingly accepts a few pats, and then schlumps down, landing squarely between us. He wriggles around until he is on his back, splayed out like a spatchcocked chicken. His tongue is sticking out on the palsied side of his face, and he has a little smirk that seems to imply that everyone present is now aware of who takes precedence in this scenario. I rub his chest, and meet RJ’s eyes.

  “Good morning, you.”

  He smiles. “Good morning, beautiful. How bad was the snoring?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Spectacular. Deep and resonant with an occasional nose whistle. Musical.” I would have assured any other man that he hadn’t snored in the least. But RJ’s snoring didn’t bother me at all. I was just so happy to have him there, it was a welcome racket.

  He shakes his head. “Excellent. Nothing sexier than sleeping next to a wildebeest with a sinus infection.”

  “I’d sleep next to you anytime. Snoring doesn’t scare me.”

  “Good.”

  I push Dumpling forcefully off the bed and scootch over into RJ’s embrace. “Happy New Year.” I can hear the dog sigh, and click down the hall. If he isn’t getting snuggly bedtime, there is no need to stick around. I’m sure he is off to chew on something.

  “Happy New Year.”

  He kisses me and we pick up where we had left off early this morning when sleep finally became a serious necessity. I will not share the details. For once in my life, we’re going to go all Doris Day, and insist on the meaningful closing of the bedroom door and just a soft focus fadeout. We are tangled and sated when I hear, spoken into the depths of my hair, “I love you, Alana.”

  Uh-oh. On the one hand, I’m happy and flattered, and I think he is so brave to share what he is feeling in this moment. On the other, it feels soon and scary and even though I’ve spent the last few weeks afraid that he wouldn’t like me enough to stay, I’m a little suspect of the timing, and I also know that I’m not quite in the same place.

  I sit up a little and look at him, stroking his cheek. “Thank you. I have very, very strong feelings for you too, and even though you might be one or two exits ahead of me, we are very much on the same road. You make me extremely happy, and I thank you so much for sharing that with me.” I’m fonder of him than I have been of anyone in a long time. But I know my heart, and while I can feel myself falling for him, I’m not totally there yet, and I care about him enough to want to be able to say it without hesitation and with my whole heart.

  “You’re welcome. And I know that I’m a little ahead of you on this, but I also know that I have to be honest with you about what I feel. I’m glad you don’t feel pressure to say it back. Just know that I hope you do feel it someday, and when that day comes, you will take me from being the happiest man on the planet to being the luckiest.”

  We kiss again, and he rolls over on top of me, stroking my face, and kissing my eyelids.

  “WHOA!!” he yelps, and jumps off me.

  Dumpling is standing on the foot of the bed, with a bully stick in his mouth. The dried bull tendon chew stick is mangled and slimy. And has apparently recently made intimate contact with RJ’s bare tush. “DUMPLING. Take that nasty thing off the bed RIGHT NOW.”

  “Now that is a wake-up call,” RJ says, laughing.

  “RJ, I think Dumpling is clearly having some issues with you being the man in my life, and I’m just so sorry. He has never acted out like this before. I hope you’ll be patient with him.”

  “Of course, my sweet. He’s part of the package. And nothing makes me happier than hearing you say I am the man in your life. He’s a good dog, and I genuinely like him, and I’m sure we’ll be friends eventually. I do think maybe we should think about closing the door next time, though.”

  “I completely agree.”

  We get up, and get dressed. I make coffee, and we finish off version six of the banana bread recipe I’ve been working on, with white chocolate chips and toasted pine nuts. And when I can no longer ignore that Dumpling needs walking, we get him organized and RJ heads out with us.

  “Have fun with your family today; call me when you get home?”

  “I will. You have fun at your party.” RJ is going over to a friend’s house for a day of chili and football.

  He pulls me in for a kiss. “Thank you for being the best start to a New Year that I could have ever imagined.”

  “Thank you for the best New Year’s I have ever had.”
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br />   Dumpling and I head off for a long walk around the boulevard, enjoying the crisp air.

  He clips along next to me, with his odd little gait. I have no idea how he manages to have all four of his feet headed straight, and yet his little warthog potbelly ribcage swings side to side as if on an independent suspension system. Passersby do double takes and whisper to each other as they watch him. I have always talked to Dumpling like a person, and today is no different.

  “Seriously, dog. You have got to get it together. This jealousy thing is going to get old fast. RJ is a very, very nice man and I am very, very fond of him and probably falling in love with him and he is in love with me, so he is going to be around. And he wants to be friends with you, but you have to be willing to share and be nice.” He snorts at me, and wanders over to a grass patch to dig up a grub. We run into Ollie and exchange some pleasantries with him and his dad before heading home.

  Back at the house, I pack up the snacks I made for hanging out with my family later, sweet-and-sour meatballs and an awesome cheese dip that Denise taught me.

  My phone rings. “Hello?”

  “Mi amorrrrr. ’Appy New Yearrrrr. ’Ow are you?”

  “Happy New Year to you! I’m very well, Maria, how are you?”

  “Verrry good. Verrrry good. ’Ow is RRRRR Yay?”

  It tickles the crap out of me that Maria cannot pronounce his name to save her life. “He is good, he just left.”

  “Ah-ha! ’Appy New Year to you, yes?”

  I laugh. “Yes. A very happy New Year.”

  “Mmmm,” she says lasciviously. “’Ow ’appy?”