Off the Menu Page 16

“Let’s just say that the last possible thing that could have gone awry did not. We had a very lovely evening with his friends, and an even lovelier evening when we got home, and I’m not giving you any dirty little details except to say that I am a very, very glowy girl today.”

  “Good. Verrrrry good. When do I meet him?”

  “He’ll be at the party for Bennie next week, so you can meet him then.”

  “Wonderrrrful. So, we ’ave a small prrrroblem, I ’ave to impose on you.” Get in line, I think.

  “What’s up?”

  “Kai ’as the mono.”

  “Kai has a monkey?”

  “Ay, dios mio. Not mono, MO-NO. The sickness.”

  “Oh no, that sucks. Poor guy. I had it once in college, knocked me out for over a month.”

  “This is the prrrroblem. ’E is supposed to start classes with the kids next week.”

  “Oh crap.”

  “Sí, crrrrrrrap. So, you ’ave to teach until ’e is betterrrrr.”

  Maria is not asking. She is telling. We’ve been meeting and planning for the pilot program for a couple of months, and everything is in place. A teacher from the school came to talk to us about how to deal with their students, and part of what she shared with us is that these kids have major trust problems. You can’t blow them off. You have to be consistent and present and solid for them. It is as important as the content, maybe more. Two weeks ago we got to finalize the eight participants, reading their personal essays and watching the video interviews they did. They seem like a really great group, and the process of developing this program has been the second best thing in my life lately, after meeting RJ.

  “Okay. Thursday? Four o’clock at CHIC on Orleans, right? In demo kitchen two?”

  “You arrrrre an angel. Probably at least three weeks, maybe more depending on ’ow ’e is recoverrrrrring.”

  “No worries, I’ve got it.” I’m not really worried, Kai and Mel and I wrote the curriculum together, and the whole program is pretty well laid out. And it is just for a few classes. I find I’m actually a little excited at the prospect.

  “Muchas gracias. Now go, and tell that RRRRRR Yay that ’e is de perlas, and I am so ’appy forrrr you.”

  “The pearls?”

  “Sí. De perlas. Just what you need. And if ’e hurts you, I’m going to cut ’is balls off.”

  “I think I’ll skip that last part. Can you have Gigi send me the packet of info on the kids so I can study up before Thursday?”

  “We will messenger it over tomorrrrow. And maybe you and I ’ave dinner with Mel afterrrr? To see ’ow it goes?”

  “Good plan. Your house?”

  “Sí. Just come over when you arrrrrre done.”

  “See you then.”

  Dumpling and I head over to my sister Nat’s house. She always has an open house on New Year’s Day, with football on all the televisions, plenty of food, and people come and go as they like. Mama and Papa are already here. They like to come early and leave early.

  “Come, Alana,” my dad says, patting the couch next to him once I have deposited my offerings on the buffet. “In the feet there is no truth.”

  I sit next to him, snuggling up. “Hi, Papa. Happy New Year.”

  “And to you, my goot girl. Happy New Year.”

  We sit and watch some television. Various grandchildren arrive to flop themselves on the floor around our feet, begging to turn off the football and turn on a movie. Eventually we are way outnumbered, and we get up to find the rest of the adults. Not surprisingly, they are mostly gathered in the kitchen.

  Nat is arranging raw veggies on a platter, and my mom is stirring a big pot of solianka, a traditional Russian soup full of meats and bright flavors like capers and olives. My brother-in-law Jeff gives me a kiss on his way to open the door for the next wave of revelers. My dad stands next to Nat, eating veggies almost as fast as she can get them on the plate.

  Natalia squints her eyes at me. “What?”

  “What?”

  “Something is going on with you. I can see it. You’re all sparkly.”

  I can feel the blush rise in my face.

  My mom turns around and looks at me, still stirring. “Yes. Is somsink. Do not hang noodles to the ears, you tell Mama troot. Is man, yes?” She grins, I assume because she thinks that perhaps Patrick and I have consummated our love.

  “Yes, Mama, it is a man.”

  “Vat man?” my dad asks around a mouthful of carrot stick, clearly afraid that Patrick has seduced me at long last despite his vigilance.

  “His name is RJ.”

  My mother narrows her eyes at me. “Jorge? Another Spaniard, nu? Did I need to make a notch on your nose? You forget what that Andres did?”

  “Mama, not Jorge, R-J. For Ronald James. And he isn’t Spanish, he’s from Tennessee.”

  “There are Jews in Tennessee?” my dad asks.

  “Well, yes, there are, but RJ isn’t one of them. He’s Lutheran. But not religious.”

  “Mama, Papa, just wait,” Natalia says, turning to me. “This RJ, he’s a nice guy?”

  “Very.”

  “And he is making you twinkle like this?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s normal? Straight, single, employed, has all his limbs?” Nat is privy to the whole EDestiny problem.

  “He is the most normal man I have ever met.”

  “Vere you meet him, thees Are Jay?” my mom asks.

  “Online, Mama, but not the way you think.”

  She looks at me over the tops of her glasses. And I can’t avoid it anymore. I take a deep breath. “So a while ago I was playing around on EDestiny, and I saw this profile ….”

  I tell them about RJ. The Reader’s Digest G-rated version, of course, but I also don’t pretend it isn’t a big deal. I tell them that things are going well, that we really like each other, that I am hopeful.

  “Ven we meet him?” Mama wants to know.

  Oy. “Maybe Shabbat dinner in a couple of weeks?”

  “Eet vill be okay, ziss Lootran, at the Shabbas?” My dad is always concerned about people being comfortable.

  “It’s okay, Papa, his first wife was Jewish, he’s very familiar with the customs.” Might as well get that out in the air.

  My mother looks perturbed. “First vife?”

  “Yes, Mama, first wife. It isn’t some sin. Alana has a first husband, remember?” Nat always has my back. “I think it’s great. I think it’s a long time coming, and it will be lovely to meet him.”

  “As long as he makes you happy, bubbeleh.” My dad pinches my cheek between his knuckles and gives a little twist. I know he is just happy that I’m with anyone besides Patrick.

  “Eef you like him, we like him.” My mom says this as a statement of fact, lord help anyone who might argue.

  I kiss her cheek. “Thanks, Mama. I think you will like him very much. And I think he will love all of you.”

  “Goot. Now, Alana, psschht, stir soup.” My mom hands me the spoon.

  Nat sneaks up behind me and puts her arm around my shoulders. She kisses my cheek and whispers in my ear. “I want all the dish later, okay? No one gets this aglow unless there is some really good nookie going on.”

  I blush again. “It is a very happy time. I can’t tell it more than once, so when Sara and Jenny get here we can find some time to hide out upstairs so I can tell you all at one time.”

  “Deal. Go. Stir. If the soup burns Mom will kill you.”

  “Fine.” I turn back to the pot, stirring and smiling. RJ is the first guy I will have brought home to meet my family since I came back with Andres like a big stupid gift from duty-free fifteen years ago. Of all the guys I’ve dated—the longest being eleven months on and off with a strange guy who is the head of a local television studio, if you don’t count Bruce—none of them have been good enough to bring home. With a family like mine—too intense, too many people who love one another fiercely, and too protective—it would be like running the gauntlet to bring hom
e a casual guy; definitely not for the faint of heart. But I hope RJ will love it, and be loved by my family.

  I grab Jeff and hand off stirring duty. I have a boyfriend I need to text right this minute.

  Holy shit. I have a boyfriend. Happy New Year to me!

  15

  I’m hiding in my office. Patrick is on a tear about the shows getting boring, even though he signed off on all the themes and recipes for this week ages ago. But he keeps having second thoughts, wanting to revamp and tweak and take out recipes we thought were ready to go and replace them. He keeps wanting to work off the cuff, be spontaneous. It’s making Bob crazy, Gloria has spent the better part of the week running out to shop extra new ingredients, and I have been ass-deep in the recipe files trying to work off of whatever lame-brained idea pops into his addled head.

  “ALLLLLLLLAAAAAANNNNNNAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” Oh crap.

  My door flies open, and Patrick enters in a huff. “Where the fuck are you?”

  “Um, Patrick, clearly, I am in my office. Researching frittatas. Because you decided you wanted to do a frittata episode instead of the quiche episode we were going to do later this afternoon. And if we are going to do that, you are going to need frittata recipes. Do you still want to do a frittata episode?” I know I am talking to him like he is a four-year-old, but since that seems to be the limit of his mentality at the moment, I can’t really help myself.

  “Don’t be snide. I’m trying to keep us all employed here, and audiences are fickle. That quiche thing was bullshit.”

  “Well, that may be, but since you didn’t think it was bullshit when we planned it months ago, and just decided it was bullshit this morning, perhaps you can be a little patient with the rest of us.”

  “You’re a smart-ass, you know that?”

  “Better than being a dumb-ass.”

  “Cute.”

  “Yes I am. What is going on with you? You are crazier than usual. Is something up? Is Jamie not working out?” The new assistant we hired has been here almost a month, and so far, so good, but maybe he doesn’t like her. Ever since Andrea left, he has been pouting. While we were in New York I gave him what-for. He said it was no biggie, he would apologize when we got home and all would be well. But by the time he called her, she had already taken the job with Emily and told him in no uncertain terms that he could take his apology and stick it right up his ass. Patrick had no problem being the one rejecting, firing, breaking up with, but he doesn’t do so well on the other end of things. He dinged no fewer than eight potential assistants for everything from “having a weird piggy nose” to “being vegetarian” to “just smells like trouble.” Jamie was my last hope, and luckily I think he had just gotten worn down and tired of not having help.

  “Jamie’s good. She’s great actually. I’ve just got some stuff going on.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “Not yet. I’ll let you know. Just know that it isn’t for nothing, you know? The show has to stay great, it has to keep growing. I can’t just be some puffed head sleepwalking through frigging quiches.”

  “Okay. Whatever you need we’ll figure it out, but it will be better for everyone if you could come up with some clear directives and give us all time to adjust.”

  “Well, if I could, I would. You’re just going to have to ride the ride, all of you. At least for now.”

  “Patrick, I hate to ask, but …”

  “Yes, you can still leave early to set up for your party.”

  “Thank you. You’ll be there? We’re starting at seven, just simple open-house cocktail thing. Bennie would love to see you, and of course I’d really like for you to meet RJ.”

  “Of course, of course, I’ll be there. You might as well get out of here. I think we’re going to bag the third show anyway; it just won’t be ready for shooting. But you’ll still be in early tomorrow, right?”

  “Yep, and don’t forget I’ve got my first class on Thursday afternoon.”

  “Ah yes, the underwashed children.”

  “Underserved, Patrick. I’m sure they are plenty clean enough. And do at least try to tap into your inner Jamie Oliver before your master class with them next month, would you? You’re going to have to at least make an effort to pretend that you care, that you want them to succeed, that you think they have what it takes to make it in the culinary world.”

  “And do they?”

  “I think they probably do. On paper they certainly do, but I won’t really know till I meet them.”

  “Fine. Okay. I’m going to try to make some magic out of this grilled-cheese thing we are shooting next. I’ll see you later.”

  He leaves my office and I grab my bag and scoot out the back door so no one will catch me. I swing by the Merchandise Mart on my way home to grab Bennie, who has been shopping.

  “Shall we go set up for this party?” she says, flopping herself into the car, plopping a large camel Birkin handbag in her lap. Yowza.

  “Hello, darling!” I reach over and pet it gently. It feels like butter. “That is SO not a fake, you bitch.”

  “Oh, did you notice this little thing?” She is grinning ear to ear. “Alana, meet Baby. Baby, this is Aunt Alana.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Giftie from happy client. Don’t you just LOVE?”

  “Love. So jealous.”

  “Yes, well, some of us have perfect boyfriends and some of us have lovely purses.”

  “I win.”

  “Yes you do. I cannot WAIT to meet him.”

  “And he, you.”

  We get to my place, which is already mostly set up for the party. I stashed the dining room chairs in the basement, so there is plenty of room to walk around the antique oak table Bennie and I found at a flea market last summer. The buffet on the side is decked out with warming trays for the hot items. Plates and napkins are all set. I did all the cold platters last night, so we just have to bring them up from the extra fridge in the basement. We’re just doing champagne and sparkling water and Coke in little glass bottles, all self-serve. I hate playing bartender at my own house.

  For a party like this, I do mostly cold nibbles, cheese platters and charcuterie displays, beef salami sticks and tall Grissini breadsticks in vases. A bowl of clementines. White-bean hummus and veggies. And on the side, for those who need something more substantial, a lemony chicken pasta casserole and my go-to salad, hearts of palm, celery, cucumber, raw zucchini, and artichoke bottoms with a creamy champagne shallot vinaigrette. I never do a lettuce-based salad on a buffet; it just gets all sad and depressed and wilty and you have to throw out any leftovers. This one stays fresh and crisp, and is just as delish the next day.

  Bennie and I pull everything out, set up the buffet and the bar, put the pasta in the oven to reheat, catching up on her progress with Maria and her other clients.

  “So,” she says, helping me rearrange part of the living room so it will flow better for the party. “Who is coming tonight?”

  “RJ, of course, Barry, Mina and her guy, Emily and John, Lacey, Patrick, Bob and Gloria said they would pop by. All my siblings are dumping their kids with Mom and Dad for a massive sleepover so that they can have date nights, but they are swinging by here to smooch you. And to do RJ recon for Mama and Papa, I’m sure.”

  “Maria told me she isn’t coming after all, some awards ceremony?”

  “You know Maria. All any charity has to do is say they want to give her an award, and she pulls out the sparkle and the checkbook.”

  “It’s why we love her.” Bennie laughs.

  “Indeed. She did say if it didn’t go too late she might stop by after, but you know she always intends to and doesn’t.”

  “I promised that I would come find her when I got home to tell her everything. She is especially excited to hear about RJ.”

  “Well, I’m excited to hear what you think too!”

  “Based on everything I’ve heard, and the sheer wattage of the glow coming off you, I have no doubt that I will love h
im. And where are we with the Bruce situation?”

  Ooops. “I haven’t told him yet.” One of the problems with a casual no-strings-attached sex thing is that if you find something real, you completely forget about the very existence of your other dude. Especially if he lives nine hundred miles away. Since Bruce and I have very little reason to be in direct communication for work, I haven’t really spoken with him since RJ and I started to get serious.

  “Back-up plan?”

  “No, of course not. I’m not hedging my bets. I just feel like he deserves me telling him in person, you know? I mean, we are friends, and we’ve been hooking up for over four years. I just want to handle this really well.”

  “But you are going to tell him.”

  “Yes, of course. He’s coming here in a couple of weeks; I figured I would tell him then.”

  “And you aren’t worried about anyone else telling him? Patrick for example?”

  “Shit. I hadn’t really thought about that.” For a no-strings thing, I forget what a tangled web it can be.

  “Look, for what it’s worth, if it were me, I would call him and acknowledge that you would have preferred to tell him in person, but that you also didn’t want him to hear it from anyone else. He’ll respect that.”

  “You’re right. I’ll call him. Thanks, Ben, you’re a lifesaver, as usual.”

  “Just don’t want anything to mar this time for you. I’ve never seen you so happy, and I want it to be smooth sailing.”

  “You and me both!” My voice is upbeat, but it takes effort to stay positive about RJ. I realize that I’ve never really had much experience in grown-up relationships, and the more I let myself care about him, the more danger I put my heart in. I want to be giddy and throw caution to the wind and chat with my girlfriends and family about how wonderful my life is right now, but I can’t. I’m suspicious by nature, I have a tough time really believing in the fairy tale, and the better things are with RJ, the harder I’m sure I will fall. I’m the host who always presumes no one will show up, the girl who doesn’t trust the reserve in the gas tank and frantically fills up the minute the empty light goes on. Things fall apart. Things go wrong. And I’m usually certain that I’ll be stuck in the middle of the maelstrom. I want to trust what I feel for RJ and what he says he feels for me. But it takes conscious effort. I shake off the creeping doubties that always sneak in, and finish getting ready for the onslaught.