“We could go to a diner,” Makiko suggests.
Then as quickly as I was starving, my desire evaporates, and nothing sounds good. In fact, the mere thought of food makes me queasy again. Every trashcan near me suddenly reeks. I shake my head. “No, forget it,” I say. “I’m okay.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Makiko asks me. “You look kind of pale.”
“Can I have some of your Yoo-hoo?”
“Sure.” She hands it over, laughing. I take a sip. It’s all wrong. Too thick. Too chocolatey. I nearly gag. I wipe my hand across my mouth and hand her the bottle back.
“Let’s just get to the market before everything good is gone,” I say and walk down the street again, fighting the urge to throw up.
At the southern tip of Union Square Park, a few hard-core skate rat kids, who probably haven’t been to bed yet, zip around the promenade, dodging the early risers who pour out of the subway-stop gazebos. Beneath the shady canopy of sycamore trees at the center of the park, a group of homeless men on benches stretch and yawn and rummage through their overstuffed shopping carts as squirrels and pigeons compete for crumbs. Surrounding the green space, farmers haul crates of vegetables from the backs of their trucks onto folding tables as the most ardent shoppers wait impatiently with their baskets ready.
I discovered the allure of a good farmer’s market in Nice. Every Saturday, farmers from the cool hill towns carted their produce into the stalls on Cours Saleya. My skinny French paramour, Jean-Pierre of the impossibly high cheekbones and thick full lips, drove me there on the back of his motorbike, nearly panting with anticipation. He knew what kind of powerful aphrodisiac fresh food was for me. Figs, clementines, plums, eggs, fresh cheese, bread, and tiny bags of dried herbs. All of it ambrosia.
“I’m going to start over here,” I tell Makiko and point to the west side of the market, where my favorite farmers set up.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll catch up with you later. I want to check out the raspberries on the other side.”
We part, and I walk slowly past every stall with the other early birds, mostly chefs from area restaurants. They all seem to know each other from cooking school, but since I never went to cooking school, I only know them by sight. I don’t speak to them because I’m paranoid and think they probably begrudge me my sudden good fortune with the restaurant gods. We eye one another’s carts jealously.
This morning the farmers’ bins are filled with sugar snap peas, early beets, pints of the first red raspberries, and the last few stalks of rhubarb. A few farmers have yellow string beans, slender young asparagus shoots, pear tomatoes, and small Korean cucumbers. All of us chefs will stuff our baskets with these ingredients and hurry back to our restaurants to come up with something dazzling for dinner. I feel more pressure than ever to make inventive new combinations, to distinguish Lemon from all the others vying for the spot I’ve claimed at the top of the food chain.
At the far end of the market, I stop at my favorite stall. The farmers, Joe and Lionel, wave hello as they stack leeks into a lovely pyramid and dump pounds of beans into a wooden bin. I plunge my hands into a crate of garlic scapes. They wind and twist around my fingers like papery green snakes. I snap a scape in half and bring it to my nose for the fresh clean smell of grass and dirt and that familiar pungent oniony odor. I nibble on the succulent end. It starts out sweet, like chewing on a stem of clover, but then my tongue turns hot, and the bite of garlic crawls up into my nose. My stomach roils. I put the scape down.
Lionel sidles up to me and elbows me in the ribs. “I got something you might like,” he says and jerks his head toward the truck. The first time Lionel did this, I thought he was trying to sell me pot. Instead he brought out a small bushel basket of wild ramps. I nearly swooned at the sight of the delicate little leeks with their dainty onion heads drooping prettily off green stems.
This time Lionel pulls a plastic laundry basket out from under a burlap sack. It’s stuffed full of weedy greens. “You know what these are?” he asks.
I grab a stalk and feel a prick. “Ouch.” I suck on my stinging fingertip. “Are they nettles?” I ask with awe.
Lionel winks. “I think I’m the only one who’s got them.”
I greedily take as many bunches as I can stuff into my cart, secretly hoping that I’ve beaten the other chefs to the bounty.
“What’re you going to do with them?” he asks.
I lean in close. “You wouldn’t believe what I have waiting in my walk-in,” I say quietly. Lionel raises both eyebrows in anticipation. “There’s a guy up in Vermont who does a bit of hunting,” I tell him.
“You got some wild game?”
“Pheasants.”
“How’d you find them?”
“Long story.”
“Ah, well,” he says with a sigh. “The nettles will go perfectly.”
Makiko and I take a cab back downtown, then lug our heavy carts into the empty restaurant. She goes immediately to the kitchen, but I’m exhausted and want nothing more than to lie down on the floor and sleep through the next five years. Wake from my magic slumber in an enchanted restaurant that runs itself. One where I merely have to touch my golden spatula to the stove, and delicious entrees will appear. Tiny singing birds will flutter about, delivering dishes to happy diners who never complain about anything.
Last night was full of complainers. People unhappy about the wait, irritated by Mona’s bad drinks, and someone even sent a steak back that was cooked perfectly medium, claiming it was too bloody. I was about to throw it in the deep fryer, but Ernesto rescued me from being such a jerk and dutifully put it back over the flame to darken it up.
Other nights are rowdy. Everyone who walks in the door wants booze and the most outrageous things on the menu. We have to eighty-six dishes, make substitutions, send Manuel hustling around town desperately searching for ingredients. They run the waitresses ragged with their desires. Keep Mona on her toes mixing oddball drinks with blue curacao, crème de Yvette, and green chartreuse. At the end, they throw down lavish tips and leave in a flurry of laughter.
Then sometimes, everyone is quiet, subdued. They hover over bottles of earthy red wines and slow-roasted meats. They linger at the tables, eating rich heavy desserts and sipping brandy or port while the waitstaff grows impatient for the tables to turn. I’ve tried to find the pattern. Does it coincide with the moon? The stock market? Why can’t I ever get on top of the trends?
The door opens behind me, and I jump and gasp like a ninny as Franny saunters in. “Jesus,” I say. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Nice to see you, too,” she says.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I was just thinking.”
She stops next to the hostess station and glances through the reservation book. She is dressed like a ten-year-old boy in cutoff shorts, a Sponge Bob T-shirt, and Puma tennis shoes. She is as petite and pixyish as I am buxom and blond. We’ve always made an odd pair.
“Looks like a another quiet night,” she says, dripping sarcasm as she scans the full pages.
“We’re going to get slammed,” I say with a moan.
“Isn’t that what we want?”
“I’m so tired,” I tell her.
“You and me both.” She pokes at my cart. “What’d you get?”
“Nettles and garlic scapes.”
“I saw what you have in the walk-in.” She takes the cart from me and pulls it toward the kitchen. “Where’d you get the birds?”
I follow her through the swinging door. “Game purveyor that Eddie found.” The antiseptic smell of the kitchen turns my stomach over. Maybe I’m allergic to my restaurant.
“Let me guess,” says Franny. “One of his third cousins twice removed down in Georgia shot them, then drove them up in his Ford pickup truck?” Franny unloads everything into the slop sink. In the back, Makiko focuses intently on adding flour to the mixer.
“Close. One of his clients in Vermont does some hunting on the side.” I lower myself to a stool to
rest for a moment, hoping my stomach will stop rolling over every few minutes.
“Are they legal?”
“Didn’t ask.”
Franny pulls a leaf off the nettles and nibbles carefully on the end. “Bitter,” she says, and frowns. “What are you going to do with them?”
“Remember Mrs. Slocomb?”
“From the hunting lodge in Devon?” Franny asks in a horrible British accent that sounds like a cross between Queen Elizabeth and a speech-impeded Swede.
“I thought we’d stuff the birds with nettles and sausage, then bard and truss them like she used to do.”
“You try it yet?” she asks me.
“No, but I think we can figure it out.”
“I was planning to make a tagine with the lamb in back. It’s been in the walk-in for two days.”
“We can’t have two specials,” I say.
Franny sets her jaw and scowls at me. We’ve been arguing over the menu more and more. “You can make the lamb tomorrow,” I offer.
“Fine. Whatever,” she says snottily. “You’re the boss.”
I don’t know what’s eating Franny, but I don’t feel like getting into it with her, so I haul myself off the stool and head into the walk-in. The cool air feels good against my clammy skin. I could stay in here all day. I press my cheek against the metal shelves and swallow the bitter taste in my mouth. I grab several braces of birds hanging in the back and carry them into the kitchen like Diana after the kill.
“What are those?” Makiko asks me. She rolls dough out on the counter into perfect ten-inch rounds.
“Pheasants,” I tell her. “You ever had one?”
She shakes her head.
“Speaking of pheasant,” Franny says. She’s washing the greens. “Remember Ian?” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. Apparently she’s over our tiff about the birds.
“The strapping young hunting guide?” I ask as I slap the pheasants on the counter.
“Did he know anything about hunting?” Franny asks.
“I think his true talent lay in finding secluded wooded areas,” I say.
Franny chops the nettles with onions and chervil. “Ian liked to bard and truss your ass.”
“Like you’ve got room to talk.” I step back in the walk-in for the sausage.
“I was very serious about my job at the ol’ hunting lodge,” Franny yells. “Not like you, off screwing in the woods.”
“In the woods?” Makiko says to me when I come out.
“I believe Franny was in the barn,” I say as I dump the sausage into a bowl. “What was his name, Franny?” I snip the strings holding the pheasants together. Their floppy heads slump from loose, flabby necks.
“Ollie? Oliver? Alan? Albert?” she says.
“Such a slut,” I say with a snort.
Makiko laughs from behind us.
“You were the slut,” says Franny.
This is dangerous territory for us. Nearly every fight we had in Europe centered on some guy. Our final blowout was over a chef named Herr Fink, a little barrel-chested Austrian prick with fingers as thick as sausages, blond fuzz across his head, and piercing blue eyes. Looking back, I realize that our problems weren’t so much about the men, though. We were too close. We lived together, worked together, and went out at night together. There were only so many men in the small towns where we stayed, so we invariably ended up competing for the few good ones.
“You slept with way more guys than I did,” I say.
“Let’s count them up,” Franny challenges.
I wonder if this is a good idea. But, I think, maybe we’ve progressed. Maybe we can finally start to joke about how stupid and immature both of us were. So I say, “Fine. In Nice, I only slept with Jean-Pierre.”
Every day he waited for me outside the horrid flat where Franny and I lived. He and I had an agreement. He took me to tiny restaurants that I would never find on my own and ordered specialties that never showed up on the menu. In return, I slept with him.
He’d find me the most delicious salade niçoise with tender salty anchovies, boiled new potatoes, and grilled tuna. I’d pull him into a narrow alleyway for a blow job. He’d drive me up the winding roads into the hills above the city for the best gnocchi. I’d lead him to the beach at sunset for a quickie under the docks. He’d take me to a street vendor who made socca, the crispiest chickpea-flour crepes, with flecks of fresh-ground black pepper, and I’d get rid of Franny for an entire afternoon.
At the end of the semester, it wasn’t hard to leave Jean-Pierre. We looked at each other and laughed. I’d gained ten pounds but had never felt so sexy, with my newfound hips and tits and full round belly. He gave me a long blue cigarette holder. I handed him a perfect peach. I took one long lingering look at him as he rode away. He seemed so silly on that tiny motorbike. I knew I wouldn’t miss him, but I did miss the socca. The socca was outstanding.
“Only Jean-Pierre? That’s such a lie,” says Franny. She scoops the nettles and onions into a skillet, adds rosemary and salt, then says, “What about Ken?”
“Americans don’t count,” I say. “Especially him.” I rinse the pheasants under cold water. “What about you?”
“No one.”
“Liar.” I take a cleaver from the knife rack and sharpen it against a whetting stone.
“I’m not a liar.” Franny tastes the hot wilted nettles. She adds salt and pepper, then gives me a spoonful. The tastes are rich and subtle but a little bitter. I add some sugar. She tastes it and nods.
“What about Fredrique?” I ask.
“I never had sex with Fredrique,” says Franny.
I raise the cleaver over the birds, then stop. I think that I might cry as I look into their small dead faces.
“You remember how fussy he was about everything?” Franny says. “I think he was gay.”
“Sounds like half the guys I go out with,” says Makiko.
My nose tingles and my chin quivers as I stare at the birds. How stupid. I’ve butchered game hundreds of times.
“What’s wrong with you?” Franny asks, her arms plunged deep into a mix of sausage, nettles, raw egg, and bread-crumbs.
“I can’t—” I motion to the birds. Their tiny swollen eyes, shut tight, and their pointy beaks, pale and useless now. This time I know that I really am going to vomit. I drop the cleaver and run for the slop sink. I barf on top of vegetable peels. Spit frothy bitter bile and groan.
“Jesus,” Franny says and jumps away. “Did you drink too much last night, or what?”
Makiko stands behind me, pulling back my hair as I turn on the tap and stick my face beneath the cold water. “It’s those stupid birds.” I feel the deep and urgent need to sob.
Franny laughs. She picks up a bird by the wings and makes it dance on its skinny bare legs. Its head flops from side to side, and I feel my throat close. Franny holds the cleaver next to the wing and points it menacingly at me. “Who you calling stupid?” she says in a goofy bird voice.
I moan as my stomach churns again.
“Stop it!” Makiko tells her.
“Jesus, you guys,” Franny says. She puts the bird down.
Makiko runs a dishtowel under the cold water and hands it to me. “Maybe you have the flu or something.”
“You do look like shit this morning,” says Franny.
“Thanks a lot.” I lay my head on the countertop and close my eyes. The stainless steel cools my flushed cheeks. “God, I’m so tired.”
“You should go back to bed,” says Makiko.
“I can’t prep all this by myself,” Franny says.
“Maybe Ernesto would come in early and cover for me.” I sit up. My stomach clenches again, and I swallow hard.
“That’s an idea,” Franny says with a grin. “Why don’t I call him?”
“How long’s that been going on?” Makiko asks.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” says Franny. “But I’ll tell you one thing, if Lemon had told me what a good lay he is, it would’ve happened
much sooner.”
“You and Ernesto?” Makiko asks me.
“God,” I moan. “It was so long ago, I can hardly remember.”
The thing with Ernesto and me was nothing like what he and Franny have. We were both just bored and lonely and too tired to look outside of our gigs for some companionship. There was never much passion between us. Just mutual admiration and the need for someone warm after long hours in a small cramped kitchen. What little infatuation we had with one another fizzled quickly, and we found that we’re better off as friends.
Franny has already dialed his number. “So get the hell out of here,” she says to me. “You’re making me sick just looking at you.”
I stand up, and my head reels. “I’ll try to come back by three.”
“You paying me and Ernesto overtime if you don’t come back?” Franny asks as I shamble toward the door.
“Fat chance,” I say.
“Then get your ass back here tonight,” is her half-joking reply.
Makiko glares at Franny, then she says to me, “Don’t come back if you’re still sick.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say as I push through the doors.
Chapter
Five
U pstairs, I slough off my cooking clothes. I’m too tired to find pajamas among the piles of laundry on the floor.
“Hey, darling,” Eddie mumbles when I crawl in bed with him. “What time is it?”
“Around nine.” I snuggle my hips close to him and pull his arm around my shoulders. “I came up to take a nap.”
“You sick?” he asks and presses his hand against my forehead.
“No. I’m just—” I stop. I don’t know what I am. Exhausted, yes. Burned out? Truly sick? He wraps his arms tighter around my body and hugs me hard. My breasts are as tender as bruises. My stomach turns over again, then I feel simultaneously ravenous and ready to retch. I’m irritable. I’m nauseous. There’s a tiny buzzing gnat at the back of my mind. A thought that has been nagging at me, but I continually swat it away. Now it niggles at me. Could I be? No way. I wriggle away from Eddie, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and get up again.
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