My Fat Dad

by Dawn Lerman

  “The younger the better,” one man commented as he admired our outfits.

  “Told you we could do it,” Marley said, dancing down the mirrored hallway.

  “Let’s see if Robyn is here yet.”

  “Forget Robyn. Look at this place.”

  “I thought the whole point of getting in was coming to see her,” I said.

  “We’ll meet up with her. It’s only eleven-thirty; we have a half hour to explore. Anyway, it is good to be fashionably late.”

  We made our way across the first floor, then took a flight of stairs halfway up to the next level. From the balcony, we could see the whole club. Studio 54 was originally a theater used to tape The Ed Sullivan Show. The owners kept the original structure of the theater, with a stage, backdrops, and pulleys that raised and lowered the blinking lights that were syncopated to the music. There was a row of bleachers, where I witnessed many naked bodies pressed up against each other—no one seemed to care about privacy as they frolicked freely. It was like nothing I had ever seen or experienced before, but I was immediately sucked in, as I peered over the railing to watch. Dry ice machines created billows of smoke that rose from the dance floor. An eccentric and eclectic crowd snorted various substances up their noses at the surrounding tables, and it looked like another party was happening in the unisex bathrooms on either side of the balcony.

  All the patrons were fabulous, chosen at the front door for their distinct looks, beauty, and fame. Celebrities were everywhere; Jerry Hall, the supermodel, was right next to me in the bathroom. We even ate breath mints from the same candy bowl, and I could have used the same brush as her, if I had given the bathroom attendant one dollar to indulge in the spread of beauty products she had laid out for the evening.

  While I was obsessed with all the celebrities huddling in the bathroom—trying to overhear their conversations and hoping they were talking about something newsworthy—Marley couldn’t stop talking about the bartenders.

  “I have never seen so many gorgeous guys in one place. Each one is hotter than the next. I love those cute little gold gym shorts and how they’re all bare-chested. You know how I feel about well-defined, strong arms.”

  Marley wasn’t the only one enamored of the bartenders. There were as many people surrounding them as there were people on the dance floor. They were an attraction all on their own—pouring both cheap mixed drinks at the bar and serving expensive bottles of champagne in chilled buckets to the VIP tables. Marley kept smiling at different men sitting in the booths, hoping that one of them would invite us to join him for a glass of Moët & Chandon or Dom Pérignon. I felt like we had been transported into a dream, as the beat of the disco music pulsated, matching the rhythm of my heart.

  Heading back downstairs, we saw the lit-up man in the moon with the spoon where we were to meet Robyn. The spoon kept swinging back and forth over the dance floor to the nose of the moon and then back the other way. Right at midnight, we spotted Robyn. It had only been a couple of years since we had seen her, but she looked completely different and way older. She probably could have passed for twenty-five with her false eyelashes, crimped bleached hair, and revealing sequin halter jumpsuit. She looked like a real disco queen.

  “I can’t believe you made it,” Robyn said.

  “We told you we were coming,” I said and beamed.

  “Who did you come with?” Marley asked Robyn.

  Without answering, she motioned us to the bar, where she had free drink tickets, which she made sure we saw, and began kissing a guy holding a tray of empty glasses.

  “We’re kind of an item. Have you guys ever dated one of the busboys or waiters?”

  “A few,” Marley said.

  “Most of them are bisexual or gay. You know that, right?”

  Marley just rolled her eyes, pretending everything Robyn said was common knowledge while passing me secret looks.

  “If you date a busboy, he can usually sneak you through the back of the club, so you can avoid all that front door hassle. That is how I always get in. But if you date a waiter, you can get a VIP card, and you are invited to all kinds of important dinner parties, and get to take limos when the club closes, to Brasserie for brie and ham omelets with French fries, or to the Empire Diner for meatloaf and warm brownies with ice cream. They usually have so much cash on them that they do not mind picking up the tab.”

  “I so need to date a bartender,” I declared.

  “You and everyone else in New York City!”

  Delivering that important bit of information, Robyn disappeared onto the dance floor with her busboy, and then moments later, she was not only with him but sandwiched between two other guys with even less clothes than the busboys. Marley followed, gyrating between them. At first, I thought it was a little creepy dancing with men who never asked my name, who were practically naked and probably didn’t even like girls. But within minutes of hitting the dance floor, we were in the middle of this dance circle surrounded by Liza Minnelli, Mariel Hemingway, and Mason Reese, the redheaded kid from the Underwood Deviled Ham commercials who was shorter than me but apparently pretty popular, because people were taking his picture. He was not a busboy or waiter, but he liked girls and was fun to dance with as he broke out in all kinds of kooky dance moves—oblivious to how silly he looked. “We all look beautiful here!” he shouted, pointing to the lights shining on us.

  The club was a frenzy of energy, music, and sweat. No matter where you turned, people were touching one another, dancing in pairs, dancing in groups—just dancing with total freedom as feathers, balloons, and confetti exploded from the ceiling. Filled with adrenaline, I could not stop moving, pinching myself that this was all real. I was in the center of something amazing, something unexplainable—something that just felt right.

  That night came and went in an instant, but the lure of the club became an addiction. After that evening, I became a regular. I babysat, I worked in clothing stores, at a Fotomat—any odd job I could find to be able to buy fabulous outfits and have money for the entrance fee. Each and every time I made it past the velvet ropes, I felt like I’d won an Academy Award. And each and every time, my confidence and my belief in myself grew.

  In the beginning, I was going only on the weekends with Marley or Sarah, sometimes even Robyn. But they could not get out of the house during the week, so I started going on my own—eventually realizing that I could just bring my school bag and an extra set of clothes and change in the bathroom of Brasserie, where I went several mornings for a bite after the club had closed.

  My routine was school, homework, and making a pot of soup for my dad and myself, followed by a disco nap before heading out of the house at midnight for an evening of dancing and then a breakfast of quiche lorraine and French onion soup at Brasserie before heading to school.

  With my mom and my sister on the road for a couple more months and my dad wrapped up in his own life, I discovered the joys of being fifteen in New York City without a curfew. In the darkness of the clubs, I found my own fame. I no longer took a backseat in my life. The nightlife was my life. I spent every night—and I mean every night—dancing at Studio 54, Xenon, or the Mud Club. I was a VIP, never doubting my entrance as hundreds stood outside. I danced on speakers, met celebrities, and gained much attention for my underage status and youthful looks. I even got that kiss with Mick Jagger.

  Many people I befriended fell victim to drugs and alcohol as an escape. For me, the escape was the music, the colorful people, and the before and after meals at Trader Vic’s, Brasserie, and the Empire Diner that made my world euphoric—allowing me to realize my own dreams and fantasies.

  Traditional French Onion Soup

  Yield: 4–6 servings

  3 tablespoons butter

  5 Spanish onions, chopped fine

  11⁄2 tablespoons flour

  2 garlic cloves, mashed

  8 cups beef stock, boxed o
r homemade (page 53)

  1⁄2 cup dry white wine

  1⁄4 teaspoon dry thyme

  Salt and pepper, to taste

  6 slices French baguette

  11⁄2 cups shredded imported Gruyère cheese

  In a large pot over low heat, melt the butter and add the onions. Sauté the onions very slowly, until they are soft and golden, but not too brown. Add the flour and cook the onions a minute longer. Add the garlic and sauté for another 2 minutes. Add the stock, wine, and thyme and let simmer for about 30 minutes. Add the salt and pepper to taste.

  Preheat oven to 200 degrees. Place the bread slices in the oven and let them toast. Portion the soup into ovenproof bowls, float the bread on top, cover with cheese, and broil until the cheese is melted and nicely browned. Serve immediately and enjoy.

  Pritikin-Approved Lentil Stew

  Yield: 4–6 servings

  2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

  2 carrots, washed, peeled, and diced

  2 celery stalks, washed and diced

  1 small, yellow onion, diced

  4 garlic cloves, diced

  6 cups low-sodium vegetable stock

  1 sweet potato, diced

  1 tomato, washed, peeled, and diced

  1 cup brown lentils

  1 bay leaf

  2 teaspoons kosher or coarse sea salt

  Pour the olive oil into a large pot and heat over medium-high heat. Add the carrots, celery, onion, and garlic, and sauté the veggies for about 5 minutes, or until softened, stirring frequently. Add the stock, sweet potato, tomato, lentils, bay leaf, and salt. Bring to a boil over high heat and stir. Let boil for a couple of minutes, and then reduce heat to low, partially cover, and simmer for about 1 hour. Stir the stew occasionally, until the lentils are very tender.

  19

  My Parents’ Divorce

  Violetta’s Vitello Tonnato, Real Italian Tiramisu, African Chai Tea

  When my mom and sister returned from touring with Annie, my parents staying together was no longer an option, even though neither of them wanted to leave our three-story rent-controlled brownstone.

  My dad had met a woman while working in Italy. Violetta was an Italian from the Bronx who re-created herself while living in Milan. She was as passionate about food as my dad, and after a couple of weeks of eating their way through Italy, my dad invited Violetta to move to New York with him. Of course, he was still married and living with my mom, but within a few weeks of meeting Violetta, he found a swanky, modern high-rise apartment a couple blocks down from our house.

  The evening my dad moved out, I was on the phone with Sarah talking about a guy I’d met the night before at Danceteria. I was sitting on the patchwork, Moroccan-tiled kitchen floor, and just like that, my dad started to walk out with his suitcases. When I asked him where he was going, thinking it was one of his usual exotic trips, he casually stated he was moving out. I stared at him for just a moment before I went right back to my conversation with Sarah. I may have mentioned to her that I thought my parents might be getting divorced, but then I continued to grill her, wanting to know if she thought the guy with the purple spiked hair, nose ring, and the Sid Vicious shirt liked me.

  Sarah interrupted me. “Hey, are you okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Sarah was shocked at my response since I was usually so emotional. The truth is I was relieved, as most of the time I was walking on eggshells, hoping neither of my parents would provoke the other.

  Since it was rare that either of them were home at the same time, the weeks between my dad leaving and my first visit to his new apartment felt fairly normal. Most of my friends already had divorced parents, and they were pretty okay with it. There was even a restaurant on the Upper West Side called Marvin Gardens where all the divorced dads took their kids on Wednesday nights. Sarah said they had the best cheeseburgers, and Marvin used to come out personally to talk to all the kids. If he heard that your parents had recently split, he would even bring you an extra scoop of ice cream with Hershey’s chocolate syrup for dessert.

  I asked April if she felt upset about the separation; after all, our family was finally back together.

  “I think it’s great. We’ll get to have two houses. And when you have divorced parents, they usually feel really guilty, and each parent is trying to be the favorite so they act nicer and buy you more stuff.”

  “I am not sure if Mommy thinks that way,” I said.

  “You just don’t know how to handle her the way I do. You need to make her work for your love a little harder. Give her the silent treatment when she screams at you. It works like a charm every time.”

  My dad wanted April and me to meet Violetta, so we were meeting up at his new apartment for an authentic Northern Italian meal prepared by Violetta. April kept pulling me along, urging me to walk faster. “Hurry up, I am starving. Why are you walking so slowly? Didn’t you hear there was going to be homemade food?”

  We were only going from Lexington to Second Avenue, but those two blocks felt endless, and I was having a hard time making my feet move in a forward direction. Walking into the modern apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows, stark white walls, and an ivory-colored leather sofa, I was shocked at how clean, organized, and utilitarian it was—the opposite of our family brownstone, which was always in total chaos.

  “Violetta loves Danish modern,” my dad said. “She discovered this type of furniture while living abroad; all the stuff is so sleek and functional, the way we envision our little abode to be.”

  Looking at the Scandinavian-furnished apartment, I remembered all the weekends my dad dragged me from antique shows to flea markets in search of old gramophones, rolltop desks, and rocking chairs. He told me he dreamed of retiring from advertising in order to open his own antiques store, specializing in mission furniture and antique toys from the 1800s. One time, I even almost lost my foot when he got a hot lead on an old vending machine that dispensed signed original Beatles trading cards. He had me sit in the front of the shop with the German shepherd watchdog as he went with the owner into the back room, where he would appraise the cards signed by Ringo Starr and John Lennon. I swung my feet back and forth as I waited, and the dog became aggressive and began chewing on my rubber flip-flops, biting a huge hole in my foot. Before rushing me to the hospital, where I got sixteen stitches, my dad made sure the antique machine was carefully wrapped with two layers of bubble wrap.

  April was wandering freely through the apartment and called out, “No second bedroom,” as my dad fed me a piece of warm bread with a homemade bean dip topped with sprigs of fresh rosemary and pine nuts. Inhaling the intoxicating smells from the kitchen—roasted garlic with braised meat—I could not help but let out a big, fat “YUM,” even as I realized that no second bedroom meant my dad had no intention of ever inviting April or me to stay for a night.

  Violetta emerged from the kitchen. She was totally different from what I had expected—big oversized glasses, cropped hair, and a tailored suit. My dad kept looking for my approval, tickling me as he winked all googly-eyed at Violetta.

  “Did you know that there are more than twenty different types of Italian cuisines?” my dad informed me. “Each region has its own specialty. Southern Italy is known for seafood, Northern Italy is known for their risotto, and Central Italy is known for their cheeses. Violetta taught me that while we toured Milan, Tuscany, and Positano. We not only went to the most amazing restaurants and vineyards, but I learned to eat like a ‘real Italian’—small portions of pasta, a little meat, and a big salad after the meal—never before—to help with digestion. ‘Real Italian food’ is nothing like the greasy stuff from the New York San Gennaro Festival in Little Italy—sausages with green peppers, meatball heroes with gloppy tomato sauce, and fried zeppoli with powdered sugar heavily soaked in cheap oil.”

  “That is not real Italian food!” Violetta
and my dad both said in unison.

  I used to love going down to Mulberry Street for the festival. While I never thought the food was great, it was something we did almost every year as a family, and I looked forward to it. My dad used to say he loved it too.

  While Violetta was busy preparing the meal of Vitello Tonnato—cold veal with a thick, creamy sauce flavored with tuna and garnished with anchovies and capers—and tiramisu for dessert in which she used real Italian espresso to dip the ladyfingers, April seemed to be joyfully bonding with her. She was amused by Violetta’s story of how they brought Cheecho the cat all the way from Italy. And she nodded approvingly as she tasted Violetta’s gnocchi exploding with gorgonzola cheese—the rich, fragrant sauce sliding down the side of her face.

  “Dad, I can see why you like living with Violetta. These dumplings are heavenly, Violetta. My mom never cooks like this.”

  “It’s not complicated, just put some cream, wine, and stock over medium-high heat in a cast iron sauté pan and cook it until it starts to bubble.”

  “We don’t have a cast iron sauté pan.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “V, there were never any proper pans and very few utensils in April’s mom’s place. I was always so frustrated. The first time you cooked for me, giving me a knife, fork, and a spoon, I fell instantly and madly in love with you. You didn’t even need to cook me a thing.”

  “Oh, Al,” Violetta said, gleaming at my dad.

  Looking up, I saw April cozying up to Violetta, complimenting her on her silk blouse with shoulder pads, the chic apartment, even complimenting her on her musical taste and highlighted hair. I never felt any ill will toward April, but at that moment, I remember thinking both her and my dad were traitors. With all her flaws and wacky behaviors, our mom was still our mom, and she would die for us. She had given up the last two and a half years of her life touring with my sister. How could April forget that so easily and befriend Violetta, who my dad had left my mom for a mere month ago? Besides, Violetta wasn’t even that pretty, with her short, sassy hair, her boyish figure, and her fake accent insulting everything that wasn’t Italian. “Americans do not know how to eat. Americans are so behind on style. I just had to order the Italian newspaper so I can find out what is really going on in the world. Americans are so ignorant about politics.”