Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched

by Kim Barnouin

  She hugged me again. “My Clem, getting married. I’ll never forget that day Zach rang the buzzer after you barged in on his meeting. You could feel the sparks in the air when you opened the door.”

  I loved remembering that day.

  She sipped her mimosa. “So how long do I have you before you move into Zach’s house?”

  I bit my lip. I didn’t know how to tell her I was moving out ASAP. “The rent’s paid through the end of the month, and I’ll pay next month’s also. But I’m kind of dying to move in with Zach right away.”

  “If I had the choice of living in this dumpy closet with sloping floors or moving to Zach’s palace, I’d be out of here in a heartbeat.”

  I squeezed her hand. “You’ll find another roommate fast.”

  “No one like you, but, yeah, I’m sure I will.”

  I hugged her again. “I’ll miss you, Sar.”

  “That diamond is bigger than your face,” she said, looking at my ring.

  Twenty minutes later, as I was getting ready to leave for the restaurant, Zach called.

  “My mother’s dying to meet her soon-to-be daughter-in-law. She, her stepdaughter, Keira, and my siblings and I will be coming to your restaurant for dinner tonight around seven.”

  I froze for a split second. Was that the slightest nervous flutter I just felt? Zach’s mother had a serious reputation as difficult to please. And I wanted to please her. This was my future mother-in-law we were talking about.

  “I’ll make their orders myself,” I said, going over tonight’s specials in my head. I hoped Dominique would order the fettuccine carbonara. I’d worked for months to perfect my sauce. “Can’t wait to meet your mom and her stepdaughter.”

  I knew Zach was a lot happier since he and his mother had started talking again. They’d never been close, not even when Zach had been a kid. His mother had been a flighty jet-setter—still was—and regularly missed birthdays and holidays with a “Now, darling, don’t pout. We have right now!” There had been some kind of huge blowout a few years ago, something Zach refused to talk about, but apparently his mother had made amends or had tried to, and now she and Zach met for lunch or dinner every couple of weeks, working on repairing their relationship.

  My future mother-in-law. Even when I was imagining all of Zach’s relatives as my own, I’d completely overlooked Dominique Jeffries Huffington. Now that she was being all nice and motherly and wanting to meet her future daughter-in-law, we’d get along great. It would be like having a second mom.

  I could practically hear Sara laughing in my face at the notion of that too.

  7

  Clementine’s No Crap Café, between a Pilates studio and a popular new bookstore, gleamed in the bright California sunshine. The large front window, stretching across the entire width of the restaurant, was framed by gorgeous burnt-orange curtains pulled back on each side, CLEMENTINE’S NO CRAP CAFÉ stenciled in gold across the glass. Even back when this space was just that—an empty space with so much potential, I knew it was special. The shops up on these blocks of Montana Avenue made for great street traffic. And the cool art deco office building across the street, which housed a production company, a holistic-health center, and an in-demand acupuncturist, had brought me sick business from the beginning.

  I was about to pull open the silver front door when a couple, heading toward the bookstore next door, smiled at me.

  “This place good?” the guy asked, peering in through Clementine’s window.

  “It’s fabulous, Check out the menu.” I pointed at the shadow boxes containing the menus on the side of the door. “Complimentary glass of wine awaits your first visit. Tell the waitress Clementine said so.”

  I left them eyeballing the menu and headed inside, through the small, inviting waiting area with its cushioned bamboo benches made for me by my brother, Kale, and past the host’s station, where I could still smell the lingering fragrance from the beautiful flower arrangement Zach sent every week. The rectangular main dining room was spotless, the wide-planked wood floors gleaming, the polished wood tables, round, square, and rectangular, shining. The pale persimmon walls showcased several local artists’ work—large abstract paintings that complemented the Bali-meets-California vibe. Every time I walked through the restaurant, I felt that I was home.

  I glanced at table five, on the far side of the window. The large, round table, under a low lit antique chandelier I’d found during a road trip to New Mexico with Sara last year, would be perfect for tonight’s special guests—Zach’s family. My soon-to-be family.

  In the kitchen, which smelled amazing, my staff was prepping on the specials.

  “Wait a minute,” Alanna said, her hand poised on her knife and an onion. “What is that glittering on your finger?”

  They all stopped what they were doing and looked at my finger, which I wanted to hide behind my back. Too late.

  “Okay, here’s the deal. Yes, I’m engaged, but in this kitchen, I’m a chef, not some bride-to-be. So let’s go over tonight’s specials and—”

  “You wouldn’t deny us an excuse to crack open a bottle of champagne, would you?” Alanna asked. For someone who wanted to celebrate, she was eyeing my ring with something like horror in her eyes, as though the ring would turn into an eight-armed monster and attack her. What was up with that?

  “One sip for everyone and then back to work,” I said. “Drunk cooks mean burned plantains.”

  Gunnar opened a bottle of champagne, and we clinked our glasses. I was true to my word. One sip and then I got everyone prepping the samples of the specials for the staff meal at three o’clock. Tonight was fettuccine carbonara, Jamaican jerk tofu with baked plantains, which Zach loved, and chickpea curry over basmati rice.

  Alanna kept looking at my ring while she cut and peeled plantains. One false move and she’d cut off her finger. “Okay, fine, I’ll tell you,” she said out of nowhere. “My boyfriend gave me an ultimatum on Friday—right before I came to work. That’s why I was such a mess. Either we get engaged or he’ll find someone who actually wants to marry him. I’m just not ready, though. But I don’t want to break up, either.”

  Ah. Now the glances of horror at my ring made sense too.

  “How’d you know you were ready, Clementine?” Alanna asked.

  “Good question. I guess I said yes because I know he’s it for me, regardless of how busy I am.”

  Gunnar rinsed basmati rice in a silver colander. “He’s probably not it for you, then, Alanna. Dump the poor schlub and move on.”

  “But I do love him,” Alanna said. “I’m just not ready for marriage and all that. What is the big rush to get married? So what if I’m thirty.”

  “You’re just not that into him,” Gunnar said, stirring the rice. “If you were, you’d want to marry him. It’s like chef said. Her dude is it for her. That’s all she needs to know.”

  “Maybe I’ll be ready next year. Or the year after,” Alanna said. “Right now, being here is the most important thing to me. Working my way up to executive chef one day. My boyfriend hates when I say that. He keeps saying, ‘I should be the most important thing in your life.’ ”

  “What a whiny wuss,” Gunnar said.

  “You’re not ready and that’s the thing you need to know,” I said, sautéing the vegan pancetta for the carbonara sauce with crushed garlic and minced onion. Mmm, it smelled amazing.

  Alanna sliced the batch of plantains, brushed them with oil, and laid them on a baking sheet. “I know. I just don’t want him to dump me.”

  “Maybe you should dump him,” Gunnar said. “Put him out of his misery. If you really loved the guy, you’d want to marry him.”

  Not necessarily true. Though it sometimes was. Who the hell knew? Timing was everything.

  “See what you started?” Alanna asked, wrinkling up her face at my ring. “Let’s change the subject before I start throwing chickpeas at Gunnar for his annoying honesty.”

  Gunnar’s expression softened. “Sorry. So who’
s on tofu?”

  That got us back to work on the samples, which did double duty as our staff meal and a tasting for the waiters, so they’d be able to answer questions about what was scrumptious and what they liked better, in their humble opinions, and what was spicy or not. With Alanna, Gunnar, and the McCann twins hovering around my sauté pan, I went over the steps for making my new carbonara sauce, which the LA Times had said last week was “deliciously indistinguishable from the one-hundred-fat-gram version.” My version: ten grams, and worth every one.

  The waiters arrived at three, and we sat down to the staff meal, everyone taking a little bit of everything. The three waiters were dressed in their uniforms: black pants and silver T-shirts with the No Crap logo, a tiny platter of vegetables in batik. The kitchen staff wore the same under their chef jackets.

  “VIP coming in tonight,” I announced, taking the serving bowl of fettuccine from Alanna and adding some to my plate. “My fiancé’s mother. Her stepdaughter, Zach, and his siblings are all coming too. I hear his mother is a foodie, so I’ll make her order. Who wants the table?” I directed to the waiters. “Zach’s a great tipper.”

  No one raised a hand. I eyed Finn, secretly my favorite of the waitstaff. He was a great waiter—patient, friendly, smart, and fast, and he knew the menu inside out. He was also incredibly good-looking, which got him insane tips.

  “Oh, fine, I’ll take it,” Finn finally said. “But if I trip and spill jerk tofu on your future stepmother’s head, you can’t fire me.”

  By 6:55 p.m., the restaurant was so busy that I barely had time to look out into the dining room to see if Zach and his family had arrived. Every table was taken, except for the big, round one by the window, with its special RESERVED placard. The specials were selling like crazy, as was the always-popular harvest pizza.

  Even with one eye on the huge silver clock on the wall, one hand stirring the fragrant pot of Jamaican jerk tofu, and the other hand working a sofrito of onions and garlic sautéing in olive oil, I couldn’t help but close my eyes and breathe in the delicious aromas of the kitchen. The ginger, limes, cayenne, and bit of maple syrup in the jerk sauce wafted up from the pot in front of me. I had to remember to bring home some of the jerk tofu for Sara—she wasn’t crazy about tofu but loved jerk seasoning and called it Jerk Joefu.

  “They’re here,” Finn said, coming into the kitchen. “Matteo just sat them.”

  The infamous mother had arrived. I glanced around for a spare hand and spotted Evan McMann helping Gunnar chop; I waved Evan over to stir my pots and headed over to the out door, which had a small window.

  I didn’t have a perfectly clear view of table five across the restaurant, but I could see Zach pointing at the menu and saying something to his brother, Gareth, who sat beside him. Seated on Zach’s other side was a striking woman in her late fifties, tall, regal, and quite beautiful. Dominique Jeffries Huffington. She wore a black, sleeveless dress, a lot of bling, and the kind of small, weird hat you’d spot at a British royal wedding. Sitting next to her must be the stepdaughter, Keira, no older than twenty-one, twenty-two tops, also tall and thin, with long, ombré-brown hair, small, dark eyes, a long, sloping nose, and a wide, glossy mouth. The features combined to make her almost beautiful. Next to Keira was Avery, Zach’s fraternal twin.

  “I wonder how long you have to be on best behavior,” Gunnar said as he slid vegetable chunks on a skewer for blackened kebabs. “Family isn’t family until you’re arguing over stupid crap at Thanksgiving.”

  “Hold the fort and wish me luck,” I said to the kitchen staff.

  I pushed through the swinging door of the kitchen into the main dining room and headed toward table five. A smattering of people waited in the open lounge area on the padded benches. The juice bar was full of those waiting to be seated, ordering from the bar menu of tapas and drinking my energy smoothie. I smiled at my guests as I walked through the room. I asked one table how the fettuccine was, and I welcomed a new table that had just turned over, signaling a waiter to refill lemon-water glasses.

  As I approached, Zach stood up and took my hand.

  “Mom, Keira, this is Clementine.”

  “I’m thrilled to finally meet you,” Dominique said, grasping my hand in both of hers. “You’re as lovely as everyone told me.”

  I beamed at her. “Thank you. I’m so happy to meet you too.”

  Zach looked a lot like his mother—the almond-shaped blue eyes, the perfect nose, the dark hair, and something in their expression.

  “Me too,” Keira said. “Congrats on getting engaged.”

  They were both much nicer than I expected.

  Avery and Gareth stood up and hugged me. As Gareth sat back down, he said, “So what should I order?”

  “I’ll bet you’d like the Jamaican jerk tofu,” Avery told him. “I’ve had it and it’s amazing.”

  Keira was looking at the back of the menu, where drinks were listed. “I don’t see Diet Coke and I’m dying for a cold blast of caffeine.”

  “The place is called Clementine’s No Crap Café for a reason,” Avery told her. “No crap.”

  “Is caffeine crap?” Keira asked, clearly confused.

  “Diet Coke is drinkable chemicals,” Avery said, saving me the trouble.

  “Oh,” Keira said. “I’ll have a Diet Sprite or whatever, then.”

  “We don’t serve soda,” I said. “We have all kinds of great juices and smoothies and wines and beer.”

  “Avery, order something I’ll like,” Keira said.

  “Well, this is such a darling little place,” Dominique said, glancing around, her gaze stopping on the hipster couple at the next table.

  If I weren’t so focused on her, I might not have noticed the slight edge in her voice, in her expression, but darling little place was usually code for “shit shack.” Smile, Clementine, I told myself. Say thank you and get back to work. “Thank you. Well, I’d better get back to the kitchen and let you look at the menu.”

  Zach squeezed my hand and I headed to the kitchen, looking back to see them all perusing the menu. Just then Dominique glanced up at me and lifted her chin, her smile . . . full of something I couldn’t quite pinpoint.

  The food would win her over. That I was sure of.

  Five minutes later, their orders came in. I’d asked Finn to note Dominique’s—and was happy to see she’d chosen my fettuccine carbonara. While Gunnar prepared their salads, I helped Alanna with other orders, and when the salads went out, it was time to start on table five’s dishes. I gave Alanna and Everett Zach’s, Avery’s, Gareth’s, and Keira’s orders, and I went to work on Dominique’s dinner. The strips of fresh fettuccine, which I’d made in batches through the afternoon and evening, were hanging over dowels on the back counter, some dry and ready to go, some drying for later orders. I took a just-dried portion and put the pasta in a pot to boil, then started the sauce—almond milk, crushed garlic, onion, and my own months-in-the-perfecting vegan pancetta. I dipped in a spoon to taste—delicious but just slightly too thick. For Dominique, the sauce had to be perfect. I started over, and this time the sauce was just right.

  With Finn’s tray loaded and ready to go, I gave each plate the once-over. Perfect.

  Five minutes later, Finn was back with an untouched plate of fettuccine carbonara. “Um, chef?” He set the plate down at my station. “Zach’s mother said the pasta wasn’t toothsome enough.”

  I stared at him. “Wait—what?”

  “She said—”

  “She took a bite of the fettuccine and said it wasn’t toothsome enough?”

  Finn backed away a bit. “Well, she waved me over and said, ‘Darling, the sauce is lovely, but the pasta isn’t quite toothsome enough,’ and then she pushed it away.”

  My heart sank. The pasta was perfect. I knew it was.

  Was Dominique trying to tell me that some no-name farmer’s daughter who owned this “darling little place” wasn’t good enough for her son? No. Why did I even go there? When did I become such
a drama queen?

  “Clem?” Finn said as I stared at the pasta, trying to figure out her game.

  “Yeah?”

  “What does toothsome even mean?”

  “It basically means just right. Not too soft or too firm.”

  “Ah. I told her I would bring her another plate right away, but she didn’t say anything. She just sipped her wine and started talking to the person next to her.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Finn. I’ll go out.”

  Never in the history of Clementine’s No Crap Café, which had, granted, been open for only two months, had an entrée been sent back to the kitchen. Overcooked, undercooked, underseasoned, overseasoned—not in my restaurant. Not while I was in the kitchen—and I was always in the kitchen.

  Hadn’t the restaurant been written up for the second time in LA Magazine as the hottest new eatery in Santa Monica—for vegans and nonvegans? Yes, it had, I reminded myself—confident that the fettuccine was not the problem.

  Then again, if my fettuccine couldn’t wow my future mother-in-law into eating up instead of complaining, how could it be good enough for the New York Times reporter?

  I closed my eyes and counted slowly to five, as Zenia, my Pilates teacher, had taught me. Pilates had kept me sane during the first weeks of opening the restaurant. Breathe, Clementine, I heard her whisper in my ear, Tibetan bowl music pinging in the background.

  As I walked over to the table, Zach was looking at me with an expression that said, Don’t take it personally. This is who she is.

  How could I not take it personally, though? Even if the fettuccine sucked, the kind-mother-in-law thing to do would be to say it was delicious. Especially since this was the first time we’d met. If I were invited over to her house and she served something I didn’t like, I certainly wouldn’t tell her.

  She’d sent back her plate.

  And everyone at the table was digging in except for Dominique, who sipped her wine and had an untouched piece of focaccia on the little plate in front of her.