Georgia’s Kitchen

by Jenny Nelson

  While they waited for the elevator, she tossed the review down the garbage chute. It wasn’t worth recycling.

  A few hours later, naked, Georgia stood under the showerhead letting the hot water wash over her body and missing Glenn from the top of her tangled head to her polished toes. Any traces of her sweaty run around Central Park’s upper loop were long gone, but she couldn’t bear to leave the shower. Not with the phone incessantly ringing and not with nine messages waiting on the answering machine, and especially not with that review. Her anger had given way to a resigned exhaustion. Another quarter-size squirt of conditioner, worked into the ends, another round of soap, everywhere but the face. Sally, who had parked herself on the bath mat, poked her nose through the curtain and stared at Georgia for a second before returning to the floor.

  “Okay, okay,” she muttered, turning off the water with wrinkled fingertips. She stepped over her dog and wrapped a towel around her torso and another around her head. When the phone rang, she took a deep breath before walking into the living room to pick it up.

  “Georgia.” It was Lo.

  “Hey,” Georgia said flatly.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah.” Georgia didn’t feel like talking, even to her best friend.

  “Can I buy you breakfast? Lunch? Treat you to a facial?”

  “Thanks, Lo, but I have to deal with this. I’ll call you when the shit really hits the fan after I get axed.”

  “Maybe you won’t—”

  Georgia cut her off. “Please don’t even go there. I’m getting fired and we both know it. Anyone who reads the Daily knows it.”

  “Sorry, George. I just can’t believe how spiteful that woman is. That was the meanest review I’ve ever read.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, my call waiting is going nuts. I gotta go.”

  “Dinner or drinks tonight? On me, okay?”

  “Maybe. I’m sure I’ll need a stiffie or six by the end of this day.”

  She hung up and clicked over.

  “Georgia, it’s Bernard.”

  “Not so good, huh?”

  “No, not so good at all I’m afraid.” He cleared his throat.

  “When am I getting fired?”

  Bernard paused. “Let me buy you breakfast and we’ll talk then.”

  “You don’t want to just get it over with now?”

  “Balthazar in an hour. Can you make it?”

  “If I’m cabbing all the way downtown to get fired, Marco better at least pick up the cab. I’ll be unemployed soon, remember.”

  “The cab’s on me, Georgia. Breakfast is on Marco.”

  “In that case, I’ll see you there. And I’m feeling mighty hungry.”

  Sitting at a corner table at Balthazar, once one of the city’s trendiest restaurants and now a New York institution, Georgia silently prayed not to see anyone she had ever worked with or who knew her even remotely. She wore cropped white jeans, a shrunken black cardigan, and black ballet slippers, which covered her coral toes. She had chosen her outfit carefully, going for a Jackie O in Capri look. Everyone knew that when getting fired or dumped, the ever-dignified Jackie was the icon to channel. Her hair was miraculously devoid of frizz, thanks to the eighty-five different products holding it down and the flat iron her hairdresser claimed would change her life. No way was she getting fired with frizzy hair.

  Taking stock of the Balthazar scene, she did a quick scan for familiar faces, famous or otherwise. The last time she was there she’d seen a radiant Uma Thurman dining near Anderson Cooper. Her eyes paused on a two-top against the far wall, a desirable table under the gigantic antique mirror upon which all eyes fell when entering the restaurant. A porcine man used stubby fingers to scoop up something from his plate, while his lady friend, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Donatella Versace, pretended not to notice. Georgia looked closer. Please no, she thought. The man lifted his nearly bald head and she sank back into the red banquette, clutching the sleeves of her sweater like a security blanket. It was Pierre du Mont, her former boss. With any luck he hadn’t seen her. She’d left his bistro to work at Brit bad boy Stanley Quinn’s first stateside venture, and when she last saw Pierre, he razzed her nonstop. Though he was half joking, she knew he was steamed. Pierre went back to his finger food, seeming not to notice her. For the moment anyway, she was safe.

  Wearing a tan raincoat, an umbrella tucked under his arm, Bernard hurried over to the hostess stand, where he cased the room for his breakfast companion. Georgia let him find her, not wanting to draw attention to herself with Pierre just a few tables away.

  “Georgia, good to see you.” Bernard took the seat across from her.

  “You’re such a liar, Bernard. And a bad one too.” She sipped a glass of Pellegrino. “Unless you’re genuinely psyched to fire me, which wouldn’t make you a very nice person.” She smiled, letting him know he was off the hook.

  “Listen, you’re right that I’m firing you. And I’m not happy about it. We all know the review had nothing to do with the food, or even the shitty decor or the overpriced wine list or the waitstaff’s bad attitude or anything that”—he paused, trying to find the right word—“that woman wrote. It’s all because of Marco and his inability to keep his dick in his pants.” Bernard looked around for the waiter, who materialized instantly.

  “Two Bloodies with Ketel One. Right?” Bernard glanced at Georgia for confirmation.

  “Actually, I’m more in the mood for champagne. What do you have?”

  “By the glass we have Pol Roger, Veuve—”

  Georgia cut him off. “I think we’ll have a bottle, actually. What do you have that’s really good? Krug?”

  The waiter nodded. “Of course. Be right back.”

  “Great, Georgia. Just because you’re getting fired doesn’t mean you have to get me fired too.”

  “Come on, B. You know Marco won’t be able to say shit about the cost of this meal. Plus, look at how happy we made our waiter.”

  “True.” Bernard looked down at his hands. “So, as I was saying, you’re right I’m firing you. No need to beat around the bush. You can clear out your locker, I can messenger your stuff home, give it to Ricky, whatever you like. You’ve cooked your last meal at Marco.”

  No matter how ready Georgia thought she was, nothing had prepared her for the severity of that killer sentence. She swallowed hard. For a second she felt like the heroine in a film noir after she’s learned her husband has been killed—and that he’d been carrying on an affair with his secretary for years. In the film version, she’d dramatically crumple into the private dick’s arms, and he’d offer her smelling salts or something strong, and likely brown, to drink. Instead, the waiter returned to the table, holding out the champagne for her inspection.

  “Thanks,” she said, wasting no time in swilling her first sip.

  “What a fucking mess.” Bernard exhaled. “Here I am, firing a damn good chef, the kind of chef Marco never was and never will be, and all because that dirtbag thinks the nineteen-year-old daughter of the woman who’s reviewing his restaurant is fair game. Of course he was so fucked-up at the time he probably didn’t even realize she was barely out of high school.” Bernard finished his Bloody and poured himself a glass of champagne. “Scratch that. I’m sure he knew exactly how old she was. Now the bastard can’t own up to it, and someone has to take the fall. ‘Heads will roll,’ he told me this morning. ‘Ax the chef-ette.’ Who does he think he is, Henry the Eighth?”

  “Or Gargamel,” Georgia said. “He really called me the chef-ette?”

  Bernard was way too worked up for questions. “His restaurant is a sinking ship. It’s the fucking Titanic, for Christ’s sake.” He poured the champagne down his throat and immediately refilled his glass.

  “Wow, Bernard. You’d think you’d been called chef-ette.”

  Ignoring her attempt at levity, he steamrolled on. “He’s going to have to deal with the consequences at some point. Even though no one can see it, it’s his name o
n the goddamn door. Doesn’t he realize?”

  The waiter walked over and Bernard paused long enough so he and Georgia could place their identical orders: eggs Norwegian and croissants. He started up again the moment the waiter turned his back.

  Georgia refilled his glass for the third time and turned the bottle neck-side down in the ice bucket. They hadn’t started breakfast and had already killed a bottle of champagne. It wasn’t yet eleven o’clock.

  “So do you have any plans, Georgia?” Having finished his diatribe, Bernard reverted back to his all-business self.

  “Plans? No, I have no plans. I just realized I was getting fired yesterday. The day before that I thought I was heading for a major raise and some Food Network show Marco kept talking about. No, I have no plans.”

  The truth was, she felt lost without a plan. She always had a plan. She stabbed her fork into an egg, watching the yolk spill onto the plate. “And lest you think my life isn’t a total and complete wreck, my fiancé walked out on me last week and may never return. So not only am I unemployed, but I’m probably about to be unengaged too. Things are not looking up.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Georgia. I’m sorry.” He looked around for the waiter, who again miraculously appeared. “Let’s get some oysters.” Like most restaurant people, Bernard thought the right dish could cure just about anything.

  “Six Malpeques, six…?” He looked at Georgia.

  “Kumamotos,” she said.

  After their first shipboard rendezvous, she and Glenn had shared a dozen Kumamotos and a couple pints of Stella Artois at Scales & Shells, her favorite restaurant in Newport. Then they went back to his place, kicked his roommate out of the tiny bungalow, and had sex on the screened-in porch as the sun sank into the ocean. Glenn made some joke about oysters and aphrodisiacs that at the time was wildly funny and which they repeated often throughout the summer. She couldn’t remember it for the life of her.

  “You know, if you’re desperate, I could hook you up with a friend of mine uptown,” Bernard said.

  “Glenn’s been gone a week, Bernard. I’m far from desperate, but thanks anyway.”

  “I’m not talking about that kind of desperate, Georgia. I meant if you’re desperate for a job. My friend owns Lagoon on the Upper West. Though not exactly Per Se, it’s not the worst place either. He’s looking for sauté.”

  “Really, Bernard? Do you seriously think I’m going to have to accept sauté at a third-rate restaurant on the Upper West? Is that what it’s come to?” Though the highest station on the line, right below sous, sauté was a far, far cry from head chef at a white-hot restaurant. She hadn’t considered accepting anything less than sous, and only at a reputable and popular spot, and even that made her cringe. Maybe some place intimate and innovative, some place chef-owned. Not, she thought, sauté at a yuppie dump Zagat rated high teens.

  “You have to face facts, Georgia. It isn’t going to be easy to get hired after this review. You need to consider your options.”

  “I know, I know. But it’s too depressing to think about it now. Can’t we talk about it later—like next year?” Drunk and suddenly tired, Georgia felt as deflated as the tires on the mountain bike Glenn never rode yet insisted remain in the living room should the urge ever strike.

  The waiter walked over with a tray and two orangey-pink drinks. He placed them on the table. “Georgia Peaches. Peach schnapps, brandy, cranberry juice—the first request the bartender’s ever had for one of these. From the gentleman over there, who says a Georgia Peach for a Georgia peach.” He pointed to Pierre. “Or something like that.”

  Georgia held up her drink in acknowledgment, smiling tightly at her former boss’s glowing head.

  “Is that Pierre du Mont?” Bernard asked.

  Georgia nodded.

  “That’s what I thought,” the waiter said. “And the bartender was wondering if you’re the Georgia who got slammed in that Mercedes Sante review.” He pointed to the drinks on the table. “Hence the Georgia Peach drinks.”

  “Yes, I am, and, yes, I get the Georgia Peach reference, thanks.”

  Apparently reading her gesture as an invitation to chat, Pierre pushed back his chair and walked toward Georgia, his bleached-blond friend in tow.

  “Georgia,” he boomed. His voice was almost as big as his body.

  “Why, hello, Pierre. Thanks so much for the drink.” She stood and they exchanged air kisses.

  “Terrible break for you, Georgia. Just terrible. That Mercedes Sante is a real killer.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Yes, well, I’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

  “This too shall pass,” offered his girlfriend with a nasal twang. “I’m just amazed you’re out in public today. I mean, after what she said about you, I don’t think I’d show my face for like a year. You got chutzpah, honey.” She folded her arms across her ample chest and tapped a stiletto-clad foot.

  “Well,” Georgia said, sitting down, “what can you do.”

  “And to come here of all places. Everybody knows this is like the in place for restaurant people. I’m sure half the place is talking about you.” The girlfriend looked around as if to prove her point.

  Georgia’s mouth dropped open. “You’re right,” she said quickly. “I hadn’t thought about that, but thanks for pointing it out.”

  “I insisted she meet me,” Bernard interjected. “I’m Bernard Lambert, the GM at Marco.” He offered his hand. “I’ve been fielding calls from restaurateurs across the country who are dying to snap her up.” He dropped his voice. “On the DL, a certain Chicago restaurant with a three-letter name is very interested.”

  “Is that so?” Pierre patted Georgia’s back. “And to think I was about to offer you sous at my Boston place opening this fall. If you change your mind, let me know.”

  “You should think about it,” the girlfriend said. “No one in Beantown will know who you are, or that you got a half fork from the Daily. You can leave your rep behind.” She winked a clumpily lashed eye. “Y’know, I didn’t even realize they could give a half fork. I think you might be the first to get one.” She paused to adjust the strap of her leopard-print cami. “One-half, I mean.”

  “You’ve got lipstick on your teeth,” Bernard said, pointing a finger to the slash of magenta across her tooth. “Wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself”—he gestured to the room—“here, of all places.”

  She tongued her tooth and shot Bernard a dirty look. Pierre excused them, but not before offering Georgia his card. “I’m serious about Boston. Think about it.”

  Georgia nodded. “I will.”

  “Jesus,” Bernard said when the two were safely out of earshot. “Who was that woman? I didn’t realize people like her actually existed.”

  Georgia laughed. She threw back her head, closed her eyes, and laughed like an only child who has just realized that every last present under the Christmas tree belongs to her. She laughed so hard her shoulders shook and a salty tear rolled down her cheek and onto her tongue. When she was done laughing, she dabbed at her eyes with a napkin and put on her oversize tortoiseshell sunglasses before walking out into the gray afternoon. It’s what Jackie would do.

  Spring Street teemed with pretty young things, crisply dressed gray-haired men with long-legged girls in skinny jeans, skate rats from the badlands of Westchester, and well-heeled couples who shopped at Dean & Deluca, where even tilapia cost twenty bucks a pound. The only remnant of the starving artists who’d once roamed the SoHo streets were at a few sidewalk tables displaying photos and paintings. In New York, especially, today’s street artist could be tomorrow’s Basquiat and was at least worth a peek. Georgia stopped at a table covered with small watercolors, bending down for a closer look at a hazy landscape of rolling hills, cypress trees, and a field of poppies.

  “Did you do this?” she asked the high-school-looking boy standing behind the table. He wore a hooded, gray sweatshirt and kept his hands dug into the front pouch.

  “I did,” he said with more
confidence than she expected.

  “It reminds me of Tuscany.”

  “It is. It’s in Fiesole, outside of—”

  “Florence,” she finished for him. “It’s really pretty.”

  “You’ve been?”

  “Yeah, but not for a long time. I keep saying I’ll get there but things keep getting in the way.”

  “I know what you mean. So do you want it?”

  “How much?” Georgia asked.

  “For you, twenty bucks.”

  “Sold.”

  He sandwiched the landscape between two pages of an old New Yorker and gave her the magazine. “The magazine’s free. For you.”

  She tucked it into her bag and continued walking, pausing outside a trendy boutique where she knew she could score something pricey and pretty. Lo claimed that retail therapy was the panacea for just about whatever ailed you, and Georgia was tempted to test out her theory. If Lo had lived through Georgia’s morning, there’d be a citywide shortage of size 4, black pants, which Lo snatched up with reckless abandon even when she was happy as a hummingbird. As Georgia contemplated blowing her entire two-week severance pay, two model-skinny, madly texting girls walked out of the boutique, hot-pink bags swinging over their shoulders. Georgia felt for the rolled-up magazine in her bag and continued walking. One treasure in a day was enough.

  Standing in the hallway outside her apartment, Georgia fished for her keys. Sally’s leash wasn’t on the doorknob, and she worried that the dog walker had forgotten her lunchtime loop. “Coming, Sals,” she said under her breath.

  “Hey, Sally girl,” she called, tossing the keys onto the desk and dropping her bags on the floor. She picked up the magazine and flattened it out on the desk, using the Harney tea tin that served as a pencil cup and a paperweight to hold it down. Sally barked, which she only did to announce someone’s arrival, and only when someone else was already in the apartment. Georgia slipped off her trench and placed it on the chair. Her eyes widened as she noticed a jacket thrown across the chair, a navy blue, zip fleece. Glenn’s navy blue, zip fleece. Before she could gather herself, Glenn walked out of the bedroom.