Georgia’s Kitchen

by Jenny Nelson

Miraculously the door opened. “Get in,” Luca said in French. “And tell me about your restaurant.”

  Bernard rode with Luca all the way to Teterboro. He spoke, in French only, at Luca’s insistence, for the duration of the fifty-five-minute drive. Luca didn’t look at him or nod his head or give any indication that he so much as heard a word Bernard said. So he kept talking. First he talked about the restaurant, then he talked about himself, and when he’d exhausted that seemingly inexhaustible subject, he talked about Georgia. By the time they pulled up to the jet center, his tongue was so swollen he could barely close his jaw around it.

  “Your really think this will work?” Luca asked as he stepped out of the car.

  “Oui” was all Bernard could say.

  “You’ve got your money,” Luca said, reverting to English. “All but a hundred grand. That needs to come from management. It’s gotta hurt your pocket if you lose. Go to your friends, the National Bank of Mom, a fucking loan shark for all I care. But get the hundred grand and you’ll get your restaurant.”

  Bernard ended his story and looked at Georgia, whose green face was frozen, the mask having finally dried. “Did you hear me, Kermit? We got the money.”

  “Oh. My. God.” Georgia sprang from her chair. “We got the money. We got the money. Bernard, we got the money.” She grabbed his hands and pulled him up from the couch. “We got the money!”

  They bounced up and down together, holding hands like toddlers on a trampoline. Sally joined the celebration, barking her approval.

  “Wait a minute,” Georgia said, dropping his hands. “We have to come up with a hundred grand? How are we going to get a hundred grand?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Georgia fell onto the couch. “Shit.”

  Bernard plopped down next to her. “Merde,” he said. “The word is merde.”

  The skinny guy with the scraggly soul patch and dirty white jeans pawed through the loot covering Georgia’s dining table, a Chippendale knockoff that had belonged to Grammy. Dorothy had no need for repros in her authentically midcentury modern home, so the table had passed to Georgia. She loved its scratches and scars, the pale rings where Grammy’s mugs of tea had rested, the gash where Georgia had dropped a rolling pin—and nearly crushed her pinkie—during one of their annual Christmas-cookie baking marathons.

  “Not this, maybe this, definitely not this, ooh, I love this.” The guy, called Lemming, smiled twitchily at Georgia, who looked away.

  Her entire relationship with Glenn was strewn out across the table, seven years of highs, lows, and in-betweens reduced to a pile of merch; a romance that almost ended in marriage for sale to the highest bidder. The whole scene was slightly unsavory, beginning with the ratlike Lemming rifling through things that had actually touched her skin and ending with the (hopefully huge) check he would write to scoop it all up in his Nike duffel. Lo swore she’d do better selling directly to Lemming than going to one of the established consignment stores, plus she’d get the money right away. Since Georgia’s entire future now rested on securing a fast fifty grand (providing Bernard covered his half), she cast aside her moral doubts about the whole ordeal and set up the appointment with Lemming.

  “This is great.” He held up a red cashmere sweater decorated with a black skull-and-crossbones to his emaciated frame. “I might keep it for myself.”

  “You definitely should.” Georgia had worn the sweater twice, the last time to a Halloween show at the Bowery Ballroom, where some drunk guy had spilled a beer on her. Later, a falafel-hummus-and-tabbouleh pita exploded as she bit into it, sending green and orange bits all over her—and the sweater. He was welcome to it.

  Lemming flung the sweater to the floor and fluttered his fingers over her jewelry, which Lo had neatly arranged into separate but equally glittering groupings of earrings and necklaces. As a chef, Georgia never wore anything beyond sleeves or gloves on her arms or hands, which meant no bracelets, watches, or rings, until the ring.

  “Me&Ro?” Lemming held up giant gold hoops dripping with fringe and tiny ruby beads.

  “Aren’t they amazing?” Lo gushed.

  Georgia had insisted her friend attend the sell-off, as much for her support as for comments like these, which would surely bump up the final take.

  “Vintage Me&Ro,” she continued. “My sister threatened to buy her whole collection, but I insisted you had first dibs, Lemming.”

  Georgia choked back a laugh. Vintage Me&Ro? The earrings were a whopping seven years old, a Valentine’s Day gift. At the time she hadn’t even heard of Me&Ro. When Lo told her how much the gift from her then brand-new beau had cost, Georgia’s eyes bugged out of her head. She couldn’t fathom spending that much on earrings. Dinner at Taillevent, yes. But a pair of earrings?

  “They’re in good condition,” Lemming said. “And they’re stamped. I’ll give you three.”

  “Okay,” Lo said. “If that’s the best you can do.” She turned so that Lemming couldn’t see her and pumped her fist. Georgia was quickly learning that in the consignment game getting less than a third of the item’s original value was cause for celebration.

  By the time Lemming had gone through the entire collection, the tally on his antiquated counting machine reached $3,500. The seven years she’d spent with Glenn were worth, monetarily speaking, the cost of a spiffy new spring wardrobe.

  Finally Lemming left (though not, alas, before using her bathroom), and Georgia shut and bolted the door behind him. She fanned the cash in her hands, thirty-five crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Just think,” she said to Lo, “only forty-six thousand five hundred to go.”

  Sandwiched between a fancy boutique and a fancier jewelry store in Madison’s high-rent shopping district, the Viand Coffee Shop was the quintessential New York greasy spoon. The clientele was a mixed bag of conspicuous consumers, students on Christmas break, construction workers, and Georgia, who was wedged into a booth fit for a large child. Space was, naturally, at a premium. Dabbing at the beads of perspiration on her forehead, she ordered a Diet Coke with lemon and waited for Andrew Henderson, her boot tapping on the vinyl floor.

  After Bernard told her about the hundred grand, she’d pulled out Andrew’s card and punched his number into her cell, scared that if she waited any longer, she’d talk herself out of calling him at all. It was hard enough to call a guy on whom she’d insta-crushed after thirty seconds of small talk, harder still since he had a girlfriend, and hardest since she was calling to ask for money… his money. But she’d done it (leaving a message with only one um), and ten days later, just when she’d written Andrew Henderson off, he called back. He’d be happy to meet her, he said, and could she possibly do it in, say, an hour at his favorite coffee shop? Within forty-five minutes she’d exchanged pj’s and slippers for jeans and booties (with a reasonable two-inch heel), run ten city blocks, and claimed Viand’s back booth. She’d just finished sucking down her soda when Andrew walked to her table.

  “Georgia,” he said, a smile spreading across his face. “How are you?”

  She looked up into his deep brown eyes, feeling for a second as if she were on a first date and really wishing she were. Except that she’d have suggested a different venue, and the last and only other time she’d met Andrew he’d been kissing a beautiful woman. “Hi, Andrew. How are you?”

  “Great. Happy belated holidays.” He slid into the demi-booth opposite hers, still smiling. “If you haven’t been here before, the turkey is amazing. Fresh roasted.”

  They placed their orders—a turkey club and another Diet Coke for Georgia and an open-faced hot turkey and Coke for Andrew. He shared a funny story about the holidays, Henderson-style (more mandatory merrymaking than could possibly be healthy), and asked about hers (two surprisingly pleasant nights with her parents for Christmas, mellow dinner party at Lo’s for New Year’s) before resting his elbows on the table and clearing his throat.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your restaurant?” he said.

  Taking a deep brea
th, she launched into her three-minute, highlights-only pitch. She’d flesh out the details over turkey. Andrew listened intently, waiting until she’d finished.

  “It sounds great, Georgia. But before we get into the nitty-gritty, I want to be up-front with you. We’ve gotten hammered lately, and the only terms we’ll agree to in a project like yours is an ownership stake. Unfortunately that’s nonnegotiable.”

  She frowned. “That’s a bit of a problem. We’re not selling a stake, we’re looking for a straight loan. It’s more an investment in us, or in me, since you don’t really know Bernard, although you don’t really know me either. Sorry to waste your time with this.” She looked for the waiter. “I’ll cancel my order. I know you’re busy.”

  “No, no, no. Don’t do that. Just because we can’t do business together doesn’t mean we can’t eat lunch together, does it? A girl’s gotta eat, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Then let’s eat together. The turkey really is good, and I’m buying. What could be better for a cash-starved entrepreneur?”

  Georgia laughed. “Okay, but only to try this terrific turkey. And because I never turn down a free lunch.”

  By the time they finished eating, Georgia was not altogether convinced she hadn’t been on a first date. Andrew was charming and funny and smart and, she could swear, even a little flirtatious. They walked out of the restaurant, pausing on the street to say good-bye. Georgia thanked him for lunch.

  “It was fun,” Andrew said. “And I think your restaurant is going to kill.”

  “Thanks. I hope you’re right.”

  “So,” he said, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, “botched business deal aside, do you think I could call you sometime?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Georgia said slowly. “But don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  “No. What makes you say that?”

  “That night I met you at Marco there was a woman who joined your table. I saw her kiss you. And you definitely kissed back.”

  “Watching me pretty closely, huh?”

  Georgia felt her face get hot. “Not really, I just happened to turn at the exact moment she kissed you.”

  “I’m kidding. That was Lisa, a short-lived and extremely ex girlfriend. I haven’t dated anyone in a while.”

  Georgia’s belly swirled like a lava lamp. She knew she wasn’t supposed to get all fluttery about Andrew not having a girlfriend and wanting to call her, but sometimes these things couldn’t be helped. “Okay. Call me.”

  “Count on it.”

  The table was set with Grammy’s silver, hemp napkins, and plain white dishes Georgia had scooped up for a dollar each at a restaurant-supply store on Bowery. A cheese plate filled with her favorites—Mt. Tam, Humboldt Fog, Époisses, Rogue River blue—sat on the coffee table, while a bottle of champagne and several Pellegrinos chilled in the fridge. Two bottles (you never knew) of a delicious Saint Julien Bordeaux were at the ready; one was already decanting. She placed three soup shooters on the table before answering the door, Sally at her heels.

  “Georgia!” Hal said, his arms outstretched. “It’s wonderful to see you. And hello to you, Sally.” He reached down and scratched between her ears.

  “Hi, Dad, hi, Mom.” Georgia hugged them both. “Come on in.”

  “We brought champagne,” Dorothy trilled, waving a bottle. “And flowers.”

  Georgia hung their coats and seated them on the couch, where Sally planted herself at their feet. Dorothy’s silvery blond bob had grown out and faded back to its natural gray. Chunky turquoise-and-silver earrings and a billowy sweater-pant combo, much more in keeping with her hippie style, replaced the pearls and peach suit she’d worn in Italy.

  “Help yourself to some cheese, and these”—Georgia pointed to a square platter—“are smoked salmon, chive, crème fraîche, and Asian pear rolls, and these”—she pointed to a second platter—“are foie gras toast points with fig gelée.”

  “Interesting,” said Dorothy. “How… unusual.”

  “What’s this?” Hal asked, picking up one of three cordials filled with soup.

  “That’s a black-trumpet-mushroom velouté. It’s very rich.” The food was fussier than her usual, but it was the first time her parents had come to dinner. It was a big night.

  As she walked into the kitchen to find a vase, Georgia couldn’t resist stealing a glance at her mom, who was sampling an hors d’oeuvre. “Try one, Hal,” Georgia heard her whisper. “It’s delicious.”

  He slurped down the soup. “This is terrific too.”

  Georgia brought out the flowers and some flutes and opened the champagne her parents had brought, a Billecart-Salmon rosé that trumped the Moët chilling in her fridge, a leftover from Lo’s New Year’s party. Georgia had splurged on wine and food and couldn’t afford to splurge on everything.

  “Tell us about the restaurant,” Dorothy said, popping another salmon roll into her mouth.

  So Georgia told them about Luca and how he’d agreed to provide all the capital they needed, if she and Bernard came up with a hundred grand of their own money to invest. Her parents exchanged looks.

  “And where are you with that?” Hal asked.

  “And why didn’t you tell us before?” Dorothy asked.

  “Well, I sold off all the gifts Glenn ever gave me for a couple thousand, and if I liquidate my bank account, I’ll have a couple more. I just had a fruitless meeting with a really cool venture capitalist who can’t invest, and now Bernard and I are sort of at a dead end. I’m thinking about selling those Berkshire Hathaway shares Grammy left me. And I didn’t say anything because I was hoping to tell you once I’d raised all the money. I wanted you to see I was serious and that I could do it.”

  “We know you’re serious,” said Dorothy.

  “And we know you can do it, honey,” her father added.

  “Thanks, guys. I appreciate that.” Georgia stood. “Are you ready for dinner? I just need a couple minutes in the kitchen to finish up.”

  Her parents seated themselves at the dining table and a few minutes later Georgia brought out cumin-scented rack of lamb with herbed couscous and haricot vert. “We’ll have salad after the main course.”

  “How Italian,” said Dorothy.

  Georgia poured their wine, then filled her own glass, which she promptly raised.

  “Mom, Dad, thanks for coming to dinner. It’s nice to cook for you.”

  “Thank you for having us,” Dorothy said, cutting into her lamb. “The food so far has been marvelous, Georgia. I have to admit it sounds a little exotic, but you really make it work.”

  “This lamb is delicious,” Hal agreed. “The best I’ve ever had.”

  By the time Georgia cleared their salad plates they’d killed a bottle of wine, which “paired perfectly” with the lamb, according to Hal. Good thing she had backup.

  When she returned to the table with a second carafe, her parents, whose heads had been bent together in conversation, looked up. “Your father and I have something to tell you,” Dorothy announced while Georgia refilled their glasses.

  Hal nodded encouragingly.

  “We’ve decided to give you some money, the money we’d planned to contribute to your wedding. We’d like it to go to your restaurant instead.”

  Georgia’s mouth dropped. “Really?”

  “And,” her mother continued, “we’re also giving you the money we’d intended to give as a wedding gift. For your restaurant.”

  “Thirty thousand dollars,” Hal said.

  “Are you serious? Thirty thousand?”

  He nodded. “Getting married is a momentous event in anyone’s life. But following your dream, making it happen, that’s—”

  “Extraordinary,” Dorothy finished.

  Georgia was silent for a moment. When she spoke, her throat clenched a little. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can, I promise.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Hal. “This is a gift, Georgia.�
��

  Long after they’d finished dessert, they sat around the dining table—Grammy’s dining table—talking. They talked about the memoir Dorothy’s book group had just read, and about the newest instructor to join Hal’s department, and about the color they would paint the house in the spring, low-VOC of course. They talked about their old neighbor Mrs. Hadley, and about how much they all loved Florence and about why Georgia would never want to be a contestant on Top Chef. When they’d left, Georgia flopped onto the couch, pulling Sally up with her. Thirty. Freaking. Grand. From her parents.

  Petal leapt onto Clem’s lap and wiggled his rump against her merino sweater, his sharp claws pulling at her pricey Wolford tights. Clem scratched his head and smiled, feigning delight at the little pug’s annoying antics. Petal was Clem’s best dog-sitting charge, not only because his owner was nice, generous, and frequently out of town, but because they lived in a palatial apartment in the Dakota. Putting up with the pug was a small price to pay for digs like these.

  Georgia stifled a laugh as Clem tried unsuccessfully to shove Petal off her lap. The housekeeper had seated them in the living room, where they waited for the lady of the house, an übersuccessful businesswoman not much older than they. Georgia checked out the sweeping views of Central Park visible through the side-by-side picture windows, wondering how it would feel to own a place as grand as this.

  Less than a year had passed since she’d last sat in the Bordeaux-colored living room, lamenting the lousy state of her life to Clem. Thankfully, much had changed since that depressing day. She was on the verge of opening her own, still-nameless restaurant. She was single and reasonably okay with it. Though she’d be thrilled to go on a date with Andrew Henderson, between scrambling for money and searching for a space, she didn’t have the time, or the inclination, to worry about not being half of a couple. Instead she focused on being all of herself. The restaurant, her restaurant, was happening.

  “So tell me her deal again?” she whispered.

  “Makeup mogul. Runs Lime Cosmetics, that behemoth that owns every brand you’ve ever heard of. She’s supersharp, single, really funny, and likes a good meal. I mentioned I had a friend opening a restaurant, and she said she’d always wanted to invest in one.”