As we chill the Prosecco and anticipate the doorbell, I change the subject by asking Dara for a rundown of who’s coming to dinner. “Basically, ehhhveryone,” she says, deadpan. I have a flashback of Shelley dragging me to New York nightclubs to take tequila shots in our Bordeaux nail polish and cushioned Dior handbags, with her idea of “everyone,” too. In all fairness, Dara’s illustrious guest list, the so-called literati of Los Angeles, is a discriminating crowd. They’re sophisticated, well traveled, and for the most part, dedicated gourmands. What’s more, Dara tells me that Christopher Wagner, the head writer for my all-time favorite TV show, will be stopping by for dessert because he lives down the hall. To meet the mind behind the dark, dysfunctional, sexually devious show, in honor of which I’ve joined chat rooms and fan clubs, and talked at length about with Chef (also a die-hard fan), is a big deal. When the doorbell rings, I dash into the guest bedroom to change out of my apron and into a long, strapless sundress.
Dara’s friends stroll in with their huge screenplays and deep sighs and it is evident that this no-bullshit crowd is ready for dinner. They situate themselves around the dining-room table. After quick introductions, I take my position at the stove. It’s interesting to meet all these smart, successful, overly ambitious types, but besides Christopher, who’s coming late, I don’t really care about their credentials. At this point in my life, I’ve learned that everybody hurts and everybody is hungry. When Shelley arrives with the coffee cake, I kiss both her and the Bundt pan, and feel more at ease having them there. My pseudo-baker instinct tells me this dessert is stupendous, which comforts me, just in case dinner is not.
My baked chicken is almost ready and the purple potatoes are in the pot. Once they’re cooked, I’ll mash them with caramelized onions, Dijon mustard, white wine vinegar, olive oil, pepper, and capers. The frisée and endive salad is crisp and self-assured, ready to be served with my grandmother’s dressing on the side. For a split second, I get really sad that Chef can’t see me in action. It’s been a few days since I’ve told him to stop calling, insisting it’s “counterproductive” to the clearing of our heads. But at this moment I miss him terribly. Dara’s boyfriend walks into the kitchen, sees me tearing up, and asks if I’m okay. I blame the onions and carry on.
The rock-hard potatoes are holding back the show. I’ve immersed them in too much water, which is not yet boiling, and the suckers won’t soften. I’m screwed. There’s good wine, green grapes, and soft cheese on the table, but I sense some displeasure from the dining room. They’re hungry! Just as I start to really panic, Dara smoothly walks into the kitchen, covers the pot with a lid, and returns to her guests like she never left. This speeds things up tremendously. Damn, why didn’t I think of that?
With no time to dwell, I swiftly finish up. I assemble the crispy chicken breasts on a beautiful silver platter, next to a white ceramic plate with the smashed purple potatoes and an etched-glass bowl filled with whimsical leafy greens. We’re going to eat family-style. With all my dishes out of the kitchen, I pull up a chair and join the table. As everyone digs in, I watch how my colors and textures really come together. The presentation is unfussy but elegant, and the vibe is great. We eat, drink, gossip, talk showbiz, and eat and drink more. The chicken might be slightly overcooked, but no one seems to notice. I try not to eye who is taking seconds and what’s being pushed to the side, because all that really matters is that the room feels just right. Anyway, Dara would have told me if something fell short.
As I start to clear the plates and prepare for dessert, Christopher Wagner makes his entrance. He’s my height, but burly and handsome, with a presence so strong and silent that it’s almost mystical. A shiver runs down my spine as I clumsily wipe my hands to shake his. We conspicuously check each other out and then I duck into the guest bathroom to inspect myself. I look in the mirror and it occurs to me that I just cooked for twelve strangers without breaking a sweat. I did it. My hair comes down and I dot my cheeks with pink blush. As I look at my reflection, I notice a little glow. For the first time in months, I feel pretty.
Back in the living room, the group has gathered to eat my vintage ivory coffee cake and smoke some jungle green marijuana. I’m already a little drunk, so I quietly decline. The room is collectively joyful from the combination of weed and sweets, and since no one is really listening, now seems like a good time to tell Dara and gang that I’m staying two weeks longer than planned to cover the Emmys. No one responds—which is to be expected from a bunch of stoned, self-obsessed showbiz types—and I don’t take it personally.
Christopher, who’s not even that high, then says, “Maybe you should stay another two months and rent out my place? I’m heading to New York till mid-October for work.” While I’m stunned at the prospect of sharing anything with someone so connected to my favorite series, and thoroughly enticed by the prospect of shacking up at the exquisite El Royale, I’ll never be able to afford some famous screenwriter’s apartment. Predicated by the acknowledgment that it’s definitely out of my price range, I say I’d love to see it. And just like that, Christopher kills the rest of his cake and quickly jumps to his feet.
As we walk to his apartment at the opposite end of the hall, he stops in his steps and takes a long look at me. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I’m very attracted to you.…” Ah, shit! He’s just trying to shag me? This is not exactly the hard sell that I had in mind. I point to my engagement ring, shrug my shoulders, and suck back any sexual energy that I might have put out into the air. No chance.
He gets the point, and welcomes me into his big, beautiful two-bedroom apartment like nothing ever happened. It’s dreamy inside—arty and vast with Juliet balconies, high ceilings, crown moldings, and an eternity of rare books and black-and-white photography. It’s the apartment of a rich bohemian and a legit bon vivant. From his endless windows you can see a posh golf course, rows of charming bungalows, far past the canyons, and beyond the famous Hollywood sign.
And the kitchen! Pristine slate tiles, rows of copper pots, and a six-burner Viking stove. He has all the tools I’d ever need to advance as a cook. Watching me delight in his ramekins of Maldon salt and Italian olive oils, he calls from across the room, “So, you’re into cooking?” I tell him about my blog, and how, ironically, a chaotic life with a chef led me to a peaceful one in the kitchen. “I like that,” he says. “I’m a budding foodie, too.” Then we both agree we can’t stand that word.
As I relish every inch of the apartment, not just the stainless-steel skillets and saucers, he apologizes for a few scattered things that belonged to the last guy, “Paul,” whom he shared the apartment with. He says the first and last name and my ears tweak. I fix my posture, raise an eyebrow, and flip my hair to one side. Wait. No. Is he talking about the star of the show he wrote, and easily my favorite actor? He is. Apparently, they had been roommates while Paul’s house in the Hills was being built. If I were to rent the place, I’d actually be sleeping in Paul’s bed. All I can think is that life is one big, amazing mindfuck.
“By the way, who’s your favorite food writer?” Christopher says with intensity, after the tour.
“Hmm, good question. Maybe Gael Greene? Did you know she slept with …”
“Okay, if I give you my apartment till fall, will you read some M. F. K. Fisher for me?”
“Yes,” I say, confused. “But I don’t think you realize just how broke I am.”
He seems too savvy to be one of those rich people who thinks everyone around them is cash happy, too, so I’m not sure what’s going on here.
“Well, what can you afford?”
“Like seven hundred dollars per month, at the most. And I’m sure this place is much more than that,” I say.
“Why don’t we sleep on it?”
“Okay.”
“Together?” he asks with a wink.
“No.”
By the time I get back to Dara’s, most of the guests are gone, including Shelley, who snuck off to a movie premeire a
fter-party. Dara’s boyfriend is doing the dishes and convinces me to crash in the guest room. I’m now definitely drunk from a few glasses of dinner wine and a sherry at Christopher’s, and very tired, with no cash left for a cab back to Shelley’s anyway. I hate to be an imposition, but I hate leaving the El Royale even more, so I comply.
As I draw a bath in the guest bathroom, I reflect on everything that happened tonight. I can’t believe how easy and breezy my first dinner party was. Maybe I do have a little bit of Jennifer in me after all. But now, I have some serious decisions to make. Subletting at the El Royale would mean extending my trip to three months. That’s a long time to be away from my life back in D.C. I’m already getting e-mails from my neighbors on C Street saying that since Chef has been away filming, our car has begun to drown in parking tickets and our garden is starting to rot. A depressing thought, but what can I do?
I haven’t even told Chef about the Emmys, and now our separation could last even longer. But I’ve made no progress in deciding what to do about my future with him. I want answers, but my mind won’t go there. It’s so difficult for me to compute that I’m in love him, yet I’ve lost faith in our future together. How can those two truths fight each other? All I know is that I still don’t know. I have so much to think about that the system has crashed.
Soaking in the tub, I close my eyes. What is going on here? Dinner for twelve? New York magazine? Christopher Wagner? A six-burner Viking? My head on actor Paul’s king-size plush pillows? I go straight from the bubble bath to the bed. My hair is wet, my skin smells like citrus, and after just two weeks in L.A., my body feels rounder, healthier, and more womanly. If there is anywhere in Hancock Park where one should sleep in the nude, pressed deep into bed, it’s at the El Royale.
When I wake up, the house is empty. Dara is off doing early-morning downward dogs; her wonderful boyfriend has left for the office. The house is once again spotless. On the dining-room table sits the Los Angeles Times, New York Times, a pot of tea, my leftover coffee cake, a couple of crumbs, and an envelope addressed to me from Christopher Wagner. “The apartment is yours for the next few months. Cook a lot. Bake like crazy. Freeze me some! Pay whatever.”
And just like that, the script is written.
Forgive-Me Berry Muffins
SERVES 12
If your best friend loves carbs, and carbs are best delivered by way of blueberry muffins, and the blueberry muffins are made by you, then by the associative property, your best friend will love you—even after you’ve wrecked her brand-new Audi while she’s in Malibu—if you feed her these delicious muffins.
Unsalted butter, at room temperature, for greasing the muffin pan
2 cups whole-wheat flour
½ cup sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted
1 large egg, beaten
1 cup whole milk
2 cups fresh (or frozen) blueberries, raspberries, or strawberries, in any combination
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Grease a 12-cup muffin pan with butter.
In a large bowl, mix together the flour, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, and nutmeg.
In a second large bowl, mix together the melted butter, the egg, and the milk. Add the flour mixture to the milk mixture and mix until just combined. Carefully fold in the berries. Spoon the batter into the muffin cups, leaving a half inch at the top for the muffins to rise. Bake for 20 minutes or until a knife or tester comes out clean.
Cool in the pan for 10 minutes before removing the muffins to a cooling rack.
Serve warm, especially when in trouble.
Herb-Crusted Chicken
for Hungry and Important People
SERVES 6
This light and flavorful entrée can be prepared a few hours in advance and is easily doubled for a large group, so it’s perfect for a dinner party. Each time I’ve made this dish, I’ve used various types of herbs, depending on what’s available. It’s now my signature chicken dish. After all, it charmed even the most arrogant Angelenos.
6 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves
6 tablespoons fresh lemon juice (about 3 lemons)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1½ cups plain dry bread crumbs
6 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
3 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
1½ tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary
1½ teaspoons salt ½ teaspoon ground black pepper
2 lemons cut into wedges, for garnish
Using a meat mallet, pound the chicken breasts between sheets of plastic wrap to ½- to ¾-inch thickness (or ask the butcher to do this for you).
Arrange the chicken in a 15 × 10 × 2-inch glass baking dish. Pour the lemon juice over the chicken, cover, and refrigerate for 1 hour.
Remove the chicken from the dish and pat it dry with paper towels. Preheat the oven to 450°F.
Melt the butter and oil in a small saucepan over medium heat. Set aside to let cool slightly. Then mix the bread crumbs, basil, parsley, rosemary, salt, and pepper in a medium bowl.
Brush the chicken breasts on both sides with the melted butter and oil mixture. Then coat the breasts on both sides with the bread-crumb mixture. Place the chicken on a baking sheet and bake until the bread crumbs are golden and the chicken is cooked through, about 20 minutes.
Transfer to plates or serve family-style on a single platter. Garnish with the lemon wedges and serve.
Jennifer’s Warm Potatoes with Mustard
SERVES 8 AND DOUBLES WELL
A very wise woman once told me, “Success is the best revenge.” Well, these potatoes spell success in the most scrumptious way. And they’re good in any season. Just remember, if the potatoes are taking a while to boil, cover the pot. Otherwise, my friend Dara will find you and remind you how little you actually know. And trust me, you don’t want that.
4 pounds (20 to 30) purple potatoes, or a combination of other fun colors
Salt
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
2 tablespoons white-wine vinegar
1 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons drained capers
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Place the potatoes in a large pot and add enough cold water to cover them by an inch. Add a handful of salt to the water and bring to a boil. Boil until the potatoes are tender when pierced with a fork, 15 to 20 minutes.
In a large bowl, combine the mustard and vinegar. Slowly drizzle in the olive oil a little at a time, stirring vigorously and adding more only after the previously added oil has been completely incorporated. The mixture should maintain a thick consistency throughout. Add the capers and season with the black pepper.
Drain the potatoes and toss them in the bowl with the dressing, smashing them roughly into thirds with a spoon while mixing them thoroughly with the dressing. The dish should look chunky and colorful.
Serve immediately.
9.
The El Royale
There’s a bittersweet moment when I tell Shelley that I will be relocating to the El Royale at the end of the week and staying there for a few months until the middle of October. She’s sad that I’m upgrading from her living room earlier than planned, but happy that I’m staying longer in Los Angeles. I refuse to endorse any melodrama about my moving ten minutes away, and she’s over it by the time we finish the beef kabobs with pineapple that I improvise for our dinner.
My family swallows any disappointment over me missing the Jewish high holidays in New York and encourages me to stay in California for as long as I need. My father asks if I’ve been balancing my checkbook (the same question he’s asked, and I’ve lied about, since high school). My mother says she’ll mail me her favorite Rosh Hashanah recipes—honey cake, noodle kugel, and brisket—even though she still can’t believe that I’m seriously c
ooking. It kills me that I’ve been tooling around in the kitchen for over a year but haven’t had a chance to cook for them yet! They had planned to visit me in Washington, where I was going to wow them with some meals, but then things got bad with Chef … and that trip went down the drain.
I finally get Chef on the line to tell him everything that’s going on (besides our self-imposed ban on talking, his cell was confiscated while filming the reality show). I first tell him about the New York magazine assignment, and then that I’m staying an extra two months. It’s not the most copacetic conversation, and he reiterates the fact that he never wanted this break and still doesn’t like it, but the news doesn’t detonate like I would have thought. He might have reacted differently had his next two months not entailed nonstop work and travel. We both know that even if I came home, he’d be gone most of the time. Returning in the middle of such a frantic schedule would be setting us up for failure.
After I assure him I didn’t sleep with Christopher Wagner to score the apartment, he concedes that I sound happy, which makes him happy. And he’s right. Not only do I have the Emmys coming up, but also a few more exciting assignments have surfaced. I’m covering Food & Wine’s Taste of Beverly Hills festival for one publication and researching the popularity of pupusas for another. They’re small assignments, but compared to the nothingness that was D.C., all the action has me generally euphoric. If I’m a West Hollywood cliché in my racerback tank tops and baggy, frayed jean shorts, drinking soy lattes and reading Patti Smith, so be it. Even though I’ve left behind Chef and our home, I feel closer to complete in California.
Shelley drives me to the El Royale the moment Christopher leaves for New York. The place is waiting for me in the most pristine condition—other than half a vanilla cupcake perfectly sanctioned on the kitchen counter. It must be his way of welcoming me to his kitchen. This is his gift to help me find myself through cooking. Shelley eats it and makes herself comfortable on a long, leather daybed, while I scour the kitchen. He has all the best basics—Tuscan olive oils, upscale dry pasta, jars of uncooked cannellini beans, homemade chicken stock in the freezer, slow-roasted tomatoes in the fridge, and Valrhona dark chocolate staring into my soul. I don’t remember him having so many things in his pantry, and I wonder if he’s stocked his shelves just for me.
Apron Anxiety Page 14