Apron Anxiety

by Alyssa Shelasky

  When I suggest this to Chef, in my most chipper tone, he is less than enthusiastic. It’s an extremely rigorous weekend for him, and he explains that he needs to concentrate on winning his competition, not on an intense, emotional reunion with his fiancée. “Just meet me back at home in Washington … like we planned,” he says wearily. “Please, Lyssie?”

  While his reaction is valid, and I suppose I am being too cavalier about the whole thing, the rejection stings. It’s a sting I know well, one that all the homemade crust in the world can’t cure. He promises to keep me posted on all the good parties, and will obviously let me know how he fares at the event. “You better!” I say, hoping he can’t hear the ugly in my voice.

  And there it is.

  Disappointment.

  Again.

  Forgoing the festival, I stay cooped up at the El Royale with Paisley and a bottle of Scotch, refreshing blogs covering the celebrity chef parties all weekend long. These are my last days in Los Angeles; I should be eating sprout sandwiches at Malibu Country Market or packing picnics for Griffith Park, but I won’t leave my computer and I’m too flustered to think about food. Hello, derailment. It’s been a while. On the eve of the festival’s Burger Bash, I stare at photos of Chef enwrapped in bikini models, whom he’s hired to promote his brand. Through a website, I hear he’s lost the competition. Around two o’clock in the morning, I find a sighting of him at a private after-party and then an after-after-party. But I get no calls, e-mails, or texts.

  How silly of me to forget the rules of being second. (And on these weekends, of being third or fourth.) It’s been a while since I felt that sense of insignificance, and I almost forgot how hideous it is. When I do hear from him, on his way back to D.C. at the end of the long weekend, he tries to explain something about a dead phone battery, a bad cold, and sheer mental agony as a result of missing me so much. Right. None of it makes a difference. Based on my behavior more than his, I finally know what to do.

  When it’s time to “check out” of the El Royale and fly to Washington, I wake up early to buy Paisley a chocolate-covered doughnut with rainbow sprinkles. I leave it outside her bedroom door with a tulip and a note to open only after we say good-bye. She’s driving me to the airport in six hours. I grab Dara’s bike and ride a few miles to Runyon Canyon, locking it at the foot of the mountain. On my way up, I listen to my music, working up a good sweat, and when I reach the highest point, I sit on a rock quietly, surrounded by just a couple of little birds and the bluest sky.

  I think of life and death, and heaven and earth, and the lightness of Shelley against the darkness of Paisley, and how I suppose I’m somewhere in between. But no matter how enlightened, or accepting, or attuned to life’s peaks and valleys I think I might be, I can’t be with someone who hurts me. I won’t be with someone who hurts me.

  On the way to the airport, along the Pacific Coast Highway, Paisley and I come back to our favorite conversation: Did Christopher Wagner stick us together as some sort of mutual awakening? Did he want me to step away from my boo-hoo breakup and get a glimpse of life’s real sorrow? Did he hope that Paisley could be ever so slightly distracted from her terrible pain with a walking, talking, and cooking episode of Sex and the City? As we get closer to the airport, I tell her about “the trick.” She likes it. So when she pulls up to my stop, I kiss her cheek for as long as possible and whisper in her ear, “See ya tomorrow.”

  Under normal circumstances, I would have cried my eyes out the minute Paisley drove away. But today, my focus is on putting one foot in front of the other. After I go through security, I drift into a gift shop to buy a straw hat. My face is broken out again from the sleeplessness and stress of the past few nights. I buy a coffee and drink it black because I can’t find the inspiration to add milk and sugar. I fly the five hours across the country, staring out the window the whole time.

  He is waiting for me outside the airport looking every bit the man I dreamed I’d raise a family, grow old, and die with. We kiss long and hard and it has never been so unnatural to keep my heart so cold. Driving home, he says that he’s cleaned the house, rented us movies, and stocked the fridge; that he wants to make me chocolate chip pancakes while I take my bath. My head pounds as I fight against all the waves of chemistry and connection. When we are good, transient as it is, there is no broken glass.

  In all of our fighting and screaming, Chef swore that he’d never break up with me; that if we parted ways, it would only be because I gave up. And by the end of the night, he will have been right.

  I will announce that I’m leaving for good. He will get sick all over the bathroom floor. And the next morning, I will pack the car, drive to New York, and move in with my parents.

  But first, he prepares the pancake batter, while I slowly remove my ring in the tub.

  Easy, Asian-Inspired Fish

  SERVES 4

  When Paisley entered my life, she didn’t have much of an appetite. We drank many of our meals, but we loved cooking for each other, too. One day I told her that even though I loved eating fish, I didn’t have much practice cooking it, and even the act of buying fish freaked me out. The next day, we went to the fishmonger at the West Hollywood farmers’ market, and at the El Royale, she made us a magnificent mahimahi, as I carefully watched. That night we ate on our rooftop, overlooking all of Los Angeles during a beautiful, almost spiritual sunset. She served the fish with steamed vegetables and naturally, a few glasses of white.

  1 cup panko bread crumbs

  2 tablespoons wasabi paste

  4 tablespoons mustard powder

  ½ teaspoon ground ginger

  1 teaspoon lime zest (from 1 lime)

  4 tablespoons canola oil, plus more if needed

  Salt and black pepper to taste

  Vegetable oil spray

  4 fish fillets (cod, tilapia, mahimahi, or salmon)

  ¼ cup hoisin sauce

  Preheat the oven to 375°F.

  Combine the bread crumbs, wasabi, mustard powder, ginger, and lime zest in a medium bowl. Mix until everything is well incorporated. Drizzle in the canola oil and mix again. The crumbs should just barely hold together when squeezed. (Use more oil as necessary.) Season the crumbs to taste with salt and pepper.

  Coat a cookie sheet with vegetable oil spray and lay down the fish fillets, allowing space between them so they cook evenly.

  Divide the hoisin sauce among the tops of the fish fillets and smooth out for an even, light coating. Top each fillet with the bread-crumb mixture, covering the tops entirely and gently patting it down.

  Bake the fillets in the oven for about 15 minutes, or until the center of the fish reaches 145°F. The fish should flake when poked with a fork.

  Serve immediately.

  Unbridled Chicken Salad

  SERVES 4 AS A MAIN, 6 AS A SIDE

  I’ve had a lot of ups and downs with mayonnaise, but I still avoid it out of habit. So, when Paisley and I found this mayo-less chicken salad, we had to run with it. All the way to the roof! The girls at my nonwedding devoured it. So did Moses, the doorman at the El Royale, when we brought him a big bowl. This recipe is adapted from Amanda Hesser’s on Food52.com, and it’s outstanding.

  ¼ cup thinly sliced red onion

  Salt

  4 cups cubed roasted chicken (homemade or store-bought)

  3 tablespoons roasted red peppers, thinly sliced

  1 cup marinated artichoke hearts, drained thoroughly

  ¼ cup roughly chopped smoked almonds

  1 tablespoon whole-grain mustard, plus more to taste

  1 tablespoon sherry vinegar

  2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme

  ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil

  Freshly ground black pepper

  Juice of 1 lemon (2 to 3 tablespoons), or to taste

  In a medium bowl, sprinkle the onion with salt and toss to coat. Let sit for 15 minutes, then gently pat it down with a paper towel to drain any liquid. In a large bowl, toss together the onion, chicken, peppers,
artichoke hearts, and almonds.

  In a small bowl, whisk together the mustard and vinegar, and add the thyme. Gradually whisk in the oil. Season with salt and pepper.

  Pour the dressing over the chicken mixture and fold to incorporate. Add lemon juice to taste, starting with half of the juice and adding more if desired. Let sit for 15 minutes.

  Taste and adjust the seasonings with salt, pepper, and more lemon juice if needed. Serve.

  Cherry Crumble for Those Who Crumble Too Easily

  SERVES 6

  I have made pies that turn into cobblers, and cobblers that turn into clafoutis, and clafoutis that turn into custard, but this recipe is a full-blown crumble (in my eyes, at least). Cherries are one of my favorite things in life, as is my famous auntie Lizzie, for whom I made this. The crumble is delicious served with vanilla ice cream.

  Filling

  6 cups tart red cherries, pitted

  1¼ cups granulated sugar

  4 teaspoons cornstarch

  Topping

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  ¼ cup granulated sugar

  2 tablespoons packed light brown sugar

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  3 tablespoons unsalted butter

  1 large egg, beaten

  3 tablespoons whole milk

  Preheat the oven to 400°F.

  For the filling: In a medium saucepan, combine the cherries, the sugar, ¼ cup water, and the cornstarch. Cook over medium heat, stirring until bubbling and thickened.

  Pour the filling into an 8-inch baking pan or casserole.

  Meanwhile, for the topping: In a large bowl away from the stove, stir together the flour, granulated sugar, brown sugar, baking powder, and cinnamon. Cut in the butter until the mixture is crumbly.

  In a small bowl, mix together the egg and the milk. Add the milk mixture to the flour mixture and stir with a fork just until combined.

  Drop the dry topping onto the fruit filling 1 tablespoon at a time, almost like big polka dots. Most of the fruit should be covered by the dry mixture, but it shouldn’t be smoothed out. Everything will meld together in the oven.

  Bake for 25 minutes, until the dish is browned and bubbly. Serve warm or at room temperature.

  10.

  Shredded

  Crudités is such an uptight word, isn’t it? It’s like, the opposite of me in an appetizer. But that’s what I want to order, as long as we call it something else though. Cool?”

  I am sitting at the bar of Jean-Georges’s exceptionally chic ABC Kitchen, in New York City, and acting batshit crazy.

  Three weeks ago, I left Chef. I’m living in my parents’ Brooklyn loft, in the same spare, prison-white room I slept in the last time I had a bad breakup, but this time I’m sharing a bed with my sister, who’s also nursing a vile broken heart. I refuse to see any of my friends because I’m just too miserable to socialize, and all I want to do is compulsively go to restaurants (alone) and communicate with Chef.

  “You’re there now? Weren’t you at Colicchio’s place just an hour ago?” he says, checking in on me for the third time today.

  “Being at restaurants makes me miss you less.”

  “I know what will make you miss me less … coming home!”

  My split from Chef is not at all a clean break. Through e-mails, texts, and calls, we’re in nonstop contact. Sometimes we talk as if nothing has happened. “Hey u … will I like grilled fish with habanero?” I text. “No, sweetie, 2 spicy for my luv,” he responds, immediately. After a drink or two, of course, the messages get increasingly angrier. I tell him he ruined everything; he says I abandoned him and our home. But our nights always end with sad and sincere admissions of guilt. I know I was impulsive about the wedding, refusing to listen, pushing us over the edge. And he deeply regrets the person he turned into during those last few months.

  Still, I’ve made the choice to move on and I am trusting my instincts.

  You would think, however, that after leaving my chef fiancé, I’d resent the restaurant world for a while. Not so. All I want to do is explore the “it” spots I’ve been reading about since leaving New York two years ago. It’s as if in transitioning from life with a chef to life alone, the New York restaurant scene is my halfway house. For solace, I turn to French brasseries, hyped noodle shops, dirty-spoon diners, and suspicious shawarma stands. I’ve become a savvier eater, but I’ve never been the type to keep a restaurant bucket list until now. As I cope with the collapse of us, Zagat is my Zoloft.

  Beth and Jill don’t even know that I’m back, and I absolutely cannot stomach the pity of my family. More than ever, I refuse to explain myself to anybody. My grief is not for consumption. When my sister asks if I want to walk the Bridge, or get backrubs, or just quietly be near each other, I snap, “Why don’t you just worry about yourself!” When Liz at People asks if I want some work for extra cash, I ungraciously reply, “I cover food, not gossip.”

  Instead, I walk for hours a day, restaurant hopping with the displeasure of my own company, finding my way to New York magazine’s “Best Bloody Mary” and Eater’s “Favorite Fish Taco,” continuing to blog about my experiences when I can find the energy. I use these lists as arrows, as I have no idea what else to do with myself, or where I belong. Almost every day I roam around Mario Batali’s new Italian food mecca, Eataly, disappearing in its thick, fresh fettuccine aisles, rows of vinegar cartons and sardine cans, and bustling eating stations. I can’t walk past the salumi e formaggi table there without thinking about the mortadella sandwiches I’d make for Chef—and those early memories of us make me smile. But then I remember being fed my engagement cake by my sister, instead of him—and I push away my mini dolci in disgust.

  At night, I despondently walk to other expensive hot spots, like Keith McNally’s Minetta Tavern, where it’s dimly lit and saloonlike, and everyone has letterpress business cards and bitters-based appertifs. I sit at the bar and order a Barolo, trying to read my book in the dark, oaky room. Sometimes I’ll order a small dish like roasted beets or veal carpaccio, just so I can eat to appear occupied, instead of baiting the looming, close-talking bachelors who apparently can’t resist a mysterious lush like myself. A little flirting might be healthy for me, but I can’t seem to hold a decent conversation. My mind is so fragmented.

  Usually I’m sick of food by dinnertime and because I’m so off balance, my appetite is, again, underwhelming. I’m really going to these restaurants only to be part of something, to catch a wave. I like the sounds—from the clank of the glassware to the gossip at the bar. And the observations—the pulse of couples heading to the sack, or the doom of those heading to divorce. And the restaurant staff! I could eavesdrop on disgruntled bartenders and sexually confused servers for the rest of eternity.

  One afternoon back at ABC Kitchen, on the ground floor of ABC Carpet & Home, where I once worked, I see my old boss. He’s a dashing Englishman who has been extraordinarily kind and generous to me and my family, even after I inconveniently quit the job just before a huge store event. Furthermore, a few weeks ago, he gave my mother a Moroccan rug for a nice price. Now he’s spotted me from across the dining room and is coming over to say hello. I slap down twenty bucks and jet.

  I am too tense for human interaction. My fists are clenched and my face is tight. And the most pathetic part is … that I know exactly what can make me feel better. A chunky tomato sauce with lots of fresh herbs, or a gingery fish baked in aluminum foil, or a pumpkin pie with a walnut topping, or a chocolate gâteau with strawberries around the border. Any of that would work, theoretically, if made by me.

  All my cookbooks and kitchen equipment are stored smack dab in the middle of my parents’ loft, with a few Frette bed-sheets covering it all up, like a huge, high-thread-count casket. My family, who can find humor in the hardest situations, calls my sheet cake of crap “Moby,” because clumped together, its shape reminds them of a whale. They think Moby is a riot; I think it’s the most depressing t
hing I’ve ever seen. My livelihood is under there—my therapy, my career, and my memories of Chef. Yet I won’t lift the sheet. I suppose my self-punishment isn’t over yet. It’s been a month since I left Los Angeles, and I haven’t tied on an apron since.

  My parents can see that I’m in a volatile state. They’ve been in New York for about ten years now, and my mother’s career in real estate has been extremely successful. They’re still too frugal to hail cabs or go to fancy restaurants; instead they enthusiastically (and quite lucratively) buy and flip country homes with their cash in the kitty. This weekend, they’re visiting their latest investment, an antique, post-and-beam barn, in Litchfield, Connecticut, because the plumbing needs work and I need space.

  While they’re away and my sister is at her office, I stay home with no restaurant excursions on the agenda. My body is extremely jumpy. I initiate a venomous e-mail exchange with Chef, as if for sport. I am the meanest I have ever been. I keep getting dressed and undressed with nowhere to go. I am drinking a Starbucks chai latte, which I can’t get down and I don’t remember purchasing. On the counter there’s a package of chocolate-covered graham crackers that I could have accidentally stolen. I’m dizzy and drooly and wondering if I might die. I think the word to describe me is “manic.” I weakly reach for my cell phone.

  Asking for help in a direct way is strange territory for me. I don’t even know how to assemble the words, but I manage to call my sister at work and ask her if she could please come home, because I really need her. Before I can tell her it’s an emergency, she leaves her editorial meeting, hops in a taxi, finds me shivering in a fetal position in the master bedroom, and clothes me in my mother’s soft robe. My body has stopped its spasms, but my voice is shaky.