Rachel is a rock when I need her. I tell her I’m losing my mind, and she suggests that I’m just getting sick. We take my temperature and it’s 102 degrees, and in Rachel’s arms, I submit to the flu. She gives me two Tylenols, draws a tepid bath, and sits with me as I drift in and out of sleep. We decide not to tell my parents, because having the loft to ourselves is probably the best medicine. And I don’t tell Chef, because I need to break our vicious cycle before it breaks me.
After two days of agony, I’m starting to feel better. Except now I’m starving. My stomach growls are louder than my sniffles. And all I want is pizza. Rachel puts on her coat to fetch us a pie, but I stop her halfway out the door. “Wait,” I scream. “We should make our own.”
Because I’m just recovering and she’s just crafting her own cooking confidence, we agree to cheat a little on the preparation. Living in Brooklyn, we’re surrounded by delicious pizzerias, so we come up with a great idea. We’ll “borrow” some dough from the nearest pizza shop, and personalize it with our own sauce, cheese, and toppings. A genius idea, we think. Turns out, it’s not such an innovation. Sal and Val from Front Street Pizza hand over the dough and tell Rachel they sell it to customers all the time. She smiles and they throw in a quart of marinara, too. The whole thing comes to four bucks.
Together, we look for Mom’s rolling pin. Neither of us have a clue. Crap, we have to call Connecticut. Mom the Virgo tells us precisely where it is and asks permission for her and my dad to come home now. “No! Love you! Bye!” we scream, hanging up. Next, we try rolling out the dough on the counter, but it keeps springing back. It stubbornly won’t stretch. So we each grab an end and play tug-of-war, thinning it out just enough till it fills the large, rectangular baking sheet. We pinch the sides over the rim and put it aside. Phew.
I caramelize some onions, while Rachel shreds some fresh mozzarella and cheddar. We ladle the sauce, then the cheese, then the onions. We season with salt and fresh pepper. Over in the window boxes, where my mother grows flowers and herbs overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge, we find a handful of basil leaves. Then I sprinkle the whole thing lightly with olive oil. I feel a million times better just having an apron wrapped around my waist and my sister by my side. We slide the pizza in a hot oven, and after twenty minutes, just as I’m about to eat the countertop, our masterpiece is ready. “Buon appetito!” I say, digging in. The pizza is amazing. The crust is brown and firm; the cheese is melted evenly and gooey without being greasy. It cuts clean, and the basil is woodsy and unwilted. Sal and Val would be so proud.
I ask Rach if there’s anything else fun we can do. “I can show you the guys I’m talking to on Match.com?” she says without any inhibition, knowing I’m no fan of online dating. I’m too drained to be disapproving, however, especially after she just put my pieces back together again. “That sounds perfect,” I say. We log in under my sister’s “LoveTheBeach” username, clicking on guys named “ChallahbackYo” and “MisterButtsky” and “WillIron4urMom.” My general argument against online dating is that when you live in a city like New York, it’s so easy to meet people. Why hide behind a computer when you can meet your soul mate on the C train? Also, I’ve always put a high premium on having a good story to tell—“meet-cute,” as they say in Hollywood. Falling in love on the Internet just feels so flat. But tonight, I understand the good fun of it all. Tonight, love is too serious to take seriously.
As we lie in bed, like the little girls we once were, I sense that together, we weathered the storms of our breakups. Scrolling to a guy with the enticing name Benito Bagel, I say, “Let’s look at his pics!” quickly acclimating to the lingo. I’m under the weather, but I can still sniff out a cute guy. My hunch is right. Benito appears to be handsome, smart, and funny. He’s allegedly 6′2″, a lover of cheap eats, and a self-employed financial consultant. From the name, we decipher that he’s probably Jewish and Latin, a flavor combination as alluring to me as apricot and Brie. He also lives not far from us in Brooklyn Heights. I can’t find anything bad to say.
“I wonder if he’s as hot in real life!” I blurt out.
“Wait!” my sister says in shock. “For you?”
“Yeah, why not.”
“Oh my God. Really? Do it, Lys! Do it!”
“The best way to get over somebody is to get under somebody, right?” I smirk. “And besides, I can’t keep going to restaurants alone.”
From my sister’s account, I send an e-mail to Benito Bagel that says, “This is actually LoveTheBeach’s sister.… I realize you have no reason to believe that I’m not some escaped mental patient or a morbidly obese she-male, but I can assure you I’m neither. I’m a freelance writer and a budding home cook. Write ‘us’ back if you’re interested!”
Before we turn off the computer to go to sleep, my sister has a blinking message from Match.com. It’s Benito Bagel! He says he wants to meet me and that he makes a killer paella, which Rachel totally mispronounces. “What the hell is pah-ella?!” I ask her. “Do you mean paella?” I say, bursting into hysterical laughter.
“Oh yeah. What is that again?”
We laugh so hard that I almost fall off the bed. Once we calm ourselves down—and I remind her that paella is “the yummy dish that’s usually mixed with rice, shrimp, and, like, saffron or something”—I tell her that I’ll write him back in a few days, but first, I need to find an apartment. “I’m ready,” I say, kissing her forehead and rolling over to my side of the flowered, flannel duvet. Something tells me that this week was the last stop on the bus. There is nothing I want more than to let it all go and plant my two feet on the ground. We switch off the lights and I close my eyes. My fever has broken.
Easy Pizza After a Tough Time
SERVES 4
There are endless variations to this recipe, especially if you make your own crust. The evening Rach and I made this pizza was a life-changing night—I was feeling so low and this dish left me so happy and hopeful. Something was in the air … and while making this, you’ll get the unbelievable smell of caramelized onions and fresh basil in the air, too.
1 ball pizza dough (can be purchased from a pizzeria)
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for greasing the pan
¼ cup flour, or enough for dusting the surface
1 red onion (or other vegetables such as mushrooms, bell peppers, tomatoes), thinly sliced
2 to 4 cups tomato sauce, store-bought or from a pizzeria
2 to 3 cups fresh mozzarella (or other cheeses that melt nicely such as fontina or provolone), shredded
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
½ cup fresh herbs (such as oregano or basil leaves), loosely packed
Preheat the oven to 425°F.
Grease a nonstick pizza pan, or line a cookie sheet with parchment paper and dust with flour. Roll out the dough with a rolling pin or by hand. (A wine bottle can work well, too.) Transfer the dough to the pan or cookie sheet.
Heat a skillet over medium heat, then add the 2 tablespoons olive oil. Throw in the onion and sauté it until very soft, about 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to low and continue to cook the onion until it turns golden brown, about 20 minutes more. Set aside.
Ladle the tomato sauce over the dough. Spread it evenly with the back of a spoon or brush. Sprinkle the cheese on top of the sauce, leaving about a ½-inch border around the edge of the crust. Scatter the onion on top of the cheese. Season with salt and pepper.
Place the pizza on the middle rack in the oven and bake until the crust is a deep golden brown, about 12 to 17 minutes. Remove from the oven, add the herbs, and let the pizza rest a few minutes.
Serve hot.
11.
Benito Bagel and Other Exotic Things
When I check out apartment 8F in DUMBO, on the same block as my parents’, I am so enamored with the kitchen that I am oblivious to the antagonizing noise level.
Somehow I miss the rumble of the subway every eight minutes, and the whoosh of cars and trucks rushing over
the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges. The apartment sits scenically, yet piercingly, smack in the middle of both, which I take as a selling point. The kitchen is so beautiful that I also don’t hear the constant catfights and love spats of the street, which in true New York fashion, are belted out loudly enough to penetrate the barely cracked windows on the eighth floor.
I rent the small studio on the spot, knowing that a separate chrome kitchen, large and well lit, with endless open shelving to boot, would be impossible to find again in my price range. The kitchen is almost half the apartment, resulting in minimal space for anything else besides a bed and an oversize farm table (on which I will eat, work, and pile up stacks of newspapers, bills, receipts, and organized chaos). The place also has a tiny Juliet balcony, with just enough room to grow rosemary, thyme, and basil. It’s only November, but I already have quite a fragrant vision for spring.
On move-in day, my family dismantles the Moby pile and hauls everything to 8F. As soon as I walk into my new pad, which I’ve already decorated in my head down to the peach-scented bathroom spray, I am taken aback by even more noise than I anticipated. In addition to everything else, there is so much construction going on outside that you can’t walk out the front door without covering your ears and giving the finger. The outdoor anarchy is set to last half a year, says a sympathetic neighbor, and incidentally, it starts at six o’clock in the morning every day of the week. “You can sleep late when you’re dead!” My ever-optimistic mother winks. Ughhh.
I continue to unpack my things and try to ignore the ruckus, busily setting up my Cuisinart food processor, All-Clad stock pot, boho dishes and Kmart coffeemaker; unrolling my shag rug; and dusting off my pineapple-shaped chandelier—the only material possessions I brought back from C Street. My new mattress arrives in the afternoon and I make the bed with crisp, white sheets and perfectly feathered pillows. Beth brings over fancy-smelling soaps from one of the luxury brands she does the PR for, and I blissfully line them along the edges of my porcelain tub (another perk that offsets the earache). My dad orders a large pizza from Sal and Val. My mom buys an orchid at Costco, where she’s also invested in a lifetime supply of Mom-things like tampons and rice pilaf. And my sister sneaks out of work with bejeweled candlesticks and Richard Avedon photography books from the “giveaway table.”
As night falls, I kick everyone out so I can play my music softly and really make apartment 8F my own. I am exhausted from all the lifting and bending, yet apprehensive about falling asleep with all the clamor. “Pretend you’re hearing the ocean,” says my mother, on her way out. Assuming I’ll be up all night, I grab a pile of cookbooks. I can’t even get through Gwyneth Paltrow’s pantry essentials before I pass out. From under the subway, in one of Brooklyn’s loudest nooks, I sleep like a baby. Without having to quiet all the inner noise, the outside noise is no problem.
Hello, responsibility; good-bye, restaurants, I say to myself, after having put down the first and last month’s rent, plus the sucker punch of a security deposit. My bank account is almost empty, meaning not only do I have to seriously simmer down on my restaurant binge, but also it’s critical that I focus on my freelance work, too. Benito Bagel and I have even been e-mailing a little, but since I’m tenaciously pitching ideas and reconnecting with editors all day, and covering events all night (and still nursing a broken heart), I’m in no rush for our rendezvous. Though I know it will happen sooner than later.
The most exciting assignments I get come from New York magazine’s food blog, Grub Street. I initiated the relationship by asking to cover a private event at Barneys on Madison Avenue to celebrate their holiday window display, featuring some of New York’s most iconic chefs. I hoped that my first food assignment at my favorite magazine would be a little less daunting against the backdrop of my favorite store. And I was right. That night, I delivered ten fresh food stories to Grub Street, three of which they published the next day: Anthony Bourdain recommending me his favorite food memoirs; Mario Batali describing how to roast a Thanksgiving turkey in a pizza oven; and Bobby Flay confessing that he keeps only vodka and ice cream in his freezer. Ultimately, I make less money that night than what I spend in the shoe department, but it results in a steady, and priceless, stream of assignments from the food editors at the magazine. Happy holidays to me.
Back in DUMBO, I work on maximizing my minuscule Brooklyn apartment. I go to ABC Carpet & Home and apologize to my former boss for rudely running away from him weeks earlier. He gives me a big hug and an even bigger discount on a birdcagelike lamp. I refresh Craigslist every five minutes, finding sweet deals on Saarinen tulip chairs and a Scandinavian sideboard to store my quirky dishware and mismatched mugs, which are indeed collecting dirt, but crying out for their comeback. My mom and I go Dumpster diving, roaming the Brooklyn Heights promenade, where she once scored an oriental rug worth $20,000, along with two abandoned Oscar Awards. (“Divorce!” said the doorman, winking.)
My most highly anticipated day comes a week after moving in, when I finally have time to drive to the iconic, foodie fairyland called Fairway. I am so giddy you would think I was heading to the south of France, but really it’s just the south of Brooklyn. Fairway is a giant warehouse with its most dramatic location in Red Hook, overlooking the harbor and evoking the feeling of both Alcatraz and an open-air European market. It’s a labyrinth of lush produce, cheeses, and chocolates, with aisles of domestic and imported everything.
I spend three hours there, grazing the rows of dried pasta, exotic beans, and excessive candy bins, dragging my happy feet from semolina flours to grapeseed oils, exuberantly discussing the definition of “unctuous” with the cheerful cheesemonger, who introduces me to Spanish Mahon when I ask for something impressive but not too expensive. He also suggests I purchase some chestnut honey for my next cheese plate, and I obediently add the jar to my cart.
In the end, I leave with most of the same foods I’ve always lived on as an adult: Greek yogurt, moderately flavored (and priced) cheese, dark chocolate, black licorice, crisp apples, plump avocados, whole carrots, smoked almonds, dried apricots, earthy breads, long pasta, and fizzy water. The upgraded version of me adds some expensive olive oil, coarse sea salt, lots of fresh herbs, a rack of lamb, and a bouquet of winter white daisies.
As soon as I get home, I sit at my computer with a huge chunk of chèvre melted on a thick slice of grainy bread, and I e-mail Benito Bagel (who’s asked me to call him Benjy). “Let’s meet up tonight.”
We agree to have our first date at a local dive bar, which is equal distance from both our apartments. I have an hour to get ready when it occurs to me that I desperately need a new “single chick” look. For the past few months back on the East Coast, I’ve worn dark skinny jeans with a beat-up T-shirt and a tight leather jacket. My shoes are either dirty Converse sneakers or bedraggled ballet flats. I wear no jewelry except for Shelley’s long, gold, twinkling necklace. Vogue might classify my style as New York bitch. Maybe this isn’t the right message for a date.
Straight from the shower, I scurry down the street to my sister’s closet. No one is home. I quickly snag a soft, white peasant shirt that she bought a few years ago in Italy, and squeeze myself into a pair of her light blue jeans with a slight bell-bottom flair. I swap my sneakers for her alligator-skin wedges, and I bangle up my right wrist with a dozen wiry bracelets. Pulling up my hair all messy and morning-after, I’ve transformed myself from pissed-off to pretty. It’s cold in mid-November, so I reluctantly take a nubby peacoat from the closet and duck out the front door. Let’s do this.
I’ve never been nervous for first dates and this one is no different, even though it is my first one in a while. Excitedly, I walk to Henry St. Ale House, where I’m blown in the door by the wind. I immediately notice Benjy. He’s very good looking, with a big head of floppy, light brown hair, beautiful olive skin, and a cool corduroy blazer. I quickly ditch the unflattering coat and say hello. We kiss on the cheek, but before I even sit down, I excuse myself to the ladies’ roo
m. My eyes are watering badly from the wind, and my mascara has run. When I come back to the bar, I overexplain the fact that I’m “totally not crying.” He says I can calm down, but nicely.
I order a beer and urge myself to shut up about the tears already. He’s a mellow guy, who preempts the conversation by saying that the reason he subscribes to online dating is because he thinks he might be a little socially awkward. He also says that he’s looking for a serious relationship because he’s “very lonely.” It’s endearing to meet someone who puts it all out there up front, and who isn’t embarrassed to admit that being alone can be rough. I’ve always gravitated to open people like myself, but I am not sure how to respond to his utter lack of ego. So I shift the conversation to the ultimate neutralizer: food.
Much more of an eccentric creature than I am, Benjy is on a mission to try every roller coaster in the country to combat a childhood fear, he collects fading photography from weddings of the 1950s, and he considers himself New York’s most eminent coleslaw aficionado—oh, and he is also an expert on the underground food scene. I’ve never heard of any of the cheap and chic dives he swears by. A true nonconformist, almost to the point of being a buzzkill, he couldn’t care less about my secret phone number for all of Keith McNally’s restaurants, or that Emeril Lagasse once fed me banana cream pie on national television, or how many people follow me and my blog on Twitter. But that’s okay. This odd duck is attractive and intriguing.
I would be lying to myself if I didn’t acknowledge the one thing about Benito Bagel that really blows my mind: he is Chef’s raging opposite. Where Chef was luminous, Benjy is dimly lit. He’s appalled by anything involving consumerism or celebrity, without an iota of interest in being popular, or even well liked, by anyone other than himself. And because he works from home and isn’t all that engaged by his career choice in “helping the rich get richer,” Benjy has a lot of free time on his hands. Even though I don’t feel love at first sight, I’m pleased about spending time with such a fundamentally different type of man.
Apron Anxiety Page 17