“No,” he said. “We don’t.”
Some man in a pin-striped suit skirted around us. “Can you get out of the fucking way?”
We moved to the side. “I think,” I said, “we should take a break from each other.”
A woman walking a golden retriever heard and looked at us while her dog sniffed a hydrant. I glared at her until she passed.
“Maybe we should,” he said.
I paused. “So I guess this is it.”
“Yes.”
“Well . . . good luck.”
“You too.”
He turned and walked away.
I stood there for a moment and braced myself for feeling miserable. My body got hot. I trembled. Tears stung my eyes. I turned to go back inside, inhaled a whiff of fresh warm bagel, and exhaled with a surprising sense of relief.
chapter ten
“ e dible flowers,” Kingsley said, “are a wonderful way to dress up a dish.”
Though I was usually happy to be in the demo kitchen with Kingsley, I was exhausted and looking forward to getting home. “We know that Romans used roses to flavor wine. Aztecs mixed marigolds with chocolate.”
I took notes, thinking how the flower stand outside my corner grocery had a truly impressive selection of flowers. I’d never even considered using them to cook with.
“I like to add nasturtiums to my salads; they add a wonderful spicy flavor. You’ve probably all seen those candied violets they like to use on cakes, but they’re expensive. You can take fresh petals and arrange them on your icing for a beautiful effect.”
When Kingsley dismissed us, I headed to the locker room intent on getting home and taking a nap. Unfortunately, I had to help Coco with a class that night. A good night’s sleep sounded much more attractive. I looked forward to that moment of getting into my bed.
The locker room was really just the end of a hallway. They’d walled it off and put up a door. Installed gray metal lockers on both sides of the wall and put a bench in the middle. In other words, it really was too small to be a locker room. (And obviously I’m using the word “room” broadly.) But, as usual in Manhattan, space was at a premium. We girls struggled to get into our street clothes without elbowing the next person in the ribs.
I couldn’t help but notice Tara’s annoyingly cute, tight, curvy little body and flawless tanned skin. Whereas my transition from chef’s uniform to civilian was always brief and efficient, she liked to prolong her state of undress for as long as possible. She pulled off her clothes while blathering on to Priscilla about a benefit her father’s restaurant was hosting at Lincoln Center that night. “We’re serving braised squab with figs in a vinaigrette, rabbit with polenta, and this incredible goat-cheese cheesecake with blackberry puree . . .”
I tried to navigate within the six inches of space I had claimed on the edge of the bench so I could put my sneakers back on. Some of the guys, and even women, wore heavy black work shoes. That’s what the school tried to get us to wear, and it did offer more protection in case a heavy pot or the point of a stray knife happened to fall on your foot. But most people wore sneakers since they were more comfortable. And this was a job where you’re on your feet all day, so comfort was important.
In other words, no fuck-me pumps.
Tara stood there in a black bra and a skimpy little black G-string with a row of rhinestones running up the back. To think all that was hidden under her unisex houndstooth chef’s pants all day. Her big dilemma was whether to wear her hair up or down. “It’s so much more elegant up, but honestly, I think I look prettier with it down. And I do want to look hot,” she said, “because guess who’s coming with.”
Priscilla was in her pants and bra brushing out her long sleek brown hair. “You aren’t asking me, I take it?”
“You can come if you’re willing to be a third wheel. I asked Tom Carpenter.”
I concentrated on tying my left shoe. Damn. Of course she was after him. But that didn’t mean he was into her. Maybe she’d asked him to go, and he’d felt obligated to say yes because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and he would be curious to see all the glitz at the benefit. Who could blame him?
“Tom is definitely the cutest guy here,” Priscilla said.
“Tom is the only cute guy here,” Tara said.
Except for Robert Kingsley, but he wasn’t a guy, he was a man.
“Up?” Tara gathered her locks to the top of her head and admired herself in a little mirror she’d hung in her locker. “Or down?” She let them cascade around her shoulders. “What do you think, Ginger?”
I shrugged. “Either way seems fine.”
“I feel so bad for you,” Tara said. “The way Jean Paul treats you? I’m impressed you still show up.”
Her voice was wooden, and there wasn’t an ounce of sympathy in those ice blue eyes. I ignored her thinly veiled putdown. “See ya.” I grabbed my knife roll and left.
Tom was in the lobby waiting, presumably, for Tara. I hit the button for the elevator. We gave each other a nod. Something in his expression made me think it was more than just friendly. It was such a teensy-weensy communication, but it charged my body with electricity. As I stepped onto the elevator, I treated myself to the thought that he’d rather spend the evening with me.
chapter eleven
c oco and I lifted the trunk out of the back of the cab and lugged it into the lobby of our building. Strip class that night had been very well attended, and we’d sold a lot of stuff. I was more than ready to get to bed, but Coco was looking at the elevator like it was a one-way express to hell. She had a hard time coming down after her gigs. “Don’t you want to get a cup of coffee?”
“I do have class in the morning.”
“Just a quick bite?”
“Okay.”
I could be totally annoyed with her, feel claustrophobic and smothered, but if she asked me out for a bite to eat, I could immediately switch to feeling flattered she wanted to spend an hour alone with me.
We left the trunk in the lobby closet and went down to this cutesy fifties retro restaurant on the corner called Betty’s Diner. It had the typical chrome details, white Formica tables, and nostalgic posters of freckled kids and housewives in ads for Carnation milk, Nestlé, and Pepsi. The hostess tried to seat us at a depressing booth in the back. Coco nodded to a table by the window. “How about that one?”
The hostess gave Coco a disapproving once-over, then looked at the window table as if it was being saved in case Queen Elizabeth happened to pop in. “That one?”
“Looks good to me,” Coco said.
We followed the hostess back to the front table. She put the two menus on it without looking at us or saying anything and went back to her little podium at the door.
Someday, I swore, I was going to move out of this city. If not the Midwest, maybe California. Southern California, where it’s sunny all year round. Except there were all those blondes with perfect bodies walking around trying to make everyone else feel bad. Maybe Oregon. The Pacific Northwest. Trees. Rain. Perpetually cold weather. Pale people who wore lots of clothing and went to bakeries. My kind of people.
Coco went to use the bathroom while I looked at the menu. I seemed to have a much larger bladder than she did. Plus she always needed to redo her makeup. Even with the day almost over, she had to “fix her face.” I didn’t get it. Who was going to see her? I generally only wore lipstick, and I only put it on in the morning. After that, I avoided looking at myself during the rest of the day so I didn’t have to worry. It drove Coco insane.
I closed the menu. I knew everything on it, and liked pretty much everything they had. I wasn’t in the mood for a burger. They had good soups, which seemed to be “homemade,” though they were probably delivered in big vats from somewhere in Queens. Or maybe I would throw caution to the wind and get dessert. Diner desserts, done well, are my favorite, I have to admit, even though it’s blasphemy when you’re learning traditional French pastry. This place had a mean apple brown Bett
y.
When Coco returned, I was staring down the dessert menu. It was extra tempting because I’d been fighting the temptation to call Ian all week and I needed some kind of comfort for my new single status. Devil’s food chocolate cake. Banana cream pie. Strawberry shortcake. Ice cream sundae. But it was late. I wasn’t hungry. Who needed the calories?
“Get the brown Betty,” Coco said. “And I’ll get the Cobb salad. We’ll share, okay?”
“Deal.”
With the heavy decisions behind us, we relaxed into our seats. The waitress came and took our order. That’s when I saw Robert Kingsley walking by out on the sidewalk. He happened to look into the glass when he was right next to us and saw me telling Coco, “That’s Robert Kingsley!” Coco, who had no idea who Robert Kingsley was, motioned for him to come in.
“Mom, no!”
But it was too late.
“What?”
“I don’t want to have a conversation with him.”
“Well, I do. He’s cute.”
Damn! The idea of making stupid small talk with one of my instructors was bad enough. But I really didn’t want him to meet Coco. He’d never look at me the same again.
Not that it mattered. He was out of reach. Fantasy material.
“Hello there,” he said as he approached our table, “Ginger, right?”
He knew my name! “Hi.” His gaze turned to Coco. She had her glamour smile on. His eyebrows went up. Damn. “This is Coco. She’s my—”
“Sister.”
I glared at my mother. This was not the first time she’d pulled this. “And this is Robert Kingsley. He’s teaching at my school.”
He smiled politely. “Ginger’s sister. Nice to meet you.”
“And it’s very nice to meet you!”
Obviously Coco did not find him out of reach. Of course, no man was out of her reach as long as he had a functioning penis and wasn’t gay. He’d already taken a good look at my mother’s breasts. I did a quick calculation. I was twenty-five. She was forty-three. His age was exactly halfway between ours.
“So would you tell me something?” Kingsley looked at me. Which I appreciated. Men’s eyes don’t always find their way back to me after taking in my mom.
“Sure.”
“Am I a horrible teacher?”
I smiled. “No.”
“I think I must be very boring.”
“Not at all.” I wanted to explain to him that it didn’t matter what he said up there. We were all perfectly happy to sit there and observe the graceful way his forearm bent into his wrist when he wrote on the blackboard. The tender way he let wine trickle into the sauté pan when he was doing a reduction. You just knew, he had the touch.
“Why don’t you stay?” Coco said. “Have a bite to eat.”
“I’m not hungry, thanks.” Did Kingsley find diner food below him? He eyed the space next to me. “Maybe just for a second.”
I moved. The shoulder of his gray tweed jacket bumped lightly against mine for a moment as he landed. It was just a tap, but the wind was knocked out of me. Luckily he and my mother were maintaining the conversation.
“You both have unusual names,” he said.
Of course, my mother got to pick her name. She was born Elaine—totally wrong, Elaine Wineberg. She called herself Cinnamon when she started at the Pussycat. But then she decided Cinnamon was too long and hard to get out, and she switched to Coco. Coco Winters. I liked it better too. I wished she’d named me Coco. My next choice would’ve been Cinnamon, then Ginger.
“That’s cute,” he said, “how they’re both food.”
“Chocolate’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac, or so I’ve read—not that I’ve ever noticed that actually working, have you?”
The waitress brought our drinks and asked Kingsley if he wanted anything. He hesitated, and then said no thanks.
I poured some half-and-half into my coffee.
“They say people who eat chocolate live longer,” he said.
“Oh! Now that’s something I could endorse. Eat me! Live longer!” Coco laughed. She could make almost anything a dirty joke. I glared at her to no avail. Time for me to speak up.
“I was named after Ginger Rogers. Not the movie star on Gilligan’s Island.” I always feel it’s important for people to know that. Ginger on Gilligan’s Island is so totally not me. And Ginger Rogers had a lot of spunk.
“Don’t you just love those old Fred Astaire–Ginger Rogers movies?” Coco went on. “She could make you believe she was falling for him even though he was so unattractive.”
Like a stripper, I thought, stirring in another creamer.
“He was a great dancer,” Kingsley said. “When I was growing up, I saw all his movies at the Pacific Film Archive in Berkeley. They had a wonderful restaurant there, the Swallow. Ruth Reichl worked there”—he turned to me—“did you know that? They had the most wonderful cranberry orange scones, before scones were the new muffins. I lived for them.”
“Ruth who?” my mother asked.
“A food writer,” I explained. “She used to review for the Times.”
“I have a restaurant in Sonoma,” he said to Coco, downplaying the level of his celebrity. “I’m here in New York teaching a class at your sister’s school, but I’m afraid the students want to be cooking, not sitting at desks.”
“That’s not true. I’m sure we all dream of having our own restaurant one day. And we’re really honored to have you of all people . . .” He was looking straight at me, and I started to blush.
“So, Robert.” My mother stepped in (thank god). “How do you like New York?”
“I love it,” he said. “That’s part of why I accepted this job—just to have an excuse to be here. Have you ever been to Sonoma?”
“No,” Coco said, “but I’d love to go. Drive around all day and go to wine tastings . . .”
“How about you, Ginger? Does a place like Sonoma appeal to you?”
“I would love to live someplace like that.” I beamed as I launched into my daydream. “Open a little bakery on some Main Street. And live in a cute little Victorian house. I would paint it pink. Or yellow. Or maybe lilac. I bet the people there are really nice.”
He looked amused. “It’s boring, really. A sleepy little town.”
“Are you kidding? It’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. I mean, I’ve never been there, but I bet it is. And the people out there really appreciate good food. They know how to relax and enjoy life.”
Northern California. Yes. That’s where I should move. Find a Main Street in California and open my café.
“Well”—he smiled indulgently at me—“they aren’t sitting around in the sun consuming wine, pâté, and biscotti all the time.”
“Right. I’m sure there’s crime and misery and loneliness out there too.”
“Absolutely! Well.” He sat up straight, nodded politely to each of us. “I should get going.” He slid out from the booth. “Enjoy your meal, ladies. See you in school, Ginger. It was very nice to meet you, Coco.” He looked back and forth between us. “I see the resemblance. Your mother must’ve been quite beautiful.”
“Aren’t you sweet!” Coco fawned.
I just smiled.
When he walked away, Coco and I both watched him go. Even through his suit, you could see his ass was a definite ten.
“Gorgeous,” Coco said.
The waitress brought our food. My apple brown Betty was really good. Tart, chunky apples. A thick brown-sugar crust. Real whipped cream. How could you go wrong?
“Yum.” I dipped my fork into the whipped cream.
“He seemed to be very into you.”
I savored the soft sweetness as it melted on my tongue. “Are you kidding? He only came in because he saw you through the glass.”
“Maybe I’ll have to enroll for next semester.”
“Don’t even think of it.”
I ended up eating the entire apple brown Betty. And my mom had her Cobb salad. And we didn’t
share a bite.
chapter twelve
“ a re you still determined to be a pastry chef?” Jean Paul looked straight at me.
“Yes.” I looked straight back at him.
“Then you may put away today’s delivery.”
While everyone else practiced cake decoration, I lugged huge sacks of flour and sugar into the storeroom.
During the lunch break, I stayed inside and practiced piping frosting on the butcher-block table. I was trying to get my script to look beautiful. Jean Paul had told us how he’d written “Happy Birthday” a thousand times every afternoon when he was apprenticing. He could do it with his eyes closed.
Jean Paul walked by. “Your script looks like shit.”
I ignored him and kept at it. I wanted to give the appearance that this was not affecting me. But inside, I was dying.
About twenty Happy Birthdays later, Ralph came by. “Hi, Your Cuteness.”
“Jean Paul hates me.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Then why does he always give me drudge work?”
“You’re good at drudge work. I wish I had your muscles.”
“It’s not funny.”
“I’m serious!” he said, nodding at my work on the table. “Your piping looks good.”
It’s true. I was improving. And where was Jean Paul to see? Nowhere. “I should quit. He’s never going to put me in the Master Class. This is a waste of money. Doesn’t he pick on me more than anyone? Why is he so mean to me?”
“Tough love?”
“I’ll tell you why.” I picked up my bag and piped out, “Because he’s a shithead.”
“Well done!” Ralph said. “Your script looks quite professional.”
The Art of Undressing Page 7