The Art of Undressing

by Stephanie Lehmann

  The only good news, I reflected, as I rotated the strawberries, was that to my knowledge, Tara had not told anyone about Coco. Maybe she was actually taking pity on me. Why not? With Jean Paul dumping on me as usual and Tom working for her father and probably having sex with her, maybe she simply didn’t see me as a threat.

  I snuck myself a raspberry, but it was disappointingly tart. How likely was it that she and Tom were having sex? I’d really thought he liked me. But we hadn’t spoken much since we took our walk together. Matter of fact, he’d pretty much been ignoring me since he’d started working at L’Etoile. I removed some moldy lemons from a cardboard box. God knows, I didn’t look as good in my chef’s outfit as Miss Cover Girl Chef. Tara never got food stains on her radiant white jacket. Tied her apron taut as a corset. Wore pants so tight in the ass you could see her butt-crack. I preferred to be able to lean over and breathe while I worked. Was this why I was languishing on the shelf? Waiting to be discovered by the discerning shopper not deceived by fancy packaging?

  I gathered the pile of moldy lemons in my apron and took them out to the garbage.

  “I was about to send out a search party for you.”

  I turned around. My would-be rescuer was Tom. “Oh,” I said casually, “hi.”

  “I thought maybe you’d turned into one of Chef Seigfried’s ice sculptures.”

  “Just straightening up a little, and staying out of Jean Paul’s way.”

  The garbage bin was totally full, so I went to the storage room to get a new liner and refrained from asking him why he’d been a little aloof lately or was it just my imagination?

  Tom followed. “That guy loves you,” he said.

  “He really does,” I agreed.

  He followed me back to the garbage. “Let me help you.”

  “That’s okay, I’ve got it.” Feeling a little defensive about my kitchen skills, even if it was just garbage management. “So I hear you’re working at L’Etoile now,” I said, as I lifted the old bag of garbage out of the bin.

  “Yeah. It’s great. I’m learning a lot.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  While I tied up the bag, he put a new one in. Since the garbage bin provided such a romantic setting, why not go for it? “So you remember how we talked about going to the restaurant supply store?”

  “You still want to go?”

  “I know you’re really busy now.”

  “I’m free on the weekend. I don’t have to be in till three.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Great.”

  “So.” I nodded at the bag of garbage. “I’m gonna take this out back.”

  He nodded. I tried to look as graceful as I could because I knew he was watching me as I carried the bag, which weighed about as much as I did, to the freight elevator.

  In the kitchen, Tara was sharpening her ten-inch chef’s knife, glaring at me. Tom was wiping down the stove. Had she seen our tête-à-tête over the trash? Too bad. I took out my chef’s knife and sharpened it too.

  The only material object I might love more than stainless steel is chrome. Both make me happy. So smooth. So shiny. They have a way of seducing my eye. A promise that I’ll find something in the reflection, something comforting and safe.

  So, while other women might get excited by strolling down Fifth Avenue past Harry Winston and Tiffany’s, I get excited going down to the Bowery to the best restaurant supply stores.

  I loved the gleaming sauté pans not yet marred by burnt grease. The stacks of individual-sized tart shells. The glistening glass sugar pourers with chrome caps.

  Tom was already there by the time I arrived. “Look at the pancake dispenser,” he said. “Makes one-half to three-ounce portions—dollar to king size.”

  “That’s so cute. And the pie cutter!” It had four blades fixed to a large ring, like a star. Just push it through the pie and voila: eight slices.

  “Cool. How about this?” He went to a huge glass-encased popcorn popper cart, made to look like the kind street vendors used around the turn of the century. “They sell the red and white striped boxes too.”

  “How about the fudge warmer? And the hot dog grill? Oh, look at these signs.” They had classics like NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE.

  “How about this one? He nodded at THIS IS A CLASS JOINT. ACT RESPECTABLE.

  “Yeah.”

  “If you could open any restaurant that you wanted,” he asked, “what would it be?”

  “A bakery café,” I said. “On Main Street.”

  “Main Street where?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “City? Suburb? Town?”

  “Big enough so everyone doesn’t know you. Small enough so lots of people do.”

  “Do you know what it looks like inside?”

  “Wood tables. Wood floor. Lots of light. Comfortable to sit in. Nice big windows up front so you could see people going by on the street.”

  “Main Street.”

  “Right. And a huge glass case up front with all my desserts, of course. Maybe there would be a counter up there too, where people could have a quick cup of coffee and chat with the waitress before heading back to the hardware store, or the five-and-dime . . . They still exist somewhere, don’t they?”

  “Ours went out of business a long time ago.”

  “And we would have free newspapers on a rack. So people could come in and have their cake and stay as long as they wanted. But there would also be a big take-out business to keep us going financially.”

  “Would you serve hot foods?”

  “Limited menu,” I said, but then I added, to let him know if he wanted, he could go in on it with me, “Or bistro food. I could go more elegant, more upscale. White tablecloths. Good wine list. What kind of restaurant would you want?”

  “I don’t want my own place.”

  “No?”

  “The business end doesn’t interest me. I just want to work in the best restaurants in the city. Plan the menus, do the cooking, create new dishes.”

  “So, you’d be happy if you worked your way up at L’Etoile.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re on your way, then.”

  “I heard the sauté guy is leaving. Mr. Glass said something about letting me train to take his place. That would be incredible, to learn all the sauces. Meanwhile, I’m happy on the grill.”

  “You’ll move up there,” I said. “I’m sure of it.” Especially since Tara wanted to get in his pants. Or already had. I still couldn’t figure out if her boast had anything to do with reality. I hadn’t yet seen them actually touching.

  At least it still seemed she hadn’t told him about the bachelorette party or Coco. Or maybe she had, but he was too embarrassed to mention it.

  “You seem to be one of Jean Paul’s favorites,” I said.

  “I’m sure he’ll come to see that anyone who empties garbage cans with your dexterity has a great future in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Look, it’s possible he’s picking on you because you’re a woman.”

  “He doesn’t pick on Tara. I don’t even know why he teaches. He seems to hate it.”

  “I think he gets into it, actually. In his own sadistic way . . .”

  “Mmmmmm,” I said, noncommittal. I didn’t want to complain anymore. I picked up a napkin dispenser. Rectangular, with chrome sides, like you see in diners.

  “You should buy it,” Tom said.

  “It’s impossible to find the napkins that fit into it.”

  “You could buy them in bulk from here, I bet.”

  “Maybe it’s silly to have restaurant supplies at home. The point is you get to have them when you’re at a restaurant. That’s why going out is an event. If the line blurs, it’ll lose its appeal.”

  “You think?”

  My gaze lingered on the shiny metal. I thought of Coco letting men buy the chance to look at her almost naked body. A blurred line if I ever saw it, but she still enjoyed sex, and she’d b
een the one who was bought. I forced myself to continue down the aisle. Tom caught up with me. “You shouldn’t get down on yourself about Jean Paul. It’s obvious you’re one of the hardest workers in the class.”

  “Right. I have to try harder than anyone else just to keep up.”

  I paused in front of the mixers. They had all the different sizes displayed—like a family. The huge daddy-sized industrial Hobarts for really big jobs, the familiar mama-sized one like we had in school. And an array of KitchenAids in different colors, for the decked-out home.

  “That’s not true,” Tom said.

  I’d always wanted a red one. Or a blue one. Or maybe stark naked chrome. It didn’t matter anyway, since I could never justify the three hundred dollars and my handheld worked just fine. “Why do you say that?” Admittedly, I was fishing for compliments.

  “I saw from the first week. You’re one of the ones who knows your way around a kitchen.”

  “You did?”

  “Even the way you deal with Jean Paul. I’ve heard stories, from past classes, about how he’s made tough guys break down into tears! Not you, though.”

  “Thanks.” I decided to bask in his praise instead of mention that I’d escaped to the walk-in refrigerator on more than one occasion to shed a few hot tears.

  “You should be proud of yourself, not down on yourself.”

  I met Tom’s gaze. It was very nice to get this praise, it really was. It felt bad enough doubting myself. I’d been afraid everyone else was doubting my talents too. I picked up a huge dough hook attachment that was for the industrial-sized Hobart. “Are you just saying this to be nice?”

  “It’s the truth. You’re thick-skinned . . . and you’re tough. Matter of fact, I wish I was more like you.”

  “Really?” I put down the hook as if I’d been caught fondling it. More like me? Thick-skinned and tough? Was this why he never seemed to want to touch me? Was this why he was presumably touching Tara?

  He looked at his watch. “Maybe we should push on.”

  We wandered back to the door. I didn’t want our time together to be over, but I knew he had to get to work.

  As we passed the cash register, Tom slowed down. “I’m just gonna buy one of these paring knives,” he said. There was a basket of them by the cash register. “I think I lost mine.”

  “Yeah. They always seem to disappear.” As he paid, I said, “So maybe we could get something to eat, or go to a movie sometime, or something . . .” Something like a real date. I looked at him and blushed slightly. Was that a look of panic on his face?

  “Yeah, maybe,” he said.

  And then I added, because he didn’t, “That would be great.”

  chapter nineteen

  e lvis Montgomery, a party planner transvestite, had organized Coco’s birthday party. The invitations had been printed with gold glitter glue on the crotch of black thongs. There were party games like Pin the Penis on the Life-sized Poster of Derek Jeter. And everyone was getting a doggy bag (decorated with a picture of two doggies “doing it”) to take home, with plastic handcuffs, a black felt blindfold, and fruit-flavored condom party favors.

  Jack was sitting on the couch talking to anyone who would listen. His voice was really getting on my nerves. He was going on and on about some business deal he once did involving toggles.

  “So when they ordered ’em the first time I gave ’em a special price . . .”

  Every few sentences he laughed at something he said.

  “So they come back six months later, and they want to order more. They give me some bullshit about honoring that first price.” He snickered, then paused to scratch the back of his ear, betraying, could it be, an iota of (did he notice I was glaring at him?) self-consciousness.

  “ ‘But that was a one-time deal,’ I said!”

  No one else seemed annoyed at his booming voice droning on.

  “So I charged them the regular price.”

  They just listened politely. And it was a pretty wild crowd that included lots of my mom’s old friends, who were most definitely not in his typical circle. Did he care? Did he not appreciate that most of the others had much more interesting stories than he did? Like Linda Spangles, one of the premier porn star/performance artists of the 80s, or Heidi Ho, an old pal of my mom’s who’d worked in peep shows for years and now designed porn Web sites.

  I’d invited Ralph. I wanted him to know “the real me.” In high school I’d never cared what other people thought of my home life. All my friends knew what Coco did, and lots of my teachers too. Most people thought it was cool. Others disapproved. I tried not to let it affect me much either way, though that seemed to be getting harder, not easier. But I knew if Ralph was critical, he was only looking out for me.

  We stood in the corner observing Heidi Ho and her girlfriend, Melissa, who did publicity for HBO. They made an unlikely-looking couple. Melissa was a real lipstick lesbian—peroxide blonde, pink heels, silky pink polka-dot dress. Heidi had a crew cut, muscles. Her entire arms were tattooed with dragons and she had one of those rings in her nostrils like you usually see in a bull’s snout. I wanted to grab it and lead her to a trough.

  “Is that your gorgeous mother?” Ralph asked.

  Coco, in a silver minidress and clear plastic platforms, was talking animatedly with Pong, a performance artist. “Yep.”

  “She’s a knockout.”

  “Ummm.” Not what I wanted to hear.

  “I feel bad for ya.”

  I wanted him to feel bad for me. But now it was annoying to hear him say he felt bad for me. “She’s actually been a pretty good mom.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “At least she’s lively and affectionate and knows how to have a good time.”

  “I’ll bet she does.”

  Elvis joined us and I introduced them. “Elvis planned the party. Isn’t it great?”

  “It’s marvelous! I can’t wait to see what shape the cake is!”

  “It would’ve been a breast.” Elvis nodded at me. “But since we have a professional here . . .”

  “I made a pie. Cherry. It’s Coco’s favorite. I should go check on it.”

  I went to the kitchen. The pie was cooling on a rack. I planned on smothering it with fresh whipped cream, then using some sparkler birthday candles. It was still too warm, though, so I went back out into the living room and had the unpleasant surprise of seeing Ian walk in the door. What was he doing here? I looked around for Coco, but she was gone, so I checked in her bedroom.

  She was on the bed with Linda, talking about a mammogram she’d had earlier that week. “It’s like inserting your breast into the refrigerator, and having someone very strong slowly smash the refrigerator door against your breast and then lean against the door as hard as she can . . .”

  “Why is Ian here?” I said.

  “Ian?”

  “He just walked in. Did you invite him?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Then why is he here?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned back to Linda. “So she told me I have to go back because of the implants.”

  “Bummer,” Linda said.

  “She didn’t get a good view. I could tell she didn’t know what the hell she was doing—”

  I went back to Ralph, who was now by himself admiring the framed prints of the women with their underwear down around their ankles. “These are hilarious.”

  “Sidesplitting.”

  “What’s wrong, Your Cuteness?”

  “My ex-boyfriend is here.”

  “Point him out.”

  “The guy at the potato chip bowl with the blond hair and the little goatee which he didn’t used to have, by the way.”

  “Love the goatee.”

  “Hate the goatee.”

  “Very adorable.”

  “Very pretentious, just like he is, and why is he here?”

  “He’s madly in love with you and can’t let go?”

  “He’s madly in love with my mom. He
knows it’s her birthday. She must’ve invited him and didn’t tell me. I mean, how shitty is that?”

  “You really think she invited him?”

  “How else would he know there was a party? He should at least have the decency to stay away—”

  “She shouldn’t have invited him, though.”

  “He’s coming over here.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Doesn’t it?” I turned my frown into a smile. “Hello, Ian.”

  “Hi, Ginger. Good to see you.”

  “Good to see you too.” Maybe the goatee was kinda cute . . .

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Ralph. I go to school with Ginger.”

  “Great. How’s that going?”

  “She’s the star of the class,” Ralph said. I gave him a dirty look. He feigned innocence. “What?”

  I saw Coco heading into the kitchen with an empty platter. “Excuse me, I have to check the pie.” I followed her in.

  “That pie,” she said, “smells so good.”

  “So, Mom. Are you saying that he somehow knew you were having a party and just showed up?”

  “Look,” she said, putting on some coffee, “I sent out a group e-mail. And it was the same group e-mail I put together for my New Year’s party, so Ian was probably still on there.”

  “Mom!”

  “I really should update that thing, but who has the time? It doesn’t matter. Just ignore him.”

  I tried. I really did. I got out my carton of whipping cream and poured it into a bowl and inserted the whisk attachments into the slots on my handheld mixer and then added some sugar to the cream and started blending. Everything was fine. But then Ian had to come into the kitchen.

  “Happy birthday, Coco!”

  “Thank you!”

  He gave her a hug. “How are you?”

  “Great! How are you? Is your CD ready to go yet?”

  “Yeah! As a matter of fact, I met this guy who’s interested in doing a distribution deal, and he introduced me to a producer in LA, and they’re interested in picking up my stuff. . . .”

  It was really nice, I thought, as the cream began to stiffen, to hear that his life had gotten so much better since I broke up with him.

  “Congratulations!” Coco said. “That’s fantastic!”