The Art of Undressing

by Stephanie Lehmann

  “Ginger!” she said. “Good in tea, for when you have a cold.”

  “Yes. And Rose is such a pretty . . .”

  My brain clicked. I had a brilliant idea. “Hold on a sec, I’ll be right back.” I went out front to the flowers. Lo and behold, there were some decent bouquets of red roses. I grabbed a bunch and went back inside to pay. Before leaving, I handed one of the roses to Rose.

  As I bolted down the street, I considered the risk of bringing a dessert like this to a fancy-schmancy banquet. But no one would have to know they were basically eating mashed-up Oreos. As Jean Paul said, presentation was more important than taste, right?

  I flew upstairs and threw it all together. Oreos in the food processor until they looked like . . . dirt! Then blended the butter and the cream cheese. Whisked the milk with the pudding mixes till it was smooth. Folded the butter and cream cheese into that, and then into the Reddi-wip. Took a taste with my index finger. Yum. Now the fun part.

  I alternated layers of Oreo dirt with the pudding mud. When I was little, sometimes I used to put Gummi worms in the dirt, but tonight, I was going to go for something more elegant. I carefully tore some petals off my roses and laced them around the perimeter of the cake. Then I took three more and laid them in the center. Had to refrain from going crazy and putting them all over the place. Better to keep it simple. Elegant. I stood back. Admired my work. Pretty! Coco came into the kitchen. “It’s gorgeous!”

  I needed a good name, though. Dirt cake most certainly wouldn’t do. “Do you know the French word for dirt?”

  “No. Garden is jardin, right?”

  “Yes. That’s perfect. Behold my new creation. Mousse de Jardin.”

  chapter thirty-seven

  t he school restaurant was all dressed up for the banquet. White tablecloths, floral arrangements, an ice sculpture of a dolphin. Tables laden with food lined the room. People made their way buffet-style to each one, loading up their plates. All the students were dressed in cleaned-up whites, serving food or just chatting up the guests. I felt self-conscious in my street clothes, but before going to change, I wanted to put my dessert out with the rest.

  I made my way through the crowd, holding my dish out in front of me, wishing it would hide my jeans and my white sweatshirt that said LIFEGUARD on the back. Some of the advanced students, who seemed like celebrities simply because they were the chosen ones, mingled with the crowd of investors, mostly Japanese businessmen in dark suits or matronly-looking women in dresses from Talbots. Mr. Glass was talking to Mr. Knickerbocker. I was surprised, because I hadn’t thought parents were invited to this. Was he an investor? Jean Paul was standing by the ice sculpture talking with Nancy Riviere, the guest pastry chef for next semester, the one I wanted so badly to study with. An attractive woman in her fifties, with short black hair and a dark tan, she was wearing a chic black pantsuit, silver chandelier earrings, and . . . I couldn’t believe it . . . black Converse Hi-top tennis shoes. At that moment, I felt like my entire life was vindicated. I had to get into her class. I just had to!

  Nigel Sitwell was sitting at a big round table in the middle of the room talking the ear off some matron who was obviously thrilled to be near his corpulent body. Behind one of the first tables in the line, Tom was slicing some roast beef and laying it on a woman’s plate. Ralph was serving at the last table, the one with the desserts. So was Tara. I took a deep breath, approached, and before I could even set my Mousse de Jardin with the other offerings, Tara asked, “What happened to your swans?”

  “Crash landing. I made something else.”

  “Love the petals,” Ralph said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Are they edible?” Tara asked.

  “Try one and see if you get poisoned.” I turned to Ralph. “I’ll be right back.”

  On my way to the locker room, I almost collided with Kingsley. “Ginger. I heard your desserts were destroyed. Is everything all right?”

  Jean Paul, Nancy Riviere, and Mr. Knickerbocker were all migrating towards the dessert table. “It was nothing,” I said, and continued to the locker room. I pulled my clothes off, stuffed them into a locker, fumbled with the buttons on my chef’s jacket, then raced back out to the lobby. Ralph was serving my dessert to Jean Paul, Mr. Knickerbocker, and Nancy Riviere. What the hell? A whole table of gorgeous pastries, and they wanted dirt cake? I approached with caution.

  “What is this?” Mr. Knickerbocker was asking. He was impeccably dressed in an ice blue suit with a red bow tie. “Can you eat the petals, or are they just decoration?”

  “They are absolutely edible,” Ralph said.

  “Fascinating.” Mr. Knickerbocker looked at Jean Paul. “Is this your recipe? I’ve never seen it here before.”

  Jean Paul looked at me and screwed his face up. I was sure he was going to yell at me about my swans, but maybe he didn’t want to in front of Mr. Knickerbocker. While he hesitated, Nancy Riviere said, “I can’t wait to sample a piece,” and took a taste of hers. As she savored it on her tongue, I was dying. If I’d known she’d be sampling it, I never would’ve used the Reddi-wip.

  “Hmmm,” she said. “Who made this?”

  There was a moment of silence. Time to confess. “I did.”

  She looked me over, her eyes settling for an extra moment on my lime green Kangaroos with orange trim.

  “And what do you call it?” she asked.

  “Mousse de Jardin.”

  “Really,” she said. “This tastes exactly like something my mother used to make. But that wasn’t the name . . .”

  Please, I thought, please don’t tell everyone it’s dirt cake. Did they have Oreos in France?

  “I remember . . .” She got a far-off dreamy look. “The crust was made with imported chocolate wafers that were available only from a little shop on the Champs-Elysées. The mousse was made with powdered bittersweet chocolate from Zurich. And of course, heavy whipping cream. Ah, yes. Really brings me back . . .” She smiled with a bit of chocolate pudding on her upper lip. And then, I could’ve sworn, she winked at me. “C’est fantastique.”

  After cleaning up the kitchen and the dining room and wrapping up the leftovers for Meals on Wheels, we were dismissed. Jean Paul looked exhausted and didn’t bother to ask me about the swans. I figured he’d enjoy informing me later that there was no way I’d be let into the Master Class no matter how much Nancy Riviere liked my Mousse de Jardin. I didn’t bother changing into my street clothes and headed straight for the elevator.

  I was walking down Fifty-third Street past the Museum of Modern Art thinking I really should go in there one day, when I heard a voice from behind.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little unreasonable?”

  It was Tom. “No.”

  “Tara set it up,” he said, catching up with me. “Believe me, the more I know her, the less—”

  “It has nothing to do with Tara. It has to do with you ogling my mother.”

  “I didn’t know it was your mother!”

  “It’s not just because she’s my mom. You can’t imagine how it feels . . .”

  “What.” He matched his pace with mine. “Tell me.”

  “I could never have that power over men.”

  “You could if you wanted.”

  “Well, I don’t! And yes, I know, I’m contradicting myself.” We turned down Broadway. Sexy billboards looked down from the black sky. Every store used lights so bright you had to squint even in the darkness. All that “glitz” just to sell porn videos or junky tourist crap like I LOVE NEW YORK T-shirts.

  “Look,” Tom said, “it didn’t exactly make me feel proud of myself.”

  “You could’ve left the room or turned away. You didn’t have to get so into it.”

  “Would you prefer I didn’t have a sex drive?”

  “Yes, I would. I’d prefer it if all men had no sex drive.” Except for the men I wanted—at the times I designated. “The world would be a better place.”

  “I don’t think you r
eally mean that.”

  We were stopped at a red light. I stepped off the curb along with about five other people, anxious to press forward, but we all almost got clipped by a cab and backed up. “I just don’t want to feel like I have to be that way too.”

  “You don’t have to dress up like that. Or undress like that.”

  “Yes, I do. Because sex appeal isn’t a natural thing!” I was almost shrieking. “It’s a learned behavior! It’s not enough just being a person, no, you have to master all these skills, or you won’t be able to compete, and then no one will want you.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  The light turned green. I looked sideways at him as we crossed. “Seems to me I was never able to get your attention.”

  “You had my attention, it’s just . . .” His voice trailed off in confusion.

  “Look, if you aren’t into me that way, fine. You don’t have to make excuses. It’s not like it can be forced.”

  “It’s not that! I just want to have a real relationship with someone before I jump into bed . . .”

  “Fine. I hope you and Tara are very happy together.”

  “I don’t care about Tara.”

  “Oh, right, that’s why you jumped into bed with her.”

  “Ginger—”

  “You don’t have to explain. Men just aren’t attracted to women like me. That’s how it is.”

  I was almost home. We would get to the front steps. We would say good-bye. I’d go up to my room, get in bed, lie there and regret everything I ever said to him.

  “Ginger, you have to believe me . . .” Again his voice trailed off. We were in front of my building. I paused on the sidewalk before turning to go up. He took my hand with both his hands. Funny how a small gesture like that can make your heart thump. “I never felt anything for Tara. It’s just . . . she kept throwing herself at me, and I guess I was sort of impressed with her because of the restaurant and all, but to tell you the truth, I don’t really like her very much, and the more I got to know her, the less I liked her, and I don’t know why I did what I did because . . .”

  A woman in a pin-striped suit rolling a piece of luggage tried to pass. “Excuse me?”

  We moved up onto the steps. I didn’t want him to lose his place. “Because?”

  He blushed, looked down at the step, then back at me. “You’re the one I care about. You’re the one I want to know. You’re the one I’ve sort of . . .” He cleared his throat. “Fallen in love with.”

  Suddenly, I felt a whole helluva lot better. “Oh.” I allowed myself to breathe. Onion bagel.

  “So . . . do you think you might be able to forgive me?”

  I made a big show of frowning, like I’d have to think about it.

  “I have a present for you,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  He reached into his backpack and gave me a box that was wrapped with tinfoil. We sat down next to each other on the stoop. I peeled off the foil and lifted the top. “You got this?” It was the stainless steel pie cutter I’d seen at the restaurant supply store. “For me?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s so beautiful. I love it. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I kissed him on the cheek. He kissed me on the lips. And kissed me again. And again. And then it wasn’t clear who was kissing who, and then it was most definitely each of us kissing each other. I decided that maybe public displays of affection weren’t the worst thing in the world.

  chapter thirty-eight

  t he next morning, I slept really late. It was Saturday, and exceedingly quiet in midtown. That evening, I was going to Tom’s for dinner. But there was the whole day to get through first. Coco was still asleep, and I was restless, so I decided to take myself out to breakfast. I left her a note, and headed to the diner.

  I bought a Post from the newsstand next door, zipped up my down jacket, and dug my hands deep into the pockets. There was a chill in the air. Winter was definitely on its way. I got to the diner, pushed open the heavy glass door, bypassed the hostess, and sat down at the counter.

  I scanned the menu as if some undiscovered treasure would call out to me, but of course it was the same old stuff. Should I get pancakes? A waffle? It was almost lunch. The soup of the day was chicken with rice. Boring. Maybe I should get what I knew I wanted. A hot apple brown Betty à la mode and a cup of coffee. Yes. That sounded good.

  After the waiter took my order, I watched him get a cup and fill it from the rounded glass pot filled with dark, steaming coffee. He put it in front of me with two creamers. I took a sip while looking into the case of cakes and pies directly across from me. I focused in on the wall of mirrors that was behind the desserts, reflecting light on all their glory, and saw myself. I didn’t look so great. Had barely taken the time to brush my hair and splash water on my face before coming in. Now I considered putting lipstick on, but it would just come off on my coffee cup. I hated lipstick on coffee cups. And who would see me? I stopped focusing on myself and took in the mirror’s reflection of the room. I noticed a familiar figure. He was in a booth right behind me.

  I swiveled around to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. Jean Paul.

  I swiveled back before he might see me. What was he doing in a place like this? How would I eat knowing he was right behind me?

  Maybe I would ask the waiter to pack up my brown Betty. I could eat it at home. Then I noticed something else in the mirror. Jean Paul was gorging on a huge, greasy, deluxe cheeseburger.

  I swiveled back around. Had to see it with my own eyes. It was true. Mr. French Cuisine was chowing down on the most all-American of meals, and sipping from a tall glass of chocolate milk shake! I watched blood from the burger dribble onto his plate as he crammed the thick bun between his lips. He paused from his chewing. “Bonjour.”

  I smiled, at least I think I smiled—maybe I frowned—and then I swiveled forward without saying anything. After a moment, I swiveled back around. “You know, quite frankly, I’m surprised to find you eating in a place like this.”

  “Why?”

  “You disapprove of this kind of food.”

  “I have a reputation to protect.”

  I swiveled back and opened up my paper.

  “So,” he said, “I don’t suppose you know who destroyed your swans.”

  I took a sip of coffee.

  “I have noticed that you and Miss Glass do not exactly get along,” he said. “You don’t think perhaps . . .”

  I looked at him in the mirror. “I destroyed them.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Oui.”

  I got up from my stool and faced Jean Paul. “You’ve had it in for me since the first day of school. I don’t know why. I don’t know what you want from me. You’ve made this whole experience miserable and I should probably just quit.”

  I looked for the waiter. He was probably putting my apple brown Betty on a plate right that second. I’d have to ask him to transfer it to a plastic container. Oh, well. Jean Paul finished chewing and took a sip of milk shake from the straw. Every bone in my body wanted to walk out of the diner right then, but I also wanted to hear what he might say, so I forced myself to wait. Finally, after patting his mouth with his napkin, he spoke. “If you quit, that would be too bad.”

  “Because you’re expecting the second half of my tuition payment?” I figured, let the school fight that out with the Sheriff. They’d never get it out of him.

  “Because it would be a waste of your talent.”

  “How can you say that when you’ve spent the entire semester making me feel like I don’t have talent?”

  “Do you think you have talent?”

  “After spending the semester with you, I don’t know anymore.”

  He indicated the empty seat on the other side of his table. “Sit.”

  I didn’t.

  He went on. “You are good. But you are a woman. That is what it
will be like for you out there. Worse! In a real restaurant, they will destroy you, unless you can show them that you cannot be destroyed.”

  “Maybe it used to be like that, but things have changed.”

  “You are wrong. It hasn’t changed that much, you will see.”

  He took another bite of his burger. While he chewed, I wanted desperately to say, So you do believe in me? You do think I’m good?

  But then I was glad I didn’t, because he swallowed and said, “If you are going to succeed, you must believe in yourself no matter what anyone else tells you. You must know, inside yourself, that you are to be valued, and to hell with everyone else and their goddamned opinions.”

  “But when you’re a student,” I said, “you’re hungry for praise.”

  “You are too hungry. I saw that on the first day. Taste? Or presentation. You must have both to be the best.”

  I couldn’t believe he remembered that exchange. Had he been paying such close attention? “I knew that.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so? I’ll tell you why. You craved my approval too much. You needed me to say whether you were right or wrong. Many people, especially the women, they will quit as soon as they get a taste of the real thing. I am just trying to prepare you.”

  “You don’t seem to be preparing Tara.”

  He pushed his plate away. “Why waste my energy on someone who has no potential? She is useless in the kitchen. She will always be out front, the hostess, meeting and greeting. She will never be the creator of the food. But you?” He burped slightly into his napkin. “You have real potential. Pastry is physically demanding work, but it is also delicate. You can do both. You have the masculine and feminine side. That,” he said, “is the magic combination.” Jean Paul leaned back in the booth as if it would make more room inside his stomach. “The burgers here are really good.”

  The waiter brought my apple brown Betty and set it down at my place at the counter. I sat down and dug up a piece of warm, cinnamony apple from the bottom, then added some ice cream from the top, and brought it to my mouth. The spicy warmth with the sweet cold was so good.