“Hmm, very mysterious. I’ll warn you, Mr. Langer; I’m off the dating market for the moment.”
He laughs his deep laugh. “As am I, young lady, as am I. No, I’m hoping you’ll assist me. I thought with all of your contacts, you might have someone to recommend to me?” He gestures behind him, and there, on the lowest shelf, is a dusty hand-lettered sign: “Part-Time Baker Wanted.” My stomach drops. “I know your colleagues are all fancy schmancy, but maybe someone could use something part-time on the side?” He wrings his hands together and winces. “The arthritis is kicking in more and more these days, and I’m afraid some of the heavy lifting is getting a little too heavy, if you know what I mean. I need someone maybe four days a week. Well, I probably need someone six days a week, but I can afford someone four days a week. Maybe thirty hours total. Twelve dollars an hour and all of yesterday’s product they care to carry. Know anyone?”
Do I?
On the one hand, the money is so low it makes my stomach clench. On the other, what he is making here is stuff I can knock out in my sleep; it’s all first-year-cooking-school level, nothing complicated or fussy, nothing challenging. Close to home, so the walkable commute will keep me out of my car and save gas money. And while my pride aches a bit at the thought of working in this dusty run-down relic of a neighborhood bakery, it would be the perfect place to hide out temporarily while I find something better. And goodness knows Mr. Langer couldn’t be a sweeter guy, so if I have to work for someone, he’d be a soft place to land. He can think of it as part-time, but if I think of it as a baking temp job, then maybe . . . just to get some cash flow. I take a deep breath and consider what the counselor at Canyon Ranch said about my ego, my vanity. That my constant awareness of what other people think of me and my decisions was ultimately a huge part of my downfall. That I was far too concerned about public perception. That perhaps if I hadn’t had some insane picture in my head of a type of life that I was trying so desperately to attain, as if it was my destiny, maybe I would have had a clearer eye about Dexter, or would have planned a wedding I could afford, or would have been able to shrug off the humiliation and not derail my job and relationships. I hated how much of that landed. So even though every fiber of my being is screaming out that everything about this situation is beneath me, I have to face that turning down an opportunity for honest paid work in my field is more beneath me. Pride is a lot harder to swallow than a black-and-white cookie.
“Mr. Langer, I believe I do know someone for you.”
“That was delicious, Mom; thanks for dinner,” my dad says, wiping the sauce off his plate with a piece of the onion kuchen.
“Thank you, dear; glad you liked it. I’ll pack some up for you to take home to Diane; that girl just works too hard.”
“What can you do? She’s committed,” my dad says, reaching for the last spoonful of buttered carrots. My mom was called away last minute to counsel a young woman who had just joined a group home and had had some sort of episode that worried the staff. “And how’s my girl?” He turns to me. We’ve kept the conversation light and lively: television and movies and current events and the weather. This isn’t terribly different from how things were when I was growing up. I love my parents, and I respect the impetus for the choices they’ve made in their lives, though I don’t always understand or fully agree with them. I’ve always been of the personal opinion that there is just as much value in providing funding for good works as there is in doing the good works oneself, much to their ongoing chagrin. I know that the differences in our worldviews keep something of a chasm between us, but it is a chasm filled with genuine love and affection, if not understanding, and we bridge it easily. They’ve never said one word about being relieved that Dexter did his runner, even though I know they never liked him and didn’t approve of my marrying him. They’ve been supportive and kind and blissfully non-probing about all of it, which makes things manageable. I don’t know how they are going to take the news of my latest adventure, and I was hoping to do this with the whole family here, but I guess that won’t be possible with my mom off saving the world yet again.
“I took a job.” Bubbles winks at me and begins clearing the table. She was thrilled when I came home and told her about my conversation with Mr. Langer. We talked it over during our lunch of roasted chicken and potatoes, splitting the brownie and the macaroon Mr. Langer had added to my bag when I told him I would come work with him. I was very clear that the situation is just temporary to help him out and keep me busy while we both look for a more long-term solution. He agreed to keep the sign up—I didn’t want him to lose out on someone who might actually want the job permanently—and I agreed to give him at least a month’s notice when I find my next job.
“That’s fantastic! I’m so excited for you, sweetheart. Tell me all about it! Is it the perfect opportunity you’ve been holding out for?” My parents, since they believe I left S&S of my own accord because I felt awkward about the Dexter juju all over the place, have no idea that I have eight years of spectacular work experience and no references. They just assumed that I wasn’t going to settle for anything less than a step up or at least a lateral step somewhere comparable. And since no one knows about my debt but me, no one has been pushing me to get a job at a faster pace.
“It’s actually just a temporary thing; I still haven’t found the perfect fit yet, but in the meantime, I need to be doing something, so I’m going to help out Mr. Langer for a bit. Just while we both look for the right full-time thing.” This comes out in one breath, and I hope the air of justification is just in my head and that my dad doesn’t notice.
“Well, that will be fun, won’t it?” I can tell he is a little bit shocked, but he’s covering well. “Couldn’t be more convenient, what with you living here. It’s nice of you to help him out; I’m always amazed the man is still in business. Good for you, sweetie. Wait till your mom hears. You’d better get the secret chocolate babka recipe; she’s wanted it since we met!”
Whew. “I promise. I’ll master the babka for her.”
“Speaking of Langer’s . . .” Bubbles enters with a plate overflowing with rugelach.
The three of us fall silent as we indulge in the small snail-shaped pastries of tender cream-cheese-infused dough wrapped around various fillings: one with walnuts and cinnamon, one bursting with chocolate, one with a thick, sweet poppy seed paste, and one with apricot jam that has been bumped up with some chewy bits of diced dried apricots. I examine each one before I eat it, wondering if I will still find them so charming and delicious when I’m making six dozen of each four days a week.
And worse, wondering what would happen if anyone from my former life ever found out.
His Girl Friday
(1940)
You’re wonderful, in a loathsome sort of way.
• ROSALIND RUSSELL AS HILDY JOHNSON •
“If you’re good here, I’m going to take a little break,” Herman says to me, and I check my watch. Noon on the dot.
“Of course, go have your lunch. I’m going to prep tomorrow’s rye.” Herman uses a basic starter from leftover dough for his rye breads, giving them a little bit of a sourdough tang that offsets the molasses; a very slow chilled rise ensures an even and small crumb. So we always prep tomorrow’s dough today. Herman has the same devotion to his meal schedule that Bubbles does.
“Sounds good.”
“And, Herman? If you want a little lie-down, feel free. I can always ring the bell if we get a rush.” Herman has, essentially, a Batphone: what looks like a little doorbell behind the counter that rings upstairs in his apartment.
“Well, maybe for just a few moments.” Which means I won’t see him till about three.
“I’m not expecting to be busy.” I gesture out at the rain sheeting down the windows.
“April showers, my dear; we’ll be grateful in May.” He tweaks my cheek between two knuckles and heads to the secret door behind the
counter and up to his apartment.
I shake my head and stretch my shoulders before walking back to the kitchen. The bells on the front door will warn me if anyone comes in, unlikely as that seems in this downpour. In the walk-in, I grab the bowl that has the dough from yesterday’s bread that we kept for making the starter. It is fluffy and smells the slightest bit tangy. I put the water in the big Hobart mixer and mix in the molasses. I add the rye and wheat flours, some salt, some pinches of fresh yeast, and the dough starter, which I pull into shaggy golf-ball-sized portions before throwing it in. I mix the dough till it just comes together, and then throw a large linen towel over the bowl and let it rest. When I come back in about a half hour, I’ll separate it into two batches—one will get caraway mixed in; the other will stay seedless—and give it a good knead and then let it proof till it doubles.
Smelling the dough gives me an idea, and I head back out to the front and grab the little notebook I keep under the counter. I love the caraway seeds in the classic rye bread, but I wonder if the rich dough might not also hold up to other flavors. I jot down some notes. Aniseed. Fennel seed. Orange zest. Golden raisins. Coarse salt? Maybe if Herman doesn’t come down when I am working on the dough, I can use a small batch for a little experiment. I’m thinking rolls, not loaves. The kind of rolls you want to smear with cold sweet butter at dinner, or split and toast and spread with cream cheese for breakfast. Savory and sweet. Maybe semolina on the bottom instead of the coarser cornmeal we use for the regular rye loaves.
I’m sketching out a look for potential rolls in my notebook when the bells on the door peal, and with a gust of wind, a little girl gets blown into the bakery, struggling with an umbrella twice her size. She gets the thing closed and pulls the hood off her head, revealing that she is, in fact, a woman, if a tiny one, with long, dark, straight hair sticking to her wet cheeks.
“Hi,” she says breathlessly.
“Hi. You must really have a sweet tooth to be out in this mess. What can I get you?”
“I need to talk to someone about a wedding cake.”
Oh boy. In the five weeks I’ve been working here, this is the first special-occasion cake that someone has been interested in. Which has been fine by me, because when Herman took me through the ancient order forms, I again questioned how on earth he stays in business. Whether you’re a bride or a birthday boy, your options are much the same. Cake comes in chocolate, yellow, or white. Frosting comes in chocolate or vanilla buttercream, or you can opt for whipped cream. Fillings are either chocolate or vanilla custard, fresh bananas, or strawberries or raspberries in season. For birthday cakes, you can have either flowers or balloons in your choice of colors. For wedding cakes, you can add either fondant or marzipan covering, or either smooth or basket-weave buttercream, in white or ivory, with either pearl-like dots or ribbony swags made of frosting, and fondant faux flowers are extra. Tiers are either on columns or resting right on top of each other. Full stop. No bells or whistles, no cake tastings. If you want to decorate with real ribbons or fresh flowers or anything else, you are welcome to DIY that crap once the cake is delivered. Hence the entire lack of special-occasion cake business, which was once probably at least half the profits of this place.
“I can help you if you like, but first, you’re shivering; can I get you some tea?”
“Actually, that would be great.”
“Have a seat, and I’ll bring some.” While we don’t sell tea or coffee here, which is good with the new coffeehouse recently opened down the block, Herman and I do make a pot of coffee (for him) and tea (for me) every morning that we keep in thermal pitchers for ourselves. I pour out two cups of tea and walk them around the counter. “Sugar?”
“Black is fine.” The woman takes the mug gratefully and wraps her delicate hands around it, breathing in the steam. I grab an order form and a pen, and join her at one of the café tables.
“I’m Amelia.”
“Hi, Amelia, I’m Sophie. Congratulations on your engagement. When is the wedding?”
“June.”
“Naturally.” I chuckle.
She laughs. “I know, right? But I swear, it’s not that kind of wedding; I’m not that kind of bride. We actually picked the date because it is my fiancé’s thirtieth birthday, so we are inviting everyone to what they think is his big birthday party, and we are going to surprise them with a wedding!”
“Wow. That is amazing. What a cool idea.” Actually this sounds like a horrible idea. How do you organize a surprise wedding? And why?
“Yeah, we’re not really wedding people; we prefer casual parties. But his whole family was already planning on coming for his birthday, so we figured, kill two birds!”
Killing birds? For your wedding? Like it’s just some annoying exercise you have to get through? This woman is insane. But hey, it’s her life; if she wants to spend the rest of it with fond memories of the people who blew off her wedding because they thought it was just a casual birthday party, that’s her business. And if she wants a basic boring wedding cake, then I’m grateful, because after over a month of butter cookies and rugelach, I’m definitely ready to make something, anything a little bit challenging.
“Well, that seems smart.”
“Yeah. We think it will be great fun and, actually, will save my life.”
“Why is that?”
“Our parents are all sort of traditional people, you know? When we got engaged, both our moms all of a sudden went full-tilt insane and started talking about showers and bridesmaids, and colors. Like seriously, all that ‘my colors are blush and bashful’ bullshit. We finally got them to stop by telling them to agree to let us be happily engaged for six months before pressuring us about a wedding. Brian’s birthday is our six-month mark, and we just thought, this way? We get to plan a great fun party and do it just the way we want with no outside input, and then we don’t have to do all the crap we don’t want to do. Plus, we both have pretty large circles of friends, so we are already at about a hundred and fifty people; if we got the families involved? There would be so much pressure to include, like, all the third cousins from Atlanta, and all the parental business associates, just too much.”
I laugh, thinking about my own wedding planning, and the debacle that ensued, and wonder if this girl isn’t onto something after all. “Too bad you don’t have my parents. They have never gotten married themselves, and the idea of a wedding at all, let alone a traditional one, gives them hives.”
“God, that sounds amazing; can we adopt them?”
“You’re welcome to them. I could have used your parents when I was planning my wedding . . .” This slips out, and when I see Amelia sneak a peek at my bare left hand, I can feel my face color. “Runaway groom.” Usually the wedding that wasn’t is an off-limits topic for me, but the damn Canyon Ranch counselor told me that I will never fully move forward to the future I deserve until I am able to claim the whole event as an important part of my past.
“Ouch.”
“You’re telling me. Literally left at the altar. Well, left in the foyer very near the altar, but close enough.”
“You are freaking kidding me? No way.”
“Way.” And then, for no reason other than this girl’s wide brown eyes full of empathy, and the strangely intimate air of the bakery with the rain pelting the windows, I tell her. Everything. The perfect wedding, the plans, the cost, the crushing debt, how I ended up here at this run-down little bakery part-time instead of at the helm of my own fancy restaurant grinding it out for Michelin stars. I tell her about the meticulous details and the photographer, and how I went totally off the rails and lost my job and am now hiding out here. She listens rapt to my tale of woe and at one point reaches out and grabs my hand and doesn’t let go. By the time I’ve shared every bit of my secret shame and public humiliation and personal financial devastation, we have finished the entire pitcher of tea and half of a chocolate babka.
<
br /> “Damn, girl, that is just the most amazing terrible story I have ever heard. I mean, seriously, that is epic. When does the movie start filming? Please tell me you are going with Sandra Bullock to play you.”
This makes me laugh. “Yeah, it feels about that real. But please, I’m holding out for Melissa McCarthy to play me. Sandra can play my best friend, Ruth.”
“I’m coming to the premiere.” She pauses and tilts her head a little bit. “Is it hard? Making wedding cakes, I mean, after all that?”
I think about this for a moment. “I dunno, yours is the first one I’m doing since then. But I don’t think so. The sad thing is I still believe in marriage and I still believe in weddings. I may have really picked the wrong guy, but my wedding was perfect. It was everything I ever wanted, except for the whole not-actually-getting-married part. So no, I don’t think it is going to be hard to make wedding cakes. I think it is going to serve as a constant reminder to me to be hopeful.” This sounds really good, and I’m shocked to hear it come out of my mouth. Maybe someday it won’t be a pile of bullshit.
“That is a very cool way to think about it. I’m really glad you are going to make my cake.” She grins at me.
“Well, then we need to talk about details, because I hope that I actually get to make your cake after you hear your options . . .” I fill her in on the limitations of Langer’s wedding-cake offerings and keep apologizing for not being able to give her more choices. She shakes her head at me.
“Sophie, that is exactly why I’m here. My Brian? He is a steak-and-potatoes, simple-is-better, total-nonfoodie kind of guy. I’m here because I took him to a cake tasting at a fancy place, and when we left he looked like I’d shot his dog. Every year I get his birthday cake at the grocery store, because that is what he really likes. A girlfriend of mine posted a Throwback Thursday pic on Facebook of her parents’ wedding, and I took one look at the cake and thought, That is the one! I called her and she said they got it here, and so here I am.”
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