Seeing Me Naked

by Liza Palmer

  I let her know that Chef Canet isn’t here tonight. The look of relief that passes over her overly made-up face is wrenching. The cracks in her life are showing. Today was a little too close for comfort. If Chef Canet had been here, Julie would have been fired. For real. No amount of time in the walk-in, letting Chef Canet cool down, would have erased the infraction of being late and not prepared for the night ahead. Especially for someone as low on the totem pole as Julie. She’s expendable, and she knows it.

  “Monday is Halloween! Just come out—it would be so fun,” Julie says to me later that night, firing up another crème brûlée and on her best behavior.

  “Rascal and I like to go to the House of Pies. It’s our thing. Even if that weren’t happening, I’d still have to pass out candy.” After my morning run, I stopped at the grocery store and bought a bag of fun size candies as well as a miniature pumpkin. When I got home, I carved a smiling face into the pumpkin and proudly set it outside my door to show my holiday spirit and to say that I am open for the business of passing out candy.

  “Your building is in such a commercial part of town. There are no kids there. Who are you going to pass candy out to, prostitutes?” This stings, but unfortunately, it’s pretty accurate. I live in a corridor of the city affectionately christened “Ho Heaven” by the locals.

  “Hos need candy, too.” I check over the individual clafouti as they come out of the oven. I slide a few over to Samuel to get ready to go out into the restaurant.

  “We’re going to dinner at Lucques at eight and then to a great party up Doheny. I think you should at least come to the party.” Julie is being quite civil—I appreciate the invitation without the accompanying “Woot! Woot!” and the bizarre lassoing dance moves that usually go along with it.

  “I’ll probably just go to dinner with Rascal, so—” I think aloud.

  “He can come!” Julie nearly squeals. Obviously, things with Laurent have fizzled, as do all kitchen flings. No fuss, no muss.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so,” I say, firing up the torch for the crème brûlée. Rascal was just named one of People’s fifty most beautiful people. The photograph of him was all black and white and shadowy. He was in a wrinkled oxford and worn-in jeans with his head in his hands, cigarette smoke slinking upward. Very tortured. Just the kind of man every woman in America loves: a fixer-upper. They trotted out our whole family for that article—Dad and Mom’s history, the fact that I worked right here in L.A. at Beverly. It was a perfect segue into Chef Canet’s picture, which, coincidentally, came next.

  “Are you going to dress up? It’s the least you can do,” Julie says. Yes, I’m going to dress up, walk around my apartment, and greet the working girls of Los Angeles with fun-size Snickers bars.

  “No. The least I could do is pass out candy from the comfort of my very own home,” I say.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Julie sounds exasperated.

  “It’s just a party,” I rationalize.

  “On Halloween,” Julie says.

  “Well, what are you going as?”

  “A Girl Scout. The costume you . . . Well, I was wearing it earlier,” Julie glosses over.

  “That was actually rather tame for you,” I say. Apparently, she’s following the Halloween mantra—on Halloween everything is slutty. Last year Julie’s costume was a slutty nun. I heard she used the ruler for more lascivious purposes than rapping at a young troublemaker’s knuckles.

  The restaurant is packed tonight. The cherry clafouti is selling like mad, and Chef Canet is officially not coming into the restaurant, as per Michel’s teary-eyed announcement. He’ll have to kiss his own ass tonight.

  Louis, the maître d’, rounds our little corner. “Chef Page! You have fans!” Louis is smiling from ear to ear. I don’t have time for this.

  “Oui?” I pick up a clafouti and present it to Samuel for a final inspection. He nods and sets it on the counter for Michel’s final approval. Michel quickly summons the captain to take it out, not touching one thing on the plate. I question why he even checks them anymore.

  “They wish to meet you. They have tried this dessert you make and want to give thanks,” Louis says.

  “No time, mon cher,” I say quietly to Louis.

  “Make time, my love,” Louis replies, and turns around, holding the swinging door of the kitchen open for me. I take a deep breath.

  “I’ve got it,” Samuel says, deep into the clafouti phenomenon. Julie turns to me and gives me a big thumbs-up. She actually seems quite genuine. I wipe my chef’s jacket quickly with a wet rag and straighten my hair. Julie gives me a nod of approval after picking off a few stray crumbs. Samuel doesn’t look up. I follow Louis out into the dining room.

  Louis leads me over to the best table in the house. There are two people sitting at the small table, nursing espressos and sharing the clafouti.

  “This is Chef Page!” Louis announces, pulling out the empty chair for me to sit. I am appalled. Sit? I silently appeal to Louis to get me out of this, but he has Chef Canet’s ear, and to offend Louis is to offend Chef Canet. He motions once more for me to sit. I oblige. I overhear the couple at the next table asking the captain if we are still serving the pumpkin flan. The captain says no and suggests the clafouti as an alternative. Louis walks quickly back into the kitchen to let Julie and Samuel know I’ll be longer than expected. I can hear their heart rates climbing from here.

  “Donna Martinez.” The woman directly across from me extends her hand across the table.

  “Nice to meet you. Elisabeth,” I say.

  “You’re Ben Page’s daughter, right?” The man to her left extends his hand across the table. He’s much younger than I thought at first. He continues, “Paul Lingeman. Nice to meet you.” He’s wearing a well-tailored Italian suit jacket over a vintage T-shirt and pressed jeans.

  “Yes . . . yes, I am,” I stutter, caught off guard for a brief moment. I channel my mother, collect myself, and smile easily.

  “A little bird told us,” Donna Martinez oozes.

  “Well, that and the nine-page retrospective he got in Time this month, marking the thirty-five-year anniversary of The Coward. There was also that thing on A&E—they finally did his biography—really the whole anti-war movement of the early seventies. God, they should totally release the soundtrack for that thing—Dylan, the Band, Joni Mitchell, Creedence, all of them . . .” Paul trails off. I nod and thank him. The table falls into an awkward silence. “I’m a big fan.” He holds up his hands in a gesture of apology. I nod and smile.

  “So, how do you like Beverly?” I ask, trying to hurry, politely hurry, this little lovefest along so I can get back into the kitchen.

  “We love it. Christian invited us. We ran into him at a party over on the lot just last month,” Donna says. The word “lot” has a completely different meaning in Los Angeles than it does anywhere else in the world. “Lot” in Los Angeles means movie-studio back lot. Well, that and a great choice for a baby name.

  “I’m always happy to hear from a satisfied customer,” I say. There is another awkward silence as I begin to make my getaway.

  “Elisabeth, we asked Louis to bring you out here so we can officially out ourselves as stalkers,” Donna says. Paul laughs a little too loud and way too long. I get ready. One of them is sure to hand me some combination of books any minute. The game now is to make a secret bet with myself as to which combination it will be. Is Paul a Rick Danko man, or is he going to go old school and pull out a tattered copy of The Coward? I’m going to go with Jack Tinker—one of the lesser-known works by Dad that the really cool guys declare his finest work.

  “I can have them sign whatever you guys want. Do you have the book—books with you?” I ask. They both erupt in laughter. I look at them with utter confusion.

  “Elisabeth, we’re here to see you. To meet you,” Donna says.

  “Oh . . . Well, what can I help you with, then?” My voice oozes charm, and I plaster on a smile. If they’re here to see me, why don’t the
y tell me what they want so I can get back to the kitchen?

  “We produce shows for the Food Network,” Paul says proudly.

  “Oh?” I say. Louis is seating a table of four. He slowly and elaborately pulls out a chair for each and every guest as he eavesdrops on our conversation.

  “You’re perfect for television,” Donna announces.

  “Thank you,” I say, responding to a line that is so common in Los Angeles it is regarded as sort of an “aloha” or “shalom” statement: versatile as a greeting or farewell.

  “We’re starting to pitch some new shows to the network. We’d like to sit down with you and see if you’d be interested in hosting your own show,” Donna says. Who are these people? How do they know who I am?

  “I’m sorry, this is out of left field. You’ve got to back up a little bit for me,” I say. The captain serves the couple next to me their very own individual ramekin of steaming batter, sugar, and cherries. He slices the top open, and I can smell its perfection from here. He slowly pours the cream over the top. The couple is breathless. I want to run back into the kitchen and hug Samuel until he can’t stand it. Which, let’s face it, would be pretty much right away.

  “Right. I apologize,” Paul says. He and Donna have a moment. Somewhere in that telepathic instant, the pitch is delegated to Paul. He continues, “We run a production company here in Los Angeles that has a nice deal with the Food Network. We pitch them an idea for a show, and they tell us whether or not they’re interested. If they are, we’ll film a pilot and take it to New York—at which time they’ll get a chance to meet you and fall in love with you, as we have—and decide whether or not the show gets picked up for the season or shelved.”

  “We rarely get shelved,” Donna puts in.

  I don’t know what to say. My first impulse is to immediately say no and excuse myself. Pages don’t do television. Everything that comes out of Hollywood is trite and meaningless. This is below me. It’s a disservice to all the years I’ve spent in a kitchen. But I think about where I go after the kitchen: home. Alone. The same routine for ten years. Kitchen. Home. Kitchen. Home. Sex with Will every year or so. Kitchen. Home. I decide to listen—something I wouldn’t have considered doing two weeks ago.

  “I’m listening,” I say, peeling back the first layer.

  “After we met Christian, we asked around town. We made several stealthy visits to Beverly and . . . I’m not going to lie, it obviously doesn’t hurt that your family is quite well known,” Donna says.

  “But this is about you,” Paul corrects. Uh-huh.

  “Look at you. You’re adorable,” Donna compliments.

  “You’re the head pastry chef in the hippest restaurant in Los Angeles, you couldn’t have a better last name, and you look like you should do commercials for Ivory soap or something. You’re quite the hat trick, Elisabeth,” Paul says.

  “Let’s just meet for lunch or a drink as soon as your schedule permits,” Donna presses. Paul reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a silver card case. He passes his card across the table. I take it.

  I can’t form one clear thought. I’m confused. I’m excited. I’m afraid and overwhelmed. Quite frankly, I’m still debating whether this is below me. And now I feel like an asshole for even thinking it. When I tell Dad about this opportunity, will he hang his head in shame? I know it’s not anywhere on the trajectory he envisions for me. But it is a step—a move on the chess board. He’d have to appreciate that, at least. I’ll meet Paul and Donna for a meal. There’s no harm in that. Do the research and then make a decision. Dad doesn’t have to know about any of this until it’s something more serious. With the way Hollywood works, it’ll never come to anything. Just a series of meetings that, in the end, will lead nowhere.

  I cautiously jump in. “Do you know the Biltmore Hotel? Downtown?” It’s a favorite haunt of mine.

  “This is exactly why we love you—you are cooler than any of us,” Donna says.

  I’m surprised I don’t get up from the table right then and there and bolt. But I say, “How’s next Monday morning? They have a beautiful tea service in the morning. Why don’t we meet there around nine-thirty?” We busily enter this new appointment into our various BlackBerries, Palm Pilots, and organizers. We finalize the details, and I stand and shake hands with them. I breathe in deeply and refocus. Back to the kitchen.

  “What was that about?” Julie asks.

  “Someone just wanted my dad to autograph a book,” I say. Louis stands holding open the swinging door to the kitchen. He inclines his head slightly, looking intently at me. Is he playing Jedi mind tricks on me right now? French Jedi mind tricks? He lets the door swing shut as he goes back out into the dining room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I spend that Sunday running the errands I’d usually save for Monday, due to my baking lesson with Daniel Sullivan. But this time it’s as if I have ten-pound weights around my ankles. I’m becoming exhausted by the monotonous tiny loads of laundry, the Swiffer that picks up only eight to ten loose dust bunnies per week, the insignificant bags of garbage, and acting like it doesn’t bother me that Will’s policy is “out of sight, out of mind” but somehow, he argues, not out of love. My only excitement comes from trying the new yerba maté tea Margot suggested by way of Samuel the other night. It came with a note that she pinned to a long red scarf from her boutique. The note told me about the health benefits of not only the tea but the color red. I thanked Samuel for the beautiful gift. I wonder why Margot has taken such an active interest in my well-being. I’m positive she’ll soon invite me over to read my chart and pull together a nice bag of crystals I should wear around my neck in a leather pouch to ward off evil spirits.

  I sit on the couch and roll through Tivoed show after Tivoed show, stopping only to sear a beautiful sushi-grade ahi on the grill in the communal courtyard. I sauté some French green beans and shallots and serve them on the side. I pour myself a glass of Pellegrino and sit, TV tray in front of me, to watch yet another prerecorded television show.

  My last thoughts before I doze off are anxious ones. I think about the day I’ll have to waste trying to teach—at the very least, communicate with—Daniel Sullivan. I should read tomorrow’s sports page to have some kind of conversation ready. Mom has taught me to ask questions, and when I don’t have something to say, get the person talking about him- or herself. I’ll pull out all of Mom’s tricks tomorrow so this Daniel Sullivan and I won’t fall into an awkward silence every other minute.

  The next morning I drive over to the restaurant with my yerba maté in a thermos. I’ve done a lot of these tutorials over the years. They’re offered as prizes at many of Mom’s charity auctions. Ordinarily, the students are well-heeled matrons who want a backstage pass to the hottest restaurant and any juicy gossip that might slip out during a round of sifting, not men like Daniel Sullivan.

  I typically open the lesson with a quick tour of the restaurant and then move into the baking portion by going over the various utensils found in a restaurant kitchen. At this point my society-matron “student” will impatiently pat me on the hand and launch into a description of the over-the-top dinner parties she’s orchestrated. Then she’ll proceed to “teach” me a thing or two. Or so I lead her to believe.

  I arrive a half hour early and find parking on the street in front of the restaurant. I use my key to let myself in. I drop my purse on one of the tables, taking my BlackBerry into the kitchen in case of a blessed last-minute cancellation. As I push open the door to the kitchen, the stillness quiets me. I haven’t been alone here in months. I take it in. A rare moment. I hang up my sweater in the back room, pull on my chef’s jacket, and come out into the kitchen just as I hear him.

  “Hello? Hello?” He’s early. I quickly grab an extra apron from the linen closet.

  “In here!” I tuck my hair behind my ear and wait. I’ve been nailed by that swinging door before. Best to have one person trying to get through it at a time. He doesn’t peek around the corner. He’s
not hesitant. The door pushes inward boldly.

  “Elisabeth Page? World-renowned pastry chef?” His short-cropped brown hair makes him look like a child colored him for a drawing in kindergarten. The purest Crayola brown—no highlights of blond, no auburn strands—completely untouched by the sunlight of Los Angeles, which seems to want all who dwell in its kingdom to be just a bit more blond.

  I’m hit in that moment by the slightest of tingles. The tiniest of twinges.

  “Yes, thanks for that. And you are?” Jesus, I’m channeling the Realtor from hell.

  “Daniel Sullivan.” He extends his hand.

  “So the joke is officially on me, I suppose,” I say, taking his hand and shaking it.

  “You know, we don’t have to do this,” he offers.

  “Oh . . . well . . . I’m all set up here, so you might as well stay, learn a little something,” I say, passing him the apron. He smiles and puts it over his head. He reaches back and tries to tie it behind him. He’s fumbling a bit.

  “Here, turn around,” I say. Daniel blushes slightly and slowly turns around, holding the apron strings out enough so I can take hold of them. I quickly check his left hand. No wedding ring. Now that he can’t see me, I can look him up and down with impunity, doing my best to investigate the mysterious tingles.

  He’s not as tall as I remembered. He’s wearing Levi’s 501 jeans and has a worn impression in his back pocket where his wallet has gotten quite comfortable. This leads to another discovery—the boy has got a nice ass. I’m not talking just kind of cutting someone a break because he can moderately fill out a pair of pants. No. Daniel Sullivan has back. I wonder, maybe, if I partook of a little fling, I wouldn’t miss Will so much. If I wouldn’t hurt so much. I’ve tried these flings before, to no avail. But something in me wants to stop hurting, to stop the seemingly never-ending nights alone.