Seeing Me Naked

by Liza Palmer

  I pull the apron strings tight. As I’m threading them in and out of my fingers, I take in as much of him as I can. I notice that his gray T-shirt is just the right blend of lovingly worn and blessedly thin. Thin enough so I can make out the musculature of his back. I’ve never been one to use sterile medical terms in describing a person, but his back is straight out of an anatomy book. Every muscle defined. Each shoulder blade pronounced. His Crayola-brown hair cut straight along the base of his neck. I finish tying the apron and am mortified to see that I have run my hand across his shoulder. He turns his head slowly and looks down at me.

  “You already have flour on you,” I sputter. There is nary a speck of flour anywhere in our vicinity. Back to work. Back to work. I continue, “Okay. Let’s get started. Have you been to Beverly before? Are you from around here?” I quickly button up my chef’s jacket and push open the swinging door, leading the way back into the dining room.

  “I just moved here over the summer. I’m originally from Lawrence, Kansas. You know, where the KU campus is. The Jayhawks?” Daniel hesitates at the entrance to the dining room. He stands right next to the swinging door as if he’s waiting for me to tell him where to look.

  “The heartland,” I offer.

  “Something like that,” he says.

  “Well, okay . . . this is Beverly,” I say, extending my arms.

  “Why the name? Is the owner’s name Beverly or something?” Daniel asks.

  “It’s the street. We’re on Beverly Boulevard,” I say. Daniel’s face instantly turns bright red. Did I sound like a bitch? I speak quickly. “It’s the cool thing, I guess. In the beginning, Chef Canet originally didn’t even want a name—just a color. The doors would be painted red, and that would be it—people would know to come here, but everyone else—the huddled masses, if you will—would be unable to find it. He was trying to be like Wolfgang Puck when he was the chef at Ma Maison, when Puck decided that the restaurant should have an unlisted number . . .” I trail off. These bits of trivia are interesting only to me. I’ve learned this lesson before. Several thousand conversations dwindling down to uncomfortable silences as I drone on about facts only I find remarkable.

  “It’s beautiful. It really is. I mean, you’d expect a place like this to be overdone, but it’s just really easy . . . you know, to be here,” Daniel says. He’s walked over to the fireplace and is staring at the lone piece of art in the dining room. It’s a simple watercolor portrait of varying autumn colors.

  “Chef Canet wanted the food to be the art. So everything else takes a backseat.”

  “Do you have to call him Chef? Even though you’re a chef, too?” Daniel asks.

  “Oh, absolutely. It’s a sign of respect,” I say. The rules of a French kitchen are deeply entrenched in hundreds of years of tradition, second only to turning out the best and freshest food in the world.

  “It makes sense. It’s like people calling me Coach. I suppose they could call me Daniel or Mr. Sullivan. But you’re right, it’s a sign of respect,” he says. Equating a coach with a chef? Are you serious? Um, honey, you’re cute and all, but it’s not really the same thing. Wait. Remember, Elisabeth—we’re trying not to be a pompous asshole. Right. The silence is expanding in the space between Coach Sullivan and me. Apparently, when I’m not being a pompous asshole or a know-it-all, I have very little to say. Good to know.

  “How long have you worked here?” Daniel asks, turning away from the fireplace and toward me.

  “Just over three years,” I answer. I realize that if I weren’t here at this baking lesson, I’d be sitting at Joan’s on Third right now, deep into the L.A. Times or attempting the New York Times crossword puzzle. Being here with Daniel means I can spend one less day alone, waiting for my comet to streak across the sky. Maybe my question about whether or not a fling is a good idea has been answered. Since a relationship with Will is out of the question, I have to admit to myself that this is as good as it’s going to get. I won’t get to have Will all the time, so I’ll entertain myself until he returns.

  “We should start with the lesson,” I say. I swing open the door to the kitchen and lead Daniel to my station. I grab a plate of cheeses, fruit, and bread out of the walk-in for us to snack on while we work. I set it in front of him. He makes a face. Immediately. It’s as if something . . . oh, shit.

  “It’s the cheese. The cheese is really pungent. I swear it’s not . . . I mean, yes, it’s stinky, but you just should try it—it’s an aged Brescianella—it’s . . . it’s Italian . . .” Daniel pulls his T-shirt up over his nose and waits for me to finish blathering on about the damn cheese. I tear off a portion of the baguette and cut the cheese, utilizing every cell of restraint in my body not to look at the portion of skin that’s been exposed right above his thick leather belt. I sneak a quick peek. Okay . . . wow. I really shouldn’t have done that.

  “You just cut the cheese,” Daniel says through his T-shirt. I laugh. I laugh all the way from my gut. Nervous and all hopped up. I pass him the baguette and cheese. He lowers his T-shirt and makes another face. After one of those awkward, you’re-the-only-one-laughing moments, I slowly stop laughing. Daniel takes the bread and cheese and puts the whole thing in his mouth. The entire piece of bread.

  “So? What do you think? Not bad?” I say. Daniel is chewing and chewing and chewing. Bits of baguette shoot out of his mouth. He has a pained look on his face. It goes on far too long. He can’t seem to swallow the giant piece of bread. He puts his hand on the counter and keeps chewing. It gives me a chance to take in his face. Where Will is polished and all-American, Daniel is rough and raw. He definitely has a bigger than normal nose. His skin is ruddy, with bits of stubble that refuse to cooperate with the razor. His lower lip is larger than the top. His eyes lead you to believe they should be brown, but now I can see they are the deepest of darkest blues. All of his features are so defined. There’s nothing delicate about him.

  He finally finishes chewing and affects a dramatic swallow. “I’m going to stick with the grapes, if that’s okay,” Daniel chokes out, plucking one from the bunch and popping it in his mouth. He chews and swallows. He continues, “Much easier, don’t you think?”

  “Do you want to get started?” I say. I love that cheese. Am I pretentious and shitty? First I say he’s dead to me because he had the audacity to compare chefs and coaches, then I have a small orgasm because of an exposed bit of skin, and now I’m getting offended that he doesn’t like a certain kind of cheese. I need to make up my mind about this man. Maybe if it were Velveeta, he would’ve liked it.

  Remember—we’re trying not to be a pompous ass. Focus.

  “I’ve got to tell you that I haven’t ever really cooked anything,” Daniel admits.

  I go to the walk-in and pull out the tarts I prepared ahead of time. I grab the container of berries and presliced apples and slam the door with my foot on the way out. Daniel waits by my station. He takes the container of berries and the cookie sheet with the individual tartlets from me and puts them on the counter.

  “So is your girlfriend a good cook, then?” I rinse the berries in the small sink, gently tossing them to make sure they’re clean. I try to sound as offhand and asexual as possible. Offhand and asexual like a fox.

  Daniel’s face colors. “Oh, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, well . . .” What the fuck do I say next? I continue, “How do you eat if you don’t know how to cook?”

  “I’m great at the microwave. And you know, you . . .” Daniel trails off.

  “I . . . What?” I question.

  “At the auction, you said I wouldn’t want the baking lesson. And I don’t like people telling me what I want,” Daniel confesses.

  “So if I were a purveyor of colonoscopies, you’d . . .” I rest my hand on my hip.

  “Hm . . .” Daniel smirks, letting me know he understands where I’m going with that, but he’s holding his tongue. Were I to only have such willpower.

  “So, apple-raspberry tartlets!
” I announce.

  “Yes! Apple-raspberry tartlets,” Daniel repeats, flushing again.

  “I thought these would be perfect for a dinner party or just to make for yourself. They’ll make your house smell wonderful.” I walk over to the oven, and Daniel follows. I say, “We’re going to preheat the oven to three-seventy-five.”

  “Preheat?” he asks.

  I stop. My hand is still resting on the oven dial. I stare up at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding?”

  “What? I know what ‘heat’ means, but ‘preheat’—what is that like? Well, heating before, right? The prefix ‘pre’ means ‘before.’ Why do you heat before?” Daniel crosses his arms over his chest and bites his lip. Either this is the most endearing exchange in the entire world, or Daniel Sullivan is an idiot. He adds, “Should I be taking notes?” Honey, there’s not enough paper in the world.

  “Wow, that whole ‘never cooked anything’ was pretty much the understatement of the century, huh? You know what . . .” I turn off the oven and walk back over to the counter. I grab the containers of fruit and the cookie sheet and put them back in the walk-in. Daniel is silently watching everything. He gets more and more fidgety as I put everything away. I grab the plate of cheese and fruit, dump it in the trash, and quickly wash the plate. I motion for Daniel to turn around, and he does. I untie his apron, take a quick look at his ass, and then pat him on the back to let him know I’m finished.

  “You’ve given up on me?” Daniel tries to make a joke, but I can tell he’s a little hurt. I retreat to the back room, grab my sweater, and fold my chef’s jacket over my arm.

  “No, I think we just need to back up a bit. Before we attempt to make pastry, we have to experience what extraordinary pastry tastes like. You up for a field trip? It’s usually the third class in my series, but I figure we can mix it up. I do this with everyone,” I say, coming out of the back room. I’ve never done this before. Not one time. We close up the restaurant, and I beep my car unlocked.

  Daniel pauses. “Would it be okay if I drove?” He motions at his monstrosity of an SUV.

  “Do we have to take out a small loan for gas?” I say.

  Daniel lets out a forced, slightly sarcastic laugh. “I’m a big guy. I just don’t think I’d be comfortable in your little wagon.”

  “It’s not a fucking Radio Flyer,” I blurt. I want to scoop up the F-bomb I just dropped and squish it back down, deep into my throat. I got so comfortable with him, I momentarily forgot I was still trying to impress him with my femininity. My mother’s voice rattles around in my head: Ladies don’t use such colorful language.

  “No, no, you’re right. It’s not a Radio Flyer,” Daniel says, beeping his SUV unlocked.

  “Pardon my French,” I almost whisper.

  “You navigate,” Daniel says, opening my door for me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the past year or so, I’ve felt a shift in my focus away from haute cuisine and back to my origins of relying on food to bring comfort and envelopment. Chef Canet likes to think we share the same culinary vision. But we don’t anymore. He wants his creations to astound his audience with their virtuosity. And lately, he’s been pulling in the reins on my desserts. I’m sure he’ll hate that I served the individual cherry clafouti on Saturday night.

  I used to buy in to it all. The more complicated a dessert was, the more I relished how certain people didn’t—or couldn’t—get it. I reasoned that only the most sophisticated of palates could handle the taste profiles I was mastering. Now I’ve started wondering what the rationale is for charging people twenty-five dollars for a tiny piece of olive-oil cake that seems only to impress, not nourish. I’m starting to care less and less about all the grandiose efforts and more about serving simple, beautiful food.

  I figured this change in my thinking would lead to yet another variation in my five-year plan. A little cupcake place in San Francisco? A breakfast place with scones, muffins, and brioche in Malibu? Maybe a comfort-food extravaganza in Brooklyn? It was ever changing, but it was always mine. A place I could open on my own. I imagined myself rolling out the dessert cart, offering up delectable treats to kids without even looking at their parents for an okay. Meeting with Paul and Donna to discuss a possible television show initially felt like a betrayal of my dream. But as I think about it more, the idea intrigues me. A new trajectory. One based on a foundation I laid. Or is it? Would they have even offered me the TV show had it not been for my last name? Maybe it’s not such a new trajectory after all.

  “Just go all the way down Santa Monica Boulevard—oh wait, it’s Halloween. Umm, go down to Third.” The West Hollywood parade is one of the biggest Halloween celebrations in the country. Even on the morning of the parade, driving down the main route of Santa Monica Boulevard would take approximately three hours. Daniel steers the black Yukon down La Cienega and makes a left on Third.

  The radio isn’t on, and the silence is unnerving. I mention a couple of movies; he hasn’t seen them. I mention a radio station I like; he hasn’t heard of it. I fight the urge to stab myself in the thigh so we’ll have something both of us can talk about.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Daniel asks, rolling down his window. It’s Halloween and approximately seventy-five degrees outside. I love L.A.

  “Nope. How much time do you have?” I didn’t ask whether Daniel had something else to do today. It’s a holiday but a weekday.

  “I have practice at four-thirty. I like to get there early, so I have until about two-thirty, three. Is that okay?” I’m driving down Third Street with someone who has “practice” later on this afternoon. Where everyone will call him Coach. Out of respect. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. “Pompous asshole” keeps a-knock-knock-knockin’, doesn’t it?

  “Two-thirty-three exactly, huh?” I say, trying to lighten the mood by making the worst jokes I’ve ever attempted. Awesome plan.

  “No, two-thirty or three . . . o’clock,” Daniel corrects, glancing quickly over at me.

  “Practice, huh? Oh, you’re going to make a left on Fairfax.”

  “Basketball. I’m one of the assistant coaches over at UCLA,” Daniel says.

  “Oh, so that’s why you moved out here? They recruited you?” I ask.

  “I used to coach at a high school back home. I used to play, too—but that’s not . . . I mean . . . Well, then I coached a couple of years at the city college and was basically waiting around to get called up to coach at KU. This call came first. I jumped at it. Not to mention the fact that a little sun seemed nice.”

  “Do you enjoy coaching?” My mouth is dry.

  “Yeah, but ever since I started focusing on basketball, that’s all anyone talks to me about.”

  I notice Daniel’s arms are covered with blond hair, which puzzles me, because he has that Crayola-brown hair. Did he just say something? Should I be listening? “It’s kind of like when you tell people you like frogs and then that’s all anyone gives you. You know, Christmas, birthdays, just frogs.” What. Am. I. Talking. About?

  “Are you trying to tell me you like frogs?” Daniel asks.

  “No, although I did go through a frog phase. Well, who didn’t?” Why? Why? Why am I saying these things?

  “Do I just keep going down Third?” Daniel, luckily, changes the subject.

  “Yeah . . . yes, until Fairfax,” I correct myself.

  “Isn’t there a freeway or something?” Daniel asks.

  I nearly choke with laughter. “A freeway?” I continue to speak through my laughter. I am wiping away tears as Daniel stops at another light. “Just a note. In L.A. there are freeway drivers and city-street drivers. That’s how we separate the men from the boys. You definitely want to be a city-street driver here. Just a little piece of advice from me to you.” And yes, I was pointing when I was saying that. I pointed at myself and then, shockingly, when I said “you,” yes, I pointed at Daniel. When did I turn into a gangster during Prohibition?

  “Do your parents live here, t
oo?” Daniel watches the protected left arrow run its course. One lone driver made it through. He doesn’t have any idea who my parents are. Who my parent is, more to the point.

  “My parents live in Montecito, mostly. But they have a house in Pasadena, too. You know, the Rose Parade?” Out-of-towners always know the Rose Parade. It puts Pasadena on the map.

  “Sure, my mom loves the Rose Parade. They’re actually coming out for the holidays, but closer to Thanksgiving. It’s more of a business thing,” Daniel says, kind of trailing off.

  I will myself not to go into an hour-long diatribe about the Rose Parade—its origins, the best places to view the floats, and every other piece of useless trivia.

  “Business thing?” I ask.

  “Yeah, um, my dad is a professional Santa, and he’s coming out for the Hollywood Christmas Parade. It’s a pretty big deal.” Daniel’s jaw is tight. He glances quickly at me and then back at the road. I jump over the fact that Daniel’s father is Santa Claus and right into the safety of trivia—why is the Hollywood Christmas Parade closer to Thanksgiving than Christmas? I’ve always wondered.

  “How do you— I mean, how does one become a professional Santa?” I’m oddly intrigued. But at the same time, who is this person? What utopian prairie did he frolic off of? Daniel finally makes the left turn. Now we’re zooming up Fairfax.

  “Dad sold insurance forever and retired a few years back. I’m the youngest of five kids, so my folks are a little bit older. He’s been doing the whole Santa thing in my mom’s classroom for years—he just looks like Santa, you know. Kind of a no-brainer.” Daniel is using his right hand to illustrate what he’s saying.

  “If they come out to Pasadena, I’ll have to give them the five-star tour. I can definitely hook ’em up.” Hook ’em up? With who—50 Cent? I’m beginning to see the downside of hanging out only with family and people who have known me all my life. My witty banter definitely needs a tune-up. But it doesn’t seem to matter. That frog bit would have brought me years of ridicule if I’d said it around my family. With Daniel, it wasn’t cause for derision—it was just conversation, the beauty of a fling. With my family, there is a majestic trapeze act—flying through the air, the deftness of talent and the sheer brilliance of words. But one screwup and you plummet to the floor, busted and broken for not keeping up. Right now, right here, there is no high-flying majesty. I don’t have to be anyone but myself. It’s unnerving that my true self has revealed herself to be incredibly nerdy with a penchant for frogs, but beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.