by Liza Palmer
“Go! Go!” the P.A. screams. My car lurches forward.
“Cut! Cut!” the P.A. yells. Jesus H. Christ. The P.A. listens to the walkie-talkie and walks over to my car.
“Hunter says that you have to drive smoothly. Can you do that?” Mr. P.A. has quite the attitude for someone sporting cargo shorts and a Grateful Dead tattoo on his ankle.
“Yeah, uh-huh, but if you can stop screaming in my ear, that’d be great.” I put my car in park and wait for Jerry Garcia to give me the go-ahead again. He listens to the walkie-talkie. Then he points at me. I see Jerry Garcia dabbles in the passive-aggressive. I put the car in drive and glide smoothly into the parking lot. Stop at the tape. Stick my head out the window.
“When you come to Los Angeles, a night at the Hollywood Bowl is a must. Today we’re going to put together a meal of some of the best local offerings that’ll fit nicely into a box lunch. Just like when we were kids, only better. My first stop is always right here—the CheeseStore in Silver Lake.” I’m supposed to pull away and park in the specified parking space. I do. I hear Hunter yell cut. I do this same thing ten more times.
After we get past the first shot, Paul pulls me aside while Hunter sets up our first shot inside the CheeseStore.
“Our kitchen fell through. A water main burst or something. Anyway, I think we’re going to have to rely on this field piece . . .” Paul trails off dejectedly.
Even I know that’s not a good idea. “What kind of kitchen are we talking about?” I ask.
“It would have to be double the size of a normal kitchen. That’s why this—or that’s why the kitchen we lined up was so perfect. It was in the middle of a renovation, so we could pull the cameras back as far away as we needed to. Ummm, just let me . . .” Paul begins dialing.
I break in. “I know someone who has a kitchen that big.” Paul passes me his phone.
She picks up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Mom?” Paul’s cell phone is sticking to the five layers of foundation on my face.
“Good morning, darling! You’re up early,” Mom says.
“Hi, Mom. I . . . I need a favor,” I say.
“Of course. Wait, are you okay?” It’s not hard to see where my whole “come down to the station to identify the body” thing came from.
“Oh, I’m fine, Mom. Everything’s fine . . .” I trail off. How do I begin?
“Five minutes!” Jerry Garcia yells, coming around the corner of the building. Okay, quickly. I’ll begin quickly.
I put my hand over the receiver. “When are we going to need this kitchen, Paul?” I whisper.
“Tomorrow morning. Six A.M. We need enough time to shoot the entire pilot episode. All three recipes.”
“Mom? Okay, umm—I have a really great opportunity and . . .” I can’t get this out.
“Darling?” Mom prods.
“It’s still pretty tentative, but I was offered my own television show. You know, like on the Food Network?” I say.
“That’s fabulous!” Mom sounds excited. I don’t know what I thought she’d sound like, but . . .
“We have to shoot the pilot episode so when we go to New York, we have something to show the network—like me in action kind of thing. If they like it, we get picked up for the whole season,” I explain.
“Two minutes!” Jerry is staring right at me. Paul shushes him.
I continue, “We had arranged for another kitchen to film the whole cooking part of the show, but a water main broke, and now we’re kind of stuck. And I was wondering . . .” I look at Paul.
“Absolutely! Oh, I’m so proud of you, Elisabeth. This is so exciting! Iris! Iris!” Mom is calling to Iris with her hand over the receiver.
“It’s just for the pilot, so it would only be this once,” I say.
“Darling, it would be such fun. When do you need it?”
“Tomorrow morning at six A.M. And we’re talking around twenty people with a lot of equipment.”
“Darling, I know. We had that horrible man from 60 Minutes here that one weekend. You’d have thought Ben was being interviewed by the pope himself.” I remember that weekend. She’s right.
“Speaking of Dad,” I say.
“He’s in Montecito this weekend, working on the novel. It’ll be just you and me, darling,” Mom assures me.
“This might turn into nothing, so I’d rather he not hear about it quite yet,” I say tentatively.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Mom says.
“I know . . . I just . . . It’s the Hollywood thing. The pilot may not get picked up. It’s . . .” I trail off.
“Well, I think you should be the one to tell him, so I’ll respect your wishes,” Mom allows.
“Thank you,” I say. Mom and I sign off. Paul breathes easy.
“Ms. Page? Ms. Page? Hunter really needs you now!” Jerry Garcia is beside himself. I finish getting brushed and sponged by the makeup girl and walk into the CheeseStore behind another P.A. and stand right on the taped X, just like Hunter and I went over.
The day flies by in a haze of taped X’s and cue cards filled with information. I stop using the cue cards about halfway through. All the information is in my head already, and reading from the cards is throwing me off. Hunter doesn’t trust me at first, but after I ask for one take where I’m off the cue card, he allows me to go free for the rest of the shoot. I do a short interview with the sommelier about the different types of wine you’d bring to a party, versus wines you’d take to an outing at the Hollywood Bowl. We choose a goat cheese called Midnight Moon and pair it with a baguette. I go over all the cheese options: goat, sheep, cow, and blue. I talk a little bit about how I adore blue, but emphasize that it’s definitely a choice—a strong choice and maybe not the best one for an outing with friends whose tastes you’re not sure of. We touch on the cupcakes the CheeseStore has on display. I introduce the red velvet cupcake specifically. This will be the lead-in for the beginning of the cooking portion of the show.
“Cut!” Hunter says from behind a screen where he can see what the show will look like. I freeze on my taped X.
“That was great. Just great. We’ll resume tomorrow at . . .” Hunter looks to Paul.
“We’ll be in Pasadena, filming in Ballard Foster’s kitchen,” Paul says.
“Tomorrow, everyone. I’ll e-mail directions. Call time is six A.M.,” Hunter announces. The crew begins to break down the equipment. They vacate the CheeseStore in under five minutes. It’s as if we were never here.
Chapter Thirty
Darling!” Mom greets me at the front door with a kiss on my cheek. She swipes off her lipstick just as the makeup girl dives in for any opportunity to put more foundation on my face. I hug Mom tightly and walk in. The rest of the crew is pulling up and readying for another day of shooting.
Mom and Dad’s house is south of Caltech and the Huntington Library in a pocket of Pasadena that melts right into San Marino. The houses are beautiful and massive. Unlike in Montecito, they’re visible from the street and pruned to perfection, waiting to be ogled by all who drive by.
This house has been in the Foster family forever. When we were growing up, there were whole wings of this house off limits to Rascal and me. Actually, to anyone except patrons and foundation chairs. The paintings and tapestries on the walls would be at home in any museum. The traditional furniture was designed to be adored from afar, not used. The Montecito house is more of a testament to Mom’s real style, which explains the ever evolving nature. It’s as if she has never felt comfortable putting her stamp on this house because it belonged to the Foster family, not just to her. Mom’s search for her own personal style has been a lifelong battle. But, it’s not as if she doesn’t try. A team of designers would attest to her vigilance.
“Thank you so much for doing this, Mom. It was really a lifesaver,” I say, noticing that Mom has set out coffee, tea, and pastries for the crew. I look at her, and my whole body puffs up. I don’t think I’ve given enough credence to the characte
ristics I’ve inherited from Mom; she’s always overshadowed by Dad’s influences. But over the last couple of days, I’ve thought about how remarkable it is that I’m so easy and confident in front of the camera. I have to believe that this poise is something I picked up from Mom.
“Oh, it’s my pleasure. I also wanted to mention what a delight it was to meet that young man at breakfast on Saturday,” Mom fishes.
“Yes, Daniel,” I answer as briefly as possible.
“Daniel. He certainly was well mannered,” Mom fishes again.
“Yes, he’s very well mannered,” I agree.
Mom settles into her stance as people stream into the house. She is unmoving. “Elisabeth?” she presses. “Is it serious, darling?” I’ve never had to define something like this for Mom. I’m honestly not sure how she’s going to react. I don’t know if she’s loyal to Will or if Daniel’s less-than-noble bloodline will bother her.
“He’s . . . he’s lovely, Mom, and yes, it’s serious,” I offer, not really knowing what “serious” is. Mom tilts her head slightly and lets the smallest of smiles break across her face. I take this as an unspoken declaration that I may continue to see Daniel. I breathe a sigh of relief as Mom quickly changes course to more pressing matters.
“Now, while I have you here, I know you’re feeling like you don’t want to stay in the Crow’s Nest anymore, so I’ve set you up in one of the guest rooms. Thought you might want to try that.”
“Mom, Rascal and I have to fly to New York for . . . Well, I have to go for the show, and Rascal has to meet with his agent and his editor,” I say.
“Sounds wonderful, darling,” Mom says absently.
“We can’t stay the night on Sunday. I’ll just drive up for the day. We have to be back at Rascal’s by six o’clock the next morning to leave for the airport,” I say.
“What?” Mom’s eyes lock on mine.
“Mrs. Page?” Paul walks through the large wooden door.
Mom glares at me and turns to greet her guests. “Ballard Foster,” she corrects, extending her hand to him. They shake hands as Paul looks around the house. I worry for a second that Paul is going to kiss her hand.
“It is such a pleasure. Your home is breathtaking, Mrs. Foster,” Paul says.
“You can call me Ballard,” she clarifies.
“Ballard, then. May we?” Paul points to the rest of the crew, waiting outside. They’re ready to come in and officially take over. Mom nods delicately. Paul beams and waves the crew in. Just then Samuel and Margot pull up in their Prius. Margot walks over as Samuel opens the hatch of the car.
“I’m just dropping him off. Don’t worry,” Margot says, leaning in to me for a big side hug. She must be due any day now. She passes me a thermos filled with yogi tea. “For your first day.”
“Oh, thanks. But I’m not Samuel’s boss anymore, so . . .” I say awkwardly.
“What?” Margot brushes an eyelash from my face.
“You don’t have to do this anymore. I’m not his boss here,” I say.
“I don’t do this because you’re his boss,” Margot says.
“Then why do you do stuff for me and not for Julie?” I ask.
“Because she’s a bitch,” Margot says, not missing a beat. Oh. Samuel comes up behind her with his knife set and gives me a quick wave. It’s the cutest little excited, first-day-of-school kind of wave. I hold my thermos of yogi tea that my friend gave me because I am apparently not a bitch, and we all walk inside the house. They don’t quite know what to do with it.
“You grew up here . . .” Samuel trails off. They take it all in.
“How is everything?” I ask Samuel. “Everything” meaning the impending baby. Samuel and Margot have purchased a birthing pool and installed it in their new Silver Lake house. In a matter of weeks, Margot will climb into the pool and give birth to their first child with Joanne, her doula, proud mother of Bode, the whimpering, perpetually breast-fed baby from the shower.
“Everything is taking his sweet little time,” Margot says, putting a hand on her belly. Samuel could not be smiling more.
“Mom? I’d like you to meet someone.” I pull Samuel and Margot over to where Mom is overseeing the lighting and camera placement for the day’s activities.
Mom turns effortlessly. “Yes, darling?”
“This is Samuel and Margot Decoudreau. He—”
Mom breaks in. “Of course, of course! Samuel, Elisabeth has done nothing but sing your praises. And Margot, it’s a pleasure. I have to guess—are you a little over eight months?”
“Yes, almost exactly,” Margot says, extending her hand to Mom. Someone calls Mom from the kitchen, and she politely excuses herself. Paul walks over and looks from Samuel and Margot to me and back to Samuel and Margot.
“Paul Lingeman, this is Samuel Decoudreau from Beverly. He’ll be my culinary assistant.” The men shake hands. I continue, “And this is his wife, Margot, and . . . Well, we have yet to meet the new arrival.” Paul and Margot shake hands.
Margot laughs. “Soon. Very soon.” “I’d better get to the boutique. Good luck.” She gives Samuel a peck on the cheek and slowly waddles out of the foyer.
“Samuel, I’d like you to meet our culinary producer. You’ll be working closely with her. Bring your knives and come with me.” Paul leads Samuel back into the kitchen. They are deep in conversation as they walk.
We blow through the day, cooking the three recipes I pitched to Paul and Donna at Campanile. I start with the red velvet cupcakes from the CheeseStore in Silver Lake, letting those bake off while I prepare a decadent Monte Cristo sandwich. It’s a recipe I “borrowed” from the CrepeVine restaurant in Pasadena. I pair that with a salad of field greens, heirloom tomatoes, and light crumbles of the Midnight Moon goat cheese for contrast. I frost and package the cupcakes and put everything together in a picnic basket Mom whisked out of her entertaining closet. I add a six-pack of Stella Artois: an homage to Daniel. We make time for the three commercial breaks, and at a little past four in the afternoon, our pilot episode is ahead of schedule and officially “in the can,” i.e., finished.
“I want to thank Ballard for welcoming all of us into her home. Wish us well on our upcoming pitch. Cheers!” Paul holds his glass of champagne high. It seems this is the crew who’ll work on the show—if it gets picked up. I look around at all the faces and breathe deeply. We’ve done all we can, and I feel confident. I feel good. I lock eyes with Samuel. He’s never looked more at ease. Mom has her champagne glass held high, and she’s beaming right at me. I smile back and get lost in the perfection of the moment.
Chapter Thirty-one
We’re doing a Gâteau Saint Honoré tonight,” I announce as Julie and Samuel walk over to me. I’m already knee-deep in tonight’s feature.
“That’s a little ambitious,” Julie says.
“The patron saint of bakers,” Samuel says.
“The what?” Julie asks.
“Saint Honoré is the patron saint of bakers and confectioners,” Samuel explains.
“We’re going to do a lighter, more deconstructed take on it. I have one here for you to take a look at. You can see we’ll still do the basic look, with the layers of puff pastry and the choux cream on top, then surround it with the cream puffs. But I want it to be smaller and not as heavy. So take a look at that, and we’ll get started,” I say, then jump into an in-depth conversation with Samuel about the mechanics of what I want for tonight. And what I want is to knock one out of the park.
Ever since my run-in with Chef Canet, I’ve made it a point to feature some of the most decadent desserts I’ve ever attempted. I won’t be put through that again. It helps that Daniel is out of town, leaving me to my own devices and the routine that got me to this level in the first place. One less torch.
“I thought we might be able to do another batch of that belle-hélène with the leftover pears. We could add some kind of ice cream to it. I mean . . . because I would want to expand on your idea a little bit—maybe a caramel
something?” Julie says.
“Great suggestion, but we’re going with this,” I say, and fall back into my conversation with Samuel.
“But the gâteau doesn’t even have a fruit component to it,” Julie says, still not doing what I asked her to do.
“Once again, great suggestion, but we’re going with this,” I say. This time Samuel and I don’t fall back into conversation.
“I think we should go with my idea,” Julie says.
“How far are we taking this?” I ask, stepping forward.
“I just think that if you and Samuel are on your way out, you should allow me to assert my creative vision,” Julie explains.
“I understand that you’re anxious to ‘assert your creative vision,’ ” I say. “But right now you’re just being disrespectful.” Samuel excuses himself to gather the ingredients for the other menu standbys.
“I think you’re being disrespectful by not allowing the new guard to express herself,” Julie says, taking a step back. I take another step forward. Our faces are inches apart.
“I am still your boss, and if you refuse to follow my orders, I will take it as a sign that you no longer want to work here. Are we clear?” I say, unblinking. Julie thought she’d circled long enough. The fact that her first charge at the castle was on the back of a dessert I already created is a bad sign. If she wants this head pastry job, she’ll have to come up with her own ideas. She obviously thought tonight was the perfect time for the kill. She miscalculated. I refuse to go out until I see fit. I will not leave a job I earned through toiling in the trenches for ten years. So help me God, I’ll leave when I say.