Cause Célèbre: A Feel Good, Do Good Romance

by Gayla Twist

  “Aziz,” I say in surprise, stopping the rolling bottle with my hand before it reaches the edge of the bar.

  He switches seats to the one next to mine, not at all concerned about being infected by the social pariah. He’s got dark skin and a shaved head, chiseled cheekbones, and large brown eyes that border on golden. His eyebrows are well-defined and very expressive. I’m not normally into eyebrows, but his are hard to ignore. I know he’s American, but his heritage is possibly North African or somewhere in the East. He’s always wearing a well-tailored suit and could easily be cast as Adoni Maropis’s younger brother in some Lawrence of Arabia–type epic adventure. He is swoon worthy—if women still swooned over handsome men. And for whatever reason, he’s decided we’re friends.

  “Isn't today your birthday?” he asks, once he’s settled on the stool next to me.

  “It's supposed to be,” I say, barely suppressing a sigh.

  The eyes of every woman in the bar are glued to the man sitting next to me. He doesn’t notice or, at least, doesn’t give the appearance of noticing. Even Kiki does a walk-by with raised eyebrows, trying to figure out why such a handsome specimen would give little old me the time of day.

  Aziz furrows his brow. “If it’s your birthday, then why are you sitting here all alone?”

  I can feel my face turning red, and I add this to the long list of reasons I have for killing my boyfriend once he finally decides to show up. “I'm waiting for my date. He's running late.”

  “How late?” Aziz wants to know.

  Humiliation piled upon humiliation. “Two hours,” I admit. “But, you know... he's busy.”

  “Oh...” Aziz does his best to act like my excuse is plausible. “What does he do for a living?”

  Now I want to die. I seriously want to die because I have to admit, “Well... He’s a computer programmer, but he’s kind of... uh... unemployed.” My cheeks are on fire, and if we were anywhere near a pile of sand, I would bury my head in it just so I wouldn’t have to see Aziz struggling to control the expression on his face.

  “Well, that explains it,” Aziz says, and I can tell he’s doing his best to suppress a look of pity or disgust—or maybe both.

  I have to remind myself that not all of us can date ridiculously handsome sommeliers. Some of us have to look a little lower in the barrel. Some of us are forced to search somewhere quite close to the bottom. Actually, I’m being too harsh. Elliot might not be good looking, and he might not have a job, and he is chronically late no matter how much he promises to be on time, but he doesn’t hit me or cheat on me or anything like that, so I’m really just dating in the lowest quadrant of the barrel, not the very bottom.

  Aziz nudges the wrapped bottle toward me. “Open your present.”

  I feel warm all over, and there is a tingling in my toes. It’s so very nice to have someone remember my birthday. Especially if I don’t have to remind him a zillion times. I don’t even know how Aziz has figured out it’s my birthday, but it really makes me feel good that he has. “Aziz! This is for me?” I ask just to make sure.

  “Of course.” He gives me one of the sexiest smiles ever to have been smiled. “It's your birthday.”

  Gingerly, I pull off the bow and begin tearing away at the shiny wrapping paper. I can tell from its texture that it’s not the cheap stuff picked up at a drugstore on the fly. This is the good stuff. Maybe even from one of those Japanese specialty shops. Beneath is a brown-glazed clay bottle. The black and gold label reads Riga Black Balsam. I’m surprised and definitely intrigued. I’ve never seen this kind of liqueur before. “Wow! What is it?” I exclaim.

  “It's from Latvia,” Aziz tells me.

  I’m totally excited, and Aziz knows it. “What's in it?” I ask.

  Catching the bartender’s eye and giving him a nod, Aziz leans over the bar and snags two small glasses. “You tell me,” he says, cracking the seal on the bottle and pouring us both a healthy taste.

  The liquid is dark and thick. I hold it to my nose, close my eyes, and just kind of let the scent fill my nasal passages. People frequently make the mistake of smelling hard alcohol or a glass of wine like they are sniffing a rose. That’s not how it’s done. That only overpowers your sense of smell. Instead, you take it in slowly, savoring the scent. It’s especially important if you’re trying several tastings of wine in a close amount of time. If you take in a big snort on the first glass, your nose will cling to that odor, and you won’t really experience the other samples properly.

  The sharp flavor from the glass floats into my nose making it twitch. It’s immediately obvious the drink is vodka based and I say so. “There are blackberries, maybe cherries... elderflower?” I guess.

  Although I don’t open my eyes, I can feel Aziz smiling and nodding his head. “Taste it,” he encourages in a low, intimate voice that makes me blush. I have long been under the impression that Aziz has no idea how good looking he actually is, or he wouldn’t get all sexy and purring with a girl like me.

  Pushing all thoughts of a flirtation out of my head, I lift the glass to my lips and let a small amount of the balsam roll over my tongue. It’s not a sweet taste, nor even a pleasant taste, if I’m being honest. It’s harsh and bitter but also complex in a way that my taste buds find new and intriguing. “Mmmm... lots of herbs...,” I conclude, “an oaky undertone. Probably prepared in an oak barrel...?”

  I peek out of the corner of my eye at Aziz, and he is leaning in toward me, totally focused on my experience. His face is beaming. “You have an incredible palette,” he exclaims. “It's amazing. We really should talk more about food pairings. In fact, I don't see why Escoffier doesn't just put you in charge of the whole restaurant.”

  That’s what I love about Aziz; he’s never stingy with the compliments. He’s kind of like a gay man that way. I guess because he’s so good looking, he doesn’t have to worry about women like me thinking we have an actual chance with him.

  I figure it won’t hurt to tell Aziz about my temporary promotion. Two hours of sitting by myself at the bar has given me plenty of time to think it over and, in the big picture, being the temporary chef de cuisine will probably be good for me. “Well, as a matter of fact...” I begin.

  That’s when I see him out of the corner of my eye—my boyfriend, Elliot, and he’s looking pissed.

  Chapter 4

  I know he’s my honey and all, but Elliot is pretty much the polar opposite of Aziz. Yes, he’s also swarthy in that eastern way but with big lips, a big nose, and large, hooded eyes. His skull is oversized and doesn’t look completely symmetrical, but it’s hard to tell because it’s shrouded underneath a frizzy, lopsided Afro. Elliot would never admit it, but his hairstyle choice is intended to conceal the fact that he is losing his hair. Sadly, the Afro is just not up to the challenge.

  I run an appraising eye over Elliot’s outfit and inwardly cringe. He’s wearing his “World’s Best Grandma” T-shirt. On a younger, thinner, better-looking guy, the T-shirt might come off as a failed attempt at irony, but on a thirty-two-year-old with a paunch, it gives the impression that he’s developmentally challenged. I’ve repeatedly tried to talk him into giving it back to Goodwill, but he insists I just don’t understand the humor. In Elliot’s mind, his T-shirt is very Andy Kaufman-esque. He’s been scarred by Kaufman the way a lot of middle-class English guys have been scarred by Monty Python. Unfortunately, imitating someone who was original doesn’t actually make you original.

  When Elliot and I first started dating, he owned one pair of jeans and sixty-four T-shirts. I am not exaggerating. We’ve been together for a little over a year now, and in that time, I’ve managed to upgrade him to three pairs of jeans, one pair of dress pants, and two shirts that actually have collars. I can tell he thinks he’s made an effort on behalf of my birthday because over the grandma T-shirt, he’s wearing a wrinkled button-down shirt that he’s left open. Add to that a pair of faded jeans with a sizeable stain on the left leg and a pair of tennis shoes so old they are practicall
y rotting off his feet and you have a pretty clear picture of his ensemble. I asked him to please dress up. I asked him to wear the slacks I bought him and to please go out and buy a new pair of shoes, but I guess the wrinkled button-down is the best I’ll get.

  In Elliot’s defense, and my own for that matter, when we first started dating, I didn’t realize the full extent of his laundry list of feckless behavior. I met him during a time when Escoffier was extra grouchy and taking it out on anyone within eyesight. I was thinking about finding a new job with a chef whose tirades I hadn’t already heard a million times before. So whenever I had a day off, I was pounding the virtual pavement, searching online for work. Well, one day my computer froze. It just froze. I have no idea why. It was working fine one minute, and then next it was locked. I tried the usual emergency procedures: turning it off and on, hitting it with the palm of my hand, swearing—nothing was working. Taking a computer in for repair is usually pretty costly, and they want to hang onto it forever, so I thought I’d try Craigslist for some cheap emergency help. Elliot’s ad said he had ten years experience, and he guaranteed his work. His price was within my budget, so I contacted him.

  Now, I’m not an idiot. I didn’t invite some stranger I found on Craigslist into my home, even if he was posting under the computer services section. I met him at a café that was a good ten blocks from my condo. I have to admit, I initially found his appearance alarming. He defined the word unkempt, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t good at his job—maybe just not good at presenting himself professionally.

  I’m cautious when it comes to letting men fix something that’s mine. I’ve learned the hard way that you have to be careful whenever a guy is going to help you with anything because a lot of the time he will have no idea what he’s doing, even if he extends himself as an expert. There’s a good chance he’ll mess up whatever the problem is even more. Or he’ll just lecture you on what he assumes you did wrong, which may or may not be related to the actual problem. He’ll, of course, be convinced he’s helping even if he’s not. With that in mind, I still really wanted my laptop fixed, and Elliot did claim to have a degree in computer science, so I went for it.

  Amazingly, Elliot actually helped. He was forty minutes late, but he actually helped. Not only did he get my computer unfrozen, but he even cleaned it up a bit so that it ran a little faster. That lasted for about forty-eight hours; then it froze again. He did say in his ad that he guaranteed his work, so it was back to the café on my next day off. Again he showed up late; again he fixed my computer; again it froze a few days later. By that point, I was getting pretty irritated. On the third time we met up, he asked me out, confessing that he wanted to keep seeing me, so he kept not quite getting the job done. I couldn’t tell if I was flattered or annoyed. I wasn’t exactly physically attracted to him, but he seemed pleasant, and I hadn’t had a date in a few months, so I agreed. Besides the rampant tardiness, the first half dozen dates were pretty fun. Although I did eventually have to take my laptop in for repair because he could never be bothered to look at it after that.

  Elliot inserts himself between Aziz and me. He slams an Elizabeth's Conspiracy gift basket on the bar. Yes, it's one of those stinky toiletry gift baskets with peppermint foot lotion and lavender bath powder that retailers really push during the holidays.

  Without so much as a greeting, Elliot bursts out with, “What the hell? Can't I leave my girlfriend alone for two minutes without some dude hitting on her?”

  Aziz tries to restrain himself but can’t stop from murmuring, “Try two hours.”

  It’s probably not healthy that I constantly feel embarrassed by my boyfriend. I mean, when we’re alone together, it can be nice, and we’ve had some good times just goofing around, but in public I find myself frequently wanting to crawl under a rock to conceal the fact that I’m with him.

  The two men are giving each other the stink-eye, so I figure I’d better do the introductions. “Elliot, have you met Aziz? He's the sommelier at Bouche. Aziz, this is my boyfriend, Elliot.”

  “How do you do? It’s nice to meet you.” Aziz extends his hand.

  “Yeah, hey.” Elliot reluctantly accepts it and they shake.

  Aziz gets to his feet. “Now that your date is here, I guess I’d better get going.” He steps away from the bar. “Happy birthday, Sue. It was nice meeting you, Elliot.”

  When Aziz is barely out of earshot, Elliot grumbles, “What a tool.”

  This strikes me as unjust, so I ask, “Why is Aziz a tool? He was just being nice.”

  “Yeah, right. You have no idea.” Elliot gives me one of his superior smirks. He seriously thinks that just because he can program a little, he’s smarter than everyone else. He’s not. Not by a long shot, but that doesn’t keep him from thinking it.

  I’m about to say something in defense of Aziz when Elliot cuts me off with, “Come on, Sue. Let's eat.”

  It’s my birthday, and I don’t want to get into an annoying fight that I can’t win, so instead I ask, “Where are we going?” He promised to make reservations weeks ago, so I’m hopeful.

  Elliot shrugs. “Here. I thought we'd grab a table at Bush.”

  “Bouche,” I automatically say correcting him.

  Elliot is embarrassed by any word that doesn’t sound American, so I’m convinced he says the name wrong on purpose. “Whatever.”

  I feel all expectations for the evening plummet. “But, Ellie, I work here.”

  “Exactly.” He gives me a ‘no, duh’ look. “So you should be able to score us a table.”

  The prospect of having a meal where I spend fifty hours a week working is a major disappointment, but Elliot hasn’t made reservations anywhere else, and it is Chicago. Unless I want to eat my birthday dinner in a third-rate pizza joint, I have no choice but to get us a table.

  As luck would have it, Kiki is not at the hostess stand, so we are seated at a reasonably nice table for two. After actually noticing a disdainful look from the hostess directed at his T-shirt, Elliot has attempted to button his collared shirt, covering the grandma graphic, and I am profoundly grateful. He’s brought the gift basket with us, although I would have just as happily left it at the bar.

  After we’re seated, he plunks the festively cellophaned toiletries on the table and shoves the basket toward me. “Happy birthday.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, having trouble concealing my lack of enthusiasm.

  Elliot is surprised. “Aren't you going to open it?”

  “Why?” I shrug. “It's a gift basket from Elizabeth's Conspiracy. I’m pretty sure I know what’s in there.”

  This makes Elliot scrunch his prominent brow. “You love stuff from Elizabeth's Conspiracy,” he tells me.

  “I'm allergic to stuff from Elizabeth's Conspiracy,” I explain, not for the first time.

  Even still, this is fresh information to Elliot’s mind. “Since when?”

  “Since always.”

  When Elliot and I started dating, I told him that I am allergic to perfume. I can’t stand the smell of it on my skin; it makes my stomach kind of queasy. I don’t even like when other people are wearing more than a drop. But somehow, in Elliot’s brain, this has not translated to the fact that I am also allergic to heavily perfumed toiletries. He’s laboring under the delusion that all women are pretty much the same, so all women appreciate this kind of gift. The fact that it takes little thought or effort on his part probably is more convincing to him than me repeatedly explaining that his repetitive gifts make me want to puke.

  In Elliot’s defense, a smelly toiletry gift basket that has the potential to make me break out in a rash at least involves him leaving his apartment to acquire it. I once had a boyfriend hand me a magazine subscription he’d filled out for a magazine I’d seen lying around his house. To top both of those lame gifts, a friend of my mother’s once received two rare baseball cards from her husband, who happened to be a rabid baseball card collector. He said he thought she might like to start collecting. In retaliation, sh
e immediately went out and purchased a diamond cocktail ring, explaining that although it was a gift for him, she would wear it. I admire her style.

  Elliot is still a little stunned that I’m not gushing over the gift that he’s also given me for Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and our first year anniversary. “That's ridiculous.” He refuses to back down. “All women love Elizabeth's Conspiracy.”

  “Not if it makes them break out in hives,” I tell him, but I’m pretty sure he’s already stopped paying attention. I set the basket on the floor, fully intending to leave it behind when we’re finished.

  I give my boyfriend an expectant look, but he doesn’t pick up on it, instead focusing his attentions on complaining about the prices on the menu. Finally, I realize the subtle approach is not going to work, so I say, “Elliot, didn't we talk about you trying harder to be on time?”

  His pained expression conveys that he thinks my expectations are unreasonable and I’m really just being a nag. “It’s no big deal,” he shrugs. “I got hung up.”

  “You could have called,” I point out. “Cell phones do exist.”

  “Nope.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and waves it at me. “Battery's dead.”

  I just don’t understand why every guy I’ve ever dated feels it’s his mission in life to crap all over my birthday. I mean, how hard is it to make a reservation and maybe put on a nice shirt? I’m seriously ready to lay into him, but I stop myself because out of the corner of my eye, I see Trent Winchell approaching our table.

  If it wasn’t obvious by his last name matching that of the hotel, Trent is a member of the Winchell family. He runs the hotel and restaurant where I work. He’s that rich-boy, boarding-school blond and very fit from playing polo or whatever it is wealthy men do for exercise. He’s wearing an expensive-looking sweater and dark slacks. There’s that easy confidence about him that only being born into wealth can provide. Everything about him screams that he comes from old money.