The Art of Love

by Gayla Twist

  “No, I didn’t,” I protest. “I didn’t change the menu.” Okay, I don’t even want to imagine what Trent pulled to make Kiki now refer to him as The Creep.

  “Yes, you did!” she yells right back at me.

  “Kiki, listen to me,” I tell her. “Seriously, I didn’t change the menu for the reception. I knew your password, but I didn’t use it. I mean, I thought about screwing with you, but I honestly didn’t change it.”

  She narrows her eyes, but I can tell she’s thinking things over. “Who told you the password?”

  Okay, now I’m caught out. We’re taught ever since we’re old enough to speak not to be tattletales, even if telling is the right thing to do. Besides, Donna said everyone knew the password, and if I do mention Donna’s name, it might come around to the really embarrassing gossip that she told me about Kiki. The last thing I want is for Kiki to freak because she knows that I know her big secret. And besides, that’s a secret I intend to take to my grave.

  “I can’t tell you,” I finally say. “You don’t want to talk about the beans? Well, I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Fair enough,” she says, even though it’s obvious the wheels in her head are spinning. “But if it wasn’t you, then I’m pretty sure I know who did it.” I suddenly realize that I’m actually not Kiki’s arch nemesis, not by a long shot. She plays her true enemy a lot closer to the vest than me.

  I nod my head several times, thinking over the Bouche gas attack, who actually might be responsible and why. “I’m right there with you.”

  “You know.” Kiki looks me over. “I always thought you were such a little priss, but you’re a lot tougher than I thought.”

  I’m stunned for a moment because it almost sounds like she half approves of me as a person. Then I suddenly feel just plain bad for being such a shit toward another human being who obviously has her own troubles and challenges. “Kiki,” I hazard, “this might sound kind of stupid, but do you think in some alternate universe we could have actually been friends?”

  She looks me dead in the eye. “I doubt it.”

  Chapter 29

  I know I should be out pounding the pavement, looking for another job, but I just can’t manage to pry my butt off the couch. Am I really supposed to get excited about another position where I’m basically the whipping boy to a crazed chef or the willing pawn to a rich man’s son or an indentured servant to a… God, I don’t even know anymore. I just know that the thought of looking for another gig in food service depresses me.

  The predominant emotion I’m feeling right now is shame. I can’t believe I was fighting with Kiki over a guy. I can’t believe I would fight with any woman over a guy. And we both allowed that sleaze ball, Trent Winchell, to manipulate us. That really is pathetic. I feel like some pitiful, media-created stereotype.

  Why do women treat men like a finite resource? I mean, seriously, there are tons of them, everywhere. The planet is infested with them. And new ones keep showing up all the time. But as young girls, we somehow get the message that we are supposed to compete for them. That it’s even okay to stab your friend in the back for the sake of any random dude that you stumble across. Is that nature or nurture or some combination of both with a Cosmo quiz on top?

  I’ve been thinking about my old high school crush, A.J., lately and his locking lips with Angie at the campfire. I was so hurt and super furious with Angie at the time, but I really should have channeled a large portion of that rage at Mr. Moccasins with Argyle Socks. He’s the one that liked me but then was all over Angie without a moment of hesitation and after only a little encouragement. I’ve recently remembered that a few weeks later, my friends managed to drag me back to the frat house, and A.J. was all attentive and trying to flirt with me. He even said something along the lines of, “You know, you’re the one I really liked.” Well, if he liked me so damn much, why did he pounce on a fifteen-year-old within minutes of meeting her? The time I went back there after that, he was all over some new girl and didn’t even look in my direction. In retrospect, I guess I should be a little grateful toward Angie.

  Elliot left me a message yesterday. I saw it was him calling and didn’t bother to pick up the phone. This morning, I finally summoned the energy to actually listen to it. The whole thing sounded pretty scripted, but it went something like, “Sue, it’s Elliot. God, I haven’t talked to you in ages. How have you been? I’ve been really good. Really good. In fact, I have a new girlfriend. Why don’t you give me a call, and I can tell you about her?”

  I’m a little mystified by Elliot’s message. I could tell he was trying to sound cheery and light as if he hadn’t been calling me for weeks and whining “Quitter,” into the phone like a tantrum-throwing eight-year-old. Why would I want to talk to him about the next woman he will end up treating like dirt? I guess it’s somehow his feeble attempt at saving face, but I’m seriously not interested.

  I was feeling a lot of anger toward Elliot for treating me like crap, but here’s the thing I recently realized: I allowed him to treat me like crap. When my attempts to talk to him about his bad behavior fell on deaf ears, I should have broken up with him on the spot. No dragging my feet because I didn’t want to be alone or I thought I didn’t deserve better or I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or any of the zillion excuses I came up with to keep dating him. His excessively inconsiderate behavior showed he didn’t actually care about my feelings, so why should I have been concerned about his? I’m sure it’s all very Freudian and much more complicated than that, but the one thing I know for sure is that I feel very, very relieved to have that dipshit out of my life.

  Which leads me to thoughts of Trent and why the hell was I so eager to pursue him. Yes, he did help me that one time when I had the flat tire, and that was very nice, but did that really warrant me killing myself to help him with his fabricated crisis? Why do I, as a woman, find it so much easier to exhaust myself for someone else than to put that kind of energy into my own goals and dreams? Or is it just me, and other women don’t have this same hiccup to their personalities?

  Trent never actually did anything to show me he was interested in me. Not really. He was interested in having me work hard for his benefit, and he did dangle a few carrots out in front of my ox cart to keep me plodding forward, but he never actually gave me any personal attention like he would have if he was sincerely interested. Even on our Hindenburg of a date, he never gave me any thought until I was talking to someone else. And then it was more of a possessive, rape-y kind of attention. Not like if he genuinely cared about me. And then, after literally having to knee the guy in the groin to escape his clutches, I actually gave some thought to if it was fair for me to blame him or if it was just whatever drug he was on. I mean, seriously? Come on!

  So I need to figure some things out about my life, with a priority on how I’m going to keep paying my mortgage. As far as love, I think I’m going to take a break for a while. But when I do finally decide to get back out there, I think I might actually take Kiki’s advice and try to be a little smarter about it.

  Chapter 30

  It is a beautiful late summer day in Chicago, and I’m outside. Okay, I’m standing in front of a large, open window that leads to the outside, but I can see the sunshine; I can smell the breeze; I’m nearly outside. We are working our way through a line of customers that formed for the lunch rush. It’s been a good forty-five minutes of solid sales. We’re beginning to develop a following.

  “Thank you,” Dahlia says to a customer as she hands over his change. She has a tight smile glued to her face. I can’t tell if it’s her attempt at customer service or if her four-inch heels are hurting her. “Come by again.”

  “Oh, I will,” he says as he’s frantically unwrapping his sandwich. “I’m addicted,” he confesses, sinking his teeth into the toasted bread and melted cheese.

  It’s hard to believe it’s only been six weeks since I left Bouche. It’s ridiculous how fast and yet slow time can move. I’ve had to deal with a l
ot of shame and humiliation since I quit, but I’m starting to feel a bit better. Working hard has been helpful. But not working hard in that frantic, I’m doing this to please somebody else sort of way. This time, I’m working hard for me. I guess it was an idea that’s been brewing in the back of my head for a long time; I just was too distracted by all the nonsense to realize it.

  I knew I was tired of working like a dog and being under appreciated by Escoffier and being used and manipulated by Trent and being paid next to nothing for the privilege of working at Bouche. I realized the only time I really felt happy was when I was being creative and coming up with my own dishes. I was miserable, and I was allowing the misery to happen. I guess dating wasn’t the only area of my life where I needed to learn to stand up for myself. It’s hard to admit, but I really was a doormat.

  I still feel awful when I remember how I completely lost my mind, taking out all of my frustrations on that poor man in the cowboy hat. Even if he hadn’t been from Van Dyke, he didn’t deserve to be treated like that. And no, Bouche did not receive a star, a review, or any kind of recognition at all. I can’t blame the guy. I still can’t think of my meltdown without cringing, but it is how I came up with the name for our company: A Dish Too Far.

  Dahlia uses her forearm to sweep some hair off her forehead, where it’s become a bit stuck with sweat. “I don't belong in here,” she tells me. “Not with all this...” she waves a hand at the contents of our food truck, “cheese and... plastic forks.”

  While it makes sense that I would still wear my chef’s apron to work, I can’t figure out why Dahlia thinks it’s a good idea to wear a mini-skirt, designer blouse, spiked heels, and an apron. I’ve tried to explain to her that she’d be more comfortable in a pair of rubber clogs, but you’d think I just slapped her or something by the expression on her face after I said it.

  “Why am I helping you with this again?” Dahlia asks, not for the first time.

  “Because you put up half the cash; we can't afford to pay an employee yet; and you need money to support your shoe habit,” I remind her.

  “Oh yeah...” She lets out a dramatic sigh. “But if we're sweating our asses off all day in this crazed hillbilly coffin to make money, why do we keep donating all our leftovers to the homeless?”

  “Because everybody gets hungry,” I point out. “Homeless people need to eat, too.”

  “Yeah, but do they need to eat gruyere?” she grumbles.

  A Dish Too Far is not a hillbilly coffin. It’s actually pretty darn nice. I was lucky to find a food truck ready to go and in good condition for a price I could afford with a little begging and borrowing and by partnering with my cranky neighbor. All the truck needed was a good scrub and our logo emblazoned across the side. We stock a bunch of exotic cheeses; I tweet where we’ll be every day for lunch, and people have started showing up. The need to eat cheese melted between slices of homemade bread is strong in Chicago.

  I’m shocked to realize the next person standing in line is Antoine. We’re set up at a park not too far from Bouche, so it shouldn’t be that big of a shock, but still, I’m surprised. “Oh,” I blurt. “Uh... Hi, Antoine.” Why the hell is he here? Antoine is too French to eat from a food truck, even if we do offer a large selection of stinky cheeses on the menu.

  “Suzanne. May I have zee word with you?” he asks with a polite but appreciative nod to Dahlia. One thing I’ve realized from working on the truck with her is that straight men fall all over themselves for Dahlia. Maybe it’s her I-have-no-interest-in-you-whatsoever attitude. Which is the truth, she really doesn’t.

  I look for approval to leave her by herself in the truck, something I wasn’t allowed to do for the first few weeks we were open, and Dahlia rolls her eyes. “Go ahead,” she tells me. “I can handle it.”

  It’s obvious from his little sneer that Antoine isn’t too impressed with A Dish Too Far, even though our truck is adorable. That’s not just my opinion. We’ve got a huge hunk of faux cheese mounted on the top of the truck, and people tell me it’s adorable all the time.

  “How do you like working in zee small truck?” Antoine asks, once we’ve walked for a few yards.

  “Good. It's good,” I tell him. “I get to create whatever I want, and I'm practically making the same money I was at Bouche.”

  This causes the Frenchman’s eyes to grow round, and he checks out the truck again with a spark of new interest. “Really?” He’s incredulous. “Zhat is true?”

  I don’t want Antoine getting crazy ideas about becoming my latest competition, so I douse the light in his eyes with, “Yeah, but that’s because the weather’s been so nice. I don’t know what we’re going to do this winter.” Actually, I already do. We’re going to get a heater for the truck and add a line of gourmet hot cocoas to our menu.

  Antoine pinches his lower lip and frowns. “Yes, I did not sink of zhat.”

  “So, what's going on?” I decide to cut to the chase. “Why are you visiting me?”

  “I want to know how you knew I was zee spy for Keekee?” he says very quickly.

  “I didn't know,” I tell him. It feels like the simplest answer.

  “Yes, you knew. You had zhis suspicion of Antoine,” he insists.

  I have to laugh. I really do enjoy how he refers to himself in the third person. “Okay, fine,” I admit. “I knew.”

  “But how?”

  There doesn’t seem to be any reason to keep secrets anymore. I have no intention of ever going back to Bouche. So I tell him, “Remember when half the restaurant came down with horrible gas that one night?”

  “Oui.” Antoine gives me a French shrug. “How could I forget?”

  I can still see it clearly in my mind. It was the day I served the blueberry tarts and dyed everyone’s teeth purple. “You were the only one who didn’t have purple teeth,” I tell him.

  This causes Antoine to furrow his brow. “What does zhat have to do with anything?” he demands.

  “The whole staff was at the meeting. Everyone tried the tarts and got their teeth stained purple. Everyone but the person who slipped into the kitchen to doctor the beans.”

  “Zhis is a lie! I did not touch zee beans. I was at zee meeting, and I eat your tart.”

  “No.” I shake my head. All of his outrage and protestations can’t change the truth. “You didn’t eat the tart, or your teeth would have turned purple like everyone else’s.”

  “Zhis is a lie! Antoine did no such sing!”

  “It's okay.” I reach out and touch his forearm in what I hope is a placating gesture. “I'm not going to tell anyone.”

  The little Frenchman appears somewhat mollified. “Keekee, she had zee ideas, and I wanted to be chef de cuisine. Escoffier never should have chosen you. But zhis idea, it was all Mademoiselle Keekee.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I give him a flat look.

  “Well,” he says after hesitating. “Maybe it was Escoffier, too. He tell me not to let you get too big for zee boots.”

  I had a feeling some type of subversive message had been communicated to Antoine in Escoffier’s postcard. The one that had the French on it. I’m sure it didn’t say anything as dastardly and incriminating as “Poison the beans,” but I’m also sure they probably had a code worked out.

  “I understand,” I assure him. “And I’m not holding a grudge or anything, don’t worry.” Casually, almost as an afterthought, I add, “It was pretty clever about the knives, too. Running them through cardboard.”

  “Mademoiselle Keekee, she also thought of zhis,” he insists.

  That, I’m pretty sure is also a lie. The knives became dull before Kiki and Antoine formed their alliance. I’m willing to bet that little trick is something Antoine thought of all on his own to be spiteful.

  “Oh, well,” I tell him. “It doesn’t matter now.” Although, if I were Antoine, I would keep my lips zipped about his little ploy. I’m sure if he found out, Aspic would pound him into the ground like a peg.

  “You are not
coming back to Bouche?” the Frenchman asks, obviously still worried about his position in the restaurant’s pecking order.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “Ah, you are zee lucky one,” he says, disguising relief with the appearance of regret. “Escoffier has come back, and he is acting like zee crazy man.” There’s little doubt of that being anything but the truth. Escoffier does not like change, even if it’s change for the better, and I’m sure he’s busy reconciling the menu back to what it used to be for the last couple of decades.

  Antoine makes a show of checking the time on his phone. “Now I must go, but I wish you zee luck, Suzanne.”

  “See you around, Antoine.”

  As the Frenchman walks away, I wonder about his motive for coming to see me. He was probably afraid that I would turn him in to the board of health or something for his trick with the beans, and I probably should. But beyond knowing the truth myself, there’s no way for me to prove it.

  “Sue?” someone next to me says.

  I turn to see the handsome face of Bouche’s sommelier. “Aziz...?” I say with surprise. He’s actually one of the people from Bouche who I’ve been wishing I could see again, but my embarrassment and his relationship with Kiki made it seem impossible.

  “Hi...” he says, giving me a shy smile.

  “I just saw Antoine,” I tell him. “How did you know I was here?”

  He gives me a sheepish smile. “I follow your tweets.”

  “Oh?” I’m surprised. “Can I get you a sandwich or something?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I came by to see you.”

  “Okay, great. How have you been?” I’d almost forgotten how ridiculously handsome he is. It makes me feel all jittery inside.

  “Good,” he tells me. “Fine, I guess... You left Bouche without saying goodbye.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.” It was kind of rude of me, but I didn’t realize it would bother him. “I felt like such an ass after everything I did and thought maybe you were kind of mad at me because of Kiki.”