Out to Lunch

by Stacey Ballis

  My phone rings just as I’m getting Volnay set up in the Kitchen Library for her breakfast. It’s Wayne, calling to wish me a happy Valentine’s Day.

  “Ready for the big plans with Brian?” he asks.

  “We’re just having dinner.”

  “Okay. If you say so. But if he pulls out a little velvet box, run away! Run away!”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I promise, if he pulls out a little velvet box, I’ll run like the wind. How are you doing?”

  He sighs. “I’m okay. You know. Sort of shitty, really.”

  “Yeah. She loved Valentine’s Day. And she always made it good for the rest of us.”

  “Yeah. She did. So that sucks.”

  “It does. You need anything?”

  “Nah. Elliot gave me a boxed set of the original 1963 Doctor Who DVDs last week, and Lois sent over a huge package of pastries from the bakery this morning, I’m just going to hunker down and geek way out and go into a mild diabetic coma till it’s over.”

  “Well, it’s good to have a plan.”

  “I thought so. What time do you want me to pick up the pup?”

  “I’m meeting Brian at his place at six, but I’d like him to get the full-day experience, so pick him up between five thirty and six, and just drop him at my house. Thanks for doing that, it really is making my life easier.”

  “My pleasure. And I promise not to let him eat anything other than his dinner.”

  All I can do is laugh. “I’d appreciate that. And Wayne, I’m around most of the day, so if you need to check in, just give a call.”

  “I will, thanks, Jenny. You have a good time. But not too good!”

  I laugh. “I will.”

  * * *

  I get all of Chewie’s stuff together, his favorite toy, a bag of treats, a bully stick. The fourth brand of supposedly indestructible chew toys, the previous three having been reduced to bits within hours of handing them off.

  He’s running around excitedly, panting and huffing the way he does when he’s really happy.

  “Sit,” I say, raising my hand in a fist the way the trainer has us do it. His butt hits the ground. I open my fist to a flat hand and he immediately lies down. I toss him a treat. “Good boy. Now look, three strikes and you are gonna be out, mister man. So please go to this place and be nice and stay in your crate even if you know you can get out and let the little yippy dogs alone and don’t eat the furniture and for god’s sake DON’T RAPE ANYONE.” He barks, and I toss him another treat. I’m really dying to slip him a Benadryl, but with my luck he’ll have some allergic reaction, so I’m not giving in to the temptation.

  I toss Volnay a treat, and she heads over to her little bed for a nap, and I snap on Chewie’s leash and we head out to what I hope is a successful tryout.

  The young man behind the desk at Doggie Day Afternoons Day Care looks like your classic skate punk, with peach fuzz on his chin and wide black plugs in his ears, and the never-a-good-idea white-boy blond dreads. But he comes around the counter to greet Chewie with a big smile and lots of praise.

  “Chewbacca, rockin’ name.”

  I’m still a little embarrassed to have the Star Wars moniker on the dog, but I give my standard excuse. “My best friend’s stepson named him.”

  “Well, it is very cool. Great-looking Bordeaux, he’s gonna be a brute, aren’t you boy?”

  “He’s already something of a handful,” I admit.

  “No worries, I love these guys. I have a Neapolitan mastiff myself; they’re pretty similar. He eating your whole house?”

  I laugh. “So that’s not unusual?”

  “Nah. That’s the breed. Bless their hearts. He is full-on Hooch up in your place?”

  The rest of my life it’s going to be Hooch. Even Benji is orchestrating a team movie night so that he can finally see it. “Yep. Although he hasn’t eaten my car yet.”

  “Most people think that movie was just made-up and exaggerated for cinematic hilarity. But we know better. We know someone loves to play Mr. Destructo at every turn!” He is down on his knees play wrestling, and Chewie is clearly delighted with his new friend. “My mastiff ate the door off the closet where I keep his food when he was six months old. Literally.”

  “Yikes.”

  “In his defense, it was a shitty hollow-core door.”

  “Well, that’ll teach your landlord to cheap out.”

  “Anything I need to know? Besides the obvious?”

  “He manages to get out of most crates,” I admit.

  “Yeah, mine did that a lot. I’ll throw my bike chain on his door so he doesn’t get out.”

  “That would be great. And he’s only four months old, so, um . . .”

  “He’s a total horndog leg humper?”

  I love this kid. I still want to shave his head and delouse him, but I love him. “Yeah. Legs, furniture, other dogs . . .”

  “I’ll do a smaller playtime with him; I have a couple good old boy labs and one shepherd who should be able to hang with him and keep him in line.”

  “Terrific. My friend Wayne is coming to pick him up.”

  “What’s Wayne’s last name so I can check ID when he comes?”

  This makes me feel really good. Not that I think anyone is out to steal my little monster. “Garland. I gave the girl on the phone his info for emergencies when I made the reservation.”

  I feel really good about leaving him here, and pray that he behaves himself enough to be invited back.

  When I get home, Volnay seems to be feeling better, so I take her for a short walk to stretch her legs. When we get back we log in to the Doggie Day website and catch Chewie playing with a couple of large Labradors. There appears to have been some sort of plush toy massacre, there is stuffing and fuzz everywhere, and something tells me that there has recently been some deadly tug-of-war. I’m just logging off when my e-mail pings.

  Jenna-

  Am going to be in your neck of the woods to look at someone’s collection, thought I’d stop by with lunch if you are up for that. I’ve been having a hankering for Olga’s, but one cannot tackle the wall of schnitzel alone.

  Elliot

  E-

  Have never heard of Olga’s, but a lady never turns down schnitzel if it is offered.

  J

  J-

  Prepare yourself. I’ll be there around noon thirty. You’re about to be converted.

  E

  I smile and look at Volnay. “Wall of schnitzel, hmmm?”

  * * *

  The bell rings at precisely 12:31.

  I open the door to Elliot’s grinning face. He is carrying a small foil-wrapped baking dish, a large white paper bag, and a single enormous deep magenta peony. He hands me the flower.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, Jenna.”

  It’s the most perfect single bloom I’ve ever seen, and peonies are my favorite flower.

  “Thank you Elliot, it’s beautiful, and so unnecessary, and, um, WHAT is that amazing smell?”

  “Mmmm.” He wafts the bag at me. “Olga’s. Kitchen?”

  I lead him to the kitchen, and he begins to unpack the bag on the island while I put the flower in a vase. I grab two plates from the open shelving above the counter and hand them to Elliot, who is unwrapping a sandwich the size of Wyoming.

  “Holy mother of cheddar, what is that?” I say, gesturing to the sandwich, which is at least six inches tall, and appears to be piled with about five pieces of chicken schnitzel, those amazing pounded pieces of chicken breast, breaded and panfried. They are layered on plain white bread, and the smell is just heavenly.

  Elliot pats his little belly. “That, my dear, is the famous chicken schnitzel sandwich from Olga’s. And despite my vast appetite and my not insignificant gut, even I cannot eat a whole one. Which is why I’m eternally grateful for your letting me come over and share one with you.”

  “Anything I can do to be accommodating.” I laugh as he places one half of the sandwich on each plate, each half looking like enou
gh to feed three people.

  “I don’t know if you like mayo or anything, I believe in purity of essence myself, but if you want condiments, you’ll have to add them yourself.”

  “Not for me, mayo squicks me out. I use it as an ingredient, but not on sandwiches. But I may indulge in a pickle slice or two, if you’d care to join me.”

  “The perfect woman. Pickles for sure.”

  I get us both glasses of ice water, pull out the jar of dill pickle slices, grab a couple of napkins. Elliot has also brought a bag of potato chips, as if we will need anything besides these enormous sandwiches. He brings the plates over to the table.

  I place a few of the pickle slices on my half sandwich, and try to get my mouth around the monster. I feel like I’m going to have to unhinge my jaw. Elliot smiles at me, and then removes a couple of pieces of chicken from his own sandwich, eating them with his fingers, to help make the thing more manageable. I follow suit and am amazed at the flavor. The schnitzel is crisp and not greasy, well seasoned with salt and pepper, the chicken moist and flavorful and still warm. I take a bite of the sandwich, the soft white bread the perfect foil, and the little bit of vinegary bite from the pickle cutting through the richness.

  “Delicious,” I manage to say without spitting pieces of chicken at him.

  Elliot rolls his eyes in ecstasy. “I know, right? Such a special treat. And you should meet Olga. One of these days I’ll take you there to see the place for yourself.”

  “Well, thanks for the introduction, this is insanely good.”

  “My pleasure. Next time we go pork chop sandwich. On the bone, if you can imagine. So, how are you doing?”

  “Good. Especially now.” This thing is freaking amazing, I’m having a total foodgasm.

  “I know from Wayne that Aimee really loved Valentine’s Day and made it special for everyone.”

  Great. This is a pity luncheon. I’m shocked by how much it bothers me that he must be so proud to have worked up this little plan to keep my mind off my crushing grief. The sandwich sticks a bit in my mouth. But he continues.

  “I don’t know about you, but I always sort of hated Valentine’s Day myself. And nothing makes me more irritated than someone who loves it trying to get me to drink the Kool-Aid.”

  Wait. Maybe not a pity lunch? “Yeah. Aimee was a hearts-and-flowers girl on a normal day, so she went a little batshit on Valentine’s Day.”

  “She used to send me cookie bouquets and crap.” Elliot laughs. “And I always thought that for someone so smart, she was really dumb to think that it did anything but annoy the shit out of me.” And my shoulders completely unclench. It’s the first time since Aimee got sick that anyone has said anything about her that was less than saintly.

  “Hey, lets not speak ill of the well-intentioned dearly departed here, people.”

  “I used to get candles and bath salts. Like the consolation prize to being single was candlelit lavender baths for one. Whoo-hoo!”

  “Below the belt, that is below the freaking belt, missy.”

  “Exactly. It’s like when I was little and my mom would send Valentines to school for me, in case none of my classmates gave me any.” Elliot shakes his head.

  “Brutal! Even my folks didn’t do that.”

  “Yeah. I never got to tell her that perhaps if she hadn’t insisted on the homemade bowl haircut and the brown corduroy leisure suit, perhaps my classmates might have handed me a card themselves.”

  “Ha! You didn’t.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes I did.”

  “Is there photographic evidence?”

  “Yes. And before you ask, no. You do not want to know what you would have to do to see them.”

  We finish as much of our enormous half sandwiches as we can manage, and I clear the plates. “What’s in the pan?” I ask, gesturing at the foil-covered dish.

  “I had some people over for dinner last night, and I always buy bread because the table seems empty without it, and in these carbs-are-the-devil end-times no one ever eats it. And my philosophy is that if life gives you stale bread . . .”

  “You make bread pudding?” I finish for him, since this has always been my habit and my line when asked.

  He smiles. “Yep. I experimented a little, I had some palmier cookies left over as well, and figured they are so crispy, maybe they would work in there.”

  “Okay, that is a genius idea. Why didn’t you tell me you had bread pudding? I wouldn’t have eaten so much schnitzel.”

  “A couple of smart girls I know say there’s always room in the dessert compartment.” It was always our mantra. He comes over and lifts the foil off the pan. I can see that it is golden and crispy, and the scent of vanilla and butter wafts up at me. Elliot grabs two forks from the bin on the counter and hands one to me.

  “I’ll grab some plates.”

  “Don’t bother. It’s just us,” he says, and digs right in. What the hell. I aim for a particularly crusty bit on the edge.

  “Oh my, that is amazing,” I say. It is perfectly balanced, rich but not heavy, just the teeniest bit of chew left in the bread, vanilla and butter and . . . something else . . .

  “Toffee. Crushed-up Heath Bars in the middle.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Couldn’t resist.”

  “Elliot, it’s amazing.”

  “Wait till you have it for breakfast tomorrow!”

  And suddenly I feel a little weird, knowing that breakfast tomorrow I wouldn’t be alone, and knowing instinctively that I won’t be sharing this bread pudding with Brian. And more, knowing that I would never let Brian know that I would totally eat bread pudding for breakfast.

  “If it lasts that long,” I say, reaching for another delicious mouthful.

  Elliot checks his watch, drops his fork in the sink, and kisses me on my temple. “Gotta go, princess. One of your neighbors got some massive collection of comics and action figures in her divorce out of spite, and she can’t sell them fast or cheap enough. She doesn’t know that her ex has called every store in town and left his info, so he can buy them back from whoever gets them.”

  “Sneaky,” I say, and thank god that the one thing that comes from never being married is never having to become the kind of ugly divorce can bring out.

  As he is leaving, he says, “Wayne is going to invite you to come somewhere with us in a couple of weeks, and, just, if you can? I hope you’ll come.”

  “Mysterious.”

  “He is working up to ask you, I don’t want to screw him up, but, just, I really hope you say yes. It will mean a lot to him.”

  “Good to know.”

  He winks at me and heads down the front stoop, and I head back to the kitchen to clean up. After maybe one more bite of bread pudding.

  “You look beautiful,” Brian says, opening the door to his condo. I’m wearing a new dress, the only one of the four I ordered online that fit me. I got as far as the parking lot of Bloomingdale’s before my stomach and blood pressure revolted, and turned the car right around, paid my ridiculous twelve dollars for ten minutes of driving around the parking lot and came home instead. Apparently I’ll have to tell Nancy that I’m afraid to commit to shopping as well.

  “Thank you.” I do like this one, a deep olive green, with a very flattering crossed top, long sleeves, and a midcalf skirt, with a wide obi-style belt that makes me look like I have a waist. I’m wearing it with a true indulgence, a pair of Jimmy Choo boots that are actually like a kitten heel pump covered with a long sock that goes to my knee. Or I should say, actually fits over my calf, which is a miracle. They are unusual and, I think, terribly sexy.

  “C’mon in.”

  Brian’s place is exactly what you would expect of a single lawyer in his midforties with no kids and no pets. Sleek, modern, open-concept loft space, clean, lots of sharp edges and leather and glass, exposed brick, tall ceilings, and what appears to be an eight-hundred-inch flat screen television.

  We head into the living room area and sit on the co
uch.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says and hands me a small velvet box. Oh lord. And I promised Wayne I would run away, which at the moment, I really want to do.

  “Brian, you really shouldn’t have . . .”

  “Of course I should have.” He is smiling at me in a very self-satisfied way.

  I open the box. It is a pair of earrings; oval, sort-of-dark, hot pink stones surrounded by diamonds.

  “Brian . . .”

  “They’re Vietnamese rubies,” he is quick to point out.

  “Thank you. They’re very pretty, but I really can’t . . . they’re too much.”

  “Of course they aren’t.”

  But they are. Not to mention completely not my style. “You really shouldn’t have.” He leans in for a kiss. “Really, Brian. I appreciate the thought, but these are just too extravagant.”

  He looks wounded, and now I feel bad.

  “You shouldn’t spoil me so much,” I say, because what else can I say, and he beams. But I still leave the box on the table, and don’t make a move to put them on.

  “How was your day?” he asks.

  “Good. I had a nice chat with Wayne, dropped Chewie off at the new day care place, which I think might be a good fit, had lunch with Elliot.”

  “Good god, that all sounds awful. Geek parade.”

  “That’s not nice. It was perfectly lovely. It’s a hard day for Wayne, so it was good to talk with him. And he is the one dealing with the dog tonight so that I can be here. Elliot had some business in my neighborhood and stopped by and brought me lunch.”

  “Well, sounds dreadful to me, but what do I know. Do you ever worry that you’ll be like one of those people who doesn’t realize their house smells of old cabbages?”

  “I’m not really sure what you mean.”

  “You do too know what he means, and it’s extremely douchetastic.”

  “I mean, you know, you go to someone’s house and it smells sort of bad, like mothballs or cat pee or old cooking, but it’s clear that they don’t know because they live there so they are used to it, it just smells normal to them. So like, you’re spending so much time with these mouth-breathing supergeeks, that now you don’t even know how annoying they are.” He smiles, clearly thinking that he is saying something hilarious.