Out to Lunch

by Stacey Ballis

  He’s laughing, and suddenly I kind of want to smack him.

  And the sweating starts. And the heart beating.

  “Brian,” I say as calmly as I can, “I need you to do me a favor and lay off of Wayne and his friends. I know that I certainly have participated enough in the past, and I feel bad about that now. May I use your restroom?”

  “Of course, right down the hall, through the bedroom.”

  I head for the open door, turn the light on, and lock the door behind me.

  “He’s a shithead.”

  Yeah. I’m starting to get that.

  I try to go to the bathroom, but nothing really happens. I don’t know why I’m so upset; after all, not so long ago I would have said things just as offensive.

  “Maybe that’s why you’re upset.”

  Probably.

  “What are you going to do?”

  What can I do? I’m going to put on my game face and go eat a very delicious very expensive meal with him, with a lot of very delicious very expensive wines, and then bring him home, and have some sex.

  “Why do you make it sound awful?”

  Because it suddenly seems awful?

  “What would you do if you knew there were no consequences?”

  Slap him?

  “Ugh. No you wouldn’t. You’re not Snooki for chrissakes. Let’s try it another way. What would I do?”

  Good god, you aren’t going to make me get a WWAD bracelet or something?

  “What. Would. I. Do?”

  You would tell him you weren’t feeling up to it, blow him off and call me, and you and I would go eat the delicious food and drink the delicious wine.

  “I’m not saying, I’m just saying.”

  Just one problem.

  “You can still blow him off even if I’m not your backup plan. Tell him your tummy is upset, and go home. You can take a nice hot candlelit bubble bath.”

  Bitch.

  I can hear Nancy’s voice in my head. There’s nothing wrong with liking him if you want. But there’s also nothing wrong with not liking him either.

  I wash my hands, and head back out.

  Brian is standing there, looking impossibly handsome and groomed, and for the first time since we began seeing each other, I’m completely unmoved by his attractiveness. Suddenly he just looks like an overgrown frat boy to me. And a mean one. And boring. I can’t begin to imagine what I’m going to talk to him about for thirteen courses.

  I go back over and sit next to him on the couch. “Brian, I’m thinking, um, I’m thinking maybe this isn’t the best idea.”

  “Aren’t you feeling well? It would be such a shame to let the reservation go to waste.”

  I’m about to say yes, that it’s my stomach, but I suddenly remember what was so freeing about the beginning of our relationship, the fact that I didn’t have the energy to fake anything or lie or play the games. I was just honest with him, and it made me feel good. And I realize that the longer I spend time with him, the more I get away from that honesty, and the less interesting the relationship gets. So I decide to reclaim it a little. “It’s not that. It’s just, well, remember at Mythos when we talked about my not knowing what I was up for, relationshipwise?”

  “Why do I feel like I’m about to get dumped on Valentine’s Day?”

  “It’s not dumping, Brian, it’s just . . . I told you that I’m not in a place right now to do much more than be in the moment.” And then I cop out the teensiest bit. “As lovely as this time has been with you, maybe it’s just completely the wrong timing. And I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not with you.”

  “You don’t have to keep the earrings.”

  “Oh, Brian. I think that’s the thing. You deserve to be with a girl who would be thrilled about the earrings.”

  “Look, Jenna, I’m a big boy. I get it. I just thought we were having a good time. I’m sorry if I was pressuring you for more. I knew going in that this was potentially shitty timing in your life.”

  “As shitty as blowing you off on Valentine’s Day?”

  “Well, to be honest, I don’t really care that much about the holiday, it’s sort of a girl thing.”

  “Forgive me?”

  “Of course I do.” But his clenched jaw says he really sort of doesn’t, completely. And I wonder if I’m going to have to find a new lawyer.

  “I’ll talk to you in a couple of days or something.”

  “Okay.” He walks me to the door, we hug awkwardly, and I head for the elevator.

  Brian’s doorman gets me a cab right away, and I give him my address. Then I call Wayne to tell him I’m heading home.

  “What happened to your big fancy dinner?”

  “Brian and I decided to take a little break.”

  “HALLELUJAH! I mean, um, sorry?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “It’s okay, Wayne. I just wasn’t feeling it tonight, and I guess I have to figure out if it is worth moving forward.”

  “That’s the truth, Ruth. But I thought you pulled all kinds of strings for the reservation at that place?”

  “I did.”

  “And I thought it was all expensive and prepaid and nonrefundable.”

  “It is. But what the fuck. I’m rich. I can afford to blow it off.”

  “But I thought you really were excited to eat there? You and Aimee talked about it forever!”

  “I was. I am. We did. It’s supposed to be amazing.”

  “Well, then, come get me. We’re going to dinner.”

  “Wayne, this is SO not your kind of place.”

  “Hey. It’s your kind of place and you’re my friend, and it would be a total waste to miss it. It won’t kill me. It’s what Aimee would do. Let me throw on a nicer outfit, and come get me.”

  And suddenly, as much as I was looking forward to pajamas and TV and eating the rest of Elliot’s bread pudding right out of the pan, nothing seems like it would be more fun than to spend Valentine’s Day watching old Eleven Things Wayne eat at one of the most avant-garde, fine-dining, unusual-plates restaurant in Chicago.

  “I’m on my way.”

  EL Ideas—Chef Phillip Foss

  Valentine’s Day Menu

  freeze pop—honeydew / truffle / bitters

  shake and fries—potato / vanilla / leek

  black cod—black rice / black garlic / black radish

  cauliflower—botarga / anchovy / potato

  brussels sprouts—grits / kale / horseradish

  apple—peanut / bacon / thyme

  french onion—gruyere / brioche / chive

  ham—fontina / butternut / green almonds

  pretzel—beer / mustard / cheddar

  buffalo chicken—blue cheese / carrot / celery

  steak—components of béarnaise

  pie—lime / graham crackers / cream cheese

  movie snacks—popcorn / Twizzlers / Raisinets

  Wayne looks as if he is being sent to the gallows. One look at the minimalist menu, which not only lists many things Wayne does not eat, but also gives no indication of preparation, and he blanches behind his goatee.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I say. We’ve just been seated at a small two top in the eclectic dining space. The restaurant is the reverse of most, in that 75 percent of the space is an open-concept kitchen with a small area for tables. The chef is committed to the experience being open to all, and diners are encouraged to wander into the kitchen at any time, to ask the chefs questions, help with plating, even serve fellow diners. Not your usual high-end fine-dining experience, but I’m excited to see how the meal comes together. Each chef takes charge of crafting one or two dishes, and tonight’s menu is inspired by comfort.

  “Yes, I do.” He smiles wanly, but bravely.

  “I’ll make you a deal; if you’ll take at least one bite of every dish, we can totally stop somewhere for a burger on the way home.” I’m less concerned with expanding Wayne’s horizons than I am with sending untouched plates back to the kitchen. Every chef�
��s worst nightmare. But I figure if he takes at least one bite of everything, I can pull the chef aside quietly and claim that he had gastric bypass surgery or something that limits his intake volume.

  He sits up straight. “I’m all in, Jenny. You betcha. If Aimee could see me now!”

  “Oh, I see you big man. And I love you more than ever.”

  “She’d be very proud, I’m sure.”

  The sommelier brings over the first of the bottles I dropped off here yesterday, having carefully gone over the menu with my wine guru, Howard, who has sent me with four and a half thoughtfully chosen wines to pair with our meal. We are starting with Vilmart Grand Cellier champagne, my favorite bubble.

  Wayne takes one sip, and then his eyes snap open so hard I fear he might have bruised his eyelids.

  “Not your fave?” I ask, the delicate minerality thrilling my palate.

  “Um, no, it’s good, but, um . . . Jenny . . . it’s . . .” He is staring at the door. I turn around.

  Brian. Is here. With some picketytwick blond pair of legs. Having a serious conversation with the gentleman at the door. Sonuvabitch. I stand up and head across the room. Brian doesn’t see me, as he is focused on the task at hand.

  “The reservation is under Stewart. The wines were delivered yesterday,” he is saying, in a tone that is less than polite or respectful.

  “Yes, sir, but, um, the Stewart party is seated.”

  Brian looks up. Sees me standing there. Then he turns beet red. “Jenna . . .”

  “Hello, Brian, how nice to see you again.”

  “Hi. I’m Amber!” says the Barbie doll.

  “Of course you are.”

  “Very nice to meet you Amber, I’m one of Brian’s clients,” I say, smiling, putting subtle emphasis on the client part. And noticing a very familiar sparkle. “My goodness, what beautiful earrings.”

  “He is such a fartweasel.”

  “Thanks,” she says, beaming at Brian, who has now turned the shade of a good cabernet.

  “Are you two eating here tonight as well?” I ask, playing dumb.

  “I think, um, there is a problem with the reservation,” Brian stammers. He looks over my shoulder and sees Wayne, and blushes even harder, as it registers that I didn’t go home to wallow in our relationship ending, as he clearly was counting on.

  “Too bad. It’s supposed to be wonderful, I’m very much looking forward to it myself.”

  He shrugs at me, eyes full of gratitude that I am not embarrassing him in front of his backup plan. “We should go, I’m—I’m very sorry for the confusion.” He puts an arm around Amber to move her toward the door.

  “Brian, feel free to drop my name at Blackbird; they should be able to sneak you in if you like.”

  “Um, thank you, Jenna, it’s good to see you, have a wonderful meal.”

  “We will.”

  I return to the table where Wayne is grinning ear to ear.

  “Guess that break might just be permanent, huh?”

  “Could not be MORE permanent.” What a shithead.

  “Well, I’ll drink to that!” Wayne says, clearly delighted.

  We clink glasses and let the meal begin.

  21

  So then, they bring this thing called ‘fries and a shake,’” Wayne says. “And the chef says he was inspired by watching his kids dip their McDonald’s fries into their vanilla shakes. And it’s like this tube made out of a thin slice of deep-fried potato, like a little potato chip in tube form, and it’s filled with this insane potato-vanilla ice cream, and then it’s sitting on a bed of these leeks that were like melted in butter and a puddle of hot potato soup. But the thing is? It was hot and cold and salty and sweet and crispy and soft and it was TOTALLY like eating a fry dipped in your shake!”

  I may have created a monster. Wayne, to his credit, while he didn’t love everything at our fancy dinner, did taste everything, and a few of the courses really blew him away. He loved the riff on a buffalo chicken wing, essentially a high-end McNugget with a blue cheese sauce, braised celery, and house-made hot sauce. The honeydew freeze pop that started the meal, essentially a tiny Popsicle; and the steak, even though it was medium rare, were also hits. He didn’t like the black cod, which was one of my favorite dishes, and was indifferent to the cauliflower; but the deconstructed French onion soup and ham and cheese sandwiches were both winners, and of course, he demolished the dessert courses. And more importantly, he was good company, and we shared a lot of lovely memories of Aimee, and each dish he would say what she would have liked or disliked about it, and it was as close to her as I’ve felt, the Voix notwithstanding, since she left us.

  Of course, it wasn’t exactly a complete Invasion of the Wayne Snatchers. He also asked the chefs why fine-dining chefs didn’t wear hairnets, since they are just as likely to get their hair in the food as cheap places, accidentally dropped a plate of carefully picked celery leaves they were using as garnish, and knocked his wineglass all over the table, and me. Twice. But for the first time since I met him? None of these things bothered me or embarrassed me enough to make me hate his existence.

  “That sounds awesome,” Benji says. “I’m terribly jealous.”

  “Well, don’t worry,” I say, accepting a mug of tea gratefully from Lois. “I’ve booked the whole place in a few months; we’re having a staff dinner there.”

  The experience was so extraordinary and fun, that I found a date that they had no reservations, and bought out the whole restaurant. Since it is only twenty seats, I figure between the Library gang with plus-ones, me and Wayne and Elliot, and Andrea’s folks, we’ll have a fantastic time. And as Aimee always said, we can’t take it with us. It’s going to make me so happy to share a meal like that with my nearest and dearest, and even Wayne is excited to go back and see what they come up with.

  “That is amazing, Jenna, thank you. What a wonderful thing to look forward to!” Eloise says, handing me a plate with tiny Linzer cookies.

  “I can’t think of any group who would have more fun than us,” I say, biting into the tender buttery cookie with its raspberry jam filling.

  “Can Noah come? I want to make sure he gets exposed to really good food,” Wayne asks. One of the things we talked about as he was having his first serious foodie experience was how much he wants to make sure that Noah has a healthy and open-minded relationship with food. Josie is apparently not nearly as restrictive as Wayne, but is still pretty simple in her tastes.

  “Noah is very welcome,” I say, loving the idea.

  “Cool. Maybe he can come to some of our dinners too!” Wayne asked if I would be willing to pick up with him where Aimee and I left off with our monthly adventure dinners and take him to different restaurants so that he could maybe broaden his horizons a little. And I’m strangely looking forward to it. I think part of my joy of the meal at EL was watching him really engage with the food and enjoy it, getting to experience it both for myself, and vicariously through Wayne.

  “Wayne, I’m really proud of you for going for it,” Andrea says, winking at me.

  “Well, I suppose even forty-four isn’t too old to embrace change,” he says sheepishly. “I still think you can survive very happily with my usual dining options, and I mostly probably will, but I have to admit there were parts of it that were exciting and interesting. I’m thinking of it more like going to the theater or opera or something, like a cultural thing you do once in a while, but you don’t sell your TV. You’re still not going to get me away from my usual stuff on a regular day!”

  “But he has promised me I can branch out a bit for dinner parties,” I say, reaching for another cookie. “So you’ll all be delighted to know we can go beyond roasted chicken and pork chops for future get-togethers.”

  “Well, I say amen and hallelujah. Can I get a witness?” Andrea says. “And can you tell me what you did about Brian, that deranged titgypsy?”

  “He called me the next day to sort of explain. According to him, Amber lives in his building and they have
gone out a few times over the past year, very casual. And he figured that the reservation was prepaid and the wines were already there, and it would be a waste to just have them sit there, so he called her to see if she was free for dinner. And when she came up to his place, she saw the earrings, and assumed they were for her and got all excited and he couldn’t think of anything quick enough to explain why he would have them, so he let her think they were for her.”

  “Because that is a man who wanted some guaran-damn-teed Valentine’s nookie,” Benji says, tsking.

  “I agree. It’s suspect,” Eloise says.

  “Regardless, he said he was mortified, that it was completely his intention to tell me later that he used the reservation, that he was going to see if they would refund my credit card and charge his for the meal that night, and that he was going to tell me that he would replace the wines and drop them off to me.”

  “Whatever, it was shitty,” Benji says.

  “And that’s the truth, Ruth,” Wayne says.

  “He could have asked when you were leaving if he could use the reservation if he was planning on being all aboveboard and thought you wouldn’t mind,” Eloise says, handing me another cookie.

  “I agree on all counts. And I think he now knows that we aren’t on a break, we are just not seeing each other socially anymore.”

  “Are you going to fire the dumb asspimple?” Benji asks.

  “Not yet. I figure he’ll want more than ever to keep me really happy for the moment, especially since he’d hate for me to explain to his colleagues why I’d like to make a change, so I’m likely to get some free overtime and attention to detail for the foreseeable future. If it gets weird, I’ll just have one of the other partners take over.”

  A small group of customers wanders in, probably just had lunch at Lula, and the team jumps up to launch into professional mode, leaving Wayne and me in the chairs in the front.

  “So, Jenny, since I did the thing that scared me with an open mind, do you think I can impose on you to do the same thing?”