by Kim Barnouin
Clementine’s No Crap Café.
Of course, if I opened it now, half the people I know would come and spray paint out the “No” and add in “Full of.”
Chapter 2
Because I was still in bed at eleven the next morning, Sara barged in, opened the curtains, and flooded the tiny space (it wasn’t a real bedroom) with sunshine. She whipped the covers off me and told me to shove over and sit up against the wall. She then placed a tray on my lap and sat down next to me. Green tea. Blueberries. Whole grain toast with crunchy natural peanut butter.
Incredibly thoughtful. Especially because Sara was a greasy-fried-eggs-and-bacon-and-coffee-with-four-fake-sugars type chick. She’d made me my kind of breakfast.
“Thanks, Sara. But I can’t eat.”
She twisted her wildly curly auburn hair into a bun and stuck a pencil in to secure it. “You have to eat because you need your energy. You’re going to every vegan restaurant in L.A. today and introducing yourself and explaining what happened.”
“Waste of time. Emil knows everyone. No one will hire me. I called him five times last night. Left four messages swearing on anything he wanted that I didn’t use butter in the ravioli, that someone—and he knew who—screwed me. He answered the fifth call, and before I could say a word, he barked, ‘I don’t give a shit how the butter got in the ravioli. You were chef. It’s your fault.’ Click.”
I had been chef. I put the breakfast tray on the floor, slid down the wall, and pulled the covers up. The normal me would have been calling everyone I knew last night, ripping on the story—“Guess what that twatzilla pulled on me . . . ”—and totally confident I’d have a better job—full chef—at another hot restaurant by midnight. But the double whammy of O. Ellery Rice and not realizing I’d been burned by BUTTER in the first place? Sudden death.
“Clem, what do you tell me every time I don’t get a callback for a role I don’t even want? That it’s all in the trying, in the putting myself out there.”
Sara was an actress specializing in the overweight best friend or bullied outcast. She was beautiful, with Pre-Raphaelite long curls and huge, driftwood brown doe eyes, but she was at least forty pounds overweight and only occasionally got cast—as a “fat extra.”
Let’s get something straight right now. Anyone who has a problem with the fact that Sara doesn’t look like a model can go fuck himself. She’s been my best friend since we were both sweating pretzels in the hot-yoga studio we now live above. We’d both needed a roommate, and the crappy apartment on the fifth floor with a sloping floor became available. That was four years ago. Have something to say about Sara’s weight or that “Maybe you shouldn’t be eating those fries?” like that asshole at her favorite food truck at the Pier? I’ll hunt you down. Seriously, I stink-eyed that loser very close to the water’s edge.
“I know what’ll perk you up,” Sara singsonged. “Thanks to that very good advice of yours, guess who got up the guts to ask out Hot Pete, and guess what he said?”
I whipped the covers off me. Sara supported herself by temping as an office drone. For the past month, she’d been filling in for a clerk typist on maternity leave at an ad agency that specialized in the wine industry. She’d been crushing on Hot Pete since day one—and figured she had no chance. “I know what he said,” I told her. “He said ‘Hell, yeah!’ ”
She grinned. “We were both in the elevator together, and I was like, Do it! Do it! So I blurted out, ‘Want to grab a coffee or a drink or something?’ And he looked at me and said, ‘Yeah, sure. How about tomorrow after work because I have a gig?’ He plays bass in an alt rock band—well, they’re just getting started. And so we talked about that for like ten minutes in the lobby and now we have a date tomorrow after work!”
I squeezed her again. “That’s amazing, Sara. You should have told me last night—we could have celebrated instead of you being forced to mope around with me.”
“You needed to mope,” she said, taking a sip of my green tea and grimacing. “Anyway, Clem, you really have nothing to worry about. It’s so obvious that Rain screwed you—she had nothing to lose since she was probably planning to quit anyway. And what happened at Fresh is legendary. Everyone will want you after this.”
Legendary. The chef someone took down with a pat of butter. Right.
“Everyone will want the chef who didn’t even realize there was butter in one of her signature dishes?” I asked. “I’ve made that exact ravioli two thousand times. I should have smelled the butter. I should have seen the difference in the glistening of the sauce.”
Sara took a bite of my peanut butter toast. “Trust me, Clem, this time tomorrow, you’ll be chef anywhere you want. You’re a legend now.”
The Legend of the Land O’Lakes. Ha.
I didn’t believe it for a minute. But at least it got me out of bed.
I spent the next hour with my laptop and a pot of very strong tea, making a list of every vegan restaurant—big, small, and truck, that last one just in case—in L.A. I starred my top six choices, where I’d stop in this afternoon and ask to meet with the manager or chef. That’s how it worked: chefs wanted to see you, size you up, and most were able to tell in two seconds if you could handle getting screamed at and humiliated and were therefore worth interviewing.
Next there were five second choices.
Three third choices.
Four trucks.
“Not that it’ll come to the trucks,” Sara assured me in our tiny bathroom as she stood surveying me in the mirror.
My green-hazel eyes showed no signs of the previous night’s tossing and turning. I stood tall at five-foot-seven in my three-inch sandals. Still, managers and chefs tended to underestimate me because I was a) blond and b) skinny—until they saw me wield a fifty-pound cast-iron pan like it was a tomato.
Sara handed me a tissue to blot my berry lip-stain. “You look great. Now go. We’ll celebrate your new job—and my new boyfriend—tonight. Oh, wait, you have to help me pick out what to wear. Then you’re out the door.”
She was right. I was being ridiculous. Of course, I’d get a new job. I’d been sous chef at Fresh for God’s sake. Fresh! That alone would open doors. A backstabber’s pat of butter would not slam doors in my face.
Six hours later I had eleven flat-out No’s the moment I walked in the door. Six “We can’t risk it, sorry”s. And from the cute guy in the Vegan Express truck at a choice spot on the beach: “You’re lucky Emil didn’t put cement shoes on you and dump you off the pier like I woulda.”
That night, Sara and I sat on the living room floor of Ty and Seamus’s small but gorgeously decorated Spanish bungalow. It was light-years from the pre-Seamus hovel Ty had lived in across the hall from me, which is how we met. Just as I’d figured, Ty had a new job as pastry chef at Chill, with a huge raise since he’d had his pick of offers. But even that bit of good news and the weirdly cute kittens, which looked like bald hamsters huddled up asleep next to their mama in a big padded box, were unable to console Sara or me. I was blackballed in all of L.A. And Sara had had a hellish date with Hot Pete, now known as Dickhead Pete.
“You know,” she said, “I wish he’d told me yesterday in the elevator that ‘by coffee you mean a blow job, right?’ At least I wouldn’t feel like such an idiot.”
Dickhead Pete and Sara had met, as arranged, in the lobby of their office building after work. Since he lived right around the corner, he suggested going to his place for a drink because he “really wanted to play her a song on his bass,” which slayed her, of course. But when they got there, he “suddenly” remembered he’d left the bass at his bandmate’s studio. He didn’t even have a coffeemaker, let alone a bottle of wine. All he had was a six-pack of cheap beer. He sat down and unzipped his jeans and said she should probably just start because it took him awhile. When she asked him what he meant, he reached in and pulled out a very small limp penis.
“You should have said, ‘Well, where is it?’ and looked all confused,” Ty said. “Then added, �
�Oh,’ and walked out.”
What she had said was that she had no intention of putting her mouth anywhere on him—“not yet, anyway,” she’d added with a coy smile. His response was, “Come on, what did you think? We were on a date?” That’s when she picked up his beer, poured it over his head, and booked out of there.
“I love that part,” I told her.
“Me, too,” Ty said. “And it’s probably better he showed what a total prick he is now instead of you getting all involved with him and then finding out.”
“Why did I think for one stupid second that a hot guy in a band would actually go for me?” She let out a long sigh. “It’s like my mother always said and, in fact, said yesterday on the phone—no guy likes a fat girl.”
“Is that supposed to inspire you or something?” Seamus asked. “Jesus.” Seamus was cute and as blond as Ty was dark.
“She calls it tough love,” Sara explained. “It’s been her way since I was six. You can see how well it’s worked.”
“You’re amazing, Sara,” I told her. “Just as you are.”
“Well, we know that,” she said with a grin. “But I can’t win. This afternoon, I actually got a callback for Overweight Woman on Bus for some prescription allergy commercial, and get this—the director tells me I’m not fat enough. Then he adds that he doubts I ever get work because I’m too in between. Not thin enough for a regular spot, not fat enough for a fat spot.”
“Douche bag,” I said.
“Yeah, but he’s right. I can either get really fat, and probably work like crazy. Or lose weight and maybe get work. My almost-agent once told me I’d have better luck fat than skinny because there are a million skinny wannabes. She told me I should hire a particular plus size talent coach so I could gain more weight ‘as attractively as possible.’ Of course, the coach turned out to be her sister. Anyway, if I went the skinny route, I might actually get a date.”
“You know what?” I said. “I hate that. I know we’re best friends, but if I just met you I’d think you were incredibly awesome. Like every guy should.”
“Kind of like if every vegan restaurant owner just met you and didn’t know about the stupid butter, you would have a job like this.” She snapped her fingers.
“I should just open up shop in my own kitchen,” I said. “Hang up a shingle somehow. After the last door got slammed in my face, I started thinking about what else I could do—to shove it in everyone’s faces, too. Maybe I could become a personal chef and build up clientele and my reputation again. Am I crazy?”
Sara’s eyes lit up. “Not crazy! That’s a great idea, Clem. What I just said, about the fat coach, that reminded me how at the callback today, one of the other naïve candidates had her acting coach with her, and she was telling me how she got ten clients in a month just by posting signs and ads saying she was an acting coach with tons of experience. You could also do that—be a vegan coach! Teach people how to be vegan—what to eat, how to cook, whatever.”
“It really is a great idea, Clem,” Seamus said. “We got a gift certificate for a personal chef as a housewarming present. The guy came over, cooked an amazing dinner, then made a week’s worth of incredible meals that he froze with instructions on how to reheat. I heard it cost our friends a fortune. You’d make good money, Clementine.”
“And you’d be your own boss,” Ty added. “You know how you hate bosses.”
“In like a year, you could have enough money to open your own place,” Sara continued. “Clementine’s No Crap Café will be a reality. You should totally do this.”
“Personal vegan chef,” I said, letting the words really sit this time instead of yeah, righting them like I did earlier today. Wasn’t that the whole reason I became a vegan chef, especially after my summer of eating crap and feeling like crap? To show people you could cut the crap out of your diet and not only ooh and aah over every delicious bite, but feel and look amazing instead of sluggish and zitty every day. And L.A. was full of vegans. Wannabe vegans. Committed vegans who were crappy cooks. Rich people obsessed with their bodies. And probably a bunch who just thought veganism would be a cool thing to do for a few weeks.
There might be something to this.
I had next month’s rent in my bank account—well, minus two hundred something—at the moment. Emil’s manager, who’d always been very friendly to me, would probably mail me my pay for the last week and a half. Or not. All I had to my name was nine hundred and twelve dollars. Almost my share of the two thousand four hundred dollar rent on our ridiculously tiny one-bedroom apartment. (Sara paid three hundred more than I did because she got the bedroom.) Even though the building was cute and right on Montana, it was the top floor of a fifth-floor walk-up, the floors really did slope, and the hot water took eons to turn hot. My one-hundred-square-foot “bedroom” included a tall window, and Ty had managed to make the space look and feel like a real separate room. He did amazing things with bookshelves and white muslin and glass brick he’d found at a flea market.
I was not getting a job at Whole Foods behind the cheese counter. I was not slinking anonymously into a restaurant with vegetarian offerings and ending up touching dead fish. And I was not bailing on Sara and moving back in with my parents to harvest corn, though I did love doing that. I was twenty-six years old and I wanted to make something amazing happen.
“You know what, Clementine?” Sara said, standing up and putting her hands on her hips. “You start your own vegan personal chef business, and I’ll be your walking billboard of how not eating crap can totally change your life. I’ll give up Doritos and Diet Coke. I’ll switch from bacon double cheeseburgers to garden burgers with those weird sprouts on them. I’ll do it, Clem.”
“Seriously?” Sara loved her Doritos. And bacon double cheeseburgers, extra mayo. She also had a special fondness for Hostess Devil Dogs. Not to mention her all-time favorite food that she grew up on in Louisiana: chicken fried steak, smothered in some kind of thick white sauce.
“Seriously,” she said. “I’m sick of this. I’m sick of looking like shit and being treated like shit.”
“I was treated like shit and I’m skinny,” I pointed out.
“Fair enough,” she conceded. “For now. But if I’m skinny and get treated like shit, at least I’ll look good.”
“I could teach you how to bake some sweet potato fries that will blow your mind,” I told Sara, giving her a hug. “Skinny Bitch,” I said. “That’s what I’m calling the business. It’s about living a crap-free life. Skinny bitches don’t eat—or take—crap.”
“To Skinny Bitch,” Ty said, heading into the kitchen and coming back with four insane-looking cupcakes on a plate, one with red velvet icing with CHEF CC spelled out with tiny multicolored bits of sugar. “I baked these for your party last night. Now we have something to celebrate, so eat up.”
I was a decent baker—and made amazing cakes anytime someone had an occasion—but no one baked vegan treats like Ty. This piece of perfection would melt in my mouth.
Sara clinked her cupcake to mine. “I’ll start the Skinny Bitch diet tomorrow,” she said, laughing, and then taking a huge bite.
“Oh, this is totally on the diet,” I said and practically ate the whole thing in one bite.
I realized I wasn’t all clenched and miserable the way I’d been for the past twenty-four hours. I might be blackballed in L.A. with barely any money, but I had a plan.
Chapter 3
Skinny Bitch at Your Service
Don’t feel like cooking? Want to look and feel amazing? Stop eating crap and start becoming the person you always knew you could be.
Veteran vegan chef (Candle 22, Desdemona’s, Fresh) Clementine Cooper, graduate of the famed Vegan Culinary Institute, will create delicious vegan dishes—from appetizers and main dishes to desserts—and deliver them to your door. Or she’ll come to your house and teach you how to make orgasmic soups, salads, entrees, and desserts.
Call (310) 555-7214 or friend me on Facebook (Skinny Bitch) for
more information.
Despite my swanky new website, in the two days since the ad was posted all over L.A.—on Craigslist, Facebook, Twitter, and anywhere else my friends and I could think of—I had exactly two phone calls: 1) from a teenager in an argument with her mother over whether you really could get enough protein from a vegan diet (yes, I assured Mom) and 2) from a man who had the wrong number.
When my phone rang on day three while I was writing a check for the electric bill and watching my rent money for next month slowly disappear, I lunged for it. Please, universe. Let it be a client. A rich client.
“Skinny Bitch, Clementine Cooper speaking.” According to my sister, Elizabeth, a corporate lawyer four years older who wore severe business suits and drove a Beemer (and whose real name was Apple; she’d insisted on being called by her non-fruit middle name the minute she hit middle school), this was how you answered the phone.
“Hey, Clementine, it’s Ben.”
Ben.
Know that feeling where every bit of you goes completely still, except for a tight squeezing of your heart? That’s how I felt.
“I know it’s been a while,” he said, “but I saw one of your flyers for vegan cooking lessons, and I’m slowly easing from vegetarian to vegan, so . . . ”
I could picture him so clearly. He was probably out walking his yellow Lab, barely noticing that every woman—and man—was checking him out. Ben was insanely cute. Slightly longish wavy-curly sunlit brown hair. Deep blue eyes. Dimple in his left cheek. And his body. Whoa.