Chapter 19
chapter
nineteen
Invitation: Chef J Final Tasting Menu
Attendees: Penelope Ainswright (Optional), Josh Goldberg (Optional), Eitan Moreno (Required), and Ruby Hirsch (Required)
I read the unsolicited calendar invite, sent this morning. My hand still aches from finishing the escort card calligraphy last night. But even that pales in comparison to the realization that the careful boundary I’ve constructed to avoid Eitan has been blown to smithereens.
The caterer is on an unassuming block of Humboldt Park that hardly looks like it’s zoned for commercial spaces.
The dog days of summer are almost over, though it still feels hot enough to cook an egg on the sidewalk and you can cut the humidity with a knife.
The only acceptable clothes at this point are athleisure, so I wear a mini tennis dress that makes me feel like a country club wife, sans the diamond tennis bracelet.
Eitan’s Subaru lumbers into a parking spot, and he steps out, wearing shorts that show off toned legs tufted with hair and a ribbed tank top beneath a linen short-sleeve button-down. A gold chain peeks out from the edge of the tank top.
“Hey.” He waves. “Long time no see.”
“Hi,” I say, trying to frown at him. But the reality is, it’s been a month since I’ve seen him, and his face in the sunlight feels like the first sight of search and rescue after getting lost in the wilderness.
This. This is exactly what I need to shut down. I just have to keep it professional. And avoid any and all mention of the disastrous almost-kiss.
Which is why I brought an ace up my sleeve: my wedding planning notebook, filled with at least five work in progress items to fill any awkward silences.
“Welcome!” An older woman, with a face etched by fine lines and hair a wisping silver, opens a rusted door. “You made it.”
“Hello,” I say, holding out my hand. The woman bats it away and strongarms me into a hug. “I see you brought the groom with you!” The woman winks at me as she pulls away.
“What?” I glance at Eitan before laughing nervously. “No, he’s not. I’m not—”
“Relax, I’m kidding. I met Penelope and Josh at the first tasting.”
A relieved breath shakes out of me.
“You two just look like such a cute couple. I got excited.” The woman laughs. I wince at the mention of Eitan and I being a couple. Like that would ever happen, a nasty voice in my head jibes. “Normally we don’t need two tastings, but there were a lot of menu changes after the first one.”
Oh, I can only imagine what the first tasting was like, given the state my life is in.
“Here, come in, come in!” The woman holds the door open for us. “I’m Carrie, by the way. The chef—Jonathan—is my son.”
The studio is windowless, draped with mauve curtains and faux ivy to break up the industrial brick. A lone table sits in the middle, with an aubergine tablecloth and place settings for two. Carrie lights two candlesticks in the center of the table, bathing everything in a fiery, intimate glow.
“Make yourselves at home, I’ll be out with sample plates of the hors d’oeuvres in a jiff.” Carrie disappears behind a swinging kitchen door, and Eitan and I are left to eat a gourmet candlelit dinner, all on our own.
Crap.
Eitan sits, opening his napkin and draping it over his lap, entirely unfazed by the whole thing.
I mirror him, sitting straight up in my chair, picking up a thick cardstock menu that sits on top of the place setting.
I try to read the items we will be tasting, but the chairs are set so close that it’s impossible for our knees not to brush.
I keep moving so that they don’t. But his knees keep drifting toward mine like magnets.
His hand finds my knee beneath the table. “Relax,” he says, giving it a light squeeze. The touch is like being singed by a hot pan.
I scoot my chair away from him as subtly as I can. It’s too late, though. My skin breaks out in goosebumps, my overexcitable nervous system taking an inch and running a mile.
Carrie pokes her head out. “Wine?” she asks.
“We don’t drink,” Eitan says plainly. The ‘we’ flutters through the air. We’re not a ‘we’! I resist shouting. Eitan continues, oblivious, “Do you have anything nonalcoholic?”
“I’ve got N.A. champagne that’s divine.”
“Sounds great.” Eitan smiles, then looks back at me. “The ceviche looks good.” He points at the hors d’oeuvres section of the menu. “And I love croquetas.”
He speaks so quickly, the words falling like water off his tongue, it takes me a second to follow.
“Me too,” I say slowly. “Your Spanish is really good.”
“It’s my mom’s first language,” Eitan says, setting down the menu. “Her family moved to Mexico from Poland in the 1930s.”
My shoulder twitches. Why is he being so calm? Then I realize. He’s doing the gentlemanly thing of pretending that almost-kiss didn’t happen. Like we’re just two friendly acquaintances.
“My family’s from Poland too,” I offer, wondering how long we can fill up this table with words that skirt around the awkwardness of our last encounter. “What about your dad?”
“He’s Moroccan Sephardic. His first language was Ladino.”
Well, at least this I can talk about. Maybe this whole pretend-it-didn’t-happen strategy is onto something.
“I don’t know any Ladino.” I cross my arms and lean into the table.
“My great-grandparents spoke Yiddish, but they wanted my grandparents to assimilate, so they didn’t really speak it at home. ”
His whole face brightens. “I know a few Ladino words and phrases. But only a few. My dad was obsessed with the U.S., so he only wanted to speak English. Hence the musicals.”
“Cheers, kids!” Carrie plops down two flutes of something bubbly.
“Thank you, Carrie.” I pick up my flute.
“L’chaim.” To life. Eitan clinks his flute to mine. I get out a hoarse L’chaim in response.
“Saludozos.” He clinks his flute to mine again. “To our health. Now, you officially know one Ladino word.” He grins, the left side of his mouth spreading farther than his right into something lopsided and gorgeous.
I want to smile back. I want to sink into this moment and forget what happened outside the theater. Maybe friendship is all Eitan can offer, and maybe friendship is enough. It should be enough.
My thoughts are buzzing too loudly to think properly, so I drown them with a sip of champagne. It’s…delicious. I hold the glass back and examine it. “Are you sure there’s no alcohol in this?”
“Bone dry, I’m afraid,” Carrie says. “And remind me, do either of you have any allergies or dietary restrictions?”
“I don’t eat meat,” I say.
“Me either,” Eitan parrots. I remember what he said about putting his dad on a whole food, plant-based diet. This is good: another piece of neutral, common ground to work with.
Carrie blows out a raspberry. “Wish I knew that before we broke out the filet mignon! No matter, the chefs will eat it later. Do you eat fish?”
We both nod.
“Great, we’ll just have you taste the salmon and the risotto.” She disappears.
“So.” I clear my throat. Friendship. Beggars can’t be choosers. “How is it traveling as a pescetarian?” I ask.
“Depends on the country, but eating fish makes a big difference. I did accidentally eat pork in Spain once because my Spanish friend interpreted ‘I don’t eat meat’ to exclude pork and chicken.”
I snort. “I miss bacon egg and cheese bagels with every fiber of my being.”
“Is that your desert island food?”
I tilt my head. “I could pick any food? And have no repercussions?”
“Yeah, but you can only eat one thing for the rest of your life.”
I suck on my teeth. “Yeah, definitely bagels. Or burgers.”
“I’d take curries,” Eitan says. “They’re versatile and nutritious. Delicious.”
“Okay, but you can only take one style. Which one are you taking?”
“Oof, that’s tough. I’m partial to Thai green curry. Or dal.” He taps his chin. “I’ll say dal.”
I nod. “Yep. You were definitely meant to be a pescetarian.”
Carrie pops through the swinging door, hips first, carrying two plates piled high with six different bite-sized hors d’oeuvres.
I go for the potato and thyme croqueta first. It’s an explosion of cheesy potatoey gooeyness in my mouth and I can’t help moaning.
Eitan clears his throat.
I cough the rest of the croqueta down and keep any embarrassing noises to myself. When I take a bite of ceviche, a trickle of lime juice escapes down my chin.
Before I can dab at it with my napkin, Eitan reaches out and wipes it with his thumb.
Our eyes meet, and his sparkle like glass held up to the sun.
Friends. We are friends. Friends don’t notice eyes or how they tend to sparkle. I need to change tactic. It’s time for my ace.
I reach into my tote bag and pull out the spiral-bound notebook that’s already a quarter full with wedding notes.
“I might as well work on this while we’re here,” I tell him, eyes fixed to the master list at the beginning.
It’s a transcription of the list Pen sent me, with at least five new items added to the bottom.
I uncap my pen and put a satisfying checkmark next to the bullet that reads Final Tasting.
The remaining bullets aren’t necessarily ones I can accomplish at this table—things like Wrap wedding favors—but Eitan doesn’t know that.
He stares at the notebook. “This is all for the wedding?” he asks.
“No, it’s for my bat mitzvah.” I glance up at him. His eyes are twinkling. No banter! I command myself. “Yes, it’s for the wedding. Obviously. I don’t make manic to-do lists like this for fun.”
Well. I did make the Be Yourself (Again) List for fun. But what Eitan doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks. It’s a multi-faceted question. Could mean, Why are you working on your list at the table? Or, Why are you doing any of this?
“I don’t understand the question.”
“I mean, why doesn’t Pen have a planner? Or, you know, do this herself?”
Because she has a dream literary agent dangling on a string. It’s an irresistible carrot, and I’m the donkey shouldering the load in pursuit of it.