Adventures with Max and Louise (21 page)

“Oh my gosh; I can’t imagine. So what happened?”

“Well, this one older lady stood up and started clapping, and the next thing you know another table stood up and another, and then the pastry chef got a standing ovation from the entire place. She was crying and laughing at the same time, apologizing to the diners. I’m not sure, but I think someone even passed a hat, because it was obvious she couldn’t work there anymore. I know someone bought her a drink.”

“And where was the owner?”

“The whole kitchen staff came out to watch, so he went outside, to the sidewalk. It was raining, and he stood out there without an umbrella, streaming with water, trying to light a cigarette. He looked ridiculous.”

“And what was that piece called?”

“ ’Dining Solo.’ And that bistro actually is a good place to eat alone.”

Marianne shakes her head. “Amazing, just amazing. So, it’s Friday night. I’ve got a babysitter lined up. I’m tired of the same old places. Where do I go?” Marianne asks. “What do I look for?”

I notice Wolf’s broad shoulders in the audience and zero in for a second on his smile. He gives me a thumbs-up.

I consider Marianne’s question, biting the inside of my cheek until Max tells me to knock it off. I’ll look a nutter. “I wouldn’t necessarily go to the hot new place. I’d avoid the crowds and heat. I’d try an older, established restaurant that really focuses on simple food done to perfection, someplace that rotates the menu occasionally but does a few things really well.”

“Give us an example,” Marianne prods.

“Schubert’s is a good example. They’ve been around forever, but they really know what they’re doing. They’ve gotten a chic new face-lift, and their bar is a really fun place to people-watch.”

“Great,” Marianne chirps. “So what about—”

“And,” I interrupt her. She smiles politely. “Sorry, but I forgot to mention Schubert’s art collection. It’s really worth mentioning and makes the whole dining experience unique. They’ve mounted local artists’ work on cables over the table, and you can press a button, and the art comes right down to your table.”

“I love that sort of thing,” Marianne gushes. “Any time you can combine two fun things like eating and looking at art, well, that’s right up my alley.”

“Exactly. And it’s all food themed,” I smile at Wolf. “It’s brilliant, really.”

Marianne follows my gaze. Wolf rubs his eyes and shakes his head.

“Don’t tell me the creator is in the audience, ’cause I think this kind of ingenuity needs encouragement. Don’t you?” she asks the audience.

The ladies in the audience applaud enthusiastically. Marianne continues, “I mean, really, this is exactly what the art world needs. If you can’t come to the museum or gallery, well, then, we’ll come to you! Come on now!”

The audience gets louder. Wolf’s face turns a deep shade of red.

“Well,” I hedge, not wanting to embarrass Wolf, who is about to melt into the ground, “he’s here, but I don’t know . . .”
Why on earth did I say that? She won’t let it go.

“Oh, it’s a he, is it? Oh, come on, stand up.” Marianne motions for the house lights to come up. “We won’t bite. I promise.”

The audience cranes their heads, waiting to see who will stand up. Sasha, who sits beside him, nudges Wolf. Glowering, he reluctantly unfolds his long body. He stands for a moment, waves his hand, then quickly ducks down, hunching as if willing himself to be invisible.

“Oh, please?” Marianne waves a production assistant with a mike over to Wolf. “You have to tell us how you came up with the idea.”

The assistant sticks the mike in Wolf’s face. He gazes at it like a bear encountering a pesky fly. “I’m, um,” he begins reluctantly, “a, uh, climber. I like to climb. And I don’t do much of it. So I sort of try to find ways to climb in my work as a contractor.”

“So you literally climb the walls to put up this art?” Marianne beams as though this were the interview of a lifetime.

Wolf nods. “Yep.”

The women near Wolf gaze at him adoringly.

“Why don’t you climb much?” Marianne asks. “I mean, this is the Pacific Northwest, not New York City.”

Wolf scratches his tangled head of hair and glances down at Sasha. “Uh, well, you know. I outgrew it.”

Sasha shakes her head.

“Who’s this? Your mother?” Marianne asks. Wolf has a horrified look, as if witnessing a disaster. “Mom, do you have a different take?”

The assistant lowers the microphone in front of Sasha. “Wolfgang, that is his full name. He did it for me. When he was a teenager, he had a terrible climbing fall. So after he recovered, I told him how it was for me to see him like that. I knew that each climb would lead to something bigger. You know how men are. They climb a big mountain and go looking for something bigger.” The audience laughs and claps. Marianne smiles at Sasha, encouraging her. “After I told him, he said if it really bothered me, he’d take a break. And he did.” She pinches his cheek.

Wolf is beyond mortified. He is in agony.

The women in the audience give a collective “Ahhhh.”

Marianne claps. “He’s not only a talented man but a wonderful son. Thank you, Wolfgang! What a great story! Diner X not only finds the food but the cool new thing!”

Wolf slips into his seat with visible relief. Sasha, her eyes full of tears, kisses his cheek. A fleeting image of my mother flashes before me, and I blink rapidly to hold back the tears.

“Thanks,” Wolf mouths, rolling his eyes.

The lights on the camera flash, and a director waves at Marianne. “We have to go to commercial break, but after that Molly Gallagher is going to share one of her favorite comfort foods: all-grown-up macaroni and cheese with herb-seasoned quattro fromaggi. So yummy! We’ll be right back.”

A studio assistant with spiky hair and a glinting diamond nose ring escorts me around the back of the set to the studio kitchen. All the ingredients are lined up in small glass bowls. “Here’s the finished one,” she says, opening the oven to show me a bubbling casserole. “You’ll want to turn on the stove now so it’ll melt when you put in the cheese. I made this last night for my boyfriend. A total hit.” She smiles, giving me a thumbs-up. “Good luck.”

Marianne appears at my elbow and hands me a mug of coffee with an
AM Seattle
logo. “That was a great segment. Those women adored that Wolf guy. What a great impromptu interview. I love that kind of stuff.” She leads me over to the studio kitchen. “So, here’s the stuff you ordered. It’s all prepped. You just lead us through the cooking steps, and I’ll ask questions. Okay?”

The camera swivels, and a red light on top starts flashing. I stare into its black fish-eye lens. A fresh wave of fear hits.

Actual cooking is much scarier than chatting about columns I’ve already written, meals I’ve already eaten. What if I drop a bowl or cut my finger? The
Saturday Night Live
sketch of Dan Aykroyd as Julia Child, cut hand shooting blood everywhere, flashes through my head. As the director counts down from five with his fingers, I have an overwhelming impulse to laugh. I am a kid in church, the very thought of forbidden laughter tickling my sides, welling up inside. I have to concentrate with all my might not to explode. This is not good. In fact, it’s bad. I have to fight the sudden urge to sprint off.

“Nothin’ but a bad case of the nerves. You’re brilliant. Plain and simple,” Max says comfortingly. “Now, pull back those shoulders, square that chin, and let ’em have it!”

I squint, searching the audience for Dad, feeling guilty about telling him to stop talking about Mom. I can’t find him; he’s moved seats.

The director holds up one lonely finger. The lights on the cameras flash as they swivel toward me. My eyes search the audience. Dad is settled in comfortably beside Gwen. He gives me a wave and nudges Gwen, who beams proudly. Dad must know I hate her, I think. I wish I didn’t. Next to Gwen are Trina and Denise, who both grin. Denise gives me a boisterous wave. Trina mouths the words “Love the suit,” holding her own lapels. Chas appears in the back of the studio, eyes searching, looking for me. Before he finds me, Liz, slouched against the wall, steps forward and whispers something in his ear. He laughs. Now she’s flirting with him?

“He’s late,” Louise gripes.

Watching Chas, I wait for him to find a seat. Instead he leans back against the wall, chatting with Liz. Her tense face lights up. I clench my jaw angrily. Why in the hell didn’t he sit down? Liz places a hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she fixes her stiletto shoe, a cheesy ploy to get him to notice her legs. What kind of a woman wears fuck me heels at eight o’clock in the morning? What are they chatting about so cozily? They’d met like what? One time before, and now they have sooooo much in common? Seething, I want nothing more than to march off the stage and beat her over the head with one of her spiky heels.

The lights on the three cameras blink on; the audience begins to clap wildly. I stare helplessly at the director, my blood boiling. The director’s hand is nothing but a fist. We’re on. Chas is looking at me now, nodding hello, but he’s still listening to Liz. At the last moment she tears herself away, but her entire body is still oriented toward him. Could she be any more obvious? I try to give her an evil look, but I probably just look squinty-eyed.

Sasha’s wave catches my eye. Beside her, like the calm in the storm, is Wolf. He winks and gives me a second thumbs-up, which this time I find intensely annoying. Why is it that the man I don’t want is winking, and the man I do is chatting up my publicist? What kind of a screwed up love life is that? Doesn’t she work for me?

In the background, Marianne begins her spiel, welcoming the viewers back. “Molly Gallagher, our own wildly popular Diner X, is whipping up something wonderful in the studio kitchen.”

It vaguely registers that she is referring to me. I am so busy focusing on Chas and Liz that I don’t hear Marianne’s words until she taps me on the shoulder. “Coming up with that next great recipe?” She smiles, indicating the cameras, the audience. “Oh, the creative process.” She laughs, flinging a hand into the air.

“Um, I’m sorry.” I fumble, leaning my hand down to steady myself on the edge of the stove. Pain flashes through my body. I’ve turned on the wrong burner and seared my hand on the edge of it. “Son of a bitch!” I scream, jumping up and down, holding my seared hand.

“Oh my God!” Marianne yelps.

“Go to commercial,” the director barks.

Wolf leaps from his chair, runs down the aisle, and is instantaneously at my side, while Chas still pushes through the crowd. Wolf rummages through the set freezer for an ice bag. Finding none, he grabs a bag of frozen peas, wraps it in a dish towel, and places it on my hand. Stunned and utterly numb, I don’t say a word.

A second later, Chas joins us on stage, glaring at Wolf. “Thank you,” he says dismissively. Wolf shoots him a murderous glance.

“How bad is it? Do you need to go to the hospital?” Chas asks.

Even through my confusion and pain, I crow inwardly with delight; two men are butting heads over me.

I peel back the ice pack. A red crescent, a tiny moon, scars my hand. Only the corner of my palm made contact with the burner.

“It’s not that bad.” My voice is trembling as I try not to cry. I glance at the foot of the stage where my family, Trina, Dad, and Denise, are clustered in a tight knot, waiting for my summons. “I’m okay.” I attempt to look brave.

The director pushes off his headset and joins the group. “Should we go to pretaped?” he asks the producer, a harried woman with graying hair.

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” the producer frets. She looks at her watch. “We’ve got exactly two minutes to decide.”

Liz stands calmly by Chas, shoulder to shoulder. I feel like smacking her with the bag of frozen peas.

“I’m done,” I say angrily. “I can’t do this.” I know that I’m not hurting anyone but myself but I am finished. I’m not going to watch Chas and Liz laugh and chat while I toast under these ridiculously hot lights in a binding pantsuit that I’m sure Liz knew I wouldn’t be able to zip, telling women perfectly capable of finding their own recipes how to cook. My hand hurts. I want to go home and lick my wounds.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Liz hisses in my ear. “Can we have a moment?” she asks the producer. Without waiting for a reply, she grabs my good hand and leads me off the stage. I snatch back my hand but follow, preferring to be dressed down in private.

We reach a dark corner backstage, near an abandoned pinball machine. Liz spins around, her eyes flashing. “I don’t care how crappy you feel or how much your hand hurts. You have to finish this.” Her voice softens. “You were doing really well out there.”

So were you,
I think sullenly. What is it about Chas that makes me feel like I’m fifteen?

“My hand hurts,” I sulk.

“And we’ll get someone to look at it in ten minutes.” She sighs, pushing her glossy hair out of her eyes. She leans in close enough for me to smell her expensive perfume. “That’s all you have to wait, ten minutes. Look, I’m going to be blunt. Do you have any idea how hard I have busted my butt to get you here? The hours I put into planning your wardrobe, chasing the bookers, calling in favors in New York to get the fucking cookbooks shipped here on time? No. You don’t. No author does. They think their book sells because they are completely brilliant. And you, you add a twist. You show up and swear your fucking head off on live TV! How many other shows are going to sign up for that? None! So I’ll tell you what. Either you get out there and cook something fabulous and chat up this audience like you are Rachael Freakin’ Ray, or I am so out of here. Without me, your cookbook is going to sink faster than the
Titanic,
and the only one you’ll be able to blame is yourself.”

Eyeing her cagily, I recall the old black-and-white melodramas that my mother adored, where the mild-mannered heroine would suddenly slap the shrewish bitch in the face and walk off proudly. My hand throbs dully.

“Do it!” Max yelps. “Bash ’er bloody nose in. Make ’er bleed like a stuck pig!”

His bloodthirsty encouragement cools me down. I might be mad, but I’m not as crazy as Max.