Adventures with Max and Louise (4 page)

In Martin speak, this means he’s told everyone on his floor. Which means everyone at the newspaper knows, probably even delivery and customer service: hundreds of people. “Oh no! Martin, how could you?” I groan. “It’s too embarrassing.”

“Well, you know . . . I had to ask people to cover for you. They asked what was wrong. One thing led to another. Look, I’m sorry, but it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s not your fault. You’re not the one who put the implants in the wrong woman.” There is a pause, some kind of background noise. He says, “Thank you,” in a polite voice.

“Is there someone else in your office?”

“Oh, just Harry. He’s dropping off the photos from the noodle shop review. They look great, by the way. We’re running it tomorrow.”

“So now Harry knows?”

“Oh, Molls, will you calm down? Do you think you’re the only woman to get breast implants?”

Newspaper offices are configured to disseminate news: from desk to desk, traveling like a virus. I feel like I’m single-handedly holding up a crumbling wall. Pretty soon the whole thing will fall down, and I’ll be standing there in my D cup bra.

“Martin, will you please stop telling people? It’s embarrassing enough without the whole world talking about it.”

“All right, but will you do the review?”

“Oh, just give me the name of the restaurant.” I’m beyond irritated but move to the counter for my notebook.

“Schubert’s.”

“Schubert’s,” I repeat as I write it down. “I know it.”

“Thanks so much, Molls; you’re a lifesaver. And don’t worry so much about what other people think. Screw other people.”

“Now maybe I’ll get the chance,” I say ruefully, thinking the implants have got to improve my love life. They can’t make it any worse.

“And, anyway, from what Angeli told me, they look totally hot.”

“Good-bye, Martin.” I hang up the phone, thinking about my next problem. Given my new boobs, what should I wear?

Two hours later, I’m showered, dressed, and on my way to the bus stop. After squeezing myself into several turtlenecks, I realized they were so tight, I might as well be wearing a sign saying H
ELLO
, L
OOK AT
M
Y
B
IG
B
REASTS
. I tried one of the shirts Angeli lent me, a low-cut pink T-shirt with rhinestone daisies. It really isn’t my style, but I didn’t have much choice. Wouldn’t Gwen be happy, I think as I climb onto the bus, if she knew I was wearing pastel.

As I settle into my seat, a man in a dark gray business suit sitting across the aisle steals glances at my cleavage. I pull my blazer tighter, but it has the opposite effect, accentuating my figure. I glare at him. He studies the ad overhead for teen abstinence as though it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. When we reach downtown, he exits the bus with a furtive glance in my direction, flashing me an apologetic grin before he turns to leave.

“Don’t be too ’ard on ’im, luv; the lad can’t help it. It’s in ’is genes.” A gravelly Cockney voice comes from somewhere very close by, as if I have Bob Hoskins on my own personal headset. Maybe it’s a street performer on his way to work, practicing voice throwing to meet girls.

I glance around: nothing but old women and a few pimply Asian teenage girls. The only men are the driver and a couple of drunks dozing in the back.

Scanning the passengers again, I respond, “I don’t care what’s in his genes. It’s rude.”

“It’s biological,” the sandpapery-voiced lad repeats. “ ’e really can’t help it.”

I’m so busy looking for the mystery Brit that I miss my stop. I notice Schubert’s in the window, with its unmistakable red neon sign, and ring the bell. Stepping off the bus, I’m relieved to have escaped the mystery man and his unwanted opinions. Such a nosy parker, my mom used to say, stealing a phrase from her mother, who was British.

Before I reach Schubert’s, I put on my game face, shedding Molly Gallagher like an old coat.
I am Diner X, the secret eyes, lips, and taste buds for thousands of loyal readers.
I’ll slip in, drink in the atmosphere, hope for a little drama in the kitchen, and slip back out again without anyone the wiser. Before entering, I check my makeup in the side mirror of a rusty purple van parked in the loading zone in front of the restaurant. I bet the owners just love having this eyesore showcased in front of their restaurant. A meter maid zips up, hops out, and jots down the van’s license.

“Must be some kind of stud drives this rig,” the meter maid quips, nodding at the license plate. I stroll around. A plastic license frame boasts The Shaggin’ Wagon. Beside it, an oversized psychedelic glittery oval sticker: Big Daddy.

I chuckle. “What a jerk.”

“Hey, wait a minute! You can’t ticket me. It’s a loading zone. I’m unloading construction materials here.” Big Daddy doesn’t look like a complete lunatic, but he clearly belongs to the subspecies
Weirdo.

The meter maid cracks a grin. “Hi, Wolf. You need a permit.”

Laughing, Wolf opens the back of his van and takes out several two-by-fours, a bucket of plaster, and a filthy tub overflowing with assorted junk. He uses the tub to prop open the front door to Schubert’s. On his last trip, he gestures expansively toward the elegant facade of the restaurant, a modernist checkerboard of white, red, and black tile punctuated with chrome.

“This is my permit. I’m beautifying this butthole of a city.” His hair is chopped erratically in a style that would scream rock band if it wasn’t for his paint-splattered coveralls and slender, fit build. He probably cuts it himself. In the dark.

“Don’t you call my city a butthole,” says the meter maid, but she has stopped writing the ticket.

“Look around, sister: gray and white. Oh, hey, let’s throw in some rain and a big stupid Hammering Man to make it interesting.”

“I like him.” She nods defensively down the street toward the Seattle Art Museum’s controversial outdoor installation: an eighty-foot-tall silhouette of an iron man wielding a motorized hammer that slowly moves up and down.

“I do too,” I add, although secretly I think the best thing about him is that the Lusty Lady, a porn shop across the street, makes frequent reference to his oversized tool on their reader board.

Wolf turns to me. “You want to know what the Hammering Man is? The Hammering Man is a tribute to the working man by a bunch of satin-fingered pantywaists who have never so much as lifted a hammer unless it’s one of those tiny little silver ones used to bash in the heads of lobsters.”

I tilt my head at Wolf. “Lobsters don’t have heads. Besides, most people cut them open with scissors.”

He sizes me up. “You know what I mean.”

“So what if a bunch of rich people want to pay tribute to the working man? It’s no skin off your nose.”

“No skin off my ass is the correct saying.”

“I prefer nose, thank you very much.” The meter maid’s head swivels between us.

A broad smile cracks Wolf’s face. “You’re fun to argue with.”

“Aren’t you going to write him a ticket?” I sweetly ask the meter maid.

“She won’t. She does this every day around lunchtime, hoping to get bribed,” Wolf says, winking at her.

“Naw, I can’t be bribed. Not with money, anyhow. Not at lunchtime,” the meter maid says with as much innocence as a parking enforcement officer in a big city can muster.

“Risotto with prawns, finished with a white wine reduction and fresh tarragon. And a glass of pinot grigio,” Wolf says with perfect Italian inflections.

“No wine. I’m a government employee,” says the meter maid, flipping shut her ticket book. “Just let me park my car,” she says, returning to her glorified scooter.

Wolf and I stand awkwardly on the sidewalk. We’ve had a conversation, so I can’t just dash off. I’m worried about getting this much attention before a review. It’s one of those moments in life when the power to disappear would really come in handy. Wolf is gazing at me a little too intently. He takes a step closer, bending slightly. He smells of soap and pine. His teeth are straight with a slight chip on one incisor.

“What about you? Are you coming in?” The skin around his hazel eyes crinkles mischievously. When was the last time I was this close to a man? He’s a nervy son of a bitch, I’ll give him that. I take a step back, trying to compose myself.

“Yes, I am.” I sound prim, old maidish.

He takes a step toward the door and opens it with a flourish. “Enjoy your lunch,” he whispers in my ear as I enter the restaurant.

I turn back to get another look at him, but he’s already gone back to his truck. What a strange way to start off a review.

W
HILE
I
WAIT
for my appetizer to arrive, I examine the ceiling. It’s been ripped out to expose beams and a high, open space, which has been plastered smooth, giving the room a cathedral-like vibe. Hanging in various niches, high up, are a few pieces of framed art. It’s a really bizarre setup. Periodically the diners crane their necks to view the artwork hanging high above them, but it’s fruitless. You’d need binoculars to really see anything.

I’m sinking my teeth into a succulent plate of Spanish jamón drizzled with viscous green olive oil, scattered with marinated olives, when Wolf steps into a climbing harness, hooking himself to a rope. Like a spider, he climbs the side of the wall. Once airborne, he busies himself with what appears to be a motor above one of the paintings. It’s so disconcerting, I have to remind myself to pay attention to the food. When I look up, I notice a small, dark woman in slacks and a white blouse peering up at Wolf. She bites her lip, cringing every time he swings by rope to another part of the ceiling.

She sees me watching her and smiles tiredly. “It’s exhausting, watching him, no?” Her eastern European accent is musical and faint.

“Not your usual lunchtime entertainment.”

“I don’t know what I worry about more: him dropping a hammer on someone’s head or falling himself.”

“He looks pretty safe up there.” From above, Wolf watches us momentarily before returning to his work. He’s too far away for me to read the look on his face.

“Ach, he’s been climbing for years now. But you know, I never feel comfortable with it. It’s just so dangerous.” She looks downward, shaking her head as though clearing the image. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? I am Sasha, the owner of Schubert’s. Are you enjoying your meal?”

“Yes. I’m curious, though; what region of Spain is the ham from? By Córdoba or more to the north?”

“To the north. I found the ham from the southern region to be very salty—”

“But it depends on the farm,” we both say, followed by a laugh. This is what I miss working from home: the company of other foodies, people who actually care if their ham was air cured or smoked, if the farm is small and organic or huge and streamlined.

“This ham is actually from Andorra. We found a farmer who supplies some of the restaurants in Barcelona. The pigs, they eat acorns; makes the meat very sweet. It’s very good, no?”

“Yes, a very nice balance of sweet and salty,” I say, thinking I want to do a whole review devoted to antipasto; antipasto and rough red wines.

Sasha’s eyes sparkle as she lifts a finger. “I will bring you some of their sausage. You must try it!” Before I can respond, she rushes to the back of the restaurant, kitten heels clicking.

Mopping up the remaining olive oil with the dense, rosemary-flecked bread, I notice that Wolf has inched across the ceiling until he’s nearly above me. He lowers the painting that’s directly above my head repeatedly, hoisting it back up, adjusting the motor controlling the hoist.

Sasha returns with a tiny plate of paper-thin salami slices. I thank her and have to stop myself from inhaling them; they are each so brilliantly flavored with herbs and spices with just enough fat. They melt in my mouth. A little European vacation, each one of them, I muse, wishing I could jot that down for my review. But a notebook would give me away. Still, I’m enjoying Sasha as much as the food.

“Delicious. All of them. Really wonderful,” I enthuse, worriedly eyeing the painting hovering above my head.

The painting doesn’t bother Sasha. She is so delighted to share her enthusiasm for cured meats, she’s practically dancing on her toes. She claps her hands. “Tell me, what did you order?”

“The roast chicken with artichokes and gremolata butter.”

She beams as though I’ve just handed her a bouquet. “Perfect with the ham; one of my favorites. And for dessert? No!” She raises a small, finely shaped hand. “Let me guess.” She closes her eyes, thinks for a moment. “Chocolate crème brûlée.”

I grin. “Great minds think alike, although the Calvados apple tart was a close second.”

“There is always next time,” Sasha says.

“Be careful, Mom, she knows an awful lot about food. She’s probably from another restaurant,” Wolf calls down. “Scouting the competition.”

Sasha glares up at him but studies me, slightly worried. “You’re not, are you?”

I shake my head. Damn, I’ve said too much. Diner X talks to everyone but the owner.

“A chef?” A wrinkle between her eyes deepens.

I shake my head, taking a small bite of chicken, which has arrived with a side dish of roasted potatoes sprinkled with coarse salt and fresh rosemary. “This is really good,” I offer, trying to change the conversation.

Sasha frowns, as if trying to place my face. “So, if you’re not a chef . . .”

I rack my brain, trying to think of a job involving food. “I’m a consultant,” I blurt. It’s vague enough to get me off the hook without really lying. “I consult . . . about food.”

“A food consultant? Perfect!” Sasha claps her hands delightedly, as though I’m giving her a stellar Zagat rating. “Then you must help me with Food Fest!”

Chapter Five

B
EFORE
I
CAN
protest, Sasha scoots into the booth beside me, spending the rest of the meal sharing her plans for Food Fest, the gourmet event she’s organized, which is three weeks away. Ten of the twelve restaurants on this heavy-hitting restaurant street are participating. It will be a weeklong festival of wine tasting and seasonal cooking, featuring local organic produce and meats. It culminates with an outdoor dinner. The street will be blocked off to make room for beer and wine gardens with cordoned off dining areas in front of each restaurant.