Georgia's Kitchen (13 page)
“You know what really sucks? Aside from the fact I’m essentially unemployable unless I want to move to Boston?” Georgia took a sip from her mug and wrinkled her nose. “This tea is really bad.”
“Isn’t it disgusting? What is it?” Clem finally spoke up.
“It’s good for you, Clem.” Lo shot Clem a dirty look. “Go on, George.”
“The worst part is discovering what I dreamed about having my entire life—a career, a handsome, successful fiancé, the possibility of a family soon—even that didn’t make me happy. Even before I found out about the coke I wasn’t happy. And if being on the verge of getting everything I wanted didn’t make me happy, then what will?”
“You’ll find another job, George. And another guy,” Lo said.
“Or open your own place,” Clem interjected.
“I know I will. Eventually. But who’s to say I’ll be any happier than I was with Glenn or at Marco? What if the real problem isn’t with either of them, but with me?” Georgia stood up and walked to the ceramic Ganesh idol, painted blue, orange, and red—fiesta colors. She ran her hand over the glaze, crackled with age, stopping at the spots that had been rubbed bare.
“Wait a second. Just because you weren’t happy with your cokehead fiancé and at your job with your asshole boss doesn’t mean you’ll never be happy again. Glenn has a drug problem, George, and maybe it’s not the sole reason he didn’t make you happy, but it certainly has something to do with it,” said Clem.
“She’s right, George,” Lo said. “And the job wasn’t all that. Sure you were head chef at a superhot restaurant, but you weren’t even allowed to change the menu. What’s so great about that?”
Georgia shook her head. “Nothing.”
“You know, no one knows what will make them truly happy until they find it. Think of it as finding the right pair of jeans—we all know you’re good at that. The J Brand’s may be too low, the Earnest Sewns too saggy in the butt, the Citizens too tight in the tummy, but the Rogan’s, now those make your legs look a mile long, your belly flat as a Frisbee, and your tush like a juicy Georgia peach.” Clem sat back and smiled, pleased with her metaphor.
“But you have to go for it, George, or try on the jeans, in Clem-speak,” Lo added.
“I hear what you guys are saying. I really do. But I have a zillion pairs of jeans in my closet. I buy jeans like other people buy toilet paper. And you know what the problem is? I still haven’t found the perfect pair.”
A birdlike woman dressed in a black T-shirt and shapeless
cargo pants, who looked way too frail to be a massage therapist, walked into the lounge. “Georgia?”
“Hi.” Georgia wrapped her robe tightly around her waist and smiled at the woman. “See you guys,” she said over her shoulder.
Her friends were right. Her two exes—fiancé and job—weren’t right for her, but finding the ones that were would be like finding truffles in Central Park. She wasn’t even sure it was possible to have the great job
and
the great guy. One or the other, maybe. As easy as finding the right pair of jeans, Clem had said. Only Georgia had spent half her life searching for the perfect pair and still come up short.
“Totally mortifying,” Clem said. “I couldn’t help it. It was that green tea. I knew it tasted funny.” She patted her belly for good measure.
Fresh from their spa treatments, the girls nestled in comfy club chairs at Grasslands, a low-key spot a few blocks from the Bamboo, drinking Pimm’s Cups and nibbling grilled calamari, country pâté, and sliders. Too far off the radar to register with the cognoscenti, the place was blissfully empty, which was all the better as far as Georgia was concerned. Clem relayed her story about her mousy massage therapist and a bodily function she couldn’t control.
“Clem, green tea is good for your stomach,” Lo said. “It doesn’t give you gas. It gets rid of it.”
“Oh, believe me, I know,” Clem said. “I tooted at least five times, and while the massage therapist was working my hamstrings too.”
“You’re lying,” Lo said.
“I was like a machine gun. Not silent, but very deadly indeed.” Clem held up her drink as if it were a cross. “All true; swear.”
Clem was queen of the Story. She would sacrifice nearly everything to tell a good one, even if what actually happened bore little, if any, resemblance to the tale she told. For as long as Georgia and Lo had known her, she’d signed off each story with her signature “all true; swear” tag, which meant absolutely nothing. Regardless, she made for a great dinner partner and went on more second dates than anyone else. It was the third date she had trouble with.
“So I hope you don’t mind we told some people to come by,” Lo slipped in between bites of pâté.
“Some people? And who would those people be?”
“Oh, you know, Ricky, your friends from the restaurant. They said they’d drop by after their shift.”
“You’re kidding, Loreen.
Marco
people?” Georgia polished off the rest of her drink and stood. “I’m bailing.” But it was too late. She spotted Ricky’s Angels cap bobbing in the distance, getting closer and closer. “Shit.”
Lo stared at the table. “But we thought you’d want to see Ricky—”
“Ricky’s fine. But everyone else after I just got fired? You guys are killing me.”
“Killing you? The plan isn’t to kill you, Chef, the plan is to get you stinking drunk, maybe sell off one of your kidneys, and let you wake up in a tub of cold water with a note next to you that says to call 911.” Ricky swung his arm around her shoulders.
“Funny, Ricky.”
“I knew three forks was too good to be true,” he said. “But half a fucking fork? That’s just cold. Not that Marco doesn’t deserve it, but you don’t.”
“Thanks.”
“Seriously, Chef, I’m so pissed off I don’t even know what to
say.” He tossed his head, and his bangs rested on his temple for a split second before sliding right back into his eyes. “Yeah, I do. Want a drink?”
“Sure. Whatever you’re having, as long as it’s not a tequila sunrise.”
“Hey. Don’t knock the mighty TS.”
“Friends! Frenemies! Chefs! Former chefs!” All heads turned as one of the Marco bartenders, whose claim to fame was a walk-on role on
Law & Order: Criminal Intent,
made his entrance. Relishing the attention, he scuffled with a dining chair that got in his way, knocking it to the floor before arriving at the table. “Good to see everyone.” He winked at Georgia. “Especially you, Georgie Girl.”
Trying to recall if she had ever spoken to him, Georgia offered a halfhearted smile.
“Georgia,” Bernard said, walking toward her, “it’s only been two days and we already miss you.” Even in after-hours mode—collar unbuttoned, shirtsleeves rolled up, necktie nowhere to be found—he looked country-club polished.
“So says the axman himself!” Clem snorted. She was well on her way to being shit-faced, had already shared her green-tea gas story with an unsuspecting waiter, and was just waiting for her next victim.
“I was merely the messenger, Clem.” Bernard turned to Georgia. “Thought you’d like to know, we were dead last night, and tonight was even worse. Twenty-six covers and”—he looked at his watch—“shut down at nine thirty. This is not Scranton, Pennsylvania. I was practically recruiting people from the street.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Georgia asked. “Because it sort of does.”
She excused herself from the growing-bigger-by-the-minute
party and walked to the bathroom, joining the wannabe actor-slash-bartender who stood in the vestibule between two unisex stalls.
“Hey,” she said.
“Are you following me, Georgie Girl?”
“No.”
“So tell me, is it true that your fiancé dumped you?”
She stared at him. “Tactful, Mr. Whatever Your Name Is.”
“Fred.” He squinted his eyes and gave her a once-over, appraising her like a horse he might buy. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you, Georgie Girl.”
“Can you please stop? My name is Georgia. And since we’ve never spoken, I’m not sure why you’re even here.”
“Feisty.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I like that in a girl.”
A wobbly guy walked out of the bathroom, grazing his hands against the walls to steady himself.
“After you,” Fred said, motioning to the bathroom.
Georgia slid in, leaning her back against the door. Please, she thought, please let my prospects be better than him. She pulled down her jeans and squatted over the toilet; she’d never dream of sitting on it, even over a layer of toilet paper the way Clem did. No matter how clean it looked, or how many doctors said you couldn’t catch anything from a toilet seat, she’d spent the last ten years working in restaurants. She knew better.
By the time she returned to the dining room, a portion of the floor had been transformed into a makeshift disco with college-boy waiters doing the white-man overbite, beefy line cooks exhibiting surprisingly graceful footwork, and trained ballerinas-slash-hostesses doing their best Hustle. The sound track from
Fame
blared in the background.
“Chef, you gotta dance with me,” Ricky said, grabbing her waist.
“If you were anyone else, I’d say no. And by the way, thanks for that drink.”
“Oh, shit. That was for you. I was wondering why I was double-fisting.”
She laughed. “Nice, Ricky.”
“Did I tell you a friend of mine is opening a place in Brentwood? He’s still looking for a chef.” He twirled her under his arm. “You always said you liked L.A.”
“Brentwood? Isn’t that where O.J. killed his wife?”
“Just giving you an option.”
“I know. But I really hope I don’t need to traverse the country to find a job.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need to
leave
the country.” Ricky dipped her to the floor as the song ended. “You know, go to Barcelona or Vienna or something.”
“Wiener schnitzel’s not really my thing, Rick. But it is an interesting idea. Definitely an interesting idea.” She headed back to the table, but Bernard intercepted her before she could sit down.
“Tell me, Georgia, how is it that whenever we go out, we end up looking like the cast of
Dance Party USA
? Shouldn’t we be scarfing down plates of cow balls and headcheese like all the other hardworking restaurant folk?”
“You may be hardworking restaurant folk, Bernard. I, as it turns out, don’t work at all.” She grinned. “Just giving you shit.”
“Yes, and thanks for that.” He took a sip of his drink. “So, I don’t mean to harp on this, but have you given any more thought to what you’re going to do?”
Georgia placed her hands over his shoulders and pretended to shake him. “Can you cut me some slack, please? I’ve been unemployed for exactly”—she checked her watch—“thirty-six hours, and I’m drunk. Please stop pestering me.”
She continued to the table and picked up her bag, catching Clem’s eye over the hulking frame of the garde-manger who barely spoke English and was grinding his crotch into Clem’s in time to “Hot Lunch.” She broke from his grasp and rushed over to Georgia.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going home. I’m drunk and I’m tired. Tell Lo I said good night.”
“You won’t stay for just one more drink?”
“I’ve already had just one more several times over. Call me tomorrow.” Georgia kissed Clem’s cheek and walked out the door. “Ciao,” she shouted over her shoulder.
Pulling out the huge file marked “Italy” from the desk drawer, Georgia plopped down on the floor and placed the brown accordion file on her lap. Sally lay down next to her, resting her head on Georgia’s knee. Georgia rifled through the file, tossing aside newspaper articles, glossy magazine pages, maps, restaurant cards, felted drink coasters, directions to the Prada outlet, matchbooks, wine labels, numbers scrawled on napkins, a drink ticket from a club, everything but what she was looking for. Then, finally, there it was, a piece of paper torn from a notepad.
IL BORGHETTO
it said in navy block letters, then underneath in careful Euro script:
Claudia Cavalli
039-55-5555
Claudia had been Georgia’s boss the summer between her first and second years at the Culinary Institute, when she apprenticed in Florence at Claudia’s restaurant, La Farfalla. She was
one of Italy’s finest female chefs, finest chefs period. Her influence on Georgia had been huge. Hadn’t Mercedes Sante said Georgia did rustic Italian food well (or at least not terribly)? For that, she had Claudia to thank.
They had connected here and there over the years, and anytime Georgia made a significant move, she’d let her mentor know. Now she was hoping Claudia would know someone who needed a chef. Fuck Brentwood, Boston,
and
Barcelona. Georgia was going to Italy.
She sat down at the desk, powered up her Mac, and punched in Claudia’s e-mail address and then the subject—
Greetings from New York!
—friendly, upbeat,
not
desperate.
“Cara Claudia,”
she began, speaking aloud as she typed,
“Ciao, bellissima…”
I
t had been four days. Four agonizing days during which Georgia waited to hear from Claudia and, while waiting, began canceling her future. She peeked at her watch; seven minutes since her last e-mail check. Seven was okay; anything less made her feel too desperate. She put her iced coffee on the desk and took a seat in the swivel chair she’d had since college. It squeaked its disapproval as she bellied up to her computer; the chair had seen more action in the past ninety-six hours than it had in its entire life. Her in-box was filled with the usual deletable junk: a one-day sale at some shoe store, a chain letter about a sick kid in Saskatchewan, an unfunny joke Clem forwarded from her brother, nothing from Claudia.
