Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (47 page)

I
maneuvered us out of downtown and back toward the Gass-up! on Oregon Pike,
since I realized Vito’s Towncar was running on something close to fumes.  And I
assumed the nearly zillion-dollars per gallon might be closer to double the
closer we got to New York.

I
pulled up to the gas tank, and Armand put a hand up.  “Please,” he said, and
went to fill up the tank.  He might prefer to use only one word at a time, but
he was nice about it.  Then again, he’s been living in Lancaster for almost two
decades.

At
the same time, K. decided he needed a frozen latte, Ida Rose was desperate for
her monthly horoscope and Walter had forgotten he hadn’t eaten anything since a
couple of hours ago and was concerned about his blood sugar.

We
left Gass-up! a few months later.

CHAPTER 16

(Saturday afternoon)

As
we finally
pulled onto Route 222 North, we enjoyed a few sparkling moments of amicable
solace.  K. slurped at his frozen latte. Ida Rose read her In-Depth Personal
Monthly Horoscope aloud while Armand grunted sagely in response and Walter
chewed.  Even the pungent smell of onions from Walter’s sub wafted peacefully
in the air conditioned breeze.

Once
on Route 76, the landscape became far less scenic, so our imaginations got
going.  Armand began to speculate about the evening’s fare.  While he was still
phobic about the lack of bonafide wait staff or tablecloths, he was beginning
to ease himself into the role of patron.

“Hearts
of palm,” he sighed.  “And pesto! Something must have the pesto!”

K.
leant forward to speak into Armand’s ear. “Maybe with sun-dried tomato!”

Armand
attempted to turn around to concur but unfortunately got choked a bit by the
seat belt anti-whirling around thingy.

“I
certainly wouldn’t mind something Champagne-ish,” Ida Rose chimed in.

“Or
maybe frozen-vodka like… with Beluga caviar,” I sang.

Glancing
at a portion of Walter through the rear-view mirror I saw him blush.  His face
began to match his outfit.  “I know it’s summer and all, and folks like to
mostly eat on the light side,” he began, “but if it’s a nice air-conditioned
room, I sure could get around a nice rack of lamb, with some organic rosemary,
new potatoes and maybe a braised vegetable ragu.”   Clearly his recent cookbook
editing was shining through.

Ida
sighed.  “It truly does not matter to me about our entrees or appetizers. Aunt
Gladys’ diabetes is the death of me and I would surely kill for a lovely
decadent dessert – especially profiteroles with heaps of chocolate sauce and
clotted cream… or chocolate cheesecake with a smashed chocolate crumb
crust… with heaps of chocolate sauce and cream…”

We
all sighed affirmations in unison.

As
we passed Kutztown, Walter passed gas.  Windows were opened and apologies were
made, along with a good many “Excuse me,” and “Beg pardons!” thrown in for good
measure. Ida Rose re-consulted her horoscope by waving it frantically.  K.
stroked his forehead and complained to himself in the third person about the
beginnings of a brain freeze.  The delicate straps of my fancy dress sandals
cut into my swollen flesh like dental floss.  Armand smoked.

A
couple of hours later, riding along with windows open and the AC blasting,
Walter lay sprawled in the backseat asleep, pooting softly.  Ida Rose lay
slumped across his belly holding her nose in her sleep.  K. lay full back,
snoring, with his arm on Ida’s shoulder, oblivious to everything.  I glanced
sideways at Armand. He smoked.

Finally
I found our way down Canal Street and into the West Village.  As this is
generally the land of sell-your-first-child-for-a-parking-space, I was relieved
and grateful that K. made sure our ‘invitation’ included a parking privilege.

K.
had printed out directions from a mapping website, and read them at me as we
wove our way around the same blocks repeatedly.  Finally, K. screeched and I
turned into what seemed a miniscule driveway.  It was actually a long, narrow
alley that led us downward into a steep pit.

I
turned the Towncar’s lights on, took Auntie’s sunglasses off, and eased the car
downward slowly.  We reached the very bottom and a very locked gate.  I thunked
my head on the steering wheel repeatedly.

“How
do we get in?” Walter asked from the back.

“Well
there must be a person who’s paid to attend, and who clearly is on a break,”
Ida Rose said matter-of-factly.I banged my head on the steering wheel some
more.

“Well,
it’s not exactly like we can just back up!” K. cried.

We
looked in plural out the back window at the cavernous path leading upward at
what appeared to be a near 90-degree angle.  Nope: no backing up here, even
without Walter in the backseat.

K.
smacked himself on his forehead with his clipboard repeatedly.  Then he looked
at a note that fell out.

“Oh,
well, of course!” he sang out.  We stared at him and his newly creased
forehead.  “Just press the BUTTON!” he instructed.

We
looked at him.  K. pointed past me, toward a somewhat hidden and very dirty
round intercom-like button mounted in the brick wall just before the gate.  It
was black and unlit.  It looked like a plain, old, black coat button, sitting
next to a similarly large, black, oblong coat button.  I squinted, wondering
which button to push.  The oblong button scuttled off.  The round button
didn’t.  I pressed it.

Miraculously,
instead of scuttling off or biting me, it buzzed.

“Hell-ooooooooo!”
a cheery man’s voice answered.

K.
yodeled back, “Hel-loooooooo!”

“So
glad you have joined us!  Password please!” the gatekeeper answered.

“Oh,
piss,” K. muttered, furiously flipping the pages of his disheveled clipboard. 
“Oh, alright! Here we go!” he exclaimed.

“Ready?”
the disembodied voice requested.

“Quite!”
K. chimed happily. He removed the password text page and began to sing.

“Sorry,
but we really can’t hear you, dearie,” the disembodied voice transmitted.

Armand
sighed, got out and exchanged seats with K., lit a cigarette and stood outside
the car.  He had to.  If he had a lit cigarette in the backseat, with Walter’s
gas and Ida’s antique fluttery garb, someone would have been set on fire.

K.
hopped in next to me and leaned across me – literally – and began to sing the
first phrase of ‘New York, New York’ across my boobs and into the not-roach
coat button.

The
gatekeeper responded with a final, “Neee-wwww Yo-ooork!” and buzzed the gate
open to the garage.

Armand
stomped out his smoke, and climbed in next to Walter.  I sighed and gunned it,
glad to be through, but wondered what four-part harmony they’d make us yodel to
get ourselves out of here at the end of the night.

“Well,
where to from here?” Ida Rose muffled from underneath Walter’s armpit.

“Yeah,
I mean, you got an address and all, right?” Walter asked.

K.
spit forth placating statements like a deranged Pez dispenser.  “Yes, yes, yes!
No, no, no! Of course! Absolutely!”

Once
K. was through, he registered my stare.  And he noted that I noted his cold
sweat.

“Wazzup?”
I asked.

He
leaned forward into my lap in order to whisper to me while pretending he was
examining at my S&M shoes.  “I forgot to write the stupid address down,” he
confided.

Shit.

“Okay,
it’s not so bad,” I said.  He looked at me.  “You’ve got the phone number,
right?”

K.
shook his head.  I sighed.

Armand
cleared his throat.  “Simple, stoopid sheet,” he said.

“Huh?”
K. asked brightly.

“Jez
go and prezz de button,” Armand instructed.

“Of
course!!” And off he skipped.

Armand
reclaimed his gun seat.  I looked at him.  “How’d you know?” I asked.

“I
read laps,” he said.

“I
think you mean lips.”

He
shrugged. “Whatever.”

K.
came back happier and sweatier and invited us to join him outside of the car. 
Which we did.  Which was why I understood why Armand was smoking incessantly
when he stood outside of the car, even more than his usual addictive self. 
Summer in New York.  The distinct smell of urine, combined with a hint of sweat
and decaying attitudes, was steeped into every available concrete surface. 
While the Doo-doo had experienced some recent issues, these were nothing to the
well-spring of historic stench coming from the parking garage.  Ick. Ick. Ick. 
How do people live with this smell?  In Lancaster, there are newly fertilized
pastures I ride through in the springtime that are less offensive than this. 
But we ride along holding our noses, safe in the knowledge that fertilizer
tilling lasts for only three weeks.  This?  I was pretty sure the urine I
smelled dated all the way back to Fiorella LaGuardia.

“Hey,
guys, are we here? Are we going?” Walter called.

“Yes,
if this is the correct place of destination, I suggest we put forth,” Ida Rose
chimed.

Armand
nodded.  “Yes, ve are cooking,” he assured through his cigarette plumes.

Armand
opened the back door of Vito’s Towncar on Ida’s side, and we pulled Ida out
from underneath Walter, her antique attire a bit the worse for the wear.  She
looked like a rumpled moth.

Then
came time to extricate Walter, which was the hardest part of the whole
process.  Armand smoked.  He stubbed his butt out beneath his left shoe.  He
surveyed me, K. and Ida.  He sighed.

“Ve
needs lev-er-aggghe,” he instructed.

“Huh?”
we all asked.

He
sighed again and explained and re-explained a few hundred times.  Finally we
got it.

Armand
would push Walter out of the back seat, while we pulled him out.  A lot like
Winnie the Pooh and the honey pot story.  With Armand having cast himself as
Rabbit.  Poor Pooh.  I mean, Walter.

We
pushed and we pulled and finally all the King’s men pulled Walter out of Vito’s
backseat.   Where he’d been sitting remained a seriously sweaty puddle.  Which,
it being a Towncar, was leather.  I fretted.  Armand shrugged and wiped the
backseat with an exceedingly crisp looking handkerchief which was clearly for
showing, not for blowing.  Armand rung out the handkerchief.  It dripped red.

“OH
MY GOD! Walter! You are bleeding!”  K. screamed and flailed about with a series
of motions that looked like he was on fire.

“LOOK! 
LOOK!” Ida joined in, now as Lady Macbeth, and pointed dramatically toward
Armand’s handkerchief.

“Walter,
are you alright?” I asked.

Walter’s
ears began a crescendo that came close to matching his red pizza outfit.

“No,
I’m not bleeding; just stupid,” he began.  “I wanted to look extra spiffy
tonight.  So I dyed my white pants to match the red of my new shirt my mom got
me… but I forgot to wash them first before wearing them, like the dye
directions said.  Sorry about your seat…”

I
felt awful.  We all did.   Especially Lady Macbeth.  I mean Ophelia.  That is,
Ida.  We were all obviously trying very hard to impress, especially poor
Walter.

After
several choruses of my mistake, sorry, nothing to worry about, just
over-dramatic that’s me, we continued our pilgrimage.  I spluttered and limped
as I went: the sandals were truly taking their toll.

“Okay,
where to now, chief?  Are we blindfolded and led to this place?”

“You
know that really would be wonderfully dramatic but probably cause a lot of
undue attention… and cost a lot more,” K. replied thoughtfully.  “Walking
directions are right here,” he added, waving his clipboard and some notes he
must have jotted down while he confirmed our reservations in the parking
garage.  He might have confirmed reservations.  I knew I had many.

I’ve
heard about the death marches in Japan during WWII.  Luckily their marches
ended in death.  We marched two-by-two up and around the various passageways of
the parking garage’s ramps, toward the street.  With no respite in sight, we
passed out of the stinky garage and onto city sidewalks hot enough to fry
eggs.  Literally.  A pigeon’s egg had plummeted onto the pavement moments
earlier and lay sizzling.   (Flung by a pro-choice apartment dwelling tenant?
The choice being theirs?)  A small, sad, scrambled (non-embryo thank-you-Lord)
egg in a cracked half shell lay sizzling on the pavement.  I stared and
wondered how I could achieve that presentation – sans pavement, of course – with
a normal egg for a normal person.  Presentation-wise, it would be very
dramatic, with the half shell and all.  Like oysters.

Anyway,
apparently the main entrance to the building was around the corner, the
distance of about two city blocks.   Given my screaming feet, this was
equivalent to walking to Kuwait. 

K.
and Armand, being the professionals of the evening, led the charge while Ida
fluttered along helping Walter, and I brought up the rear reviving my Quasimodo
impersonation.

After
the twelfth pause to allow Walter to intake his albuterol inhaler – for which
my feet throbbed gratefully – K. perceived Mecca.  “There it is! The Front
Door!” he rejoiced.

We
stared blankly at him.  K. slapped himself repeatedly in the forehead with his
clipboard.  People walked by ignoring him.  He acted like every other New
Yorker.  He then stepped furtively toward our pack, glancing about to ensure
privacy amongst the several hundred passersby, and explained, “Our Supper Club
is in this building!”

We
collectively perked up.  OMG – soon food, chairs, beverages and
honest-to-gosh-air-conditioning would be ours, just a few paces away.  And
maybe it even had fancy restrooms where they give you mouthwash and perfume and
Band-Aids.  Especially the Band-Aids.