Off the Menu (16 page)

“Blissfully quiet and uneventful. I made myself a rolled turkey breast, some yeast rolls, steamed green beans, and a baked sweet potato. Had a day of football, rocked out a little on my guitar, took a long nap, and then made little turkey sandwiches on the leftover rolls. Indulged in some Chips Ahoy cookies, which for some reason hold a special place in my heart for no rational reason. Spoke to my folks and my sister and her family. And now I’ve just been watching TV and hoping you would call.” There is nothing calculated or creepy about him saying this. He is matter-of-fact, and impeccably genuine. “And how was
your
day?”

“Mostly lovely. We ended up with Patrick last-minute, after his flight got cancelled, all the food was great, the kids were hilarious, and I am stuffed to the gills.”

“Sounds lovely. Share the menu, please, I need to live vicariously.”

And in this moment, I suddenly regret that I didn’t invite him. Even though it would have been way too weird—who has a first date at Thanksgiving with your whole family? But
we have spoken on the phone almost every day for the past three weeks, and every conversation flies by, no lulls, no awkwardness. I feel like we actually
know
each other. And I sort of hate that we couldn’t figure out a way to meet in person sooner, because as much as I resented Patrick horning in on my family’s day, I am equally sad that RJ spent his day alone, and for some reason, I feel like it would have been much more natural for him to be with us than it was for Patrick.

“Well, we roasted a turkey, of course ….”

I share the whole meal, we compare brine recipes, he tells me about the yeast rolls he made and they sound amazing. I cook up Dumpling’s chicken meat while we are talking and pack it up with the rice. He tells me about his mom’s pehic pie, essentially a pecan pie with half the pecans replaced with hickory nuts. I admit I’ve never tasted a hickory nut and he promises to rectify that. We talk about vacations we’ve taken, and places we are dying to go back to. I tell him about Dumpling’s Houdini Tomato Adventure. He asks me to e-mail a picture of Dumpling, which I do, and love the sound of his laugh when he opens the attachment.

“You’ll forgive me saying, but that dog looks like a parts bin!”

“I know. He’s a little odd-looking.”

“He seems to have quite the collection of dog feet.” It’s true. In the picture he is lying on his side, all four of his feet are gathered in front of him, and it doesn’t look like they match at all. “But cute. And if they are ever going to make
Men in Black Four
, he’s a shoo-in.”

Before I even notice, it is nearly midnight.

“I suppose we should probably save something to talk about Saturday,” I say, suppressing a yawn.

“I don’t worry for us finding things to talk about. I was thinking one last meal at Terragusto on Addison before it closes for good, does that work for you?”

“I’ve heard good things, but haven’t ever been. Perfect choice.”

Dumpling and I take one more quick visit outside after RJ and I say our good nights. He still is showing signs of being a little poorly, but not as bad as it could have been, and I am hopeful we might make it through the night. When we get back inside I climb into bed, and Dumpling climbs up beside me, pawing aside the covers and settling himself with his head on the pillow. He smells like graham crackers. I rub his side.

“Dumpling, my love, you’ll take this the right way, I hope … My fingers are crossed that in the near future, you might have to start sleeping in your own bed for a change.”

Dumpling makes a noise that sounds very much like “harrumph.”

“You’re right. I won’t count my chickens.”

But I can’t help it. The chickens, they are begging to be counted, and the strongest, most self-reliant girl in the world would be hard-pressed not to at least indulge a little.

I lay in the dark, listening to Dumpling snore softly, full of good food and warm feelings and a pervading sense of potential and possibility. And I am thankful.

W
hat are you wearing?” Barry asks.

“I’m wearing a black swishy skirt, that charcoal sweater I have with the matte beading around the collar and cuffs, and my black kitten-heel boots.”

“Hair up or down?”

“Up in the front so I’m not moving it out of my face all night.”

“Good. Nervous?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Not really, my tummy is all aflutter, and I’m praying that it behaves itself and doesn’t pull a no-gallbladder moment during dinner. I mean, mostly I’m excited. I feel like I’m going to meet an old friend. We’ve been e-mailing and talking for like a month and a half. And we’ve both been really honest about wanting to be actual friends, so I feel like this is just meeting a friend for dinner. I don’t feel any pressure on the romantic side, I think we are both just figuring if there is chemistry there is chemistry, and if not, we still have met someone fabulous and interesting that we genuinely want to know. On the other hand, that of course makes me really want there to be chemistry. And I know that he can’t be as perfect as he appears to be, but then again, neither can I. So what if he really is fantastic and then I’m not his flavor?”

“Or what if you are just what he has been craving?”

“I’m just trying to focus on the friendship thing and to be myself and to hope that he is as honest about who he is as I have been about who I am, and let the rest of it be what it will be.”

“Which is about the most romantic thing you could possibly say,” Barry says, sighing, as he is currently between paramours. “Que sera, sera. Of course, I’m sure your upcoming trip this week is helping keep things in perspective.”

I am headed for New York on Monday for three days; the James Beard Awards are on Monday night and Food TV is having a big party Tuesday for their five-year anniversary. Patrick has more secret meetings that he is dealing with, still playing all mysterious and teasing me about telling me when it is time for me to know, and I can just sense that there is a big bucket of shit dangling over my head, and I’m just waiting for it to fall on me. But despite a lovely room that they have booked for me, which I will use as a Midtown pit-stop location, I am actually staying with Bruce in his Chelsea apartment, so there will be three nights of great sex, a fancy dress-up party, and with Patrick off in his meetings, some time to hang out with Bennie.

“It’s not hurting.”

“And what happens with Bruce if this RJ person is hot in addition to being full of friendship?”

“Bruce knows that our thing is casual. If a miracle happens, and in addition to our intellectual chemistry, RJ and I are mutually attracted to each other, and that chemistry is realized in a way that makes us want to eventually be together exclusively, then Bruce and I will be friends and colleagues with no naked. But let’s be frank, that is a lot to ask. I’m going to have dinner tonight with a new pal. I’m excited to meet
him in person, and I have to try to have every faith that we will have a good time, that the food and wine will be delicious, and that I will be glad that I went. Beyond that, as my mother would say, it is written with a pitchfork on the water.”

“Which means?”

“Nothing is certain or defined. Not RJ, not Bruce, not me.”

“Well, I hope you will be okay with my hoping that RJ turns out to be as handsome as Cary Grant and twice as charming.”

“I’ll put on my best Rosalind Russell if he is, you can be certain.”

“Okay. I’m going to bed early, as I have to pick up your pooch tomorrow morning to head to Children’s Memorial and no kid likes a hungover storyteller. Don’t forget to hang a sock on the door if you have company!”

He is so silly. “How about I just do the chain on the inside.”

“Probably more subtle.”

“Indeed. I’m not going to sleep with him. If he is amazing and there’s spark, I’m taking it slow. My ho days are behind me. I’m back to being a third- or fourth-date girl. So I will see you in the morning.”

“Okay, princess. Have a wonderful time tonight. I can’t wait to hear all about it!”

“Smooches.”

I check my watch. Seven. Terragusto is only about ten minutes away; I’ll give myself twenty in case of traffic and parking issues, especially since I have never been there before. I’d always rather be early and wait in the car than late and frazzled. Especially since I am one of those people whose sweat glands hate to stop once they start, so if I am rushed, I get all schvitzy and that is not a good look. I do one more check in the mirror. The outfit is a favorite, nice enough, but
also comfortable. Hair is staying fairly manageable; makeup is there but not overdone. I’m wearing the diamond studs Patrick bought me three years ago, and my watch, but no other jewelry. I look like a pretty cute version of myself, but I don’t look like it took me forever to get ready. Which, as any girl knows, means it took me forever to get ready. One more slick of lip gloss, and I throw my coat on. Dumpling gets up and starts hopping in place.

“Uh-uh. You already went out. I’m going to have dinner with a nice man and you are going to stay here and behave yourself. No parties. No girls. And no looking for doggie porn on the Internet. If I get charged for
Debbie Does Dalmatians
one more time, you are in trouble, bud.” I lean over and rub his head, and head out.

I find a parking space right in front, and check the clock. Seven twenty. A little early, but not enough to hang out in the car. I open my purse and take out my phone. Patrick is not invited tonight. I put the phone in the glove compartment, get out, and head into the restaurant, a small space with maybe twelve tables, all full. That nice buzz you get in a place where people are eating and drinking well, but not shouty loud. Amazing smells. The owner is closing it soon to open a new place, and even though I have just walked in, I’m a little sad. About three tables into the dining room, a man stands up.

He is tall, broad-shouldered. He has light hair buzzed very short, cool rectangular glasses. He is wearing a sport coat over a black turtleneck sweater, black slacks. His face is youngish, boyishly cute, and he is looking at me and smiling warmly, hazel eyes crinkled up and sparkling. RJ. I walk over and he greets me by taking both my hands in his and leaning in to kiss me on the cheek.

“Well, hello there,” he says, in a voice that has become as familiar to me as those of my best friends.

“Hi.” I smile back at him. He helps me off with my coat, and pulls my chair out for me before sitting back down across from me.

“Can I just say, you are even more beautiful than your pictures.”

“Thank you. So are you!” I tease him, since he never did post any pictures on EDestiny, and by the time we were speaking it seemed really shallow to ask him to send me some. I tried doing some more in-depth online stalking with Mina’s help, but he didn’t have any pictures on the web anywhere, and when I finally figured out how to find his Facebook profile, listed under RJChiTown, there was a picture of him when he was six, cute and impish, but as we know cute at six doesn’t guarantee cute at forty-nine.

“I am the least photogenic person you will ever meet. I promise, you should be happy you never saw a picture before tonight. I always look like I’m in gastric distress or should be living under a bridge with some goats.”

I laugh. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh it is, trust me. I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty.” He points to a champagne bucket on the table, reaches in and pulls out a bottle of Pierre Gimonnet Premier Cru. I’m a sucker for good bubbles, and this is one that a sommelier recommended to me last year for a dinner party, but it was more than I wanted to spend. Generous, this RJ.

“These are my favorite kinds of liberties. I’ve wanted to taste this one for a while.”

RJ pours a glass for me, and one for himself. He has big, strong-looking hands, but they move with smooth grace. He
raises his glass to me. “To what I believe is a wonderful new friendship, and what I hope might become more.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“I’ll drink to you.” We both sip the wine, and I am blown away. Perfect balance of mineral stoniness and fruit at the back. Tiny bubbles that are gently tickly. I feel like the champagne is kissing me.

“This is delicious.”

“It’s a good one. I always believe in starting with bubbles, and then thought we’d switch to red with dinner if that’s okay with you.” He gestures toward the other bottle on the table, a 1993 Barolo from a producer I am not familiar with.

“I’m in your capable hands. As long as it’s okay that I’m not going to be able to drink half of both these bottles, I’m kind of a lightweight.” What I am is a girl with acid reflux and no gall bladder who is pushing forty, so I just can’t party like I used to. More than three or four glasses of wine and I’m a sad girl in the morning, not to mention I’m driving.

“The kitchen will be glad of whatever we send back; don’t feel like you have to drink a lot, frankly I much prefer someone who doesn’t overindulge. Especially someone who drove here.”

“We’re in agreement about that. Have you looked at the menu? Anything exciting?”

“Well, we can order a la carte if you like, but they do a nice dinner for two here where we order two appetizers and two pastas and then share a main and a dessert. Sort of like a tasting menu.”