Spooning (4 page)

Cool thoroughly, then refrigerate for a few hours and serve to your best friends with a smile.

“
H
ey!” I whispered. Okay, need to raise it up a notch. “Hey!!” I whispered/screamed. “I'm being robbed …
raped … pillaged and plundered! Psst!” Not one bruncher sitting outside at the restaurant in front of our building raised their hollandaise-sauce stuffed faces. I, in my pajamas and Earl Jean jacket (last-minute save), was leaning precariously over the rusty fire escape railing. I knew he, my assailant-rapist- murderer-arsonist-robber, would be throwing himself through my front door any minute. One more try, “Hey, help me!”

Where was the whistle, or at least a can of mace to throw on one of the daft brunchers' heads when you needed one? I grabbed my cell phone. 9–1-1-CALL …

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” She had such a calm voice in my moment of despair.

“There is this man, a man trying to get into my apartment. He has a scratchy voice and is dressed in blue.” I am such a detail-oriented person. As I proceeded to describe my would- be assailant, I pointed my left foot, reached down to the third rung, and grabbed the side rail with my right hand, while still holding my cell phone. (Note to self: Must get out of bed more often in time for those Lean and Lengthen classes.) I was ready to glide down the fire escape ladder, a modern-day, urban Grace Kelly. But as I lunged downward, my Chinatown tiger slipper dropped onto the plate of one of the brunchers. He looked up as if expecting rain, but then jumped up to catch me as I dangled from the bottom rung. Did anyone realize that fire escape ladders do not reach anywhere near the safe ground? As I finished up with the very nice emergency woman, I spun around, safe on the ground, only to find my assailant standing in front of me.

“Ahhhhh!” I screamed as only a woman can. Out from the front door popped the superintendent of my building.

“Charlotte!” my super interrupted. “This is Eduardo.”
Great, now I had a name to put with his mug shot. “Eduardo is your utilities man.”

“My what man?”

“The Consolidated Edison worker. He came to read your meter!” See how sick that sounds? “Your electric meter.”

Two squad cars pulled up with the lights and sirens blaring. New York cop cars have two types of sirens. They have one annoying siren when they are “in pursuit” and another when they are “merely responding” to a call. Two cops got out, one of whom had his hand on his holster.

“Con Ed man? You?” I shouted as I spun around. My assailant nodded demurely. “Well, what was up with the scary- as-hell voice?”

“What scary voice?” he asked sounding as smooth as Barry White. The cops were looking rather confused.

“That one … I mean, well, what the hell is up with the jean jacket? What Con Ed man wears a jean jacket? Don't you have a name label? It's eighty degrees out, for God's sake! Who wears a stonewashed jean jacket?” I demanded. I turned to the cop, “What Con Ed man services without an official uniform? They should all wear an official uniform you know.” I wrapped my Earl jacket tighter. The second cop had realized that he did not need to pull his gun and shifted his attention to the restaurant's brunch menu. By now all of the brunchers were paying attention. Funny how whispered screams of help did no good, but if you pointed out a fashion faux pas all New Yorkers snapped to attention.

M
y morning antics were the topic of conversation at our own late afternoon Sunday brunch. Some call Sunday the
Sabbath, while others call it a day of rest. It's considered by Christians to be the holiest day of the week. Whatever your religion tells you to observe on Sunday, we here in New York celebrate it a little differently. We gather and congregate at various outdoor cafes and eateries and celebrate the almighty brunch. The service typically begins around noon and can go on for hours, especially if Bloody Marys or Mimosas are involved. While many repent their sins through prayer, we here in the city eat and drink them away.

Growing up, the biggest day of the week for my family had been Sunday. Sunday was the day the entire family went to church, and better yet, went out to brunch afterward. And for somebody who preached the godliness of refined culinary skills, my mother really lived for Sundays. If this was a day of rest for the one up above, by golly, this was a day of rest for her too. She'd be damned if she would cook, clean, or do anything else on this day. I learned at an early age that Sunday was the day to repent and to stuff our faces, which I guess meant that I was destined to be a New Yorker.

After what seemed like one hundred Hail Marys and a million amens in church, we would cram into our beat-up, moss green Volvo station wagon and head to our favorite brunch spot. Now while most families go to civilized diner-bistro type deals that serve runny scrambled eggs, greasy bacon, and pulped-out OJ, my family strayed from the norm. We went to an all-you-can-eat, stuff-yourself-till-you-feel-like-you'regonna-vomit type joint. Our slice of heaven was called Don Juan's El Paso Cantina. Yep, we had rice and beans, cheese enchiladas, and beef tacos all before 10:30 A.M. As kids we thought we'd died and gone to pork-out heaven. In that hour and a half, my brother, sister, and I would hit the buffet about
fifty times and work our little bodies into food comas. You can imagine the fart contests in the car on the way home. My dad would coax the mariachi band over with dollar bills and make countless Julio Iglesias requests. Meanwhile, my mother would sit back in the cozy booth, sip her frozen fruity drink, and smile the entire time. This was her idea of heaven and we loved it too.

Now, as a certified adult, I didn't just go to brunch, I
did
brunch. Let's hear it for all the brunchers of the world! Could I get an “amen” from the audience? And now after a few weeks, I'd finally mastered the inner workings of the brunch system. Not only did you have to find the ultimate noshing spot, the even trickier part was fitting your entire congregation around one measly little table. But it gets worse. Everyone in your group had to be present, I repeat,
present
in order to get seated. All the New York hostesses just shake their haughty noses at the standard lies:

“
My friend just ran to the ATM
.”

“
The one who's not here isn't really going to eat anyway
.”

“
She just called from the taxi, and she's stuck due to a huge accident in the park on Seventy-ninth Street!
”

“
She ran across the street for cigarettes … oh, I know she can't smoke inside anymore
…”

Let's just say that my posse was “brunch challenged.” To get six females out of bed, dressed, and out the door by noon is a tough feat to accomplish, especially when your group is usually hung over and lying in the fetal position in the living room watching reruns of 90210 on the FX channel. If you are just one minute late to an egg white omelet and turkey bacon sermon, your entire service could be delayed by as much as two hours.

But brunching goes beyond just eating; brunchers chat and chew at the same time, and some actually soak in the atmosphere around them (especially by watching young girls hang from fire escapes overhead); and thank God, because if my fellow eaters did not “love thy neighbor as thyself,” well, then I could have been in a sticky situation today. I could have died before I had the opportunity to indulge myself in my last double half-decaf nonfat latte.

S
o naturally, my morning death-defying act was the hot topic at brunch. Tara actually rebuffed a smooth approach by a hot wanna-be-actor busboy to get a dose of daily drama that was not centered around her.

“Now you have an angry Con Ed man who knows where you live,” she threatened. “He's probably pissed that you thought that he was a scary rapist trying to break in, and he might have gotten some vengeful ideas. You shouldn't put such ideas into people's heads.”

“Stop! Stop, right now.” As if I hadn't already had enough emotional damage for one day.

“She's got a point,” Wade chimed in. “Y'all, I had this psycho rug-cleaning man who got mad when I questioned how professional his work was. I mean, there were gray edges on my supposedly ‘clean’ white rug, and I swear, I thought he was going to hunt me and my idealist rug cleaning beliefs down! I can still see him shaking his finger at me as I shook my finger at the still dirty rug. He was mumbling about his evil plans the whole way down my stairs.”

“But you are alive today,” I said, gulping down three swigs of my mimosa.

“Alive, yet fearful of rug-cleaning men. A scarring experience overall. Y'all, we really should be making this brunch at home,” she suggested.

“What?” Tara asked through a mouthful of molasses-laced dark bread. I swear, I saw her use sleight of hand as if she was ready to abscond with a few rolls. “Wade, we just started our Cooking Club! And all we made was of liquid substance!” she groaned.

“Plus, that omelet that you ordered?” I pointed out. “Think of all the ingredients you'd have to buy.” I knew that would get Wade as she was saving her pretty pennies for a cute top she was eyeing at Scoop. “Broccoli, onions, tomatoes, portobello mushrooms, shitake mushrooms, green peppers, red peppers … should I continue?” Wade shook her head as she sipped her fresh-squeezed orange juice.

“Don't forget the feta and goat cheeses,” Syd read from the menu. I could see Sage's skinny stomach convulsing at the list of food.

“Fine, but y'all, we have to step it up next meeting. Make your mother proud, Charlie.”

“We are not doing this for my mother,” I reminded her. “We are doing this for ourselves.”

“You mean you've actually embraced this concept?” Wade raised an eyebrow.

“Well, maybe. Come on, ladies. We are talented individuals! Plus, we have to have some skill in the kitchen so that we have something to register for at Williams-Sonoma when we get married.” The other five nodded as we moved on to other topics.

S
omehow, Sunday brunch turned into Sunday happy hour, which led right into Sunday cocktail hour at Top Shelf that
night. Not a problem since the following day, Monday, was Labor Day—ironically named since we were celebrating a lack of labor. I was especially labor-free as I was still unemployed. We were stashing our coats in the corner when “he” walked in. By “he” I mean Mr. J. P. Morgan, who strolled through the door with his band of boys.

Mr. J. P. Morgan was someone I'd met during happy hour a couple of weeks ago. I had actually noticed his smile from the doorway of the bar. Really! It wasn't like he was in a spotlight or anything; rather, I just happened to find a clear shot of him from about twenty feet away, through a crowded bar, and with my nearsighted eyes. Fate! And his smile—well, did I mention that I noticed his smile first? Most girls say they notice a guy's eyes in those
Cosmo
surveys, followed closely by butts, with a few voting for hands. But smiles did it for me every time. I wanted a man who would smile at me and I would automatically grin back. You need that spontaneous happiness in life during traumatic moments, tumultuous fights, or just a gray winter morning. Mr. J. P. Morgan had an adorably crooked smile that reached his eyes. Ahh!