The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs (20 page)

My stomach churns. “Questions?”

“I want to write a little feature about your supper club for next week’s food section. Nothing major, but I thought it would be a fun below-the-fold piece.”

I heat the flame under the sauté pan for the broccoli rabe, and as I do, the timer goes off for the bread pudding. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Your background, where the idea came from, what sort of food you cook. That kind of thing.”

I grab a pair of pot holders and pull the bread pudding out of the oven, the crisped top bubbling with provolone and Parmesan cheese and studded with flecks of salty prosciutto. “Um … maybe …”

“I won’t give away your identity in the article, if that’s what you’re worried about. And we can keep the location a secret.” She watches as I toss the broccoli rabe into a pan of garlic-and-red-pepper-laced olive oil. “Think about it.”

I give the pan a flip and a swirl and meet her eyes across the counter. “Why don’t you meet me in the living room after dessert,” I say. “I’ll see if I can help you out.”

If possible, this weekend’s dinner is even more successful than the last one, and the table hangs on my every word as I put the dinner in context. I tell them about Philadelphia’s Italian neighborhoods and how they gave rise to the famous cheesesteak and lesser-known roast pork sandwich, and about the Pennsylvania Dutch and how they introduced the pretzel to North America. I talk about water ice and The Commissary, Tastykakes and South Philly, the ongoing cheesesteak rivalry between Pat’s and Geno’s and my personal preference for Delassandro’s Steaks over either one. One diner originally from Chicago jumps in with his own stories about Lou Malnati’s pizza and Chicago-style hot dogs, and another from New Haven talks about white clam pizza at Pepe’s and burgers at Louis’ Lunch. Before long, everyone at the table is talking about the foods they grew up with as kids and crave whenever they visit home. In my mind, it doesn’t get much better than this.

As the crowd digs into their slices of carrot cake, Cynthia Green nods toward the living room and steals away from the table. I undo my apron and lay it over the back of one of Blake’s kitchen barstools.

Rachel grabs me by the elbow before I leave the kitchen. “Remember—if it starts to get weird, just tell her you need to aerate the scotch.”

“Rach, we’ve been over this. Under no circumstances would I need to aerate the scotch. That doesn’t even make sense.”

“To
you
.”

“To anyone.”

“Hey,” she says. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Yeah, well, why don’t you focus on not burning down the kitchen? I’ll handle the interview.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Whatever you say …”

I slip into the living room and find Cynthia sitting on Blake’s leather couch, her legs crossed as she scribbles in her slim reporter’s notebook. She looks up as I walk into the room. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll make this quick. Like I said, this will only be a small feature.”

I park myself on the edge of Blake’s recliner, my back straight and tense as I watch her flip to a blank page.

“So how long have you been cooking?” she asks.

“Ever since I can remember,” I say. “My grandmother used to babysit me a lot when I was a kid, and when I was seven or eight, she taught me how to make scrambled eggs. Then she upgraded me from eggs to brownies, then on to more complicated stuff like bread and strudel and brisket. By the time I was twelve, I was making my own pie dough. From there, my interest in cooking sort of took on a life of its own.”

She smiles as she scribbles notes in her notepad. “Excellent. Do you have any professional training?”

“A little. I took a short course after college.”

“And where was that?”

I blink rapidly as she flashes a friendly smile. “I’d rather not say, if that’s all right.”

She sticks up her hands defensively. “Fair enough.” She pauses. “Was it a certificate or a degree?”

“Um … a certificate.” She doesn’t need to know the certificate was printed off the instructor’s computer using Microsoft Word.

“So what inspired you to start an underground supper club? Other than your general enthusiasm for food and cooking.”

That’s easy: a boyfriend who dumped me and kicked me out of our shared apartment, and parents who would poop their pants if I ever became a chef for real. But I can’t say that. Not to a
Washington Post
reporter, anyway.

“It’s something I’ve always wanted to do,” I say. “And the timing seemed right.”

Cynthia glances around the room, at Blake’s leather furniture and framed artwork and marble fireplace. “What’s your day job, then? I’m guessing these supper clubs aren’t paying for this house.”

I gulp loudly as my face grows hot. “I … work in public policy.”

“Lobbying?”

My heart pounds in my chest. “Kind of. Something like that.”

“And how long have you lived here?”

I peek at my watch as I tap my foot rapidly against the floor. “You know what? I really have to get back to the kitchen.”

“Just two more questions,” she says, flipping to a fresh page. “What other themes can we look forward to? What’s on the schedule?”

“Not sure. Maybe diner food. Or carnival treats. When we set the menu, it’ll be on the Web site.”

“And how often will The Dupont Circle Supper Club hold dinners?”

I fiddle with my ponytail. “Every few weekends. The next one is over Columbus Day. It depends on our schedules.”

“Whose schedules?”

I clear my throat. “Mine. And … my assistant’s.”

“Speaking of which—”

“I’m sorry,” I say, cutting her off before she can continue. “I really have to go.”

She folds her hands together and nods. “I understand. If I have any follow-up questions, could I send an e-mail to the supper club e-mail account?”

“Sure.” I jump up from my seat and start heading back to the kitchen, but I spin around before I reach the doorway. Cynthia is still sitting on the couch, furiously scrawling notes in her notebook. “You promise not to use my name and address, right? Or anything about my appearance?”

She looks up as her hand continues writing. “Hmm? Oh, yeah. Sure. No, nothing like that.” She looks down again and flips to the next page in her notepad.

“Promise?”

But this time she doesn’t answer and keeps writing, and as I disappear into the kitchen, I can’t shake the feeling that I just made a terrible mistake.

Under normal circumstances, the Cynthia Green interview would trigger an angst spiral of hideous proportions. I would bite my nails down to the quick and suffer from insomnia and descend into an abyss of stress eating and drinking. But with the demands of a second dinner Sunday night, I don’t have time to indulge my anxiety. I need to make the second dinner as successful and seamless as the first, and, in an unexpected stroke of luck, I do.

The stories are different the second night—the hometowns of note now including Mumbai and Austin instead of Chicago and New Haven—but the spirit is the same. The guests swap stories and compare food notes and wolf down their helpings of pork belly and carrot cake. By the time the weekend is through, Rachel and I are relaxed and exhausted and, combined, approximately $1,220 richer. Thanks to Shauna’s discount and some leftover ingredients from the Rosh Hashanah dinner, we had fewer expenses to cover this time, which means a larger chunk of the proceeds end up in our pockets—$305 to Rachel, $915 to me. Combined with the profits from last weekend’s dinner and my parents’ $200 contribution to my back account, my take will cover almost all of my moving expenses and make up the deficit created by September’s rent and my security deposit. That’s enough to make me forget about an inquisitive
Washington Pos
t reporter and her supper club feature.

Until Wednesday. Wednesday morning, Rachel slams a copy of the
Washington Post
food section on my desk. “Check it out.”

I run my finger down the page to a small headline in the bottom right corner, which reads: “Shhhh: Dinner Is Served”:

In a city known for classified documents, situation rooms, and top secret reports, there’s a new covert operation in town: The Dupont Circle Supper Club. Featuring luscious fare and lively storytelling in a secret Dupont Circle town house, guests are greeted by the young hostess, a buxom twenty-something with a penchant for pork sandwiches and carrot cake …

I gasp. “Carrot cake? She mentioned
carrot cake
?”

Rachel grabs the paper from me and has another look. “Yeah, so?”

“I told her not to reveal anything about me.”

Rachel throws the paper back on my desk. “You do realize there are other people in town who like carrot cake, right?”

“Not as much as I do.” I glance down at the paper again. “And ‘buxom’? Really?”

“Have you seen your boobs lately?”

I jab Rachel with my elbow. “She wasn’t supposed to reveal anything about me. That was our deal.”

“Yeah, well, since the article came out, fifty more people have e-mailed about reserving a spot over Columbus Day. So I wouldn’t get too worked up.”

“Fifty?”

She nods. “Fifty.”

I sigh and rest my chin in my hands, stealing a quick look at Jacob Reaser’s business card, which I’ve taped to the bottom of my computer screen. Rachel follows my gaze and clicks her tongue.

“Have you e-mailed him yet?”

I grab an economics paper Mark left on my desk and pretend to leaf through it. “Not yet.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“I know it’s Wednesday.”

She throws her head back and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Stop being lame and e-mail him. I’ll stand right here and talk you through it.”

“I don’t need you to talk me through it.”

“Apparently you do.”

“Just—go back to your desk. I’ll handle it. See? I’m clicking ‘compose message’ right now. Happy?”

Rachel lets out an exaggerated sigh and disappears from behind my desk, and I start writing Jacob a message:

SUBJECT
: (none)

Hey stranger …

Great running into you at CVS the other week. Sorry if it got a little awkward, but that guy you met was my ex-boyfriend, and the whole situation is still a little raw.

Why am I telling him about Adam? Am I insane? Do I want this guy to run away screaming? No. No Adam. Also, no calling Jacob “stranger.” He almost is a stranger. No need to dwell on that. Start over:

SUBJECT
: Hey!

Hey there!

Great running into you the other week! I didn’t realize we lived in the same neighborhood! That’s so funny!

Seriously, what is wrong with me? There is nothing funny about running into someone at CVS. Also, why am I suddenly ending every sentence with an exclamation point? God, I suck at this.

Maybe I shouldn’t have told Rachel to leave me alone. I haven’t sent a flirty e-mail in … years, I guess. And I was never any good at it. Why is it so hard to write a friendly e-mail without seeming desperate or crazy? Probably because, by its very nature, an e-mail is a snapshot of yourself, a glimpse into your wit and desirability. I wouldn’t send an ugly photo of myself to a potential date, would I? No. I’d find the best one, the one where the lighting was just right and I maybe didn’t even look fully like myself, but I nevertheless looked approachable yet sexy, the way I’d
like
to appear rather than how I actually do.

But I have to create this snapshot from scratch, and the more I do to punch up the color, the more I sound like a total lunatic. I should keep it short and sweet. Get in and get out:

SUBJECT
: Cinnamon buns

You pick the date and the location, and I’ll bring the cinnamon buns. Warning: your mom’s reigning title is in danger.

Hannah

I take a deep breath, click
SEND,
and launch the message into cyberspace.

No more than ten minutes later, I get a reply from Jacob:

RE
: Cinnamon buns

Why don’t we meet up tonight? Your place?

Okay,
whoa
. So many things wrong with that plan. Number one, I live in a basement apartment the size of a shoe box, in which the only furniture is an air mattress, a beanbag chair, and some secondhand drawers and shelves. Also, the room still smells like rusty ass. Also, Jacob doesn’t realize I don’t live in the house upstairs. Number two (or are we up to four?), I was running late this morning and didn’t have time to shower, which is gross, period, but also means I look as if I dipped my head in a tub of olive oil. And, on top of all that, it’s almost lunchtime, and I don’t get out of work until six. How am I supposed to whip up a dozen cinnamon buns in an hour or two? And shower?

No. I will push him off until next week:

RE
: Cinnamon buns

How about next Tuesday? And why don’t we say your place?

I click
SEND
and shuffle through the stack of papers on my desk, in search of another report Mark asked me to read, when my cell phone rings. A 202 area code. A local call. A number I recognize as the one on the card hanging off my computer.