Apron Anxiety (26 page)

From my sister’s account, I send an e-mail to Benito Bagel that says, “This is actually LoveTheBeach’s sister.… I realize you have no reason to believe that I’m not some escaped mental patient or a morbidly obese she-male, but I can assure you I’m neither. I’m a freelance writer and a budding home cook. Write ‘us’ back if you’re interested!”

Before we turn off the computer to go to sleep, my sister has a blinking message from
Match.com
. It’s Benito Bagel! He says he wants to meet me and that he makes a killer paella, which Rachel totally mispronounces. “What the hell is pah-ella?!” I ask her. “Do you mean
paella
?” I say, bursting into hysterical laughter.

“Oh yeah.
What is that again?
”

We laugh so hard that I almost fall off the bed. Once we calm ourselves down—and I remind her that paella is “the yummy dish that’s usually mixed with rice, shrimp, and, like, saffron or something”—I tell her that I’ll write him back in a few days, but first, I need to find an apartment. “I’m ready,” I say, kissing her forehead and rolling over to my side of the flowered, flannel duvet. Something tells me that this week was the last stop on the bus. There is nothing I want more than to let it all go and plant my two feet on the ground. We switch off the lights and I close my eyes. My fever has broken.

W
hen I check out apartment 8F in DUMBO, on the same block as my parents’, I am so enamored with the kitchen that I am oblivious to the antagonizing noise level.

Somehow I miss the rumble of the subway every eight minutes, and the whoosh of cars and trucks rushing over the Manhattan
and
Brooklyn Bridges. The apartment sits scenically, yet piercingly, smack in the middle of both, which I take as a selling point. The kitchen is so beautiful that I also don’t hear the constant catfights and love spats of the street, which in true New York fashion, are belted out loudly enough to penetrate the barely cracked windows on the eighth floor.

I rent the small studio on the spot, knowing that a separate chrome kitchen, large and well lit, with endless open shelving to boot, would be impossible to find again in my price range. The kitchen is almost half the apartment, resulting in minimal space for anything else besides a bed and an oversize farm table (on which I will eat, work, and pile up stacks of newspapers, bills, receipts, and organized chaos). The place also has a tiny Juliet balcony, with just enough room to grow rosemary, thyme, and basil. It’s only November, but I already have quite a fragrant vision for spring.

On move-in day, my family dismantles the Moby pile and hauls everything to 8F. As soon as I walk into my new pad, which I’ve already decorated in my head down to the peach-scented bathroom spray, I am taken aback by even more noise than I anticipated. In addition to everything else, there is so much construction going on outside that you can’t walk out the front door without covering your ears and giving the finger. The outdoor anarchy is set to last half a year, says a sympathetic neighbor, and incidentally, it starts at six o’clock in the morning every day of the week. “You can sleep late when you’re dead!” My ever-optimistic mother winks.
Ughhh
.

I continue to unpack my things and try to ignore the ruckus, busily setting up my Cuisinart food processor, All-Clad stock pot, boho dishes and Kmart coffeemaker; unrolling my shag rug; and dusting off my pineapple-shaped chandelier—the only material possessions I brought back from C Street. My new mattress arrives in the afternoon and I make the bed with crisp, white sheets and perfectly feathered pillows. Beth brings over fancy-smelling soaps from one of the luxury brands she does the PR for, and I blissfully line them along the edges of my porcelain tub (another perk that offsets the earache). My dad orders a large pizza from Sal and Val. My mom buys an orchid at Costco, where she’s also invested in a lifetime supply of Mom-things like tampons and rice pilaf. And my sister sneaks out of work with bejeweled candlesticks and Richard Avedon photography books from the “giveaway table.”

As night falls, I kick everyone out so I can play my music softly and really make apartment 8F my own. I am exhausted from all the lifting and bending, yet apprehensive about falling asleep with all the clamor. “Pretend you’re hearing the ocean,” says my mother, on her way out. Assuming I’ll be up all night, I grab a pile of cookbooks. I can’t even get through Gwyneth
Paltrow’s pantry essentials before I pass out. From under the subway, in one of Brooklyn’s loudest nooks, I sleep like a baby. Without having to quiet all the inner noise, the outside noise is no problem.

Hello, responsibility; good-bye, restaurants
, I say to myself, after having put down the first and last month’s rent, plus the sucker punch of a security deposit. My bank account is almost empty, meaning not only do I have to seriously simmer down on my restaurant binge, but also it’s critical that I focus on my freelance work, too. Benito Bagel and I have even been e-mailing a little, but since I’m tenaciously pitching ideas and reconnecting with editors all day, and covering events all night (and still nursing a broken heart), I’m in no rush for our rendezvous. Though I know it will happen sooner than later.

The most exciting assignments I get come from
New York
magazine’s food blog,
Grub Street
. I initiated the relationship by asking to cover a private event at Barneys on Madison Avenue to celebrate their holiday window display, featuring some of New York’s most iconic chefs. I hoped that my first food assignment at my favorite magazine would be a little less daunting against the backdrop of my favorite store. And I was right. That night, I delivered ten fresh food stories to
Grub Street
, three of which they published the next day: Anthony Bourdain recommending me his favorite food memoirs; Mario Batali describing how to roast a Thanksgiving turkey in a pizza oven; and Bobby Flay confessing that he keeps only vodka and ice cream in his freezer. Ultimately, I make less money that night than what I spend in the shoe department, but it results in a steady, and priceless, stream of assignments from the food editors at the magazine.
Happy holidays to me
.

Back in DUMBO, I work on maximizing my minuscule Brooklyn apartment. I go to ABC Carpet & Home and
apologize to my former boss for rudely running away from him weeks earlier. He gives me a big hug and an even bigger discount on a birdcagelike lamp. I refresh Craigslist every five minutes, finding sweet deals on Saarinen tulip chairs and a Scandinavian sideboard to store my quirky dishware and mismatched mugs, which are indeed collecting dirt, but crying out for their comeback. My mom and I go Dumpster diving, roaming the Brooklyn Heights promenade, where she once scored an oriental rug worth $20,000, along with two abandoned Oscar Awards. (“Divorce!” said the doorman, winking.)

My most highly anticipated day comes a week after moving in, when I finally have time to drive to the iconic, foodie fairyland called Fairway. I am so giddy you would think I was heading to the south of France, but really it’s just the south of Brooklyn. Fairway is a giant warehouse with its most dramatic location in Red Hook, overlooking the harbor and evoking the feeling of both Alcatraz and an open-air European market. It’s a labyrinth of lush produce, cheeses, and chocolates, with aisles of domestic and imported
everything
.

I spend three hours there, grazing the rows of dried pasta, exotic beans, and excessive candy bins, dragging my happy feet from semolina flours to grapeseed oils, exuberantly discussing the definition of “unctuous” with the cheerful cheesemonger, who introduces me to Spanish Mahon when I ask for something impressive but not too expensive. He also suggests I purchase some chestnut honey for my next cheese plate, and I obediently add the jar to my cart.

In the end, I leave with most of the same foods I’ve always lived on as an adult: Greek yogurt, moderately flavored (and priced) cheese, dark chocolate, black licorice, crisp apples, plump avocados, whole carrots, smoked almonds, dried apricots, earthy breads, long pasta, and fizzy water. The upgraded
version of me adds some expensive olive oil, coarse sea salt, lots of fresh herbs, a rack of lamb, and a bouquet of winter white daisies.

As soon as I get home, I sit at my computer with a huge chunk of chèvre melted on a thick slice of grainy bread, and I e-mail Benito Bagel (who’s asked me to call him Benjy). “Let’s meet up tonight.”

We agree to have our first date at a local dive bar, which is equal distance from both our apartments. I have an hour to get ready when it occurs to me that I desperately need a new “single chick” look. For the past few months back on the East Coast, I’ve worn dark skinny jeans with a beat-up T-shirt and a tight leather jacket. My shoes are either dirty Converse sneakers or bedraggled ballet flats. I wear no jewelry except for Shelley’s long, gold, twinkling necklace.
Vogue
might classify my style as New York bitch. Maybe this isn’t the right message for a date.