Garlic and Sapphires (40 page)

Is it unbearably hokey to set the food in the middle of a revolving dance floor? Not from the eight-year-old perspective. My son watched for five revolutions, picking out the stations he liked best. The oysters and shrimps were not for him, but he dreamed up impossible omelets for the egg chefs and then moved on to meat, standing dreamily before the carvers as slices of beef and turkey fell from their forks. And after demolishing a hot fudge sundae he piled so many cakes and cookies onto a plate that I had to intervene. He tucked his hand into mine and looked up. “I'm having such a good time,” he said. Waiters smiled indulgently down on us, and we felt charmed and lucky, as if we were momentary royalty in a marvelous castle.

“Would you like to eat here every day?” I asked.

“Oh no, Mommy,” he replied, “not here. That would spoil it. This has to be special.” I smiled at him, happy that he understood the true purpose of a restaurant like the Rainbow Room. But then he added, “But you know what I do wish?” His grave brown eyes looked up at me. “What I wish is that you didn't always have to go out. I wish we could eat at home, together, every night.”

I'd heard that before. But I was finally starting to get the message.

 

 

 

 

 

B
ecoming Emily was distressingly easy. I started, of course, by visiting Shirley.

“How's Carol?” she asked.

“Hasn't she been in?” I asked. Shirley looked hurt, and her expression did not change when I added, “I guess she didn't want any of us to see her bald.”

“But that's my job!” cried Shirley. “It's what I do.” She was so miffed that she simply pawed through her pile, extracted a short black wig with bangs, and handed it over. It fit so well that I understood that all the other times she had been playing with me, making a game of discovering the perfect wig. “I bet you could have given me the right blond wig on the first shot too,” I said.

Shirley shrugged.

Emily's clothes were equally easy to find: every thrift shop on the Upper East Side was rich in tweeds. I even unearthed a deep leather pocketbook with a functioning lock, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

Looking at the dried-up prune I had made myself into, I saw that dining companions were going to present a problem. Michael was still out of town, but he would, in any case, make a suspiciously incongruous partner for the person in the mirror. Claudia, who would have been ideal, was still in Los Angeles. Her three-week trip had now lasted six months and I was beginning to wonder if she would ever return. And all the “How come you never take me to a good place?” people were obviously out of the question.

I called Myron, who was always agitating for a fancy free meal, but

when I told him we were going to the Box Tree I felt obliged to admit that my first meal had not been stellar. He was suddenly very busy.

And then, just when I most needed her, Marion Cunningham came gamely to the rescue. She was in New York to discuss her latest book,
Learning to Cook,
with her editor, and when I told her that dinner was going to be dreadful, she just laughed.

“As if I cared!” she'd said. “I'm so happy to have the chance to spend time with you, I'd gladly eat at McDonald's.”

“McDonald's might be better,” I said.

“If all I wanted was something to eat,” she said, “I'd stay home. Just tell me where we're going and who you'll be.”

 

 

 

 

 

W
hat's your name?” asked Nicky when I appeared in yet another costume.

“Emily Stone,” I told him.

“And what do you do?” he asked.

“I'm the manager of a restaurant. I am a very punctual person.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I'm never late. And I never make mistakes. And I'm very strict. You wouldn't like me very much; I'm a real meanie.”

“Oh no, Mommy,” said Nicky, “you could never be a meanie.”

He was wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

W
hat are you staring at?” I snapped at Gene when I got onto the elevator. Long past fooling, he had a new role: Gene had appointed himself final inspector. He liked to examine me for stray hair sticking out from under the wig, for gloves and purses that might give me away, for a necklace I'd worn before or some familiar scarf. Usually I enjoyed his scrutiny.

But tonight when he said, “You look fine,” I did not reply. When he pressed on with “This is a good one. Sometimes I'm afraid you're overdoing it, but not tonight,” I twisted my lips and still said nothing.

“What do you call her?” he insisted.

“Emily,” I said. “That would be Miss Stone to you.”

“Yes ma'am Miss Stone,” he said, doffing an imaginary hat. He parked the elevator and opened the door. “Allow me to say, Miss Stone,” he murmured as I brushed past him, “that you don't look like much fun.”

“Mind your manners,” I snarled and swept out the door.

 

 

 

 

 

I
marched up the sidewalk, daring anyone to step into my path. Nobody did. When I reached the corner I found a young woman ineffectually waving her arms in hopes of attracting a taxi. As a yellow cab hurtled toward us, I stuck my hand commandingly into the air and it screeched obediently to a halt. The other woman made a feeble move in its direction, but I pushed her aside and dove through the door, thinking that such people did not belong in New York. If she didn't know how to get her own cab, she certainly wasn't entitled to mine. “But, but, but . . .” she was sputtering as the door slammed in her face.

“Forty-ninth and Second,” I told the driver. “And step on it. Go uptown and through the park at Seventy-ninth; it will be quicker. Take Fifth to Fiftieth so you don't hit bridge traffic. And see that you make all the lights.”

“Mumph,” said the driver, but he did as he was told.

I sat, stiff-legged and silent in the back of the taxi, glowering at the meter as it clicked upward. When it was time to pay the fare I counted out the change, added a parsimonious tip, and snapped my handbag shut, twisting the key in the lock. I could feel the driver glaring at my back as I walked toward the restaurant.

A young couple was just ahead of me, swinging their hands as they dreamily approached the door. The man looked scrubbed, and even from behind I could see the excited pink tips of his ears through his shiny blue-black, slicked back hair. He wore no coat, and I could tell that his double-breasted black suit was well pressed and well worn, most likely rented along with the patent leather shoes on his feet. The woman was even younger; she could not have been much more than twenty, and the face beneath the feathery black hair was round and trusting, with full lips stained the color of strawberries. A beige chiffon dress foamed beneath her coat, bubbling down to her knees and up to a strapless bodice pinned with a large purple orchid. They looked young and callow, poor and hopeful. “They don't belong here,” I thought, marching grimly behind them. If they had hesitated for even a moment I'd have shoved past and through the door.

But there was no halt in their dreamy progress, and I followed them in. Marion looked up as we entered. She seemed perfectly at ease in the uncomfortable chair by the fireplace, wearing her usual uniform: black pants, black jacket, crisp white blouse. Her silver hair was pulled back around her naked, gorgeously wrinkled face, and the turquoise eyes staring at me with such intensity seemed enormous. The young couple turned in unison to see who was behind them.

“Is it Emily?” asked Marion. When I nodded she got up in one smooth move and came forward to gravely shake my hand. “I'm very happy to know you,” she said.

Tweed ignored the young couple, walking around them as if they were not there. “Ladies,” she said, reaching for our coats, “right this way.”

“They were ahead of us,” said Marion softly.

“They'll wait,” said Tweed curtly. Her tone made it abundantly clear that she hoped that they would not.

She led us into the dining room where Carol and I had eaten lunch. Tonight the fire was lit and the tables were filled with wistful couples in search of romance. The roses had been pushed off the plates and, for the most part, lay gasping for water on the cloths. The brassy blonde to our left, however, had stuck hers into her décolletage, and it peeped out between her breasts, accentuating the low cut of her dress. Her portly, bald date was having a hard time keeping his eyes off the flower. “Hooker!” I thought acidly and edged my seat away.

Tweed returned with the young couple I had followed into the restaurant and seated them to our right. With a short happy cry the woman picked up her rose and pushed the stem behind her ear. I grunted; between the rose and the orchid she looked like a walking florist's ad. Tweed shot me an apologetic glance and the word “pathetic” reverberated in the air between us.

“I'm going to ask the hostess to give us a different table,” I whispered to Marion. “I don't feel we belong in this dining room.”

Marion's face took on the strangest look. Thinking that she didn't understand, I lowered my voice to explain. “Just study the room!” I said, pointing left. “He's undoubtedly paying for the pleasure of her company. And they,” nodding right, “look as if they've been saving up for this meal. We ought to have a better table.”

“We're fine right where we are,” said Marion. She squared her shoulders and planted herself firmly in the seat.

The waiter shook out the napkins and spread them across our laps. His jacket now fit him perfectly, and the English accent was intact. Told that only water was required, he made no attempt to hide his disappointment.

“Mineral, I presume?” he asked, and when he learned that New York water would be fine, his smile lost a little more of its luster. “Is there a host or hostess in this party?” he asked, soldiering on.

“Do you see any men here?” I snapped.

The man colored. “I beg your pardon,” he corrected himself. “Which one of you is the hostess?”

“I am.”

“Ah,” he smiled down at me, “good.” He began to shuffle the menus, and I put out my hand. “If,” I said, “you are looking for one of those menus with no prices, don't bother. I have brought my guest to New York's most expensive restaurant, and I think she should know precisely what this is costing me.”

“I understand perfectly,” he said with what sounded like actual admiration.

“Uh,” interjected the man to our right, “uh, could we get a drink?”

The waiter ignored him and went sailing off in search of fresh menus. The young man looked both crushed and embarrassed.

Marion was staring at me as if she had never seen me before, and I felt an explanation was in order. “I know that the menu with no prices is intended as a gracious gesture,” I said in Emily's clipped voice. “I know it's a way of allowing your guests to have no concern for the cost. But let me tell you this; dinner here costs eighty-six dollars a person, and I see no reason why that should be a secret.”

“Of course,” said Marion. “It's a great deal of money. Who could blame you for wanting your largesse to be a matter of record?” There was no sarcasm in her voice, but I felt it was there, skulking in the background, and it made me squirm. I wished she had not given up alcohol; I yearned for a glass of wine.

“Are you certain a little wine would not appeal?” asked the waiter and I smiled, thinking he must have read my mind. But before I could answer, Marion did.

“We don't want a thing,” she said. “But these young people on our right are getting thirsty.”

“Oh,” he said carelessly, “I'll get to them eventually.”

“Why don't you get to them now,” said Marion, her voice edged with steel. “They've waited long enough.”

The waiter took a step backward. He looked defiant. She stared him down, and at last he turned to take their order. “Is that really our business?” I murmured. Marion did not reply.

On our left the blonde had downed two martinis in rapid succession and was now waving her glass about, saying querulously “ 'Nother, wanna 'nother.” Meanwhile the young man on our right was saying proudly, “We will have champagne!”

“Certainly, sir,” said the waiter, bowing in such an exaggerated manner that the effect was more sneering than respectful.

When he brought the bottle in its metal bucket, he made a great display of pulling it out and ostentatiously presenting the label. Everything he did was correct but he somehow managed to convey contempt with every line in his body. Slowly he extracted the cork, making it pop loudly. He poured an inch into the young man's glass and stood waiting, a bored expression on his face. When the young man made no move to pick up the glass, the waiter began to tap his foot, raising an eyebrow in my direction.

Marion watched for a moment, and then she leaned across the table and said, very gently, “He wants you to taste it.” The young man gave her a small grateful smile, picked up his glass, sipped. “It's fine,” he said. Without looking down the waiter splashed the wine into the glasses, filling them a little too full so that the liquid fizzed onto the table.

The young woman waited until he was gone and then picked up her glass and took a sip. Her eyes went very wide and then she sneezed. When I laughed—just a little—she colored deeply.

Marion gave me a look I could not fathom and picked up her menu. “I think I'll have the lobster bisque,” she said more loudly than was absolutely necessary, “and then the scallops topped with that puree of hazelnuts and butternut squash. Raspberry chutney sounds wrong in that dish, but who knows, maybe it works. After that I suppose I'll have the tenderloin. It's the only dish that doesn't sound overly fussy.”