Wedding Girl (7 page)

When I get to work, Herman leaves me up front to handle the few customers while he heads back into the kitchen to continue dealing with the challahs for tomorrow. Thursdays always mean a constant round-robin of baking challahs all day. There is a local Jewish day school that gives all of its students and staff members a challah every Friday to take home for Shabbat, 260 loaves a week, and there are times I think it is that one client who really keeps the lights on here. This is in addition to the forty or so loaves we need for our regular Friday customers. Herman, despite the arthritis, is still twice as fast as I am at the
braiding, so I come in at midnight on Wednesdays to make all the dough, and then start my day late on Thursdays, leaving Herman to shape and bake off the loaves. After we close at seven, Herman and I will slide each finished and cooled loaf into a plastic bag with the Langer's sticker on it, adding a twist tie at the top, and load them into the large plastic delivery trays. The school will send their van in the morning to pick them up, and they'll return the plastic trays on Monday.

We have a brief lunchtime rush from eleven till noon, and I busy myself with cheerfully attending to the needs of precisely three octogenarians requiring sweets for, respectively, a charity meeting, a mah-jongg game, and an impending visit from grandchildren. Each of them generously offers to connect me to a single Jewish son/grandson/grandnephew. They are darling, and it doesn't even bother me when they debate endlessly over the perfect combination of butter cookies, or waffle over buying the walnut rugelach, which is apparently everyone's favorite but dangerous when one has guests who have diverticulosis, whatever the hell that is. I send them happily on their way, with a promise to “think about” their potential fix-ups. Herman comes out of the back, winks at the ladies, and makes sure to hand them each a piece of mandel bread for the road, and then heads upstairs to have his lunch, leaving me in total quiet with my thoughts.

I haven't for a moment contemplated men or romance or dating since the non-wedding. In the beginning, I was just too raw and embarrassed, and then I was too focused on my other boyfriends Mr. Hendrick, Ben, Jerry, and Chester Cheetah. And ever since I moved in with Bubbles, all the romantic inclinations in my life have been satisfied by black-and-white flickery images on the television. Exactly what sort of flesh-and-blood boy is going to compete with Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart? Not to mention the fact that trying to date as a nearly-thirty-five-year-old famously-jilted-at-the-altar woman who lives with her grandmother while
working part-time in a little bakery seems pointless. Frankly, I'm not so sure that anyone who might deign to date me in my current condition is someone I would want to date, which I know is terribly morosely Woody Allen of me.

I catch my reflection in the mirrored backsplash above the counter behind me. I'm the heaviest I've ever been, officially beyond voluptuous and well into lumpy. My hair has been neither cut nor colored in about six months, so it is dull brown and frizzy, but I keep it up in a bun all the time, so I'm hard-pressed to care much. I'm living in black long-sleeved T-shirts and the two pairs of jeans I own that have Lycra in the mix, since the regular denim ones don't button anymore without cutting off my circulation. It's a good thing Cary and Jimmy can't see out of the television, or they might refuse to continue acting for me.

I'm chuckling to myself about the image of Cary Grant scolding me personally through the television set in some magical realism comedic moment, when the bells on the door peal. And in walks a man who seems to have serious purpose in his step. He's not terribly notable looks-wise, average height, average build, dark hair thinning a bit at the hairline despite the expert cut that is designed to hide it, maybe fortyish. His suit is impeccably tailored, good shoes, a long overcoat that I can tell from here is probably a cashmere blend. My time with Dexter made me a devotee of well-tailored men's clothes. Actually, if you put a fedora on this man, he could step right into an old movie. Good chin, the kind of guy you would call nice-looking but not handsome. Or rather, he might be good-looking if he weren't sort of scowling. My best guess is that he has parents in the area and is stopping by to grab something to bring on a visit that he doesn't really want to be having.

“Hello there, welcome to Langer's. How may I assist you today?” I'm determined to stay cheery. “Would you care to try a
sample of one of our newest offerings?” I extend the platter of samples. “This is our new salted spice rye roll with raisins, and this is our new sour-cherry chocolate rugelach.” Herman has been letting me play, and while he hasn't loved all of my new ideas (the sweet potato financiers were definitely not a hit with him), when he likes something, he insists we try adding it into the case to see how people respond. So far the rolls have done pretty well, and the chocolate cherry rugelach are now outselling both the apricot and poppy seed versions.

“Of course,” he says, taking one of each sample, popping the piece of roll into his mouth, and chewing thoughtfully. “Hm,” he says, then follows it up with the chunk of rugelach. “These seem a little bit nontraditional for this place.”

“Well, here at Langer's we are committed to providing for your old-world needs, but we recognize that now and again it doesn't hurt to amp things up a bit.”

“I see. Do I take it from your enthusiasm that these are your additions to the menu?”

I blush a bit. “They are.”

He nods and reaches for another sample of the roll. “So what do you think? Add a few new things in here and there, see how they work, maybe move towards a larger overhaul of the menu? Taking the old familiar flavors and just making them sing like new? Thinking about eventual expansion?”

I can hear Jean and Ruth in my head from this morning. I was bound and determined not to even think about a bakery as my destination, but maybe I was too hasty. After all, what would be so terrible? What if, like this guy seems to be implying, I could keep what's great and nostalgic about Langer's but bring in enough modern touches to rejuvenate the business? Overhaul the special-event cakes for sure, and tweak things here and there to make it relevant, maybe even replicable? “One never
knows,” I say, almost flirtatiously, figuring whoever he is, he certainly doesn't need to know this isn't my dream.

“Must be hard to compete in the market with the current menu.”

“We like to think of it as sticking with the classics.”

“Still, I'd imagine for someone like you, who clearly has a lot to offer, it must be a challenge to work somewhere so outmoded.”

This man is terribly presumptuous, and I feel the need to defend Herman and, by proxy, myself.

“Not at all. Fads come and go, but classic is classic for a reason. When you have products as proven as ours, you don't need to chase every new thing that comes down the pike.”

“And yet . . .” He gestures to the tray of samples. “You certainly aren't above breaking the mold.”

I shrug. “Bringing the occasional new twist to something familiar is fun for us and fun for our customers.”

“I'm sure they appreciate it.”

This guy is beginning to make me a little bit nervous. “Is there something I can get you?”

He shakes his head. “No, thank you . . .” He raises an eyebrow at me, letting the sentence trail upwards quizzically.

“Sophie,” I say, taking the hint.

“Sophie.” He nods. “No, thank you, Sophie. I think your samples are probably all I need for the moment.”

How weird. I assume he must have come in for something. “Well, if you're sure.”

“Oh, yes, quite sure. Thank you for your time, Sophie.” He says my name like he is tasting something new and unfamiliar, and is deciding whether he loves it or hates it.

“My pleasure . . .” I imitate his eyebrow raise.

He laughs wryly. “Mark,” he says.

“My pleasure, Mark. Come back again.”

“I will. You can count on that.” And then he's gone, leaving
me feeling somewhat perplexed and weirdly exhilarated by the exchange.

And something tells me that while I'm not remotely thinking about being back on the dating market, at the very least, it might be time for a haircut.

(1940)

JAMES STEWART AS ALFRED KRALIK:
There might be a lot we don't know about each other. You know, people seldom go to the trouble of scratching the surface of things to find the inner truth.

MARGARET SULLAVAN AS KLARA NOVAK:
Well, I really wouldn't care to scratch your surface, Mr. Kralik, because I know exactly what I'd find. Instead of a heart, a handbag. Instead of a soul, a suitcase. And instead of an intellect, a cigarette lighter . . . which doesn't work.

“Good morning, sweet girl,” Bubbles says as I schlump into the kitchen.

It was a long night; I went in late to do the week's challah dough so that it would be ready for Herman today. Usually when I get home after that, I just go right to bed, but last night I returned to an email reply from a query I had sent to the Four Seasons, where, I'd heard, there might have been an opening. The terse “Thank you for your interest, but there is no position available at the moment; we'll keep your résumé on file . . .” form letter was disappointing and annoying, and I tossed and turned for hours, and fell into fitful sleep. I am not exactly feeling rested. Bubbles's serenading Snatch with Sinatra from the shower at six did not help, despite her adjusted lyrics: “My kind of dog, Snatch is my kind of dog . . .”

“Coffee,” I croak.

“Coming right up. And eggs?”

“Yes, please.”

I grab the
Chicago Tribune
that Bubbles has left on the counter, minus the sports section and the crossword puzzle, her two favorite things. I grab the dining section and shake it open. And there, big as life above the fold, is the smiling visage of the Cake Goddess. The relentlessly perky MarySue Adams, darling of the food networks, is grinning her veneered grin, hair shellacked into place, wide blue eyes sparkling with a combination of smugness and condescension and faux hominess. She's everything I loathe about the celebrity-chef movement. She started with a little cake-baking business in Atlanta, a way to earn some money after an acrimonious divorce while raising three little girls on her own. Back then she was sweet and real and plump like a milkmaid, wide-eyed with charming little crooked eyeteeth and a thick accent. I met her once after a panel about women in the industry at the Music City Food and Wine Festival in Nashville. I was on the panel; she was in the audience, having been brought to the festival by a well-known country music star who had loved her cupcakes in Atlanta and flown her up to bake desserts for the party she was hosting for the festival. Back then MarySue was effusive and energetic and authentic. We ended up back at the hotel having drinks and snacks, and it was a memorable evening with a fun gal.

But that was ages ago.

She met the Food Network people at that same festival; they signed her and proceeded to completely make her over. Today she is a trim size four, with cheekbones where cheeks used to be; a slight hint of a southern lilt has replaced her full-blown drawl. The teeth are now a scary row of perfectly even and blindingly white fake choppers. Once a week she is the Cake Goddess on national television, making “simple, straightforward home-cooked desserts
that the busiest mom can manage in a jiff!” and she's opening stores all over creation. She publishes a bestselling cookbook once a year like clockwork and does a regular weekly cooking segment on
Today
, as well as a column in
Marie Claire
magazine. Last year she went public with her longtime boyfriend, Chicago venture capital billionaire Charles Monroe, once his endless divorce was finalized.

According to the article, Cake Goddess, fresh off its successful recent IPO, is apparently expanding its monolithic cake empire into Chicago. Twelve flavors of cupcakes, with eight different frosting options. Five types of chocolate chip cookies alone, and eight types of brownies. A dozen different breads daily, and nearly two dozen on weekends. And a full range of organic/vegan/gluten-free choices. And they specialize in over-the-top wedding cakes, the cornerstone of their empire. MarySue is so excited to finally be in Chicago after successful endeavors all over the South and Northeast, and on the West Coast. Chicago will be her flagship midwestern store, and she is going to make it the biggest and best. She plans to set up her testing kitchen here, and the store will serve as the place where she'll first roll out new offerings, including event spaces for parties and a small café for lunch and high tea.

She will be keeping her sprawling Atlanta mansion, a pink-stuccoed nightmare that looks like Dixie Barbie's Nouveau Riche Dream House, but has bought a multimillion-dollar Lake Shore Drive penthouse condo, which I recognize immediately from Anneke's portfolio. She showed me the before and after pictures when we were working on the restaurant, and the before had the most amazing and ridiculous kitchen covered entirely in blue-and-white floral delft-patterned wallpaper with matching countertops and ceiling and cabinet pulls. We had laughed about the matchy-matchy and the ancient appliances and the general insanity of the space, and when she said she promised me that the restaurant would not look like that, I knew that Anneke,
beaming at me over the swell of her enormous belly, was the perfect person to design my dream restaurant. It sort of hurts my heart to know that MarySue Adams gets to reap the benefits of Anneke's gifts in her home and that Dexter and Cookie get to reap the benefits in their restaurant, and that I will now never again be able to afford to work with her.

I keep hate-reading the article, learning about how much MarySue has fallen in love with Chicago, that she has some fun new treats that will be Chicago themed, and that she is delighted to announce that she will be breaking ground soon in one of Chicago's most historic and storied old neighborhoods.

Less than four blocks from Langer's.

My eyes fly open, my stomach turns itself into a pretzel, and I'm suddenly powerfully awake.

“Shit,” I say as Bubbles comes over and slides a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me and puts down a large mug of steaming coffee, light and sweet.

“What is it?”

“A nightmare.” I show her the front page of the section.

“Oy, that woman. She gives me the creepy-crawlies. I always feel like she is peering into my soul through the television. Her teeth look like she wants to eat me. And I don't think anything I've seen her cook has ever appeared appetizing.”

“She's bringing her bakery here.”

“To Chicago?”

“To the old Woolworth's space on Milwaukee.”

“Over
there
?” Bubbles says, gesturing to the backyard and beyond, where the long-empty building has been awaiting development, less than a half mile from where we sit.

“Yeah.”

The realization of what that will mean flashes across her face, and she flops into the chair opposite me, hand over her mouth. “Poor Herman.”

“Exactly.”

I hand her the article and eat my eggs and toast, which are at once delicious and suddenly leaden. By the time I'm finished with my breakfast, she is finished with the article.

“Vey iz mir.”

“Exactly. I think I'd better go in early today. I don't know if he's heard yet, but if he hasn't, it should probably come from me.”

“Good girl.”

I drop my dish in the dishwasher and head upstairs to get dressed. As I pull on my work clothes, I think about poor Herman and what this will mean, and then about myself. Last night's email means I'm no closer to the type of employment that I really need, and while Langer's isn't my dream job, it is a job, and a pleasant one at that. What if Herman just throws his hands up and closes quickly? I'll be totally back to square one. I shake this off, knowing that Herman's best bet is probably to just try and sell his place as fast as he can before Cake Goddess opens so that he doesn't face the humiliation of being put out of business. I would hate to see him suffer that, especially after so many years.

I grab my bag and zip down the stairs, yelling my good-bye to Bubbles, and head for the bakery hoping upon hope that Herman already knows and I'm just there for comfort, and that I don't have to be the one to tell the sweetest old man in the world that his business has one year left at best and whatever nest egg he was aiming to get out of it has likely fallen right into the toilet.

When I push open the door at Langer's, slowly to prevent the bells from ringing out, the first thing I hear is Herman on the phone.

“I can't worry about some other bakery.” Herman's voice, coming out of the kitchen, sounds weary.

There is a pause.

“They do what they do; I do what I do. It's not the same.”

Another pause.

“They may in fact do it bigger. But not better.”

When I walk into the kitchen, Herman catches my eye and winks at me, gesturing to the pitcher of coffee, and I go to pour myself a cup.

“You may think that better doesn't matter today, but I disagree. Bigger and cheaper and with more variety, with their big-time celebrity-chef owner. That doesn't mean anything to people who respect places like this.”

Herman rolls his eyes and holds the phone away from his ear, the ancient receiver emitting the noise of a thousand angry bees.

“Please, Junior, I understand that you want to help, but I know what I know. This is my home; this is my job; this is where I belong and what I belong doing. If the new place makes things slower, so be it. But I'm not a coward. I don't run away. I stay. The business stays. That is the end of the discussion.”

I hear a noise that sounds very much like “
aaarrrghhhhhh
” through the phone and then, unmistakably, a dial tone. Herman puts on a brave smile.

“Sweet Sophie. You are early! But it is good, because there are still many challahs to get ready. Can you continue for me? I need to go upstairs for something. I will return quick as a rabbit.”

“Of course, Herman. Take your time; I'll get the challahs done.”

He pinches my cheek on his way to the door and disappears upstairs. That must have been the son. Herman has shared very little about his son. All I know is that he is some sort of big-time businessman who splits his time fairly evenly between Chicago and the West Coast. The two of them seem to have a strained, respectful relationship. I know that they spend key holidays together and that the son does try and stop in to see Herman when he is in town and has time, but apparently those visits
have been fewer and fewer ever since his mother died. I know that Herman is proud of his son but doesn't really understand him, and on the rare occasion he mentions him, I make sure not to pry or ask for more info. And it always makes me grateful that my folks, who also don't necessarily understand me, don't let it distance us from each other.

Herman returns, looking like nothing in the world is wrong.

“Sophie, you are very early.”

“I saw the paper, thought I should come in.”

He pats my hand. “Very sweet of you, my dear, but nothing to panic about. I'm very delighted to see that our neighborhood is attracting new and exciting businesses.”

“But, Herman . . .”

He shakes his head. “There is a big building that needs to be torn down, rebuilt from the ground up. Who knows what happens between now and then? For all we know, having the new business nearby brings many more people to the neighborhood, people who love baked goods. I've seen photos of this Baking Queen woman. This is not a Jewish face. I'm sure she makes an excellent cookie, but I would bet she wouldn't know a babka from a bobcat,
nu
?”

Herman puts on his thickest shtetl accent and mugs for me, making me giggle despite myself.

“There's my girl. Bad enough I've got my son phoning in from California all gloomy and doomy. You and I know better. Don't we both still love to get that perfect French baguette at La Boulangerie? Those amazing English muffins at Summer House? The carrot cake muffins at Blue Door Farm Stand?” Herman rattles off some of the outstanding work of other local Chicago establishments.