Page 15 of Best Served Hot

I felt a little bit like a pointed-at lobster in a supermarket tank, paralyzed, waiting for the hand of the seafood counter guy to pluck me up and stuff me in a bag for boiling.

But the stares only lasted for a few seconds before the first murmurs broke the silence. “Who?” “Are we supposed to know who that is?” “Is she on TV?”

“The food blogger!” added the pink-haired girl hastily, but she’d already lost the room’s attention. This was Manhattan. Once, I’d ridden the subway and not even noticed the guy next to me was Tim Gunn until somebody else asked for a selfie. “Almost sixty thousand followers, and none of you are here? Seriously?”

I blinked, and the waiter was next to our table again, regarding me solemnly. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you and your friends to leave.”

I wasn’t sure what I was most offended by in that sentence. The “ma’am,” implying I was old? Being disgracefully kicked out of the restaurant? Having it implied that Bennett and the pink-haired girl were my friends?

“You saw it was an accident, right?” I asked the waiter. “Somebody hit me with their chair.”

He regarded me impassively. You knew you were toast when a waiter got unfriendly, because it meant they were no longer worried about a tip. “You’ve all disturbed the experience for our other guests, and I’m afraid you’ll all need to leave.”

I snuck a glance over at Bennett and his friend. He was still dabbing grimly at the wine stains on his khakis, but the girl’s feet were planted firmly on the ground, and she was tossing a scarf around her neck. Getting ready to go.

Well, if they were going to go, I wouldn’t stop them. Or stay myself. “This was a disaster,” I whispered to Alice as we swept past Bennett and the pink-haired girl’s table. I was careful not to turn toward them at all, but I imagined venomous looks drilling into the back of my head as we exited. We’d been in there long enough that it was starting to get dark. The night crowd was coming out, beautiful people dressed in expensive clothes, groups of friends laughing in the windows of bars.

Alice sighed, glancing wistfully at the menu. “I really wanted my patatas.”

Great. I swallowed a lump of guilt in my throat. “Never fear. I’ll get you your patatas.”

They might not have been Spanish, but potatoes were just as good frenched.

• • •

Mr. Decker wasn’t in the next day, meaning I was all alone in the office. Also meaning I had all morning—after pointlessly laying out his papers and going through his overnight emails, which were all spam—to obsess over what to say to Bennett. Because as indignant as I was, once I’d gone home and lain down to go to sleep and instead lain awake for hours thinking about everything I’d ever done wrong in my life, it had come to my attention that the night’s wrongs rested mainly on my shoulders. I’d started out with the pettiness by sending him that octopus, and his wine had been a retaliation. His companion’s outing of me was pretty uncool, but if she’d thought I spilled the wine on her purposely, could I really blame her?

So finally I dug my toes into the carpet for strength, brought up a fresh new email, and gave it the subject line Sorry. Then typed, The wine was an accident. I really didn’t mean to . . .

Ground my teeth. Backspaced. Started again. I meant to give you the wine back, not spill it all over you. Blame the guy in the chair behind me. Sorry. Let me know if I can pay any dry-cleaning bills for you or your friend.

Backspaced again. Just because I was curious. . . . if I can pay any dry-cleaning bills for you or your girlfriend. Or should I put wife? No. I would’ve noticed a ring. And Emerson Leigh hadn’t mentioned him being married. Not that she would have. I was totally overthinking this, so I hit send before I could overthink anything more.

His response came back almost immediately, which felt kind of insulting, considering how much time I’d spent obsessing over my email. Or was it actually a compliment, considering he might have been sitting on the edge of his seat, clicking refresh over and over just in case the notification took an extra second, waiting desperately to hear from me. Yeah. I’d go with that. He wrote, I’ll get dry-cleaning money from the guy behind you in the devil chair. And she’s not my girlfriend; she’s my twin sister.

No word about the restaurant. No word about what we should do next, if we should go back to Calabaza or never darken their doorway again. No word on if this—collaboration? Or whatever we were doing?—was continuing on. So I replied, Twin, huh? I always wanted a twin. I thought it would be fun to have twin telepathy or to be able to switch places at will. Also, thoughts about netx steps? I considered going back and changing the typo, but I really wanted to project a laissez-faire attitude. Send.

This time, it took a bit before he got back to me. Yes, the whole idea of the pink hair was to stop people from confusing us, because otherwise Penny and I look so much alike. I snorted a laugh. Re: next steps, I’ve already told my bosses I planned on reviewing Calabaza. I’d rather not go back on that so early into this gig. And we can still help each other.

I also really wanted to do Calabaza. Last night I’d dreamed of patatas and paella, pulpo and granita (those last two had been served together, and in the dream, I’d thought the sweet octopus ice was delicious). So I responded, We might have been kicked out, but it’s not like they’ll remember us. They see so many people each night, that place was packed. If we go back on our own, or with different people, maybe with a wig on me and no glasses for you, I bet we’ll be fine. Two nights from now? Thursday? And truce while we’re there?

Him: Sounds good. It was unclear which question he was responding to, but I’d just assume he was assenting to both.

So. The option was to bring somebody other than Alice or to go alone. There were a few college friends I could ask, and I figured I could decide later based on who was free. But it was all moot after I finally called for a reservation an hour after setting up a conference call for Mr. Decker. The restaurant was full, though they were able to reserve me a single seat at the bar. I gave them a fake name, Harper, scribbling it down along with the place and time and Bennett’s name on a Post-it so that I wouldn’t forget, then stuck the Post-it to my monitor so that it would be staring at me until the actual event.

I had more invoices to go through, but I spent most of the day dreaming about octopus desserts, about my date two nights from now. Not a date, I told myself sternly. Not anything even close to a date. I would spend the night sitting alone at the bar, my back to the room and anyone who happened to be dining there, and I would eat delicious food. Alone.

7

The two days passed. Slowly. Fitfully. Emerson Leigh stopped by at four fifty-five on Wednesday afternoon and chattered about how she’d sent her business pitch to her dad’s friend who was a producer for Good Morning America, and maybe they’d feature her on the show. I nodded along for fifteen excruciating minutes until I lied that I had a hair appointment and beat it out of there. Thursday I spent most of the day wrinkling my nose, because Emerson Leigh had sprayed something foul that lingered in the air; I finally tracked down the spray bottle in her dad’s office and found that it was a bottle of Maisie’s handmade artisanal perfume (the scent: “Horse Sweat”).

And then it was time. Nerves tingled in my stomach as I exchanged my pinchy flats for cute sneakers and shrugged on my light spring poncho, then the blond wig I’d found at a thrift shop and kept around for emergencies. The blunt bangs tickled my forehead, and the ends of the bob brushed my shoulders as I breezed out the door, keeping what I hoped was a pleasant expression on my face for the whole ride down (which was quite a feat on the subway). Bennett could pop up any moment, the way killer clowns did in nightmares, and I didn’t want to look frazzled or nervous or weak in any way.

At least until I spoke to the hostess. “I’m afraid I don’t have any record of your reservation,” she said, squinting at her screen. Fortunately, she hadn’t been there three nights ago. Even so, I doubted she’d recognize me in the dark, crowded entryway. “What was the name again?”

I thought back to the Post-it note. “Harper? For one at the bar, seven o’clock?”

She squinted even harder, like it might make my fake name pop into existence. “I’m sorry, I’m not seeing it here.” She glanced to the side, her eyes flitting past me, alighting on the groups that had lined up in the entryway. I was holding her up. “And I’m afraid we’re full tonight. We might have a seat open up in an hour or two, but I can’t guarantee anything. Though you’re welcome to give me your number and—”