Off the Menu (32 page)

I wander back out, and find Patrick doing the unthinkable. He is cooking. There are two placemats on the island, napkins and forks. He has found a dish of leftover pasta I made last night, linguine with chickpeas, pancetta, and toasted breadcrumbs, with torn basil leaves and lemon zest. He’s put together a frittata, which he has cooked on one side, and is deftly flipping it over to cook the other side. On another burner, some of my marinara that I put up last summer simmers in a small saucepan. A pile of shaved Parmesan is on the cutting board, two plates sit at his elbow. Patrick never cooks for me. And certainly not at my house. Something is definitely up.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I felt bad. I know I’ve been really hard on you lately, and extra demanding, and I know I was sort of rude about RJ. Plus, you always cook for me, figured it was more than my turn.”

“I just don’t know what is going on with you. You’ve been insane and secretive and cranky. Let’s put aside the business about RJ, which, frankly, wasn’t rude, Patrick, it was mean and hurtful. Regardless, I can’t support you if I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

Patrick slides the frittata onto a cutting board. “Okay, I deserve that about the RJ thing. I’m getting used to being the number-two guy in your life, and it doesn’t suit me terribly well.” Dumpling butts his calf with his tiny head. “Sorry, buddy, number three.” Dumpling harrumphs, sneezes, and flops onto the floor.

“Patrick, you just have to be honest with me. I know that we aren’t exactly just employer and employee, but that does have to be the biggest part of our relationship.”

“What if I want more?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Patrick drops on one knee and takes my hand.

Oh … no. This cannot be happening. That would be too sappy rom com even for a sappy rom com girl like me. What on earth am I going to do?

“Alana, you know how much you mean to me.” My heart drops into my toes.

“Patrick … don’t. I mean I’m flattered, but … really, it’s just not, I mean, you know …” He grins at me with the wickedest of twinkles in his eye. That bastard. I smack him in the head. “Get off your knees you unmitigated asshair.”

“I can’t believe you actually thought I was going
there
,” he says, getting up off his knees, and laughing in a profoundly annoying way.

“You are a shithead.”

He puts his arm around me and pulls me tight against him. “I am. And if ever I were going to make such a ridiculous gesture of romantic hooey, I know I could do a lot worse than aiming it in your general direction.”

“Wow. Such flattery. You going to serve that or just let it perfume the air?” I gesture at the frittata.

“Good point.” He walks back over to the cutting board, slices two thick wedges and places them on the plates. He dollops tomato sauce over each one, garnishes with cheese, and then hands me a plate and we head for the island.

“So,” Patrick says, around a mouthful of frittata, “about this secretive business. There is something going on, which I have not been at liberty to share with you. Technically, I am still not at liberty, but I do hate when my little Alana is cranky with me, and I agree that it has been a particularly difficult and annoying time for all of us, so I’m going to trust
you with something pretty big and you are going to have to keep it under your hat.”

“Have you ever known me to spill a secret?” Damn, this frittata is freaking delicious. Never let it be said that the man can’t cook.

“I have not. Which is why I’m going to tell you. You? Are looking at the new Warrior Chef on
Master Chef Battle
.”

“WHAT?!”
Master Chef Battle
is the Food TV parent network’s answer to
Iron Chef America
, the major difference being that the opponents aren’t limited to restaurant chefs. Caterers, home cooks, critics, celebs, even other television chefs—anyone can issue a challenge. And instead of one secret ingredient, there is an initial mini battle and the winner gets a one-minute head start in the pantry to have a slight advantage in choice of ingredients. They each have to produce a five-course meal that must include at least one dessert, and periodically during the cooking a buzzer will go off and the judge will issue an extra challenge or some twist. Each chef has one sous chef, and they have their own twists and turns during the course of the show. It’s been doing insanely well in the ratings, since it taps into a more mainstream audience. All three of the initial Warrior Chefs have become major stars, and their on-air sous chefs now all have shows of their own and cookbook deals and their own fan bases. On-air sous chefs … Oh no.

Patrick watches the reality sink in. “Yep! That’s right my little princess. Get ready for fame and fortune, because we are going to be the hottest team on television! First off, we’re going to be undefeated forever, because we are unstoppable! My speed and your palate, your knife skills and my butchering, your insane ability to remember recipes, and both our
gorgeous faces …” He takes my face in one large hand, squishing my cheeks together, and puts on a good imitation of my mom’s accent. “Such a
punim
, we are going to be huge!”

My stomach turns over. This is my worst nightmare.

“And the best part? The money is RIDICULOUS! For both of us. Network money, baby, not cable. The show is already in syndication, and they air reruns every afternoon, so in addition to the per-show appearance fees, there will be residuals rolling in almost immediately. The cookbooks will get a bump, the other shows will get a ratings boost, and you, my soon-to-be star, will have your own show and your own cookbook deal within the year. And endorsement deals for both of us. Maybe we’ll do a cookware line together. Seriously, Alana, I was talking to Jeff last time I was in New York, and his sous, Howie, just bought his parents a new house on Long Island. For CASH.”

And that is when my heart breaks completely in two. Because I know in that moment that this opportunity is probably the difference between my folks being able to keep their house and have the Florida place for comfort in their golden years and scraping by with two weeks’ warm vacation and barely enough money to sustain a decent lifestyle. The chance for me to secure my own financial future, not just year to year, but for the long run. I could keep the cabin. And maybe even do the big master bedroom project at home, make it roomier and more comfortable for RJ to move into.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Patrick looks like a little boy who has brought home a first-prize trophy, and I’m sitting here mute attempting very seriously not to shit my pants.

“Patrick, that is so great for you.” My head is swimming. The very idea of being on camera makes me feel like I am
about to vomit. I think about the blogs that are devoted entirely to people who make idiots of themselves on television. The candid pictures of television people in their least attractive moments. Any error captured forever to be YouTubed and Tweeted endlessly. Ever read the Food Network Humor blog? It’s hilarious. Because it is about someone else.

“For us, kiddo, for us! That’s why I’ve been so nuts lately about the show. The network has been watching footage and looking to see where we are headed and make sure the show is still on an upward trajectory.”

“No, it all makes sense now, I totally get it. And it is very exciting for you …” But the kids. If I took this job I might not be able to have time to participate fully in the program, but I might be able to start a scholarship fund.

“US! Don’t you get it? I could never have gotten this without you, hell, half the things they praise me for in these meetings are things that are your ideas. And now, we get to take this next step together. We’re getting called up to the bigs, the show, the major fucking leagues! I’m the pitcher and you’re my catcher. I’m Starsky and you’re Hutch ….”

“I’m Turner and you’re Hooch ….” I think that was my out-loud voice.

“EXACTLY! We’re gonna be amazing.”

“Patrick, I’m really grateful, and it is a wonderful opportunity, but I do have to think about it. I have to learn all the details and responsibilities and obligations, and I have to spend some time making sure it’s right for me. I’m hugely excited for you, and I think they are damned lucky to get you, but I can’t just say yes without knowing all the details and having some time to think about it.” Why? Why now? Why not three months ago, when I could have just made a decision without this Foundation thing hanging over me.

“What’s to think about? It’s fabulous money. Between you and me, you’re starting equal pay and perks to the other sous chefs; I made sure of that, so you’ll be on equal footing. And it is ON TOP of your current salary and benefits! You’re going to get a full-time assistant, to take some grunt stuff off your plate. And I’m telling you, by the end of the season you’ll have a show of your own!”

“That’s all great, Patrick, but it is possible I don’t want a show of my own ….” A show of my own? That would be even WORSE. But maybe I could be the background person. How awful could it be? It isn’t like it shoots in front of a live audience. And what would I care if a bunch of mouth-breathing bloghoos with nothing better to do than to poke fun at people on TV write some snarky shit about me on the intertubes? I could have a nice life, my parents could have a nice life, and I could still be involved in the work of the Foundation, maybe even become a board member.

“Well, it isn’t a requirement. You can just be my right-hand gal, and still rake in the moolah! You might not get as big a cookbook deal without your own show, but for sure we’ll get to do one together based on the stuff we make on the show. Alana, you’re finally going to make the money you should be making, passive income, royalties, and bonuses, all the stuff you should have had for years but we couldn’t manage. You should be insane with delight!”

“Look, Patrick, it isn’t all about the money for me. I have to take a look at the whole picture, my whole life, and make sure that this is what is best for me.” I think about Max. He said to me that in some ways, his folks losing the money and the house is the best thing that ever happened to him. He feels closer to his mom now. They shop and cook together and play board games instead of occupying different rooms in a massive
house and eating meals in restaurants. He feels like he is a better person for living in a diverse neighborhood, going to a school with all sorts of different people. He likes that he can tutor some of his classmates, and that the friends he is slowly making feel very real to him. None of his pals from his former school have kept in touch. And while he still intends to go to college, he thinks he might be able to pay for it by working in the school cafeteria. And I have a piece of that. I have seen his spine get straighter, his skin clear up, his confidence increase. And I think he and Mari might be dating. Or hanging out and kickin’ it, as Joseph would say. He is a different person from the one I met, and I had a part of that. That has got to be worth as much as a cookbook deal, doesn’t it? Maybe more?

Patrick waves his hand at me. “You’re insane. And you’re tired, and this is a lot to process. In the morning, you’ll be singing in the shower and praising my name to the heavens.” He gets up, puts his empty plate in the sink, and tosses Dumpling a small chunk of frittata. “I’m going to let you get some rest. Everything is still in the planning stage. I’m waiting on my contract, and then we’ll figure out a press release for that, and then get you squared away, so it will probably be a month or two before you get paperwork, but I wouldn’t tell you if it weren’t a done deal. And until it’s all signed and sealed, MUM’S THE WORD!” He leans over and kisses me on the top of my head. “We’re going to be the best team since Butch and Sundance, kiddo. Just stick with me, and I’ll make you a star! See you tomorrow, honey. We’ll see if we can’t give those kids of yours a class to remember. They can say they knew you when!” Something tells me he doesn’t remember how Butch and Sundance ended up.

He whistles his way to the door, tips an imaginary hat, and disappears into the night.

Dumpling wanders over and puts one paw on my knee.

“You know buddy, this week is just full of surprises.”

Dumpling yawns and schlumps down into a dog loaf at my feet.

“Holy Frankenfuck, dog, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do. Except go to bed and think about it tomorrow.” I look around at my kitchen and the detritus Patrick has left for me to clean up. “At least, I will once I finish the dishes.”

O
kay, lay it on me, what did you learn?” Patrick says to the class, who are all enraptured after a three-hour marathon session with him that has covered everything from knife skills to the importance of nutrition to how to pursue a career in television to how to use things you learn in the kitchen in the real world. He has been honest, charming, self-deprecating, and funny. He has not pandered for one minute, or talked down to them. He hasn’t tried to use their lingo or show how cool he is. I’m prouder of him than I have ever been.

“Your best days are the ones where you work so hard at something you believe in that you are completely drained, but still can’t wait to do it again the next day,” Max says.