The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs (30 page)

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.

“What?”

I study Blake’s face and recall all the times he has used the phrases “ahoy” and “going overboard” and “anchors aweigh.” Now we are at some sort of fish market, in front of a huge image of a bearded sailor. And, apparently, I am the only one in this car who sees the humor in any of this.

“Never mind,” I say. “What is this place?”

“The Maine Avenue Fish Market. I figured you’d never been.”

He figured right. In three years of living in Washington, I have never even heard of this place. Frankly, even though there are fifty state-named streets across the city, I never encountered Maine Avenue before today. The location’s novelty does not, however, explain our reason for being here.

We hop out of the car, and immediately the stench of raw seafood slaps me in the face. “Lovely,” I say, covering my nose with my hand.

Blake sticks his buttonlike nose in the air and takes a deep breath. “You don’t like it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Yeah, I guess most people don’t. But I love it. It reminds me of my dad.”

“I’m not sure how your dad would feel about that …”

“It would probably make him smile.” Blake’s cheeks flush, and that’s when I remember his father is dead. Well done, Hannah. “We used to go fishing all the time when I was growing up,” he says, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “We called ourselves the Fischer Men.”

“The Fischer Men—wow. So many things about you are starting to make sense …”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing …”

“Hey, Fischer Men is a lot better than some of the names my dad got called in the navy. Apparently
Fischer
was an easy target for dirty puns. Although the Fischer Men do like a good pun now and then.”

“You don’t say …”

Blake smirks and gently elbows me in the side. “Anyway, I saw you had some seafood on your shopping list for the party, so I thought I’d take you here as a little surprise. Given how much you like to cook, I thought you might get a kick out of it.”

We wind our way past one of many seafood shops, and at this first one, the seafood sits on ice below foot level, with a bunch of men standing in the pit behind the seafood and shouting up at passersby to ask what they want. No wonder Blake asked what I was wearing earlier. Some of these fishmongers would have an X-rated view if I’d worn a skirt today.

The combination of seafood and commotion reminds me of the Pike Place Fish Market in Seattle, which I visited a decade ago when my parents dragged me across the country for the World Trade Organization meeting. While they were off talking about trade imbalances and domestic subsidies, I snuck off from our room at the Crowne Plaza and hopped on a bus down to the fish market. The place was a cook’s dream come true—fish everywhere, all different kinds, right off the boat. I’d never seen anything like it.

I spent an hour strolling around the market, watching the fishmongers toss slick, silvery king salmon across vats of ice while shouting back and forth to each other over the bustle of the crowd and the drifting guitar music. I bought a tub of cooked Dungeness crab as a souvenir, not fully appreciating the mechanics involved in transporting fresh seafood on a five-hour flight across the country. When my parents spotted the container in our hotel minifridge, they—not without justification—thought I’d lost my mind, but I told them Pike Place offered such a staggering selection of seafood that I had to buy something. Unfortunately, my parents forbade me from bringing fresh seafood on an airplane, and I was forced to wolf down what I could before throwing the rest of the container in the trash.

This place on Maine Avenue lacks the energy of Pike Place, and it’s definitely grungier than Seattle’s famous market, but they carry an extensive selection of seafood, everything from whole snapper to grouper filets to octopus, and every kind of shellfish, including live lobsters and crabs.

Blake leads me over to Captain White’s, and I survey the shrimp and crab’s legs. “You’re sure this stuff is fresh?”

“Well, I should be honest,” he says, lowering his voice and turning his back to a tattooed fishmonger who looks eager to make a sale. He comes in close and whispers in my ear. “Most of the fish is trucked in from Maryland. And some of it’s frozen. But it’s still pretty good, and for the amount of seafood you have on your list, you can’t beat the price.”

Blake calls over the tattooed man and points to the extra-large shrimp. “We’ll take ten pounds of those guys, and five pounds of the oysters over there.”

I point to the jar of shucked oysters. “Why don’t we buy the shucked kind? I don’t need them in the shell. I’m cooking them anyway. It’ll save me time.”

“Aw, come on. Fresh is the only way to go.”

“Are you planning to shuck them for me?”

He bites his lip. “How about this—you cook with the jarred oysters, I’ll do my own thing with the fresh ones. There’s nothing quite like a freshly shucked oyster.”

“Fine.”

Blake calls to the tattooed man. “Make that three pounds of the oysters in the shell, and a jar of the shucked oysters.”

“And throw in four pounds of squid,” I add.

Blake offers me an approving grin and then turns back to the fishmonger. “Whoa—hey, we don’t want any of the shrimp with the spots on them. Or the milky eyes. Put those back. Only the fresh ones.” The fishmonger nods, scoops out the objectionable shrimp, and tosses in some fresher ones.

“Someone knows his seafood,” I say.

He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m more than just a beautiful face.”

Blake surveys his order and hands the man a wad of cash.

“By the way,” he says, “all this cash reminded me—I checked it out, and when it comes to catering my party, it’s totally legal for me to pay you.”

Frankly, I’d forgotten it might not be. That’s probably because the finer points of what is legal and what is not no longer seem to enter the calculus of my daily behavior.

We trudge back to the car, weighed down by about twenty pounds of seafood. Blake opens his trunk and lifts off the lid to an enormous blue-and-white cooler, which is nestled among a bunch of red-and-white fishing rods, a rusty tackle box, a pair of beat-up Adidas sneakers, and a set of jumper cables. We dump the food in the cooler, seal it up, and hop back in the car. Blake pulls out of the parking lot and slowly turns onto Maine Avenue.

“Three more places I want to take you,” he says.

He flicks on a compilation of ’80s tunes and skips forward to a song by Flock of Seagulls, and as he starts crooning the lyrics, his wildly off-key tones filling the car, I realize this day is going to be even weirder than I thought.

After Blake stops off at a cheese shop in Alexandria and a butcher in Arlington, he pulls into the parking lot of a wine emporium in McLean, fist-pumping all the while to Def Leppard. Considering this is a man I should, theoretically, be avoiding, I somehow have managed to spend more time with him over the past week than I have with my parents over the past three months, and the hours of quality time show no sign of abating.

“Didn’t we just buy wine the other night?” I ask.

Blake sighs. “Yeah, I know. But I checked my liquor cabinet last night, and it looks like one of my buddies put a serious dent in my supply of port and scotch.”

Port. And scotch. The port and scotch Rachel and I forgot to replace. Shit.

“Oh. I see.”

“It’s weird, though, because I haven’t had friends over in months, so I’m not really sure when someone would have drunk all my booze. But between work and the ANC election, I’ve been operating on very little sleep for months, so who knows. Anything is possible.”

I smile uncomfortably. “Isn’t it always?”

We hop out of the car, and Blake points his finger between the wine shop and an ABC liquor store across the street. “Want to stick with me, or divide and conquer?”

We have been shopping for more than two hours. I do not need to prolong this day any longer. “Let’s split up.”

“Cool. If you run across the street to the ABC and find the scotch, I’ll grab some port over here and meet you.”

Blake heads one way, and I dart across the street to the liquor store. Once inside, I wander down the aisles, searching for the shelves housing the whiskey and scotch. I can’t believe Rachel and I forgot to replace his booze. How could we be so stupid? As if he wouldn’t notice both bottles were empty. Then again, I managed to leave a container of homemade ice cream in his freezer with the name
SUGARMAN
on it. Stealth is not a personal strength.

I scan the display and spot the bottle Rachel and I used at each of our supper clubs: the Macallan eighteen-year scotch. I pluck the bottle off the shelf, and as soon as I do, I notice the price: $149.95. Holy shit.

“Hey, how did you know Macallan is my favorite?”

I turn around and find Blake standing directly behind me, his lips curled into a playful smirk. “Lucky guess,” I say.

He grabs the bottle from my hand. “Hey there, high roller. The eighteen-year?”

Isn’t that what he already owns? I’m so confused. “Not okay?”

“No, it’s fine. Just a little pricey, that’s all. Eighteen is what I have at home, but I got it as a gift for my birthday last year. I usually buy the twelve-year if I’m just buying it for me.”

Great. Now I feel even worse. “Then let’s buy that instead,” I say. “It’s cheaper.”

Blake waves me away with his hand. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m just bitching. It’s not your fault someone drank my booze.” He smiles. “The eighteen-year tastes better anyway. I shouldn’t skimp on your first catering gig.”

He hands the bottles to the cashier, grabs his wallet, and drops his credit card on the counter.

I am pretty much the worst person alive.

We get back to Blake’s house around six-thirty, and I help Blake unload what feels like one thousand pounds of groceries into his kitchen, finding space where I can in his already overstuffed refrigerator. As I unload the last of the seafood, Blake rubs his hands along the granite countertop.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“I could eat,” I say, a statement that is true both now and always.

“Any interest in sharing a pizza? I could eat a whole one on my own, but I probably shouldn’t.”

I stuff a bag of shrimp between two bottles of Dogfish Head Ale and shut the refrigerator door. “Um, I don’t know …”

What I really want to do is call Jacob and have him (a) apologize for not calling me and (b) offer to come over and make out with me. I also do not relish the idea of fostering a friendship with the one man I should be avoiding.

“Aw, come on,” Blake says. “Don’t make me eat a pizza all by myself. Do it for my waistline.”

I sigh. “Yeah, okay. Pizza sounds good.”

Blake leaves to pick up a pizza from Pizzeria Paradiso, the only place in Dupont Circle to get authentic, Italian, wood-fired pizza, and I plop down on his living room sofa and let my back meld into the soft leather cushions. What the hell am I doing? With every passing day, I manage to dig myself into a deeper hole. I can’t become
friends
with Blake. Friends don’t lie to each other and sabotage each other’s political careers. Friends don’t steal each other’s liquor and use each other’s kitchens without permission. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be out somewhere fun with Jacob. I should be getting laid.

Whatever. Jacob will call me when he’s ready. In the meantime, I need to get my head in the game and prepare for tomorrow night. This party will be my first nonsecret, paid catering gig, and as such, I can’t afford to make any missteps. If I play this right, I could get requests for other events, and soon I could have enough buzz around my name to start my own company. Then I could quit my job and cook anywhere for anyone, without worrying about who might find out. I wouldn’t have to use my landlord’s house. Behind his back. While he runs for neighborhood commissioner and pays me to help with his parties.

For the party to be a launching pad to a new career, however, the food has to be perfect. So far I’m off to a good start. I pawned the menu for tomorrow night from my ideas for The Dupont Circle Supper Club, where I tied each dish into the Halloween theme. There will be curried deviled eggs and barbecued “skeleton” ribs, blood orange sorbet and devil’s food cupcakes. Tomorrow morning, Blake will help me with my last-minute prep work, and from there … well, I guess the rest is up to chance.

Unfortunately, Rachel was mysteriously unavailable to help with the decorations, and so I was left to my own devices and those of Washington’s resident pirate. Despite that significant handicap, I must say, the rooms look pretty great. I strung yards of cobwebs across Blake’s living room walls and strategically pinned a bunch of plastic black widow spiders into the cottony strands. Then I unwrapped six packets of bat clusters, minimobiles that flap and squeal when a gust of air moves through the room, and hung each cluster in the perfect location along the ceiling in both the living and dining rooms. After searching through Blake’s storage closet, I rustled up a lifelike witch, one covered with warts and wrinkly skin and brittle gray hair, and stuck her in the corner of the living room next to the fireplace.