Dishing It Out

He put up a hand to stop her. “Same fee per show so it’s sort of a raise.”

She would take it. She leaned back and felt like she could kiss the water-stained ceiling. She could kiss Simon and his filthy desk. A little more notoriety would bring more people into Marie’s Bistro, her bakery/bistro. More customers meant she could pay off her debts, the loan she had to take out last year, maybe even… “A vacation,” she breathed.

Since leaving France and the horrible mess she had made there two years ago, Marie had gotten her life under control, had forced herself to grow up, to be an adult. She’d taken on the responsibilities she normally ran from and this was going to be her reward. The bright and shiny beginning of her cooking empire.

“Simon,” Marie said, sitting up to look at him, feeling like she was made of fire, “I’ve got so many ideas, so many things we can do with the show.”

“Whoa, before you get carried away, there’s a minor change.” Simon started digging through the papers on his desk. “Where’d I put that thing?”

His distraction was making Marie nervous. But that could be because she was operating on forty seconds of sleep. “Simon, just tell me what’s going on.”

“Found it!” He reached to the floor, picked a stack of papers up and turned back around holding one of them out to her. “Look who is on the cover of the Weekend Magazine.”

She blinked at the sudden and unwelcome change of subject. Giovanni MacAllister was staring up at her in full eight and a half by eleven glossy from the weekend insert for the San Francisco Examiner.

“That’s great,” she lied, feeling certain she sounded convincing. “Good for him.” She attempted to ignore the giant spike of irritation she always felt whenever she thought about him. Van MacAllister owned Sauvignon, a new restaurant across the street from Marie’s. And the man had single-handedly made the last six months of her life even more strained and tiring than it had already been.

Calming thoughts, Marie, calming thoughts. She tried a yoga breath, opening up her chest and emptying her belly, but it didn’t work. Nothing worked.

Simon was watching her and Marie knew she wasn’t fooling him. “You’re not still upset about what he said in the Examiner, are you?” he asked. “It was one comment and he apologized.”

“I’m not upset.” Marie shrugged and had to relax her hands from the fists she was making.

“Good, because…”

“I mean, just because he called Marie’s Bistro a ‘cute little coffee shop’ in an international newspaper, why would I be upset?”

Not so good. She had promised herself and her sister, who was tired of hearing about it, that she would not wallow in her anger over Van MacAllister.

Simon winced. “Cute is not so bad….”

“Right.” She knew sarcasm was unbecoming, but sometimes it just felt so good. “Cute is fine. Just fine.”

“See…”

“If you’re a child!” You’re wallowing, Marie, she thought. And you’re scaring your producer.

A month ago, a reporter asked Van what he thought of Marie’s Bistro and he’d said, “You mean that cute little coffee shop across the street? It’s fine if you want a cookie.” Marie had been seeing various shades of red since.

“Didn’t he apologize?”

“He sent gift certificates for Sauvignon.” She shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant, but it was hard considering the apology was almost worse than the original insult. She crossed her legs, arranging her gray jersey skirt over her knees. “Moving on. Why are we even talking about him?”

“Well, we went there last night to see a band…”

“One of his blues bands?” she asked, surprising herself and Simon by nearly yelling.

“I think it was Dixieland jazz,” Simon said slowly.

“Whatever it was, you do mean the loud band with horns that played until 1:00 a.m. last night?” She leaned forward in her seat.

“There were horns.” He nodded, obviously not sure what he was agreeing to.

“Yeah, horns. 1:00 a.m. I live right across the street from him, Simon, and I have to get up at three to bake bread!” She was beginning to see the music as some sort of torture. “I haven’t had a decent three hours sleep in forever. But—” Again she reined herself in, and sat back in the chair. She took a deep breath, imagined waterfalls and waves on the beach and other things that were supposed to relax her but only made her have to go to the bathroom. “He’s got the zoning and licensing.” She shrugged. “What can you do?”

“I think the bands are all part of his mystique,” Simon said and Marie snorted. Mystique? Please.

The worst of it wasn’t the thing in the paper or the bands four nights a week. It was that he was in her kitchen. Her dream kitchen, with the old brass hood and the natural lighting. The restaurant space she wanted, had bid on and ultimately lost to Giovanni MacAllister, in an ugly blind bidding war.

So she had bought the place across the street with the smaller kitchen and faulty heating system, and had watched as Van did nothing to the building he’d bought. It had sat empty and vacant while she was sweating in the summer and freezing in the winter across the street, taking out loans and making no money in SoMa—the neighborhood south of Market Street—an untried part of the city.

Six months after she had opened, just as things were beginning to take off for her and the dicey warehouse neighborhood she called home, he had opened Sauvignon to almost instant success. And then he had called Marie’s Bistro a “cute little coffee shop” in the paper.

It was a one-two punch that Marie was having a hard time with.

“I can’t believe he’s on the cover of the Weekend Magazine.” She hated how she felt about this guy. He shouldn’t even register in her life among the blessings and happiness she had, but he did. He was a thorn in her side that she hated admitting to. That he bothered her so much bothered her.

“Marie, you were on the cover three weeks ago. They called you ‘the New Goddess of Good Taste.’”

“Yeah.” She smiled, remembering. “That was a good one.” She ran her finger over the edge of the magazine, feeling the staple and pressing her thumb against it, trying to squelch all the nasty feelings Van brought out in her. “But it took me a year. A year of freaking out every night.”

She didn’t talk about the doubt and some of the tears and the bone-deep desire she had almost every day to resort to her old ways and abandon the whole thing. Run off to a beach and sell oranges to tourists.

“Sauvignon has only been open six months.” She stopped herself before she started whining that things were unfair. Instead she looked down at Van’s arrogant face blown up and glossy.

He wasn’t handsome, at least not by her standards, and while the picture of him was flattering, he still wasn’t what she would call good-looking. His unsmiling craggy face was…interesting maybe. Perhaps some people could see past those tremendously overgrown eyebrows to the intense eyes beneath them, but she couldn’t get past her desire to find the nearest tweezers. His wild black hair with silver shot through it might be attractive. And the scar at his chin was…intriguing. Maybe. But the guy was not handsome.

“He’s got great press,” Simon said with a wry smile. Marie looked at the headline, having gotten caught up in the out-of-control eyebrows. Really, someone should have taken the guy in hand years ago.

“‘Van MacAllister,’” she read aloud. “‘A man’s man. Making haute cuisine rough, ready and masculine.’ Oh, give me a break,” she moaned. “What does that mean? Masculine haute cuisine?” Marie threw the magazine back on Simon’s desk and crossed her arms, dismissing Van MacAllister. “He’s grilling meat, Simon. Let’s not get carried away.”

“Well, some people might say you’re just baking bread.”

“Simon…”

“I’m not saying it.” He pressed his hands to his chest. “You have to admit, though, he’s become very popular.”

“I don’t have to admit anything,” she muttered. He stole my kitchen, made fun of me in the paper and is making it impossible for me to sleep. It’s amazing I haven’t killed the guy in his sleep. Which is no doubt peaceful and plentiful.

“You know what they’re calling us in the papers, don’t you?” she asked, quietly. This was the real rub, the coup de grâce in the bad vibes she felt for Van MacAllister.

Simon had the good grace to look uncomfortable. “Ah…” He cleared his throat and fiddled for a moment with a pen on his desk. “Hip meets homey.”

“That’s right and guess who’s homey?”

He pointed the end of the pen at her.

Marie had written polite but firm letters to the editor until her hand was numb, but the buzz kept building. She was hardly homey, unless one considered the French countryside home. Then, maybe she could be considered homey. But only if it were an outrageously classy, sensual home. That served Thai chicken salad and triple espressos and rhubarb-strawberry bars for dessert. Okay, maybe that is homey. But it’s rhubarb—it is hard to toughen up rhubarb.