The Monday Night Cooking School - By Erica Bauermeister Page 0,9
parties of two melded into four and six, which of course sped up nothing at all.
That was how it worked at Lillian’s—nothing ever went quite the way you planned. The menu would change without notice, disconcerting those who craved familiarity, yet who later admitted that the meal they ended up eating was somehow exactly what they had wanted. And while the restaurant’s subtle lighting gave it an aura of peacefulness and its infinite wine list seemed destined for special occasions, evenings, no matter how carefully orchestrated, often detoured in surprising directions—a proposal veering into a breakup that left both parties stunned and relieved, a business meeting smoldering into a passionate grope session by the recycling bins in the back.
Claire had been to the restaurant twice—the first time almost eight years earlier with a man replete with success, who saw in Claire’s sleek golden hair and heart-shaped face a moment he had not experienced. Over the weeks, his appearances at her bank window had become so numerous that Nancy, who doled out traveler’s checks the next window over, remarked that he had better ask Claire out before he was made an honorary employee. Claire, who was beginning to feel that her most passionate relationship was with her cell phone provider, made the first move, resting her hand on the bills as she passed them under the partition that divided her from her suitor.
He was, Claire acknowledged, a charming enough date, erudite and well informed; at dinner he ordered the wine with the comfortable air of someone inviting an old friend to the table. And yet it was strange. His fish was perfectly cooked—Claire knew because he had fed her a bite, leaning across the table as if reaching her mouth was the final challenge in the great quest of his life—and yet the odor of fish stayed with him afterward, reminding her of high school nights spent under the piers at the beach with boys she no longer remembered or wanted to. When he tried to kiss her as they walked down the street after dinner, she noticed a new model car and turned quickly to point it out.
Claire’s second visit to Lillian’s restaurant was two years later, with James. Claire had hesitated, remembering the fish-date debacle, and yet by then she was so infatuated with James that it didn’t matter. The ring James gave her, before the wine or food had even arrived, slid onto her finger like his hands moving across her skin. They toasted with water and drank their champagne later, in bed.
TONIGHT, the restaurant was dark. Claire wondered if perhaps she had the wrong night, after all. Maybe she had missed the class and could go home now. James would need help with the baby. She knew from experience that the baby could cry for hours, refusing the bottles of pumped milk with the incredulous air of a gold club member told he had to fly coach. In the midst of all the noise, their daughter might well be forgotten, and Claire suddenly remembered Lucy’s newly acquired interest in haircuts.
Behind her, on the other side of the gate, Claire could hear people talking as they walked toward the movie theater. She looked over her shoulder, watching them pass. When she looked forward again, she saw a glow coming from the back of the restaurant, illuminating a narrow stone pathway that led around the side.
The gate creaked behind her and an older couple walked up to Claire.
“Are you going in, too?” the woman asked, smiling.
“Yes,” said Claire, and she began to make her way carefully along the stones to the back door.
THE KITCHEN WAS a blast of light after the darkness of the garden. Stainless-steel counters framed the room, heavy iron pasta pots hung from hooks next to copper sauté pans, while knives stuck to magnetic strips along the walls like swords in an armory. A line was forming at a cavernous metal sink where other students were washing their hands—a girl-woman whose eyes were ringed with black eyeliner, a young man with glasses and sandy-colored hair.
When it was her turn, Claire washed her hands conscientiously, the soap popping and foaming between her fingers. She wondered if she should wash all the way to her elbows, like a surgeon, but the line was growing behind her. Claire wiped her hands on a paper towel and walked over to the trash can where the older man she had met outside greeted her with a nod.
“Do you mind?” he said,