Two Bacon Cheeseburgers and Fries, Please
Wow, you look . . . rough,” he says.
“Don’t turn on the charm just for me.” I try to stand and fail miserably. That champagne landed like an alcoholic bomb in my stomach.
“Hold on to me,” he says, reaching around my waist and lifting me from the ground.
I’ve been waiting by the alley behind the restaurant, where the kitchen cooks come out for their cigarette break during dinner service. The smoke around their faces makes them look even more worn-out and downcast than they did at lunch.
I get to my feet but stumble. Diego holds me by the arms and helps me up, but instead of standing I end up leaning on his chest with my face pressed against his collarbone. He doesn’t move, so my nose traces the edge of his collar, taking in the smell of wind, earth, and open fields on a sunny day. It reminds me of my grandparents’ farm.
“You smell like home,” I say, inhaling deeply. My head rests on his shoulder and I close my eyes. I’m drifting, feeling there is nowhere else I want to be but sunk into his chest. Everything starts to fade away.
“Okay, come on. We need to get some food in you,” he says. “And coffee. Lots of coffee.”
“Can we just stay here?” I mumble.
“It smells like pee,” Diego says, completely oblivious to the fact I’m having a moment. “Let’s go—I know a place around here.”
“Wait,” I say, raising a finger to his face. “I need to know something.”
He stares down at me expectantly.
“Did something happen between you and Lucia?” I ask. “Are you together? Like together, together.” My finger stabs his chest, demanding an answer. I’m sober enough to know that if they’re a couple, I need to back off.
“I’m not betraying her again.” I take a fistful of his shirt, trying to steady myself. “I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to be a cancer.” The last words come out teary and remorseful.
Diego sighs under the weight of my body, which is again resting against him for support.
“You’re not a cancer. I’m sorry I said that,” he says, brushing my hair off my face with one hand. “Lucia and I, we’re just friends. Nothing happened. Okay?”
“Okay.” I take a gulp of smoky alley air and relax my hand on his shirt.
“Can we go now?” He swings my backpack over his shoulder, then grabs my hand. I decide in that moment I like how our hands fit together. He has what I would call grounding hands—solid, rough, and callous-ridden—the kind of hands that have been helping Papi pick cherries all week, the kind of hands that can prop you up when you are standing or pick you up when you fall.
Neither of us speaks as we walk down Lyon’s cobbled streets. All I can do is follow him, and his sole focus seems to be preventing my face from hitting the road.
We turn onto a narrow promenade, busy with locals and tourists coming in and out of restaurants and shops. A chorus of laughter, music, and conversation fills the street, along with the smell of seared meat, stale alcohol, and sweat. I squint at the sudden burst of bright lights illuminating the alley, a combination of streetlamps and neon signs.
Outside one of the restaurants, small café tables covered in white linen are arranged on the sidewalk. Not one seat is empty. As we walk by, I glance at the dishes resting on the cloths. Everything looks so . . . ordinary. Hunks of meat float in a pool of sauce with mountains of mashed potatoes or overcooked vegetables beside them. Nothing like the expertly crafted dishes I watched being prepared in Grattard’s kitchen all day.
I’m unbelievably relieved.
“Burger ’n fries,” I call out to Diego, but he doesn’t hear me over the music flowing out of a bar. He’s ahead of me, given there’s no space to walk side by side. I tug at his arm and he turns. “Burger ’n fries,” I repeat. “That’s what I want.”
His face lights up as if I’ve given him the best news he’s heard all day. “Burger and fries for Mademoiselle Chef. You want cheese with that?”
“Yes. And bacon.”
“I know just the place. It’s down this alley.”
We walk into a small restaurant called Butcher, a simple establishment with bare wooden tables and condiment caddies that include your own ketchup bottle. The only piece of art is an oversized red pig propped on a ledge over the dining area.
It’s so absolutely unsophisticated that it puts a smile on my face. And the burgers . . . oh my god, the burgers are huge, served with hand-cut fries in uneven sizes—no batonnet cuts here. I never thought the day would come when I would crave nothing more than an uneven fried root vegetable.
The place is packed so we find two seats by the bar.
Diego hands me a menu but I already know what I want.
“Bacon cheeseburger and fries,” I tell the bartender.
“Two,” Diego says. He also orders a beer for himself.
For a while, we watch people milling around us. A young hipster couple is making out at the end of the bar like their plane is about to go down. The bartender just slides the drinks in front of them and walks away. Next to us, a group of friends is toasting someone’s birthday with the French version of the “Happy Birthday” song.
“Here, drink this.” Diego pushes a glass of carbonated water in my direction. “You’ll feel better.”
I drink, knowing this is not what I need to feel better.
There were so many times today in Grattard’s kitchen when the pressure got so intense, I couldn’t even breathe. What I need is to stop the crazy voices telling me that no matter how hard I try, it will not be enough to succeed. I’ll never be good enough.
“What happened back there? You sounded upset over the phone,” he says.
I tell him about Chef Grattard and the special dinner I’m convinced is for the president. I also tell him about the dots, the meal for Grattard’s poodle, and Chef Troissant’s binge. I tell him everything.
Diego brings the beer glass to his lips and drinks a big gulp.
“Do you realize how messed up this all sounds?” He laughs in astonishment.
He’s right. It’s so absurd, it’s laughable.
“What happened to all the dots you made?”
“Straight in the dishwasher,” I say and then start laughing like a maniac. I laugh until my chest cracks open and the knots in my shoulders loosen.
“Why don’t you leave? That place is full-on loco.”
“I don’t know,” I say, unexpectedly questioning my motivation for being in that kitchen in the first place. “Grattard is the best. When people leave his kitchen, they either take a higher position in a five-star restaurant or they open their own place. He’s like the Godfather or something. You know, the gangster movie?” It’s one of Papi’s favorites.
“Revenge is a dish that tastes best when it is cold,” Diego says with a thick Italian accent, nodding like Don Corleone.
We both laugh. I laugh mostly because his imitation is terrible in an endearing way.
“It’s a privilege to be allowed in that kitchen,” I say.
“But what’s the point if you’re going insane in the process?”
“Just because you gave up doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.” The moment the words spill out of my mouth I wish I could reel them back. His face falls, and he turns to look straight ahead. Crap. I really need to get myself a filter.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” I say, but it’s obvious I hit a nerve.
“I made a choice and, given the chance, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’m done caring what other people think.”
I nod. His words sting a little. Does he care what I think? It hits me then that I care what he thinks. Probably way more than I should, given I don’t know how to feel about him. What I know is that he’s different from every other guy I’ve ever met. His life is wide open to possibility.
The problem is, I don’t know if mine is. And I’m not sure different is something I want or need right now.
“Let’s talk about something else,” he says, clearing his throat. “Have you been to the Presqu’île?”
The Presqu’île was in every travel guide I read before coming to Lyon. It’s a peninsula that is home to many of the city’s historic sites.
“I haven’t done much other than cook since I got here,” I say.
Diego’s eyebrows arch. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
“I know, it’s pathetic.” And just because the champagne hasn’t completely worn off and I’m feeling slightly rebellious, I say, “Let’s go tonight. After we eat, you’re taking me on a tour.”
Diego laughs. “Don’t you have to be back at that place tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, but so what? Do they have Red Bull in France?” I ask, knowing I’ll have to pay for tonight’s little adventure come morning. But there is something about Diego, with his worn jeans and his faded T-shirt, and the beaded leather bracelet wrapped around his wrist—something that makes me not want to care. Whatever it is, it inspires me to be reckless. To forget about the dots and the poodle and the possible presidential dinner. It makes me want to reach out for another possibility.
Our food arrives and we eat our burgers with juice dripping from the sides of our mouth. They’re perfect. We then both wolf down the thick fries slathered in ketchup.
“That was so good,” I say after I’ve emptied my plate.
Diego is still working on his fries. “Remind me never to share with you,” he teases.
I smile and catch my reflection in a mirror behind him. Good god, I do look rough.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, leaving my barstool and turning toward the bathroom.
When I take a good look in the restroom mirror, even with the low light I barely recognize myself. My hair is a mess that hasn’t been combed in days and dark circles are starting to appear under my eyes. I unzip my backpack and rummage through its contents, searching for anything I can use to make myself look human again. I find Mamie’s emergency makeup kit wedged in the bottom of the bag. I forgot to take it out. Thank goodness. I made fun of it then, but now I’m grateful the woman is a beauty savant.
I pull my hair out of the bun I’ve kept it in all week and let it fall loose around my shoulders. There’s a bottle of dry shampoo in the kit, so I glance at the instructions and read: “Absorbs and removes oil, sweat, and odor.” I spray it all over my head—twice. I search on my phone for a hairstyle that can disguise dirty hair and settle on a loose chignon.
There’s even a facial wash in the bag, so I clean my face before I put on some makeup—powder, blush, and mascara so my eyes don’t look like I came back from the dead. To finish, I daub on the red lipstick Mamie picked out, a color called Flaming Lips. Just what I need.
When I walk outside, Diego does a double take.
“Ready?” I ask.
“You look pretty,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm. “I mean, you always look pretty. But this is nice too.”
I reach for his hand, embracing the swell of electric energy inside my chest. I step in closer, until our bodies are almost touching. He looks down at my face, down to my lips and up to my eyes, and suddenly it’s not just my lips that are flaming; every part of me is on fire. I like this. Feeling affixed to him somehow. Being so close I can sense the warmth of his skin. Catch the musk of his cologne. Experience the solid, steady presence that is him.
He leads me out of Butcher and into the street. We walk down the promenade, heading toward the river. I’m still feeling a little lightheaded, but the food helped soak up the champagne. Enough that I can walk on my own.
We leave the side streets and walk down the Quai Romain Rolland main avenue, following the Saône riverbank. It’s a mild summer night and everyone is out and about, it seems.
We stop to watch a dinner cruise motor up the river. The boat’s dim lights cast an eye-catching glow onto the water’s surface.
“We went on one of those one time, Margo, my dad, and I,” he says. “You would hate it.” He laughs to himself, nudging my arm.
“Why? It looks nice.” I nudge him back.
“The steak was overcooked and the potatoes didn’t have salt. It’s a bit of a tourist trap.”
“Ah, but seriously, what were you expecting?”
He shrugs. “It’s more about the experience, I guess.”
The boat passes us, moving slowly up the river. The big windows on the side panels are meant to look out, but from our perspective they paint a picture of the scene inside. Dozens of people appear to be enjoying their ordinary meal of overcooked steak and bland potatoes. I watch a man reach across the table and kiss the woman on the other side. The last thing on their minds, I’m sure, is the food.
If that were Diego leaning over to kiss me, I’d probably not care about the overcooked steak either.
“It was a great night, actually,” he says. “Margo and Dad even danced after dinner.”
“Why did Margo and your father break up?” I ask as we start walking again.
“He works and travels all the time,” Diego says with a twinge of resentment. “He was never home. It was always just Margo and me. She felt so bad that neither one of my parents were around that she would come up with these elaborate excursions on the weekends.”
“Like what?”
He laughs at whatever memory comes to mind.
“This one time, we had just watched Casablanca. You know the movie?”
I nod. I mean, who hasn’t seen Casablanca?
“We finished watching this movie and she gets a call from dad saying he’s not coming home for the weekend. He has to extend his business trip or something. She hangs up the phone and gets this wild look in her eyes. The next thing I know, we’re on a plane heading to Morocco.”
“Are you serious?”
“I swear. It’s only a two-hour flight. So we spent the weekend trekking around Casablanca.” He smiles at the memory, a genuine smile. “I even got to skip swim practice. That was the best part.”
We cross the river at a pedestrian bridge but stop halfway to take in the view of the cityscape. A dance of multicolored lights bounces off the grand historic buildings reflected in the river. The ripples add to the almost mystical, scenic feel.
There is so much history behind these buildings, it is hard to wrap my head around it.
We cross the bridge to the Presqu’île. The peninsula is a stunning array of medieval buildings, luxury window displays, and crowded restaurants. The streets teem with history and life—an intriguing mix of old and new, modern and classic.
“The place I want to show you is down here,” he says.
I nod, still unable to comprehend how I ended up on this beautiful street, on a perfect summer night—walking next to this ridiculously stunning guy who makes me want to do impulsive things.
We follow a few narrow streets until we arrive at Place des Terreaux, where a four-story fountain of a horse-drawn carriage is the centerpiece of the plaza.
“Fontaine Bartholdi,” Diego says. “It was sculpted by the same man who created the Statue of Liberty.”
“It’s beautiful.” I step close enough to touch the outer rim of the pool around the fountain.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.” As he walks away, he holds up all the fingers on one hand and calls out, “Gimme five minutes!”
“Where are you going?” I ask, but he’s already taken off across the plaza. I lose sight of Diego, so I sit on a bench with a full view of the fountain.
Magnificent is the only word to describe this sculpture. A goddess-like woman sits atop a Romanesque chariot. She holds the reins of four wild stallions. The horses rear and plunge forward, held only by bridles and reins made of water weeds.
I am instantly captivated by the woman’s calm and relaxed demeanor. Instead of freaking out and letting go of the reins, she leans back lightly with a dispassionate expression on her face. She has this under control, and she knows it.
I want to climb up the fountain and ask her what’s the secret. How can she be so serene and steady when she’s getting pulled in four different directions?
Diego returns a few minutes later carrying an ice cream dish in each hand.
“Hope you like waffles and ice cream,” he says, placing a dish in my palm. “They have like a hundred flavors. You would’ve been there hours.”
I smile because, I mean, we just ate a giant cheeseburger! With fries! Is he ever not hungry?
“Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome.” He passes me a spoon and our fingers briefly touch, sending a shiver up my arm. I become keenly aware of his full lips and the shadow over his unshaven jaw.
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” he says, digging into his ice cream.
I take a spoonful of mine. It’s chocolate, super creamy, and not too sweet, with just a hint of sea salt.
We eat enjoying a full view of the fountain. An uninterrupted stream circulates down the carriage, between the horses, and then crashes back into the pool. The mist blows in our direction.
“So, you think I’m a dropout?” He tears off a piece of waffle with his fingers and takes it to his mouth.
The question catches me off guard.
“I . . . no . . .” I stumble.
“Listen,” he says, “I know it looks like I’m flailing around, but this is exactly what I set out to do.”
Our eyes meet, and for a brief moment I see him, the real Diego. Walls down Diego. No nonsense between us.
“I’m sorry,” I say, holding his gaze. “It’s not that I think you’re a dropout. Well, it’s not that exactly. I just don’t get it. How can you quit something you’ve worked so hard to achieve? What made you do it?”
He turns in the direction of the fountain and takes a spoonful of ice cream.
“I met this monk,” he says.
“Huh?” I pivot sideways on the bench and cross my legs, leaning toward him. My knee brushes his thigh but neither of us moves away.
“I was browsing at this bookstore I go to from time to time. I like sitting in the aisle and reading through the stacks. But this one day, there was a monk there.”
“Like a priest?” I ask.
“No, a real Buddhist monk. With the robes and the shaved head,” he says, turning to meet my gaze. A smile passes between us and I nod, urging him to continue. “He was giving a lecture about living a meaningful life or something like that. So I sat down, and it was like bang! Someone turned on this light inside me: my life had no meaning. It was as if I already knew it, but I needed to hear someone say it.”
I don’t feel a light go on inside me, but I do wonder what kind of meaning he’s talking about. Is it the Lala Blessed Pies kind of meaning or the Papi having a midlife crisis and becoming a cherry farmer meaning? It seems that every time someone in my family tries to find so-called meaning, my life gets turned upside down as a result.
“So what happened next?” I ask.
“I stayed after the talk and spoke to the monk for like an hour. I told him I hated everything about my life: the swimming, the practice, the competition, the loneliness . . .” He pauses, scanning the plaza. “I just felt so . . . out of control. I had worked since I was five to achieve something I suddenly realized I didn’t want. I couldn’t even stand the smell of the pool. It made me sick. Still does. And I was so angry all the time. I hated everything.”
I stare down at my ice cream and move the spoon around. It’s mostly melted.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“He looked at me and said, ‘What would happen if you just stop?’—and it was the most amazing moment of my entire life. I’m not even kidding. That was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to stop. I wanted to get off the hamster wheel and do nothing. So I did. And here I am in Lyon, sitting in a plaza built hundreds of years ago, eating ice cream with a beautiful girl who once tried to kill my dog with a cleaver. It doesn’t get any better than this.”
We both laugh. I jokingly plunge my ice cream spoon toward his chest. Diego grabs my wrist and looks at me hard.
Before I can overthink it, before I can come up with a million and one reasons why this thing between us is a very bad idea, I lean forward to kiss him.
He pulls back, still holding my wrist against his chest. “Are you sober?” he asks.
I nod.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
I lean forward into his chin and close my eyes. I take in that scent of home and whisper a “yes, yes I am” before my lips connect with his.
As we kiss, my hands follow the contours of his chest. His wrap around my hips as he pulls me in closer . . . pulls me into pure sensation. Feeling his lips on mine and his hands exploring my body makes me forget about tomorrow, and all the days that came before and will come after. What kind of kiss does that?
This, right now, this is what I want. This is what I need.