God is good, but never dance in a small boat.
“Hey, waiter. Another bottle of beer, and keep them coming. I don’t ever want to see an empty in front of me. And whatever the lady’s having.”
I made a face at the waiter, to try to apologize for Ray’s gruff behavior. “Just a club soda with lemon for me, please,” I whispered.
“What? Club soda? Not on my watch. Throw some vodka in that, will ya?” I shook my head at the waiter. I hadn’t been drinking for a while. I couldn’t tell if it was all the drinking I had done since I’d been back in the city that made me so dizzy and out of sorts, or if I was developing some kind of anxiety disorder. I made a vow to quit drinking for a month, and if I didn’t feel better, I’d see a psychiatrist. I couldn’t go on like this. The waiter gave me a non-committal sniff and moved on. God alone knew what he’d bring me. Ray owned a restaurant. You’d think he’d have heard tales of waiters spitting in food. Oh well, I was in his hands tonight.
“Just think, Shayla, if Real Man’s Barbecue wins best overall cookbook here tonight, you’ll have your work cut out for you. He put his hand on my knee. He’d been doing that more and more lately. “Do you have it in you to write a James Beard award-winning book for ol’ Ray?”
“I don’t have anything inside me right now, Ray.” I said, moving his hand back to his own knee. “Probably best to keep it that way.”
“You are a hoot, you know that?” He gave a big belly laugh and squeezed my knee again.
I surveyed the room and saw lots of usual suspects from the lifestyle sector of the publishing world. Across the room, Brenda was in her element. She shared a table with her client who’d recently won first place on the reality cooking show Prime Cut, and a couple of editors from fancy houses that did coffee table books.
Ray started chatting to a heavily made-up young woman at the table next to ours, talking across the aisle. She appeared to be the date of an older, bearded man who examined the contents of the breadbasket as if they were meant to be offensive. I introduced myself to a few of the other people seated near us. One was a nervous, skinny woman up for an award for her cookbook Vegan Every Other Week. She just kept twisting her napkin and sipping her water. Her agent was there, talking to her in soothing tones. The editors and their assistants who rounded out our table seemed more interested in gossiping with one another than in making friends.
Various presenters came and went from the podium, all making too-long speeches that were meant to be clever but generally falling short of target. Awards were handed out as appetizers were served. Agent of the Year (not Brenda, and she looked pissed), Best Food Memoir (My Life with Matzoh), Best Diet Book (Never, Ever Eat That!), and Best Health and Fitness Cookbook (Greens, It’s What’s for Dinner) were all announced and awarded.
My drink came, loaded with a double-shot of booze. I pushed it aside and picked up the program of tonight’s events. I glanced at Ray, who was still chatting to the woman across the aisle, to the annoyance of every waiter trying to serve his or her section. For a second, I considered slipping out the back way. It would be such a relief not to be there. The room thundered with the undercurrent of constant conversation. The stale, hot air hung low. I couldn’t get a deep breath. “Just get to the entrée, Shayla. Then you can make your excuses.”
I scanned down the list of awards nominees and lifetime achievement recipients. Tom O’Grady for The Elite Kitchen. His first and only book, he hated it. It was the book that soured him on writing cookbooks. Fucking Brenda — she knew it was up for an award but she didn’t tell me because she knew I’d bail. Just reading his name dried my mouth up. I picked up my drink and drained it in one go. I had to concentrate on sitting up straight in my chair.
The appetizers were delivered. “A trio of foams,” the waiter announced. “You have duck, salmon, and beef liver.” I stared at the spongy sputum on my plate. It didn’t appear to be food. My stomach lurched.
“Another drink, please, waiter.” The server had the gall to sneer at me and shake his head no. I helped myself to Ray’s fresh beer and took a long pull.
As I watched the nervous woman next to me scoop the mess up onto her water crackers, I had the feeling I was in a funhouse. I rose halfway to my feet. From the podium, I heard, “The winner of this year’s Best Gourmet Cookbook is…Tom O’Grady.” I slammed back down into my chair and kept my eyes glued to the stage. My breathing slowed nearly to a halt as I watched a man in a suit take the microphone from the woman in the long gown and cover it with his hand. A third man, this one in a tux, climbed onto the stage and a general shuffling of the plaque and certificate ensued.
“Ladies and gentleman,” tux-man said into the microphone, “Chef Tom O’Grady planned to be with us tonight, but has experienced some unforeseen difficulty. As many of you know, Tom is an old pal of mine from our days in London.” I squinted my eyes. Who was this guy? “I’ll just say a few words on Tom’s behalf. First, I know Tom would like to thank each and every one of you. Nothing is closer to Tom’s heart than fine food, presented gorgeously, to those with refined palettes who can fully appreciate its magnificence. His reclusiveness now only serves to make us want his white-glove service all the more. Some say it’s harder to get a seat in one of Tom O’Grady’s restaurants than it is to get a camel through the eye of a needle. Har, har!”
I stood up on my feet and made my way up the aisle.
“Hey, where you going?” Ray asked, but he was already in my rearview mirror.
I climbed the three stairs to the stage, while the man in the tuxedo prattled on about visual excellence. I tapped him on the back. He gave me a small smile and kept on talking. I noticed that the low-grade din in the room had hushed. That was good. That helped my headache. I put my hand on the microphone and pulled it toward my face.
“This is all wrong,” I said, as the man pulled the mic back. I could see Brenda standing by her chair, waving as if luring a plane into the hangar.
“As I was saying,” tuxedo man went on, “Tom O’Grady’s motto is that the mark of a top-caliber chef is one who combines architectural elegance with the exquisite ingredients one can only find at the far reaches…”
“Tom hates this book!” I said shoving my face against the man’s chest to give me access to the mic. I grabbed it with both hands, but he wouldn’t let go. Without thinking it through, I licked his hand. He promptly pulled it away, giving me sole proprietorship of the microphone. “He’d be embarrassed to receive this award. He hates pretension, he hates exclusivity, he hates fussiness for the sake of fussiness — note to you, caterers. That foam thing was beyond!”
I was dizzy from adrenaline and anxiety, and from mixing vodka and beer. I knew I should stop talking, but I couldn’t. “Tom O’Grady’s food speaks for itself. It’s simple. He doesn’t gild the lily.”
A blonde young woman in a cocktail dress ascended the stage, yelling “Thank you, thank you for your speech,” and smiling tightly. I saw that she intended to take the mic from me, so I launched into my final remarks. “If Tom O’Grady were here right now, he’d be appalled. He’d tell his agent that she’s a sneak and a liar.” I looked down to see Ray at my feet, urging me down off of the stage. “No, Ray. Leave me alone! You and your smoke and mirrors. You represent the worst of this world, with fake dates for the cameras, and your pre-planned package of a life. For the record,” I shouted to the crowd, “we are not an item.” The young woman now had her arm around my waist and was kicking at the left heel of my shoe, trying to push me to the ground. “Tom and I … however… well, I blew it. I acted like all of you, a money-grubbing, success-hungry liar. Of course he didn’t want any part of that.”
The blonde was wily. She pressed me downward by the shoulders as she kicked me in the back of the knees. From a kneeling position, I managed, “I love Tom O’Grady! There, I said it. But I don’t deserve to stand in his shadows! And neither do you bitches…”
The last thing I remember before I blacked out is grabbing the blonde’s shoe, and her crashing down on top of me, and Ray yelling my name from the far distance. I’m pretty sure my head hit the stage, hard.
I still held the mic in my hands.