Kiss Me, Straight

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

A brief nap finally came to me, after which I was ravenous, but far too groggy to be bothered with cooking. Without admitting to more than curiosity about Chris, I decided Marzipan! was as good a place to eat as any. Lazy with jet lag, I ambled across the street, Reef flip flops slapping the pavement. My hair, still damp when I fell asleep, was standing up in clumps, and I had scooped up the very shirt Marzipan had asked me not to wear from the foot of my bed. I hoped I would be able to pull off “edgy” and “urban,” but glancing at my reflection in the window of the nail salon next door, I realized that I really just looked like a guy who didn’t comb his hair or wash his clothes. Nevertheless, all I had been exhorted to do was to meet Chris with an open mind. I hadn’t agreed to make myself irresistible for him. It wasn’t like I was meeting my handsome new neighbor for dinner. For that I might have at least rustled up a less wrinkled T-shirt. Maybe even some deodorant.

In the morning, Marzipan’s café has a definite coffeehouse feel, with a variety of elaborate specialty coffee drinks on offer, a cooler full of exotic fresh juices, and a breakfast menu consisting mostly of pastries, cakes, bagels with all kinds of cream cheese spread options, and egg sandwiches. Marzipan! opens at 5:30 A.M. during the week and does a brisk grab-and-go business with people on their way to work, so the café is easier to staff with only one or two guys if there is minimal cooking involved. Later in the morning and on weekends, the place offers a more traditional breakfast menu, with pancakes, French toast, and egg dishes like omelets and eggs Benedict. The lunch menu is mostly sandwiches and salads, although the burrito is big and tasty and the burgers, as I have mentioned, are the best in town: juicy, greasy, and cooked to perfection.

But by late afternoon, there is decidedly more of an intimate brasserie-on-the-corner feel, and dinner is a slightly more elegant affair. The little tables are laid with stiff white tablecloths, candles are lit, and Marzipan showcases her world-class jazz CD collection, playing obscure vocalists along with prized, rare recordings of some better-known artists. Since they bring people to Marzipan! from all parts of the neighborhood, the burgers are on the dinner menu, too, along with some of the more interesting salads and several creative and tasty pasta dishes, and there is always a fresh fish dinner special. Largely unknown outside the neighborhood, we consider it one of the best-kept secrets in a food-crazy city, and Marzipan has several devoted customers who, like me, eat at least one meal a day in her establishment.

One such customer, a straight, skinny neighbor boy I, of course, had a crush on, was leaving Marzipan! with his girlfriend as I approached, so he held the door for me. We are nodding acquaintances due to the fact that we both seem to be at Marzipan! several times a day, and nod he did when I thanked him for holding the door.

Chris was not immediately in evidence, but my favorite member of Marzipan’s dinnertime staff, Jean-Paul, was working, and he swooped down on me as soon as I was in the door. “Salut, Todd!” he exclaimed. A student of fashion design at the Academy of Art University, Jean-Paul is from Cameroon, and we gabbed and gossiped in French while he got me situated at my favorite table by the window.

I love having Jean-Paul in the neighborhood, since I otherwise have few opportunities to speak French when at home, and my spoken French was now peppered with African slang I had picked up from him. He was at Marzipan! most evenings, usually making a daring fashion statement. Built like a runway model, with skin the approximate color and clarity of chocolate fondue, he could pull off an ensemble like none other. I was made conscious of my bed head and wrinkled old T-shirt for the second time that day, although Jean-Paul’s appraising glance was more subtle than that of his boss.

“So,” I hazarded in conspiratorial French when he brought me a glass of red wine, “how do you like the new guy?”

“Have you seen him? So young, but so fat!”

“I’ve heard. But I mean, how is it working with him and stuff? Is he a nice guy?” I ventured.

“A doll!” Jean-Paul confirmed. “And quite a good cook, you will see.”

“That’s what Marzipan said.”

A foursome was jostling through the door just then, of a type very typical at Marzipan! A young boyfriend and girlfriend, probably new to San Francisco, with somebody’s visiting parents. Hers, judging by the way the boyfriend was tripping over himself to impress. I quickly asked Jean-Paul to just bring me whatever Chris had whipped up for the special before he scurried away to charm the new arrivals.

As I sipped on my wine, nosily watching the meet-the-parents dinner a few tables over as a way to keep my eyes open, I caught a glimpse of the back of what must have been Chris in the kitchen. To say that I spit a mouthful of wine across the table would be to greatly exaggerate, but I did dribble a few drops on the table cloth when I did a cartoonish double take and missed my mouth. No wonder it had taken Marzipan so long to come up with the word “abundant,” I realized, because the only word I had room for in my head looking at his rear view was “fat.” Not because I was being uncharitable or lazy in my search for less dramatic synonyms, but rather because the word applied so perfectly.

With the tree trunk thighs and beach ball butt of a linebacker several seasons past his prime, it looked like Chris had spent those seasons dividing his time between the couch and the buffet. The rolls of his love handles bulged thickly over even the back of his shorts, and when he turned to the side I was jarred by how low his heavy belly seemed to hang. So entranced was I by the jiggle and bounce of his uncommonly wide stomach that it took me a second to realize that it was headed straight for me.

In fact, he was setting a gorgeous plate of fish and fruit in front of me before I even thought to look up at his face. Which was the moment I would have actually spit a mouthful of wine across the table had my glass not been, thankfully, empty. Beaming at me with another knee-weakening smile was none other than my new noisemaker of a neighbor, and he was a hippo!

“Howdy, neighbor,” he said.

“Howdy yourself,” I replied, my smile no less warm, although doubtless slightly off-kilter. This was disorienting. Was he fat or was he hot? If twelve years of reading tabloid magazines on the jumpseat had taught me nothing else, it had definitely driven home the cultural mandate that no one man can be both. And yet this was definitely the face that had danced in my head as I was drifting off to sleep earlier in the evening, and if anything he was more handsome up close, if much sweatier.

“So you’re Chris?” I finally managed.

He thrust a meaty hand at me, which I shook. His grip was strong but his hand was soft, and I was disinclined to withdraw. “And you, of course, are the famous Todd.”

“Well, I don’t know about famous…”

“Marzipan’s told me an awful lot about you,” he clarified, without releasing my hand.

I wondered just how much she had told him. Did he know she wanted us to give romance a chance? Despite his looks and his warm, friendly vibe, I still wasn’t sure I’d be able to warm up to the idea of a boyfriend of such…impressive stature. No matter how good his touch may feel, I thought, wondering if I should retract my hand, but not taking the necessary steps to do so. “She mentioned you, as well,” I said. “Although she failed to mention that we were going to be neighbors. I’ll have to ask her when she’s supplying the helmet.”

His grin doubled in size and wattage in acknowledgment of the funny. “About that…” he began, giving my hand a punctuating squeeze before releasing it. “I hope you’ll let me buy you dinner to apologize for this afternoon. I’m not an inconsiderate neighbor in general, and I rarely huck plants at strangers. And when I do, I am usually more responsible about cleaning them up.”

“I understand. The plant was quite obviously an accident. You certainly don’t have to buy me dinner. But this looks great, so I’ll allow it.” I tried to stop myself from sounding so coquettish, but his green eyes laid waste to my coolly distant routine. I was on the verge of giggling, for Pete’s sake. “What is it?”

“Fried catfish and watermelon-tomato salad,” he proudly announced.

“Wow,” I said. “Yum. That sounds like hard-core picnic food. I feel just like Cybill Shepherd.”

He looked flummoxed. “Because you ran a detective agency in the 80s with Bruce Willis?” he asked. So much for impressing him with my Hollywood references.

“Didn’t she launch her career in that movie about that picnic?”

“You mean Picnic?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re thinking of The Last Picture Show,” he told me. “You feel like Kim Novak.”

“I do?”

“Kim Novak was in Picnic. With William Holden.”

“Right. That is of course what I meant. I feel like Kim Novocain.”

“Oh, groan!” he rolled his eyes. “I’m going to need Novocain in a minute. Your lack of movie knowledge is giving me a pain.”

We laughed. He stood over the table, showing no sign of hurrying back to the kitchen, so I sat there smiling up at him, studiously avoiding gaping at his huge, heaving belly. When I had gone a long moment without saying anything and without starting on my dinner, he finally prompted me to at least take a bite. “Well, aren’t you going to taste it?” he asked.

“Oh, well, right.” I fumbled with my fork. “Of course I am.” The catfish was fried in little bites, so I didn’t need to cut anything, just popped a piece in my mouth. The breading was golden but light with a hint of spice, and the fish was cooked to perfection. “Wow,” I said. “Very tasty. Marzipan was right—you are good!”

“She said that?”

“Why did you think she hired you?” I teased.

“Well,” he joked, “I do look like I probably know my way around a kitchen.”

“Your own best customer, huh?” I cracked. He laughed assent. I had a few more bites, and still Chris was loitering by my table. “Are you free for a bit?” I finally asked him. “Can you sit down?”

“Is that okay?” he asked me.

“I practically insist on it,” I said. “I’ll feel less like I’m eating for an audience.”

“Well, since you put it that way…” he said, sliding out the chair across from mine and plopping into it.

“How’s it going tonight?” I asked him.

“Pretty good, actually, thanks. We haven’t been super busy, but honestly, that’s okay,” he confessed. “I’m still kind of feeling my way around the kitchen here, you know?”

“Well, naturally,” I sympathized.

Jean-Paul appeared table-side with the bottle of red to refill my glass. Wine is sold by the glass at Marzipan!, and customers do not typically enjoy this First Class-style refill service, but you knew there had to be a reason Jean-Paul was my favorite dinnertime employee. After topping me off, he tilted the bottle slightly towards Chris, raising an eyebrow as if to say “And you?” The tables are set with water glasses, so, after a brief hesitation, Chris reached across to the table nearest us and appropriated a glass, indicating with his hand that Jean-Paul should only fill the glass halfway. “You’re the greatest!” Chris exclaimed after my simple “Merci,” and Jean-Paul wordlessly disappeared.

“So…do you have a lot to do to get ready to move in?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Hardly anything, actually. I just moved to San Francisco. I’ve been crashing at a friend’s place, but all my stuff is still in boxes and a couple of suitcases. Moving won’t take all of Saturday morning.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess. I hate moving! Where were you living before?” I asked, swallowing my first bite of watermelon-tomato salad, which instantly became my new favorite summertime food.

Chris’s smile faltered for a split second. “Arizona.”

“Did you have a lot of furniture and stuff?”

Less smile still. “No, hardly anything. I was living with my boyfriend.” He seemed unsure of the label, and changed it. “My partner.” He amended it again, and settled on, “Well, my ex-partner. It was his house. Marzipan is lending me some of the basics. She said she had a bed I could have, and I guess a couch. I mostly have clothes and kitchen stuff.”

“Oh yeah?” I can usually take a hint, and it was obvious that questions about his breakup would be less than welcome. Marzipan would have details. “So, are you a trained chef? Cordon Bleu and all that? This salad’s amazing!”

The smile returned. “Thanks, yeah, it’s one of my favorites. I didn’t go to cooking school or anything like that. I just love to cook and share food. Are you surprised I love to eat?”

“You don’t look like you skip a whole lot of meals,” I smilingly acknowledged, since he seemed to be soliciting comments, apparently anxious to get the fat jokes over with, although I would have put my fork through my hand before making any of my own volition. Sitting, his belly was largely hidden by the table, and I was struck by his open, animated face. His celadon eyes had seen a thing or two. He wasn’t as young as I had initially thought, but still a good bit younger than me. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven, maybe. His dark blue shirt was darker under the armpits and under his heavy chest. A small café kitchen like Marzipan!’s would feel like a sauna on a warm September evening like this one, especially for someone carrying as much extra weight as Chris was. Sweat beaded along his hairline, and there was a good drop hanging off his large Roman nose, but it did nothing to detract from his looks. His thick hair was dark and shiny, and he had an adorable Superman curl in the middle of his forehead. Probably he had shaved that morning, but he had the blue prickles of a five o’clock shadow. He was a surprising combination of swarthy Greek restaurant owner and small-town football hero, the sharp, strong angles of his jaw and cheekbones softened just so by the baby fat he was never going to lose.

“If you like to eat you’re going to fit right in around here,” I said, “and if you like to cook, we’ll be awfully glad to have you around! You’ll be very popular.”

“I know,” he chuckled. “The twins that work here—what are their names again?” I could only shrug, and he continued, “I worked with one yesterday, but only met his brother for two seconds. Well, they already said they’d help me move if I cooked them dinner. What the heck, I’ll have a little dinner party on Saturday night.”

“Fun,” I said admiringly. “Look at you just jump right in there.”

Jean-Paul sidled up to the table again. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said in English, indicating that he was talking more to Chris than to me. “Chris, I have an order. Can you prepare some more of the catfish?”

It looked like it took some effort to do it, but Chris was on his feet before Jean-Paul even finished his sentence. “Of course,” he said. “It’s speedy,” he assured his co-worker, snapping his fingers. He lumbered off towards the kitchen and I finished my dinner.

I paid Jean-Paul, tipping lavishly as was my custom, and prepared to shuffle off across the street; my bedtime was rapidly approaching. I planned to stick my head into the kitchen to say goodbye to Chris, but he was heading my way before I got my chair pushed in.

“Hey, Todd,” he said, “Thanks for coming in.”

“Thank you for a great meal,” I countered.

“Listen, I was thinking…” Hard as it is to imagine of anyone who vacuums hardwood floors with such abandon, he was suddenly shy. I nodded encouragement, and he pressed on. “I don’t know if you’ll be around…maybe you’d want to come have dinner with us at my place on Saturday.”

A gourmet dinner with this winning young charmer and the Hot Twins? A very difficult offer to refuse. And yet, alas, I was forced to decline. “Sorry, man. I’d love to, but I have a trip, I leave Saturday morning to go back to Paris.”

“Oh, shucks.” The ballplayer shoulders fell the littlest bit before he rallied. “When you get back?”

So now was he asking me out? I guess we’ll see. “Absolutely.”