Brooklyn in Love Page 4

  He let out a small sarcastic laugh. “Okay. I probably was stiff all night. Because something is going on with you. Not just tonight. I’ve been getting all kinds of mixed messages lately.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Like at your launch party—which, let’s be clear, you invited me to—you barely said a word to me. And afterward, when we went out for a drink with your friends, I just felt like you didn’t even want me there.”

  “Well,” I sputtered, “I’m sorry that I have to talk to everyone else at these events. You know they’ve supported me and are part of the book, and it makes me happy to have them there.”

  “Right. I guess that’s the thing,” Andrew said. “Sometimes it doesn’t seem you’re happy to have me there.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms across my chest.

  “I’m not, Amy.” Andrew was totally calm, looking at me straight on. “Are you? Are you happy to be with me? Because if you’re not, there’s no purpose for any of this.”

  His question threw me for a loop. I was happy to be with Andrew—just not all the time. It felt suffocating to have to think about another person’s needs and emotions. Would he fit in at the events with my friends? Would he be comfortable and have people to talk to? Was I paying him enough attention? I didn’t want to be responsible for him. I just wanted to enjoy this accomplishment without anything, or anyone, getting in the way. But how could I say any of this?

  “Well, I guess your silence is my answer.” Andrew snapped me back to the moment.

  “No, I was just… I was thinking.” Quickly, I tried sorting through the colliding thoughts inside my head. “I am happy,” I hedged, putting a tentative hand on his leg, trying to offer some reassurance—for him or myself, I’m not sure. “It’s just… It’s hard,” I finished lamely.

  “Hard? What’s so hard?”

  I opened my mouth again to explain that this relationship was so new and, while he was a great guy, I didn’t know if this was it, so I was trying to keep some sort of distance or barrier in case things didn’t work out…and then I could bail. That I liked him but really liked my independence too. That, bottom line, I had doubts, serious doubts. Since I couldn’t find a diplomatic way to articulate that, instead I offered, “I dunno.”

  “Well, I guess I shouldn’t have bought that ticket then,” Andrew sputtered, both flushed and flustered. He remained on the edge of the couch, looking down at his hands clasped between his legs like a schoolboy who had been caught doing something naughty.

  My heart, which had been thawing from its cold state just a moment ago, abruptly stopped. My ears were getting all red and fiery. Oh no. He didn’t. I was chanting to myself. No, he did NOT! I asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “You invited me to go to Paris with you next month,” Andrew said. “So I bought a ticket.”

  Dumb silence. I didn’t know what to say. I had told him about Mel’s party and we had talked about going to Paris together. But that was it: a tepid invitation. And that had been weeks ago. Neither of us had come within an inch of mentioning it again. And now he had gone and bought an airplane ticket without a word? How passive-aggressive could you get?

  “Seriously?” was all I could muster. Which I guess was more than enough.

  Andrew finally burst, contending that I had invited him, so WTF? Why was I always acting like I didn’t want him around? Why was I so hot and cold? Why was I even dating him to begin with?

  As he went on, unleashing weeks of frustration, I felt both bad and relieved. After all, I did like him. I really, really did. Andrew was the first guy in years who I thought there was potential with. Something in the back of my head kept telling me to give this time, to give him a chance. There was something here worth giving in to, despite my reservations and resistance.

  I knew I was being a jerk not hanging out with him more at the launch events or when I withheld information about going out with friends. I knew I was being a jerk in a lot of ways. And though I didn’t say as much out loud, I did apologize to him. As maddeningly steady, available, and oblivious as he could be, I knew Andrew’s heart was gold—a rare and beautiful thing, a near miracle in New York City. Him putting me on the spot and voicing his own frustrations had diffused my ire. The agitation that had been festering inside me now leaked out like from a sad, noxious party balloon.

  When Andrew got up to leave, I barely had the strength or heart to walk him to the door. I somehow managed to broker a tentative truce, asking him to please be patient with me, but he was nonplussed. I had to figure out what I was doing, what I wanted. He may have had a heart of gold, but as I was learning, there was more going on behind his laid-back demeanor than met the eye. He was no pushover, and he deserved some clarity.

  He left without so much as a kiss, the heavy door clicking behind him. I stood listening to him walk down the carpeted hallway of my apartment building. I heard the elevator ding and then its doors swooshed shut, taking Andrew back out into the New York night and leaving me alone—presumably as I wanted to be.

  Well, I thought, as I locked the door and dragged my sorry ass toward the bedroom, suddenly exhausted, I guess he’s coming to Paris.

  ROMANTIC ITALIAN RESTAURANTS

  Italian restaurants are the stuff romantic dates are made of. Usually. If you think about it, it’s a formula that works: a cozy room full of dark, earthy woods; menus that indulge with multiple courses of carbohydrates; plus servers with seductive accents who deliver the food with knowing looks. As they say, that’s amore.

  All of these restaurants define themselves as Tuscan or Northern Italian, which means you can count on them for amazing house-made pastas along with classic meat and fish dishes.

  The original Il Buco is actually much more romantic than Alimentari e Vineria, owing to its mismatched antiques, walls lined with wine bins, and copper cookware hanging overhead.

  Il Cantinori has graced the Village since 1983. Wood-beamed ceilings, white linen tablecloths, and a front that opens onto the sidewalk create a classic Tuscan ambiance.

  People start lining up outside Park Slope’s al di la Trattoria before the restaurant even opens for dinner service. It’s a narrow corner spot, dominated by a bold maroon-and-yellow color palette, with exposed brick walls that give the room a warm glow.

  Another cramped corner location that is a neighborhood favorite is Rucola in Boerum Hill. Tables are wedged tightly together, so prepare to feel quite cozy. Cocktails are surprisingly unique, and a farm-to-table credo rules.

  Located within a century-old pharmacy that is still decorated as such, Locanda Vini e Olii in Clinton Hill is lively and fun while still managing to be a sweet spot for two.

  CHAPTER 3

  Revelatory Chicken

  There’s something magical about returning to a city you love. It’s a special rush to be back in the streets that hold such distinct memories, visiting favorite restaurants, bakeries, and chocolatiers. Your body remembers, and your psyche comes alive. It’s like coming home and hugging your mom after not seeing her for months and months—a primal form of comfort and joy.

  This is how it was being back in Paris that week in April. Andrew and I were both on our best behavior, trying to nudge the relationship along and make the most of the international jaunt, despite its inauspicious beginnings. Inevitably there were moments as we walked along the narrow streets that I longed to explore the city on my own, the way I used to, but it was mitigated by the joy of having someone—a “lovah” in the language of Carrie Bradshaw—to share the romance of the City of Light.

  Andrew and I sipped champagne cocktails at the cozy Hemingway Bar, tucked in the back of the Ritz, just before the grand hotel closed for renovations for three and a half years. He introduced me to wine from France’s eastern Jura region when we indulged in a three-course lunch at Bistrot Paul Bert, a beloved neighborhood
spot in the eleventh arrondissement. At Chez L’Ami Jean, a raucous Basque restaurant in the seventh, we gushed over the most heavenly lobster bisque, poured tableside with requisite French fanfare, and were charmed by two octogenarian couples sitting at a table close enough to us that we might as well have sat together. Each meal was so languorous and indulgent, so different emotionally and literally from the wham-bam intensity back home.

  Andrew was proving himself to be the perfect travel companion. He smiled through the lovely book party that Mel threw on a beautiful night beside the canal, content to make small talk with not one person he knew. He was delighted to accept the invitation to have Sunday dinner with one of my old colleagues and his family at their country home. But the best part of Andrew being there in Paris was having someone to share pastries with. From Boulangerie Julien to Du Pain et Des Idées to every local boulangerie in between, with their rows of flawless éclairs and tartlettes and baskets of golden croissants beckoning from the windows, we sampled and mon dieu’d. I got to taste everything that I love and had been missing—but in small enough portions to ensure that my jeans would still zip when it was time to return to New York. And before I knew it, the week that had caused so much tension was coming to a close. Andrew’s plane departed a day before mine, and when his taxi pulled away from the curb, I hopped on a Vélib’ to enjoy my last day and night in Paris solo. From one lovah’s arms to another’s.

  • • •

  We had been back in New York for a good week with neither of us urgently trying to see the other. While the trip had been a success overall, it was fair to say Andrew and I both needed a little space after being together 24/7 and the drama leading up to it. For all I knew, he was over me and my noncommittal bullshit.

  What are you doing thurs night? Andrew texted.

  Oh good, it appeared he wasn’t over me. No plans.

  Dinner? Barbuto? 8? Well, well, well. I liked this confident tone. And I liked his choice. Barbuto is New York dining at its best. It’s a respected restaurant that bustles with cool people who are there to enjoy the laid-back vibe and Italian cooking done with a fresh, modern California spin.

  Sounds great. I fired back. C u there!

  Two nights later, Andrew and I were sitting beside one of the restaurant’s garage-door walls that slide up in the summer, a throwback to the space’s former life as a garage. We had selected a bottle of wine (Barbera d’Alba), strategized our order (one antipasto, one primi, and one secondi, split between the two of us), and were settling into a nice mood. Unlike that night at Alimentari e Vineria, we were both relaxed, conversation was easy, and, best of all, I was genuinely happy to be with him. Things felt good. I was grateful that we seemed to have weathered the storm.

  “So, I know it’s been hard for you.” Andrew turned serious sometime between the cavatelli and the chicken, putting his elbows on the table and leaning toward me. He peered at me through his glasses, his eyebrows moving expressively above the frames. “You’re maybe a little unsure or feeling pressure to know what you want. And I know there are things I could probably do differently; I know I’m not perfect. But I’m really trying because—well, I know you and I are a good thing. The fundamentals are strong, and if you believe in that, then we’re good.”

  Gulp. I took another sip of wine while Andrew surged on.

  “I just feel like we really get along—it’s easy and fun. We laugh. I can talk to you. I always have a good time with you, which is why I wanted to go to Paris to begin with.” Despite myself, I was getting a little misty-eyed. After all these months, it was rare that Andrew and I opened up and exposed any emotion. We could talk about all kinds of stuff, which was one of my favorite things about him—we had great conversations. But it was usually, well, more conversational stuff: the state of journalism and publishing; the prospects of the KU Jayhawks, his alma mater’s basketball team, and the Red Sox, my beloved baseball losers; the Stones versus the Beatles. And here he was, out of nowhere, being so open and direct. Confident but earnest. I knew he had deliberated about what to say, which made me appreciate it even more. “I’m listening, and I’m learning. I really want this to work out, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

  I nodded but wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t know where this surge of openness was coming from. Without really thinking, I baldly asked, “What do you want?”

  Andrew looked squarely at me. “I want to spend more time with you,” he said. “I want to live with you.”

  Say what? My carb-loaded stomach lurched, but not in the typical way. If it had been a few weeks ago, such a proclamation would have had me running for the exit. But tonight was different. I felt strangely calm as heat crept up my neck. Did this guy really still like me? Could he still like me? Was there some fateful reason we were still together? Instead of feeling trapped or threatened by the emotion Andrew expressed, I realized the lurching in my gut was more akin to butterflies. Contrary to my conflicting feelings of the past couple months, I felt myself blushing. “Really?” I asked.

  Andrew leaned in and kissed me. I remembered the shivers I had felt when we’d first kissed during that October snowstorm, and the loopiness I couldn’t contain for days afterward from having met the most incredible guy. From the excitement that my patience seemed to have finally paid off in the form of a smart, handsome, thoughtful man. It made me question what had I been doubting all these months. Big deal if he didn’t religiously follow restaurant openings or the latest stories of chef meltdowns that lit up the Twittersphere. So what if his biggest passion wasn’t ramp season at the farmers’ market or chronicling the city’s ramen shops. He had compassion and perseverance, and continuously dragged me out of my comfort zone, challenging my idea of what I thought I wanted. And I was discovering, he actually had a really good palate.

  Andrew pulled back and we sat staring at each other, a fragile bubble of hope and possibility enveloping us. And just when I thought the moment couldn’t get any more beautiful, our waitress descended on the table with a dish of steaming, aromatic chicken. “Here we are!” she sang. “The pollo al forno.”

  • • •

  Chicken is like vanilla ice cream. It can be dreadfully boring and uninspired, and, let’s face it, it often is. But put in the right hands—like those of Chef Jonathan Waxman, California cuisine pioneer, two-time Top Chef Masters contestant, James Beard Award winner for Best Chef: New York City, and chef-owner of Barbuto—and it becomes transcendent. In fact, in the four decades of his career, he has made an art out of cooking chicken.

  Jonathan’s path to fame started in an unlikely way back in the seventies. By his early twenties, he had already been a trombone player, a bartender, and a salesman at a Ferrari dealership. The car dealer’s wife was a foodie (though they didn’t use that word back then, Jonathan points out), and after their many conversations about cooking and restaurants, she suggested that he explore his passion. “So the head mechanic and I decided to take a food class together,” Jonathan remembers wryly.

  The class, at Tante Marie in San Francisco, delighted Jonathan. “I loved every minute of it,” he says. The instructor, like the dealer’s wife, clearly saw his passion and thought Jonathan should be a chef. So much so that, unbeknownst to him, she signed him up at La Varenne, a then-new cooking school in Paris.

  Jonathan took the bait and arrived in Paris in 1976, never having been to Europe, not knowing the language or anyone in the city. But he found a roommate, made friends, learned to cook, and toured the three-star restaurants of France. Discovering he indeed had a knack inside the kitchen that his earlier teacher had intuited, he returned to the West Coast after finishing La Varenne and worked stints at Chez Panisse in Berkeley and Michael’s in Santa Monica, two seminal restaurants of the era. At both establishments, he played a pivotal role in shaping what we now know as California cuisine, which relies on simple techniques and fresh, local ingredients.

  In 1984, Jonathan lef
t California and made his way to New York City, where he opened Jams on the Upper East Side. The restaurant was iconic. A hot spot. It had an open kitchen, a minimalist aesthetic, and bright, fresh food—all new to the New York dining scene, which was still dominated by stuffy fine dining. For years, the restaurant and Jonathan were at the center of an exciting movement. Critics cooed, celebrities feasted, and business boomed. Then the 1987 stock market hit and, soon after, Jams closed. Jonathan moved back to California for a spell, opening a couple other restaurants and doing consulting work before returning to New York and reclaiming his spot in the city’s dining scene.

  Not long after opening a well-received restaurant, Washington Park on lower Fifth Avenue, Jonathan’s Italian neighbor, owner of Industria Superstudios in the West Village, pressed him to check out a vacant space in his building, where he suggested Jonathan should open a new Italian joint. Jonathan wasn’t keen. By that point in his career, he had launched six restaurants. He was over the scene. Italian was what he cooked at home, not for the public. And yet he went to see the space, and he finally relented to his neighbor’s pressings. “Fuck it,” Jonathan remembers saying, “we’ll just do it.”

  Jonathan demolished the space, originally a car garage, salvaging only the doors that roll up to the outside world along its two exterior walls. Keeping things raw, aesthetically and philosophically, he didn’t sink a lot of investment into Barbuto. He didn’t hire a manager or install a point of sale system, essentially expecting the restaurant to fail. “It was a mom-and-pop sort of place,” Jonathan remembers. “And I was the mom and the pop.”

  But Barbuto was instantly successful. “It was packed from the very beginning,” Jonathan says, and momentum has only built over the years. Things got a little “hairy” during the 2008–2009 financial crisis, but when Jonathan appeared on Bravo’s Top Chef Masters right after that, business nearly doubled.