Brooklyn in Love Page 6
My turn came soon enough. I was briefed at the very last minute to come up with a campaign line that was better than the one a client had already suggested. I had shared a couple dozen options with Dennis the previous day, which he vaguely responded to, neither accepting nor rejecting, as was his style. As noncommunicative as he could be, he was the kind of person whose body language is quite clear. I knew my lines hadn’t passed muster not because of something so direct and obvious as a “None of these are working; try again,” but because he insisted he was too busy to meet me the rest of the day. Whenever I’d try, he was occupied indeed—looking at magazines, talking on the phone, or hanging out with his select sidekicks who were always on standby to stroke his ego. His assistant simply couldn’t fit me in. So I worked late on more lines and came in early the next day, when I knew there would be no shields or distractions. I walked over to the table where he sat alone, sorting through reams of scrap images, preparing for a presentation. “Morning—”
“Amy, you didn’t do it. Just forget it,” he said coldly, giving me but a brief look of disgust.
“But I have some new lines—”
“Just…get out of my face,” he said emotionlessly, continuing to sift through his images, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, his warm, cozy cashmere sweater belying the cold heart beneath. With his sneer and obvious disdain, I knew I should walk away. Yet I found myself standing there. As masochistic as it was, I wanted him to pace and scream and let his torrent loose. At least that was behavior I was accustomed to and knew it wasn’t personal, it was just him. But the little dismissive wave of his hand he gave indicating that he couldn’t even be bothered cut through my thin veneer of confidence. Not only had I failed at coming up with the perfect line, but I was also failing to have any sort of meaningful relationship or satisfying project at this agency. It’s one thing to have a bad day or a crummy boss, but never feeling good enough was taking its toll. I returned to my crappy, little cubicle within the grand loft, grateful that no one was in the office yet to witness that belittling moment but shamefaced nonetheless. I felt conspicuous and superfluous. My self-esteem was eroding by the week. I had to get out of there.
Things quickly went from bad to worse when another writer joined the agency. This should have been a good thing, as the workload had been building and I needed support for the shitstorm that had become my day-to-day existence. But this writer brought a whole other level of insanity.
Her name was Heidi, and she arrived at the office on a Monday morning and, within a week, fell into an awe-inspiring routine. She’d saunter in, all five feet ten inches, fair skin, bleached hair, and black sunglasses—occasionally as early as ten, but usually between ten thirty and eleven. Once she was situated, she would bust out a mirror and start putting on her makeup. Then, once she had her face on, she would casually mention she had to pop out for an errand and come back with a giant sandwich from the bodega and proceed to chomp down. By the time noon rolled around, she might be ready to work.
“Heidi, you’re amazing! You just blow my mind,” Dennis announced two weeks into her tenure, loud enough to ensure all of us in the creative department could hear him. She was such a slacker, a mixture of overconfidence and incompetence, and yet in Dennis’s eyes, she was the second coming. “This! Copy! Is! Brilliant!” he moaned pleasurably about whatever she had written for some overpriced designer jeans. I could sense everyone’s intrigue about the new girl—for it wasn’t every day that Dennis dispensed such orgasmic praise—and their pity for me, the old one. Heidi let out an awkward guffaw in the cube next to me, relishing the spotlight, while I sank lower in my seat.
By now, I felt like a true loser. I was being out-written by someone fifteen years my junior. Even worse, I sadly realized I used to be that girl. The ingénue. The one creative directors gushed about. The one with nothing but opportunity and possibility ahead of me. Now I was a worthless, uninspired, middle-aged hack.
“Aren’t you supposed to become more confident as you get older?” I asked AJ over the phone. A few years ago, we would have been bellied up at a bar together, sipping prosecco, or eating cupcakes at Billy’s Bakery, enveloped in the comforting baking smells. But two years after having their baby, AJ and Mitchell had left the city. It was inevitable that our days of carousing would come to a close, but sporadic phone calls between nap times and office hours just didn’t have the same satisfaction for the soul as our tête-à-têtes. “I swear, I can feel the insecurity creeping into my bones. Pretty soon, it’s going to take over and shut me down,” I told her, clearly being none too dramatic. But I felt safe with AJ. In high school, we talked on the phone every afternoon. She understood where I came from and who I was. She’d seen me through breakups, layoffs, all-nighters, hangovers, crying fits, jealousy streaks—she championed me, even in my worst moments. She also knew me to be fearless, creative, and outspoken. Maybe she could tell me where I was going wrong with Dennis and Heidi.
“Aim, you need to get out of there. You know you’re an amazing writer, and you’ve always had great relationships with your bosses. I mean, it’s not you—this guy is just crazy.” I could hear the mixture of sympathy and anger in her voice.
“I know, he’s batshit crazy,” I admitted. “But I feel so beaten down. I’ve been talking to a headhunter, but I don’t even know if I can get excited about going to another agency and doing the same thing somewhere else.”
“But don’t you think it will be different somewhere else? Somewhere where the people are nice and sane? You owe it to yourself to just get out of there.”
I sighed. I appreciated her optimism and support—I needed it. Yet as much as I wanted to leave this job, I was paralyzed. I was worried that Dennis was right: What if my talent had dried up? What if I just wasn’t a good writer? What if my ad days were over? What if I was forty and stuck in a career that overpaid me but undermined my confidence? I felt so low, yet I didn’t know if I had the strength to leave.
AJ and I went through my options: I could go freelance, but then I’d have to pay out-of-pocket for insurance, which would eat up most of the money I’d have to hustle to make, if I were lucky enough to get steady gigs. I could try breaking into a magazine to pursue my passion as a food and travel writer full-time, but I’d probably have to start at the bottom, as an assistant—a forty-year-old assistant. I could open that candy store I had always fantasized about—something magical like Miette in San Francisco, where I’d feel happy every day just being surrounded by brightly patterned chocolate bars and pretty cakes fit for society’s best. But that would entail hijacking all the savings, and then some, that was earmarked for our apartment down payment. I could just quit for the satisfaction of it—God, that would feel good—but I was admittedly wearing golden handcuffs. I may have been miserable, but I also couldn’t imagine severing myself from my generous semimonthly paycheck, paid vacation time, and health benefits that included nearly 100% coverage of my beloved therapist—though ironically, most of my time with her was now spent with me agonizing over this job and her strategizing about how to get me out of it. AJ and I turned over all the options, but at the end of our call, we came to the same conclusion we had five, ten, even twenty years ago: getting old sucks.
• • •
So yeah, somewhere between the highs of being in love and the lows triggered by my job, I turned forty. By now, Andrew knew that the way to my heart was through food, and he made reservations for the momentous occasion at one of the most epic spots, not just in the city, but in the whole world: Eleven Madison Park.
The restaurant’s elegant art deco interior—all refined elegance with its thirty-foot, gold leaf ceilings and rich leather banquettes—is tucked inside the landmark Met Life building on the edge of Madison Square Park. It was founded in 1998 by Danny Meyer, probably the city’s friendliest, most hospitable, and most successful restaurateur. Meyer is responsible for restaurants like Gramercy Tavern and Union Square Café,
which have become institutions that define classic New York dining. These restaurants prove that Meyer has a Midas touch. He understands the essential balance of atmosphere, hospitality, menu, and food. He intuits customer needs as well as dining trends. Whether high or low—have you heard of Shake Shack? That’s Meyer’s creation too—he puts incredible consideration into everything, and the resulting quality can’t be beat.
With Eleven Madison Park, he made perhaps his best decision in 2006 when he hired Chef Daniel Humm from Campton Place in San Francisco. The Swiss-born chef, the youngest in his country’s history to earn a Michelin star at the age of twenty-four, was both classically trained and wildly inventive. Shortly after arriving at Eleven Madison Park, Daniel pushed for a new general manager who could bring equal passion and innovation to the front of the house, which he felt the restaurant needed. Meyer suggested Will Guidara.
At the time, Will was only twenty-six and running Meyer’s two cafés at the Museum of Modern Art. When approached with this new opportunity, he wasn’t terribly keen to move from the informal cafés to fine dining, which is notoriously stuffy. But he was persuaded to at least speak with Daniel, and in doing so, he found a kindred spirit. Will and Daniel shared histories of growing up in the restaurant world. They were both extremely dedicated to their professions and planned to eventually run their own restaurants. After hours of conversation and consideration, they realized it would be more fun if they pursued their ambitions together. Will came aboard Eleven Madison Park.
It didn’t take long for the pair to find their magic. The restaurant soon earned three stars from the New York Times and Michelin Guide, won several James Beard awards, and debuted at number 50 on San Pellegrino’s World’s 50 Best Restaurants awards. Even so, they hungered for more and strategized about how to make it happen. “As Eleven Madison Park evolved, we were feeling a couple things really powerfully,” Will remembers. Crucially, they realized that the most energy happened when a dish was brought to the middle of the table, instead of each individual diner receiving a plate. When something was shared and communal, it sparked a more special and memorable dynamic. This prompted them to move exclusively to a tasting menu—a practical but poetic decision. “Within the tasting menu,” Will says, “you have this ability to tell a story with more of an orchestrated narrative than you do with shorter menus.” After this move, the restaurant continued to rise with the New York Times bumping them from three to four stars and they ascended to number ten on the World’s 50 Best Restaurants.
One of the great things about owning your own restaurant—for the ambitious duo bought Eleven Madison Park from Danny Meyer in 2011—is that you can travel the world, eating at restaurants in the name of research and inspiration. As Will and Daniel did so, traveling from Piedmont to Tokyo to Lyon, they had another important revelation: their most memorable experiences were those that were authentic to the location. Inspired by this awareness, they looked to their home city and evolved the tasting menu. “We wanted to craft an experience centered around New York, something that wouldn’t make sense anywhere else in the world,” Will said, adding, “We felt our city deserved that.” This focus on iconic dishes and local ingredients was the tasting menu that Andrew and I shared.
When they launched their new tasting menu, some people thought the theme was sentimental and gimmicky. I couldn’t have been more delighted to celebrate my love for my city along with my milestone birthday. For four hours, Andrew and I were presented with course after course of delightful creations, imaginative pairings, and, always, dramatic presentations. Little fillets of sturgeon arrived under a glass dome, after which it was lifted, applewood smoke billowed out across the table. Pretzel bread, cheese, and ale, meant to evoke a picnic in Central Park, was delivered in a picnic basket. But my favorite dish was the carrot tartare.
The idea came, along with many of the menu’s other courses, while researching and reflecting upon New York’s classic restaurants. From 21 Club to Four Seasons, once upon a time, every establishment offered a signature steak tartare. “’What’s our tartare?’” Will and Daniel wondered. They kept playing with formulas and recipes and coming close to something special, but it never quite had the wow factor they were looking for. One day after Daniel returned from Paffenroth Gardens, a farm in the Hudson Valley with rich muck soil that yields incredibly flavorful root vegetables, they had a moment. “In his perfect Swiss accent, he said, ‘What if we used carrots?’” Will remembers. And so carrot tartare, a sublime ode to the humble vegetable, was added to the Eleven Madison Park tasting course.
“I love that moment when you clamp a meat grinder onto the table and people expect it to be meat, and it’s not,” Will gushes of the theatrical tableside presentation. After the vibrant carrots are ground by the server, they’re turned over to you along with a palette of ingredients with which to mix and play: pickled mustard seeds, quail egg yolk, pea mustard, smoked bluefish, spicy vinaigrette. It was one of the most enlightening yet simple dishes I’ve ever had. I didn’t know exactly which combination of ingredients I mixed, adding a little of this and a little of that, but every bite I created was fresh, bright, and ringing with flavor. Carrots—who knew?
Dinner carried on. The courses transitioned to dessert. Midnight approached. I sat back in the beautiful corner table we had been bequeathed for the night, considering the magnificent dining room that had emptied of most other diners. Every course we shared had indeed brought Andrew and I together in the moment. I knew this meal was something I’d remember for years. As we were sent out into the night with a handwritten birthday note, homemade granola for the next morning, and warm good nights from the staff, I was beyond satisfied. I was enamored. Maybe forty wouldn’t be so bad after all.
• • •
Some women treat themselves to fancy jewelry for their birthdays. Or a day at the spa. Or at least a blow-out. I took a trip to the fertility clinic.
Having been single for so long, I had hedged my bets about kids and figured, quite practically, that they might not be in my future. Throughout my thirties, I reasoned it would take meeting someone who knocked my socks off and us both wanting to try to start a family and then having the stars and fates align before I had to give it any serious consideration. I knew a nontraditional path to love and motherhood—perhaps marrying in my fifties and adopting a child then, whether I remained single or had a partner—was likely. Well, I had now met someone who knocked my socks off. Should we start a family? Was it in the stars?
Andrew had also been single for a long time and shared the same unhurried perspective. We had casually talked about children in the year we had been together and agreed they would be a “nice to have”—something that might happen down the road. When we talked about it, we used the same hypothetical tone. But I was forty now. As you get older, the likelihood of conceiving continuously declines, while the chances of complications go up. Thirty-five is when everyone—single women, their overeager relatives, and random opinionated strangers alike—typically starts clucking. Forty is when you’re really doomed. If kids were going to be part of my and Andrew’s future, I could no longer afford a laissez-faire attitude.
I kept thinking of a conversation I’d had with Mel several months ago. She had seen me through a health scare back when I lived in Paris, when I had ovarian cysts and didn’t know what it meant for my reproductive future. When she knew things with Andrew were turning serious, she didn’t just encourage me to try; she insisted. “If you think there’s even a shred of a possibility that you want kids, then go for it,” she said in a way that might have felt irksome or overbearing if had been anyone else. But Mel has been through so many similar health and emotional experiences as me, it’s like I’m walking in her experienced, enlightened footsteps. She is a special spirit sister, and I trust her guidance implicitly. “Do not wait. Do not have any regrets,” she had said. And I knew she was right.
Clearly, from my recent angst, turning forty wasn’t
so great for my psychic energy, but what did it mean for my ovaries? What were my chances of getting pregnant if I were to go off the pill? What were my options if I couldn’t? When would I know to intervene with a treatment, and, given I was already behind the eight ball, was it better to jump right in with fertility drugs? These were my questions as I sat with another middle-aged woman, this one a smartly dressed doctor, inside the Midtown office of a gigantic fertility clinic. She had questions for me too, so I shared my entire biological history, including inauspicious events like a tumor on my pituitary gland as a teenager, a lifetime of irregular periods, and those cysts I’d had on my ovaries just a few years prior. Putting those things on the table along with my age, I figured my likelihood of getting pregnant was slim at best, but I was surprised to hear her tell me that I’d have a 20 percent chance each month. “Twenty percent until proven otherwise,” she noted. Once she had my history jotted down, she went into my options in what seemed ascending cost, complication, and commitment.
First up: blood work and an ultrasound. The number and viability of eggs decrease with age, and these basic tests would give us the general state of my uterus and ovaries. The next test, a hysterosalpingogram (HSG), would ensure my fallopian tubes, the gateway between the ovaries and uterus, were open and therefore able to receive sperm. Speaking of, Andrew would have to be tested too. Assuming everything thus far was checking out, we’d want to be strategic about having sex, using an ovulation kit to know when I was ovulating. “Not the electronic ones,” the doctor emphasized. “The one with the smiley face.” If all of that checked out, and I wasn’t getting pregnant after a few months, then we could start looking at fertility treatments. That could mean taking pills to induce ovulation or getting shots in the butt, like a few of my friends had done (you don’t get to be a forty-year-old woman without having friends who have endured one fertility treatment or another). Then came intrauterine insemination (IUI), when sperm is “cleaned” in the lab and then inserted directly into the uterus, giving it a better chance to connect with an egg. The last option before things got too sci-fi was in vitro fertilization (IVF), when mature eggs are collected from your ovaries and put together with the sperm in the lab, and then reinserted in your uterus if and when the egg(s) became fertilized. It was a whole new world to understand and consider.