special magic.
âBut no more dress-Âup after tonight,â I said. I couldnât handle anything more than this. Then I turned to my traitorous boyfriend and steered him out of the room. âCome on,â I said. âWe need to get going.â
B AKUSHAN HAD ONLY been open for a Âcouple of months, but expectations were already sky-Âhigh. Still, few Âpeople had mentioned the food. Instead, everyone was writing about the up-Âand-Âcoming chef, Pascal Fox. According to nearly every article, heâd dropped out of college and worked at top French restaurants around the world. Then, at twenty-Âfive and on every â30 under 30â list in existence, he had received an offer to take over LâEscalier, a cathedral-Âceilinged white-Âtablecloth institution in Midtown. But just as New York was ready to inaugurate him into a realm of Immortal Chefs synonymous with a certain level of luxurious precision, Pascal had said he would open a place on his own. He didnât have a location or a conceptâÂor so heâd said in his interviewsâÂjust a conviction that he didnât want to fall into the trap of being yet another French chef at another fancy restaurant.
So there we were, in front of his brand-Ânew place. It was hard to label it. I had read neo-Âmodernist and Asian-ÂAmerican eclectic. The food was hard to pin down, but the inside was just cool, at least from my sidewalk vantage point. It was 5:45 and already there was a forty-Âfive-Âminute wait for a spot at one of the communal, no-Âreservation tables.
I looked at the crowd while we waited and saw a Âcouple of girls dressed in tight, short dresses. One of them held a food magazine with Pascal Foxâs face on the cover against a blurred kitchen background. I stole a peek at the photo. His eyes were a deep black-Âbrown with a streak of gold. His hair was charmingly messed up, longish bits going every which way, casting shadows on his sculpted cheekbones.
That was the other thing. Pascal was exceedingly good-Âlooking. I hadnât paid attention to the hype around his looks, but seeing these girls swoon over his photo made his handsomeness hard to ignore. And . . . the pictures. Iâm only human.
There was no mistaking it. This was New York dining. Restaurants werenât just the food, but also the attractiveness of the chef, the beat of the music, the wait out the door. And then, there was something else.
As Elliott fiddled around on his phone, I watched a group of women waltz right into the restaurant. Everyone waiting gave them the evil eye as they teetered inside with their sky-Âhigh shoes and designer outfits. These werenât the obvious short, tight dresses of the other girls. These women werenât the most beautiful, either. But they were magnetic. An Asian girl wore her hair in purple-Âgray dreadlocks, complimenting her floral wide-Âlegged pants and crop-Âtop bra. A bald black woman wore a blue knee-Âlength dress with cut-Âouts across her clavicle, andâÂdangerouslyâÂover her hips. A full-Âfigured woman had wrapped herself in a black dress and a matching floor-Âlength cape. They walked right in and were seated in the front, a striking sight even through the glass and crowds.
New York restaurants were about the swagger.
I was watching them look over their menus when someone walked up to me, a big red-Âheaded, red-Âfaced man-Âchild. Kyle Lorimer, from the reception. He wore a short-Âsleeved plaid shirt and came at me with his arms extended.
âHi, Tia! Howâs it going!â His gaze switched from me to Elliott, Elliott to me. âIâm Kyle, nice to meet you,â he said to Elliott. Elliott shook his hand and introduced himself.
âGuess what?â Kyle continued. âI got the Helen Lansky internship. I heard you got the Madison Park Tavern gig. Congrats!â
A surge of anxiety rushed
âBut no more dress-Âup after tonight,â I said. I couldnât handle anything more than this. Then I turned to my traitorous boyfriend and steered him out of the room. âCome on,â I said. âWe need to get going.â
B AKUSHAN HAD ONLY been open for a Âcouple of months, but expectations were already sky-Âhigh. Still, few Âpeople had mentioned the food. Instead, everyone was writing about the up-Âand-Âcoming chef, Pascal Fox. According to nearly every article, heâd dropped out of college and worked at top French restaurants around the world. Then, at twenty-Âfive and on every â30 under 30â list in existence, he had received an offer to take over LâEscalier, a cathedral-Âceilinged white-Âtablecloth institution in Midtown. But just as New York was ready to inaugurate him into a realm of Immortal Chefs synonymous with a certain level of luxurious precision, Pascal had said he would open a place on his own. He didnât have a location or a conceptâÂor so heâd said in his interviewsâÂjust a conviction that he didnât want to fall into the trap of being yet another French chef at another fancy restaurant.
So there we were, in front of his brand-Ânew place. It was hard to label it. I had read neo-Âmodernist and Asian-ÂAmerican eclectic. The food was hard to pin down, but the inside was just cool, at least from my sidewalk vantage point. It was 5:45 and already there was a forty-Âfive-Âminute wait for a spot at one of the communal, no-Âreservation tables.
I looked at the crowd while we waited and saw a Âcouple of girls dressed in tight, short dresses. One of them held a food magazine with Pascal Foxâs face on the cover against a blurred kitchen background. I stole a peek at the photo. His eyes were a deep black-Âbrown with a streak of gold. His hair was charmingly messed up, longish bits going every which way, casting shadows on his sculpted cheekbones.
That was the other thing. Pascal was exceedingly good-Âlooking. I hadnât paid attention to the hype around his looks, but seeing these girls swoon over his photo made his handsomeness hard to ignore. And . . . the pictures. Iâm only human.
There was no mistaking it. This was New York dining. Restaurants werenât just the food, but also the attractiveness of the chef, the beat of the music, the wait out the door. And then, there was something else.
As Elliott fiddled around on his phone, I watched a group of women waltz right into the restaurant. Everyone waiting gave them the evil eye as they teetered inside with their sky-Âhigh shoes and designer outfits. These werenât the obvious short, tight dresses of the other girls. These women werenât the most beautiful, either. But they were magnetic. An Asian girl wore her hair in purple-Âgray dreadlocks, complimenting her floral wide-Âlegged pants and crop-Âtop bra. A bald black woman wore a blue knee-Âlength dress with cut-Âouts across her clavicle, andâÂdangerouslyâÂover her hips. A full-Âfigured woman had wrapped herself in a black dress and a matching floor-Âlength cape. They walked right in and were seated in the front, a striking sight even through the glass and crowds.
New York restaurants were about the swagger.
I was watching them look over their menus when someone walked up to me, a big red-Âheaded, red-Âfaced man-Âchild. Kyle Lorimer, from the reception. He wore a short-Âsleeved plaid shirt and came at me with his arms extended.
âHi, Tia! Howâs it going!â His gaze switched from me to Elliott, Elliott to me. âIâm Kyle, nice to meet you,â he said to Elliott. Elliott shook his hand and introduced himself.
âGuess what?â Kyle continued. âI got the Helen Lansky internship. I heard you got the Madison Park Tavern gig. Congrats!â
A surge of anxiety rushed
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