Food Whore by Jessica Tom Page B

through me. I may have liked Madison Park Tavern, but the fact that I didn’t get Helen, after so much work and buildup, still stung.
    â€œOh, thanks,” I managed. “Congrats to you, too!” I mustered up all the cheeriness I could.
    â€œYeah, I’m pretty psyched,” Kyle said. “Madison Park Tavern should be awesome, too. I’ve got to head out, but enjoy Bakushan. I’ve been dying to go.”
    â€œThanks, man,” Elliott said.
    â€œSee you later,” I said, hoping my smile didn’t look as fake as it felt.
    Kyle left and I returned my gaze to the women in the front window. The beautiful, compelling women who’d walked into one of the hottest restaurants in town and made it theirs.
    I looked over every inch of their table. Their hair, their outfits, their shoes. The way they held their menus with the tips of their fingers and drank their cocktails with their lips puckered just so.
    They reminded me of similar posses in college, but here those girls—­no, women—­were different. They weren’t born into their privilege. These women looked self-­made, women who had formed their looks and identities according to their exact design.
    And then my eye landed on something I had in common with the leader of the group, a tall brunette with a long, regal nose and a white padded bustier over a gossamer white strappy dress.
    And that’s when I walked up to the hostess, a model-­in-­training wearing inky black leggings, an embroidered vest, and open-­toed platform boots. My heart was pounding, but New York City isn’t for the weak. Emerald’s clothes weren’t just armor. They were also a weapon.
    â€œExcuse me,” I said, making sure Emerald’s straight-­off-­the-­runway purse was in front of me. “How long for the table again?”
    Her eyes snapped to the shine of the purse. I straightened up and looked at her imperiously. Faking it until I made it. I wouldn’t let Kyle and his giddiness about Helen rattle me. Emerald and her judging eyes wouldn’t faze me. I would model myself after those women.
    â€œOf course, Miss,” the hostess responded. She closed the reservation book and turned on her six-­inch platform. “Follow me.”
    I called Elliott over and the rest of the crowd collectively huffed that we had cut them all. But I didn’t listen to their complaints. Instead, I kept my ear out for the hostess’s words.
    â€œBy the way, I love your purse.”
    W E SAT IN the front of the restaurant, alongside the crew of mysterious power women.
    â€œWe’re so exposed,” Elliott said, as ­people tapped at the window, ooh ing at our neighbors’ dishes. “This place is good, right?”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “It’s supposed to be awesome. Though the menu is pretty controversial.”
    â€œControversial, huh? Well, I’ll leave it up to you to navigate the terrain.”
    â€œCome on, really? Order with me. Please?”
    â€œNo, no, don’t worry about it,” he said. “Go crazy!”
    â€œOkay . . .” I said. “What about . . . gizzard porridge?” That was actually on the menu.
    â€œSounds fabulous.”
    I giggled. “Or what about the pork with three sweetbread jellies?”
    â€œOnly three? I like at least a half dozen.”
    I held the menu up like an inspector with her clipboard.
    â€œWhat about the strawberry ramen with peanut broth?” I challenged.
    â€œAh, the sweet nectar of my youth.”
    I spread out my elbows. “Okay, Mr. Chambers. I see your palate is quite sophisticated. Which means you simply must have the poached toothfish with nitro-­chocolate ribbons.”
    â€œDarling, it would be heresy to not.”
    Elliott and I burst out laughing and a ­couple sitting next to us gave us dirty looks, which only made us laugh more. This was beginning to feel like old