Or so we thought.
But it turned out that Di’s pastry hand-off was to have devastating consequences.
I plead an overflow of sake. The piping-hot liquid must have, like some alcoholic Drano, busted through my brain’s tiny capillaries and rendered me stupefied. So stupefied that I revealed more than I usually do on a first date.
Robert Wharton was dressed like a power player. Maybe that was it. I was overwhelmed by his expensive suit and silk tie, and his dimpled smile and flawless TV-teeth. His manners, as he pulled out my chair for me.
Or maybe it was just the sake.
“So do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked, leaning in to better hear me, his face illuminated by a single candle in a Japanese-inspired lantern on our table.
I had been mid-lift of a delicious piece of eel on the ends of my chopsticks. Oh, God, here comes the obligatory family discussion, I thought. I dropped the eel in the little dish containing my soy sauce.
“A brother. Actor. He lives in Hollywood.”
“And your parents?” His eyes were a cross between brown and yellow, and he looked genuinely interested.
“Not much to say. Have one of each. So what other kinds of food do you like to eat besides sushi?”
“I’m adventurous. Like all kinds of food. Italian’s my favorite, though. Which makes us rather well matched, don’t you think? I did an Internet search on your restaurant. You’ve gotten some really good reviews.”
“Thanks. We’ve been lucky…no…that’s not all true. It’s more than that. We work really hard at it. You shouldn’t have a restaurant if you’re not prepared to put in the hours. Anyway, I do love to cook Italian food, but to be honest, I love Asian cuisine. I like adventurous foods, too. I’ve even tried the legendary, sometimes-deadly blowfish.”
“No way.”
I nodded. “Di, whom you met, had her father here on a visit and got us all invited to some investment banker’s dinner party at the Trump Tower. The man had a private chef…and they served blowfish.”
“You are brave.”
“I was kind of terrified. But at least now I can say I did it.”
“Well…no blowfish for me. I’m not that adventurous. But if you ever want a guinea pig for some of your Italian cooking, I’m your man…. So is your mother a good cook?”
I struggled to think of questions to get him off the family track. Until the family thing came up, we had not run out of things to discuss. We were both huge football fans. He liked the Philadelphia Eagles, and I liked the New York Giants. We both loved bad kung fu movies—for reasons neither of us could explain—and those old dubbed Godzilla movies. We both adored dogs and considered our childhood mutts our best pals; we’d both even had a dog named Pepper, though, technically, my dog’s name was short for Pepperoni. We liked eating out, the crisp days of fall and Bruce Springsteen.
“Oh, you know…typical Italian mother. Good cook, yes. Like I said, when it comes to parents, I had one of each. A matched set.”
“You know, ‘one of each’ isn’t much of an answer, Teddi. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were dodging my questions. I’m a reporter, you know. I’m trained to grill unwilling subjects.” He winked at me. Then he poured me some more sake.
“Well…what about your family?” I asked.
“If I tell you about mine, will you tell me about yours?” He said it slyly, sexily. He had taken off his jacket, revealing a dress shirt crisply starched but very well filled out by what looked to be a taut body. Di would have declared him “smashing.”
“Sure,” I replied. Of course, I had no intention of doing any such thing.
“My family is old Philadelphia. Main Line. Stiff, upper-crust and boring with a capital B. Do you know, my mother actually uses words like droll? And she talks through her teeth, like this.” He affected a dead-on Main Line accent. I wasn’t unfamiliar with this type; sometimes the odd trust-fund Upper East
But it turned out that Di’s pastry hand-off was to have devastating consequences.
I plead an overflow of sake. The piping-hot liquid must have, like some alcoholic Drano, busted through my brain’s tiny capillaries and rendered me stupefied. So stupefied that I revealed more than I usually do on a first date.
Robert Wharton was dressed like a power player. Maybe that was it. I was overwhelmed by his expensive suit and silk tie, and his dimpled smile and flawless TV-teeth. His manners, as he pulled out my chair for me.
Or maybe it was just the sake.
“So do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked, leaning in to better hear me, his face illuminated by a single candle in a Japanese-inspired lantern on our table.
I had been mid-lift of a delicious piece of eel on the ends of my chopsticks. Oh, God, here comes the obligatory family discussion, I thought. I dropped the eel in the little dish containing my soy sauce.
“A brother. Actor. He lives in Hollywood.”
“And your parents?” His eyes were a cross between brown and yellow, and he looked genuinely interested.
“Not much to say. Have one of each. So what other kinds of food do you like to eat besides sushi?”
“I’m adventurous. Like all kinds of food. Italian’s my favorite, though. Which makes us rather well matched, don’t you think? I did an Internet search on your restaurant. You’ve gotten some really good reviews.”
“Thanks. We’ve been lucky…no…that’s not all true. It’s more than that. We work really hard at it. You shouldn’t have a restaurant if you’re not prepared to put in the hours. Anyway, I do love to cook Italian food, but to be honest, I love Asian cuisine. I like adventurous foods, too. I’ve even tried the legendary, sometimes-deadly blowfish.”
“No way.”
I nodded. “Di, whom you met, had her father here on a visit and got us all invited to some investment banker’s dinner party at the Trump Tower. The man had a private chef…and they served blowfish.”
“You are brave.”
“I was kind of terrified. But at least now I can say I did it.”
“Well…no blowfish for me. I’m not that adventurous. But if you ever want a guinea pig for some of your Italian cooking, I’m your man…. So is your mother a good cook?”
I struggled to think of questions to get him off the family track. Until the family thing came up, we had not run out of things to discuss. We were both huge football fans. He liked the Philadelphia Eagles, and I liked the New York Giants. We both loved bad kung fu movies—for reasons neither of us could explain—and those old dubbed Godzilla movies. We both adored dogs and considered our childhood mutts our best pals; we’d both even had a dog named Pepper, though, technically, my dog’s name was short for Pepperoni. We liked eating out, the crisp days of fall and Bruce Springsteen.
“Oh, you know…typical Italian mother. Good cook, yes. Like I said, when it comes to parents, I had one of each. A matched set.”
“You know, ‘one of each’ isn’t much of an answer, Teddi. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were dodging my questions. I’m a reporter, you know. I’m trained to grill unwilling subjects.” He winked at me. Then he poured me some more sake.
“Well…what about your family?” I asked.
“If I tell you about mine, will you tell me about yours?” He said it slyly, sexily. He had taken off his jacket, revealing a dress shirt crisply starched but very well filled out by what looked to be a taut body. Di would have declared him “smashing.”
“Sure,” I replied. Of course, I had no intention of doing any such thing.
“My family is old Philadelphia. Main Line. Stiff, upper-crust and boring with a capital B. Do you know, my mother actually uses words like droll? And she talks through her teeth, like this.” He affected a dead-on Main Line accent. I wasn’t unfamiliar with this type; sometimes the odd trust-fund Upper East
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