EXTREME CUISINE by Kit Sloane
Cloquet
hated reality but realized it was still the only place to get a good steak.
--Woody Allen
Gold colored walls surrounded
her on three sides. The window to the right looked out on busy Sunset Boulevard.
The noise of the constant flow of traffic, the headlights and taillights glittering
in the night, was dimmed to nothing by the double-panes of glass. Jazz music from
invisible speakers was kept low. Wooden fans hanging from the high ceiling rotated
slowly, moving the fragrant garlic-scented air gently though the room.
The restaurant, housed
in the corner of an old downtown building, was an art director’s dream, the
perfect background for its fabled “California cuisine.” The room was
simply but expensively furnished—the dark woods, the white table linens,
the heavy flatware. No flowers. Lots of candlelight. The wood burning brick oven
in the corner illuminated discreetly by overhead lights, a stage set for the artistry
of the chef.
Margot O’Banion
looked across the table at Max. He smiled at her, obviously pleased at her reaction
to the ambiance of the restaurant.
Max Skull toyed with
his slice of baguette in the dish of extra virgin cold pressed olive oil with
a small pool of dark Balsamic vinegar in its center. “Whadaya think?”
It’s wonderful.”
Margot smiled, glancing around at the tables of animated patrons, smoothing the
black silk of her skirt over her knees.
It was so unlike Max
to bring her here. Everyone who was anyone agreed that Café Estrellado, with Carlos
Gustavo Estrella as owner and chef, was the place to go. She felt a little
nervous. Max always said he hated high profile places like this, restaurants that
got as much news coverage as any desperate search for world peace. And this chef’s
face had adorned more magazine covers than that of any slim model’s.
She glimpsed Carlos Estrella
through the throng, tall and handsome—really movie-star handsome, she thought—his
high bright white chef’s hat a beacon to his patrons, as he bent over the
sizzling pans flung onto the immense stove. She could hear the swish of olive
oil hitting the hot metal—did he use all stainless?—of the sauté pans.
Any smoke from these kitcheny maneuvers billowed discreetly up an invisible vent.
Café Estrellado was rumored
to be booked months in advance. People from all over the United States—heavens,
all over the world—made their reservations by FAX and email. People
determined the dates of their vacations and business trips to Los Angeles around
the confirmation of these reservations. Had Max booked months ago? He’d never
said a thing. But he wouldn’t. Max didn’t think anything beyond the
next day’s film shoot was worth considering.
“I’ve got something
for you, babe,” he said. His hand appeared from beneath the table top, depositing
a small black satin box between the heavy silverplated hotel ware, the kind you
never saw anymore, ready for her entrée.
Margot stared down at
the box. Her life, a flash of her lifestyle, single and contented, blazing across
her mind’s eye.
"Max?” She felt her voice waver, but
her eyes still focused on the small satin box. Oh God, he hadn’t, had he?
He wasn’t asking, was he?
"Margot, babe," Max's hand slid across
the table covering hers. She looked up catching the humor dancing in his dark
eyes. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I swear, I’d never surprise
you like that…well, not without warning you.”
Nodding and feeling a
warm blush starting over her face, she took the box and opened its top, the silky
satin cool in her fingers. The gleam of a dark, smooth stone nestled in the creamy
interior. Taking it between her fingers, she lifted up a ring, the large, smooth
stone…was it a ruby?…set in gold, feeling cold and heavy to her touch.
“For you, kiddo.”
Max took the ring from her, sliding in onto the ring finger of her right hand.
“It matches your hair.”
“It’s beautiful,”
she said. “It’s perfect.”
His hand closed over it, her fingers clasping
his. “It’s our twentieth. You know, since Luis was born. Luis is going
to be twenty this summer. I wanted you to have this. Found it at Justine’s
on Melrose. It’s called a cabochon cut or something like that. That means
it doesn’t have edges, you know, facets. I know you don’t like glitter.”
Margot’s mouth went
dry. Sentence after sentence formed in her head as a large white oval plate materialized
in front of her. She sat back, Max’s hand releasing her newly ringed finger.
“It’s Chef
Estrella’s special Spiced, Smoked, and Grilled Pork Loin with Tomatillo
and Chayote Salsa and Soft Polenta,” the waiter said. “Enjoy.”
Chapter II
The air smelled of fresh
paint. Max’s living room resembled a morgue, Margot thought, with the plastic
tarps covering all the furniture and the floor. She reached for the envelope she’d
stuffed in the pocket of her jeans, her new ring catching on the denim. Her curly
mane of dark red hair was pulled back in a pony tail, but she’d still managed
to streak it here and there with the golden yellow paint they were using on the
walls.
“Guess what, Max.
Loretta Rose is coming!”
“Where?” Max
looked around, paint roller in hand, the ladder he was on shaking at the sudden
movement.
She glanced at him, his
black hair mixed with gray, tall, handsome and lanky in old jeans and a paint
splattered t-shirt. She smiled. She loved the way Max looked. She loved it that
she had to look up at him. Tall herself, it was nice to be with someone even taller.
Max was a gorgeous man and, thankfully, unaware of his beauty. His ego was huge,
but only about his undeniable filmmaking talent.
Margot shook her head.
“She’s coming here, Max. Here to L.A.. Don’t looked so shocked.
I invited her years ago.”
“Jeeze,” Max
said. Margot tried not to smile. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. You
know what she’s like. She’s a man hater.”
Margot rolled her eyes.
Max was terrified of Loretta Rose Cinefucco. She knew that. Most men were. Loretta
Rose was nothing if not formidable. Beauty and strength of personality were her
major attractions, but the combination could still, unfortunately, be off-putting
to some people. Loretta Rose didn’t care.
“Just because she
didn’t come on to you.”
“You’re right.”
He chuckled. “She didn’t. Well, maybe she has better taste than I thought.”
“Anyway, she says
she’s sick of her brothers fighting all the time,” she read on. “She
refuses to work for either of them anymore. She’s out of the wine-making
business.”
Loretta Rose was one
of a few women winemakers anywhere and she’d been good, darned good.
Margot peered at the flamboyant scrawl that chased itself across the piece
of stationery.
“She says she wants
to get into the restaurant business down here.”
Max made a harrumphing
noise. “Yeah? Like waitressing? I sure don’t see her as a waitress.
She’d be sarcastic and surly.”
“Not waitressing,
Max. I think she wants to be a chef.”
“Well, good luck
on that idea. Most new restaurants go under in three months. What does Loretta
Rose know about cooking, anyway?”
Margot shrugged. “Oh,
all those wine people are food fanatics. You know that. Food and wine go together—you
love one, you love the other. She’s probably a fantastic cook. Though,”
she added, peering down at the piece of paper, “she doesn’t say what
she’s going to be doing exactly, restaurant-wise. Maybe she’ll just
buy one or something. I don’t know.”
Max was still scowling.
“So what’s going to happen with Cinefucco Cellars and the other guy’s
winery, the competing one? Those brothers of hers won’t last a week without
her to keep them apart. Damn, they hate each other. She’s the only thing
that’s kept them from fratricide. Not to say that I didn’t like them
both. They’re great guys, just kind of controlling. You know.”
Margot raised an eyebrow,
remembering the personalities. “Yes, well, not any more, apparently. Let’s
see here, Loretta Rose says they’ve bought her out. That must mean a lot
of money. So financing a new restaurant doesn’t sound as though it would
be a problem.”
“You’re kidding,”
Max said. “It costs millions to open one, at least, a good one.”
“Well, maybe she
got millions. You know what those wineries are worth.”
Max grunted. “Those
brothers wouldn’t give her her fair share no matter what. She’s frickin
leaving them. They’d burn the money she’s owed before giving
it to her. No, she’ll have to have backers, people with tons of money who’ll
support whatever she wants to get into. It’s kinda like making a movie. First
and most important, except for getting me to direct it, of course, is the financial
backing. That’s why Arcturus studios keeps old Colin Peabody as producer,
my producer, around when they probably can’t stand him either. Colin
may be a horse’s ass, but man, can he drum up the big bucks. So Loretta Rose
will need a financier, if she’s serious about this.”
“How did you learn
all this restaurant lore?”
“I listen, babe.
I listen to the movers and shakers. Hell, I’m making a damned movie about
the kitchen culture, after all. You oughta understand. You’re editing it.
And cooking is a helluva curious business. Big money if you do it right and get
lucky. Hell, half the studio execs probably have invested their extra bucks in
the fanciest restaurants in town. The mob’s probably in it, too, for all
I know. Anyway, the restaurant business is a risky enterprise, but you can make
money if you get the right combination going—the biggest name for your chef,
the best decor. It’s not just about an over-priced meal. It’s a mixture
of art and entertainment. It’s like making a movie!”
“Well, I’m
sure Loretta Rose knows about those things. I’m sure she’s thought of
all that. The wine business isn’t exactly an easy business, either.”
“Yeah, that’s
for sure. Man, can you imagine that scene between the brothers when she took off?
The whole farewell scene could probably be stuck, as is, in a Scorsese film rated
‘R’ for profanity and violence.” He made a face, stepping away
from the wall he was painting, inspecting the golden color it was turning.
Margot had picked out
the paint. It was the same color as the walls at Café Estrellado. She hoped Max
wouldn’t notice the similarity. But it was a blessed change from the unrelenting
white that was Max’s favorite.
Max loved white. And
it wasn’t as though the white he chose for his house was one of the whites
that had a fancy name and some drops of another color to liven them up. Max preferred
white that was pure, unfancy white, the white that she’d only seen
before on refrigerators. His house was covered in it, literally, inside and out.
But now its austere quality was beginning to soften under the paint brushes and
rollers. No longer did she feel as though she’d entered a mausoleum when
she stepped inside. She might even get to like it here. Maybe.
She shook her head. Max
who was so sensitive about how everything appeared in his films, micro-managing
every part of the art production, driving his production designers crazy. But
this white, white house had remained the same no matter how she teased him about
it. Goodness, she thought, he couldn’t be color blind, could he?
“I suppose you’ll
want to paint the bedroom next, won’t you?” he said.
“Yes, the bedroom
and everything else. I’ll wait, though, till Loretta Rose gets to town. I
want her opinion. I’ll bet she’s great on colors. She has exquisite
taste.”
“She looked good
in that wedding dress when she almost got married,” he admitted.
“You liked it because
it was white.”
Max smiled wickedly.
“It wasn’t really white. I liked it because she looked totally magnificent
in the thing. I didn’t know brides were allowed to look like that.”
Margot raised her eyebrows.
Replacing the letter in the envelope, she stuffed it back in her pocket and reached
for the sticky paintbrush.
Max looked thoughtful.
“Do you think she’s with some guy by now?”
“You mean romantically?”
“Yeah. Whadaya think?”
“I don’t know.
Last time we saw her, she was especially uninterested in romance.”
“I know. Can you
blame her? But I was thinking…we’ve got this great guy consulting on
Extreme Cuisine. He’s making the whole restaurant schtick come alive
for us. He’s really into food and he’s just about her age, too. What
do you think?”
Margot stopped, the paint
brush dripping into the can. “I’m amazed you would ever think of fixing
someone up, much less fixing Loretta Rose up. It’s very romantic, a side
of you I’ve never seen.”
“Oh, come on, babe.
I’m a romantic fool. You know that. But, yeah, well, it’s just a thought.
You know, since both of them are into food and stuff. Anyway, don’t you agree,
it’s good to keep Loretta Rose occupied? We don’t want her running around
loose.” He laughed heartily. “So I just thought of this guy.”
“What is he doing
for you?”
“Well, you know
the storyline’s about a restaurant and its prima donna chef, a guy who gets
more publicity than our movies, like the honcho at the place I took you to. So,
I know a lot about a lot of things but I sure don’t know how restaurants
actually work. I needed to feel what it’s really like doing that kind of
macho chef stuff, so this guy’s our consultant.”
“Is that
why you took me to Café Estrellado? You were researching?”
“Well, not entirely.
I knew you wanted to go and it seemed a good place to deck you out in jewelry.
Anyway, I’m always researching, you know that. And that powerhouse chef,
Carlos Estrella—the guy who made our dinner—is gonna let us use his
actual chi-chi kitchen for a couple day’s location shoot, too. So I was just
looking around there that night. This consultant I’m telling you about comes
in almost every day now. He’s terrific. Hell, I oughta write a story about
him. Anyway, it’s changed the way I’ve been thinking about the
movie and you know how hard it is for me to deviate from my perfect storytelling.
You just know this guy is good.”
Margot nodded, still
distracted by the idea of Max as matchmaker. Extreme Cuisine, Max’s
new film, was nearly half finished. He’d cast the film with several well
thought of Latino actors who’d never gotten a real starring role in anything
before. Times were finally changing. The film industry was actually acknowledging
the rise of the Latino culture and these veteran actors were suddenly looking
hot and commercial. Every success these days seemed to be about timing, and
politics and money, of course. Max’s Latino actors were lucky enough
to be working now when it was considered an advantage to actually keep your given
name. And many of the bit parts were Latino kitchen workers moonlighting from
local restaurants. Max loved authentic.
As usual, the studio
had gone ballistic about Max using non-actors, even in secondary roles. But good
old Max had won them over. In another life, he’d have been an outstanding
casting director. Wasn’t it John Huston who’d said if you cast it right,
you didn’t have to direct?
Max dabbed at a corner
of the wall with a dripping brush. “Thanks to this guy, I’m making one
hell of a great picture. I mean great. It’s gonna give people their
first chance to see behind the kitchen door. Hey, good title. Maybe I shoulda
titled it that.”
“I give up. What’s
this paragon of cuisine virtue’s name?” she asked.
“Name’s Robert
Madrid. Heard of him?”
“You mean Robert
Madrid, The Late Night Chef on TV?”
Max made a face. “Yeah.
I mean, that’s probably not his real name. It’s too cool to be
real.”
“But, Max, he’s
famous. I mean really famous. We all watch Robert Madrid every chance we get.”
“What? You mean
you and Sophie and Ivy sit around and watch a goddamn cook on the tube?”
Margot ignored his tone.
“Everyone does. Robert Madrid is changing the state of cooking.”
“All those food
people say they’re doing that.”
“Well, he’s
doing it and on television, too, like Julia Child did. He’s
gorgeous, and he’s really famous.”
“You already said
that. Anyway, I’m famous, too.”
“Right, you’re
famous, but can you cook?”
Max seemed to consider
her question seriously, swiping the wall with another roller full of paint. “Well,
maybe you’re right. He sure sounds like a good cook. Gives lots of good advice—insider
stuff. Stuff that’s making the story sizzle. And he’s got those bit
part actors of mine actually acting like real chefs.”
“They are real chefs.”
He stared at her, looking
absolutely horrified. “Real chefs? No, my guys are the real kitchen slaves,
the sous chefs and line cooks. The ones who do all the work. The powers-behind-the-throne
kind of workers. My God, Margot, real chefs are generally totally nuts. You know
that. If I’d hired a genuine major chef kind of person, I’d have had
a meat cleaver through my skull after the first take. I wouldn’t even hire
one of their chefs de cuisine—you know the people who do the actual
cooking while the big name chef is off signing autographs at some bookstore during
dinner. Anyway, our budget couldn’t have managed the salaries they’d
want, either. No, old Robert knows what I want and he’s getting it for me.
He doesn’t seem too full of himself, either.”
“Not like some people
I know.”
Max shrugged. “So
I have an ego. Big deal. Anyway, your culinary hero wants to become an actor,
but that’s no problem.”
“Why not?”
Max shrugged again. “Because
he’s not going to become my actor. He can act all he wants
on someone else’s time. Hell, you already said he’s big on TV. Maybe
I should watch his show… Anyway, I just need his cooking expertise. So, want
me to tell him about Loretta Rose? We could have a party or something. Get them
together.”
“Hold on,”
Margot said. “I don’t even know when she’s arriving. Loretta Rose
is typically vague on details. Still, it might be fun to have a party—after
we’ve painted everything—to welcome her when she gets here.” She
paused. “And invite Robert Madrid. I’d love to meet him. Do you think
he’s a strong enough character for Loretta Rose…”
“Good point. You
know I really like the woman, but she is a bit much. You’ve got to admit
that.”
Margot didn’t admit
that. Loretta Rose was just Loretta Rose. So she’d had the nerve to call
off her wedding in front of two hundred guests and the would-be groom. Margot
thought that was a brilliantly brave move, especially in view of what had happened.
“Hey, babe.”
Max waved a paintbrush at the nearly completed wall. “You know, this place
is beginning to look just like that fancy place we ate in. Did you do that on
purpose? Anyway, this chatter about culinary ambience is making me hungry.
Let’s call it a day and get something to eat. We’ve painted six square
miles already.”
•••
Later, after a large
plate of pasta and her half of the red wine, Margot agreed that it was foolish
to drive back to the apartment she shared on Melrose with her housemates, Sophie
and Ivy. She could do a sleep over, he said, grabbing her playfully as they did
the dishes.
After all, their son,
Luis, was away in his sophomore year at college. Dear Luis, who, to their mutual
distress, was majoring in theater arts. Margot sighed. Their business was such
a hard business. But with two successful parents who’d “made it,”
did Luis think it was an automatic? Margot sighed again. Of course, they’d
help where they could, but that kind of help was problematic at best, often backfiring.
It was going to be up to Luis, Luis and his magical gene pool, as Max noted.
But lately, even with
the comings and goings of her housemates, the old apartment was unnaturally quiet.
She found herself spending more and more time at Max’s, in Max’s igloo.
Not that she ever minded spending time with him…. She left a phone message
at the apartment that she would be at Max’s overnight and took his hand as
she trailed him up the curving staircase to the master bedroom.
Margot stood in the doorway and looked around
the vast white room. She suppressed a shudder. Of course, over the years, she’d
been able to make some inroads in the stark decor. There were the pictures of
her and Luis; the pillows she’d made from the colorful fabrics they’d
bought in Guatemala; the deep rose down comforter she’d insisted Max buy.
The rest of the room, however, was still white and the master bathroom adjoining
was the same. Max’s silly huge house, so large that it took up the entire
lot. It hardly had a garden. It didn’t even have a swimming pool. It was
all rooms, rooms and rooms and rooms. All white, all huge. And he loved
it.
“You’re figuring
out what color to paint it, aren’t you?” Max’s arm circled her
waist.
“Apricot,”
she said. Yes, apricot—a nice hue between coral and gold. It would be just
right.
Max checked his email
from his laptop on his bureau while she showered. He was under the comforter rereading
the current script when she climbed in beside him.
“Whadaya think?”
He pointed to the page he’d been reading.
It was covered with his
notes in different colored inks. They’d filmed this particular scene the
other day. Margot had just been working on it in the editing room.
“It works very well,”
she said. “I think you got it just right.”
“That’s my
girl,” he said. “We can go over it tomorrow, okay?”
She nodded and yawned
as he reached out to turn out the light. She scrunched down to curl around him—Max
was always wonderfully warm—and was asleep, immediately.
•••
It was a funny, scratchy
sound that awakened Margot out of whatever interesting dream she’d been having.
Still wrapped around Max, she waited, ears pricking, for the noise to be repeated.
There it was again.
“Max,” she
whispered. “Max, do your hear that?”
“Whaa?” he
mumbled. Then he rolled over, instantly awake. “Whadaya hear, babe?”
“There’s someone
in the house. I know there is. It sounds like they’re coming up the stairs.
Be careful.”
Max slipped out of bed
and crept toward the bedroom door, grabbing a flashlight from the bureau and holding
it like a throttling weapon over his head.
Margot wondered whether
she should get up and hide behind something and then watched, wide-eyed through
the darkness, as his naked shape materialized in a faint shadow against the pale
wall. He stopped by the door. She cringed in anticipation as he flung it open
to the corridor.
There was a blood curdling
yell from the hallway and Margot joined in the noise with a loud shriek as Max
shouted back and threw up his arms in alarm looking like a cartoon animal that
has been accidentally electrocuted.
“Max! Max!”
Margot flung off the bed covers, and ran to his side.
Margot followed his gaze
and stared into the hallway in amazement. There in the dim glow of the night light
stood a nearly familiar apparition, a vision in slim black jeans and black leather
jacket, the tousled dark curls frothing about her head.
“Hey, you guys,”
said Loretta Rose Cinefucco, dropping her bag to the floor. “Cool it, will
you. You’re gonna wake the dead.”