Slim to None Read online

  "Embarrassing? Like what?"

  "Like having to get on the scale," I say. "You can’t fathom the degradation that entails. A scale has never been your mortal enemy."

  Jess laughs. "Oh, Abbie. You’re right, I’m not afraid of a scale. But I’m also not a fabulous cook and one of the top food critics in the country, either. It all balances out. Never mind about that. Tell me, what did you think of Dex? Did he say anything about me?"

  I’m thinking back to the appointment and it jogs my memory. "Now that you mention it, he suddenly paid attention to me once I invoked your name."

  The waitress brings our salads and Jess digs in with relish. I fish around in the salad with my fork, in search of anything that might be something I might otherwise anxiously await at mealtime. Aside from a couple of wayward shriveled-up shrimp that were probably cooked two days ago and dumped into the prep station, nada. Not even a crouton.

  I look over at Jess who looks a bit too zealous about her meal. As if she’s avoiding eye contact with me.

  "Is something going on that I should know about?"

  "This salad is delicious, isn’t it?" Jess stares directly into her arugula as if divining tea leaves.

  "You’re having an affair with him, aren’t you?"

  Jess gasps quietly and pops her head up to stare at me. "No. No. Of course not," she stammers.

  But it’s too late. I recognize all of the signs. This isn’t the first time that Jess has strayed from her husband, only the latest.

  "You’re sleeping with Dex Crenshaw! And you sent me to see the man you’re sleeping with, and now I have to keep this quiet and never say anything to your husband when every time I see him I’m going to be thinking about Dr. Crenshaw and scales and calipers and all of the horrid things I’ve been subjected to at his behest. Oh, Jess, how could you?"

  Jess is putting her pointer finger to her lips to shush me now. "It’s not what you think it is, Abbie. Calm down! I’m not sleeping with Dex. Yet. Since you needed to see a doctor anyway...I thought I’d maybe get you to vet him out for me, just a sort of second opinion."

  "Jess! People get second opinions on doctors when they have to have hysterectomies! Not to decide whether they should screw them!"

  The thing about Jess is that she and her husband aren’t exactly faithful to one another. At all. I’ve lost count of the number of times Jess has caught her husband, Charlie, in a lie about a woman. We’re at least up to the second hand’s worth of fingers, and counting.

  At first Jess had wanted to leave Charlie. But then she considered how much harder life would be. She’d gotten used to the private clubs, the lovely restaurants, the weekly masseuse and mani/pedi, the bi-weekly hair coloring touch-up. It’s hard to maintain that in Manhattan without some sort of cash cow. Yet his repeated betrayals were wearing on her psyche. Sure, she didn’t want to live alone in a 500-square foot efficiency in Yonkers, having to work cleaning jobs to pay the rent. But she also didn’t want to be disrespected by a philandering dickwad of a husband. Did I just say dickwad? That is so not in my vocabulary. I think this diet is toying with the inner-workings of my brain.

  So Jess decided to even up the score, and has since had dalliances with a few men whose judgment I’d question simply because they knew they were fooling around with a married woman. Is there any integrity left around here, people? I do understand where Jess is coming from, and I don’t necessarily fault her. I mean, were I to be in her situation, who’s to say I wouldn’t do the same thing. I do, as I say, wonder about the men who choose to partake, however. And absolutely, I resent the hell out of Charlie for leaving my friend to fend for herself in this way. Bizarrely, though, they seem content with the way their cockeyed relationship works.

  "So Abbie, I thought maybe we could somehow work it so I could go with you to see Dex and maybe I could get to talking to him and—"

  "So I’d be your beard? Thanks, I’ve got enough facial hair without turning into an actual beard. Besides which, how cliché, picking me to be your fat chick wingman. Or would that be wingwoman? Surely you can be more imaginative than that."

  "Ha ha. Come on, Abbie, he’s really cute and really sweet and I like him. I was going to ask him to come along on one of our restaurant outings, but—"

  "Don’t remind me. There are no more restaurant outings."

  "Of course there will be. This is just a little temporary setback. You’ll lose some weight, you’ll be back there before you know it!"

  I rub my finger along the rim of my water glass, creating a humming sound that is soothing. "It’s more complicated than that. First of all, I don’t know if someone hijacked my willpower or what, but it is gone. I’ve looked everywhere, even under the bed. No willpower to be had. Without willpower, I’m not going to succeed. But on top of that, I’m just starting to wonder what I should be wanting or needing in my life. William is nipping at my heels, haranguing about babies again."

  Jess makes the sign of the cross, an apparent show of solidarity. "Not again?"

  I nod with a solemn face. "Only this time it feels like the Battle of the Bulge. No, wait. That’s the diet part. How about the bridge over the River Kwai? Battle of the Midway? Whatever. What I mean is it feels like there will be a victor and a loser this time. And I have a feeling if he wins, I lose, and if I win, I lose. Jess, I don’t know what to do about everything."

  I stab about ten pieces of limp, brown-edged lettuce onto my fork and stuff the wad in my mouth. There’s no tasting involved, no pleasure involved, no sensory anything. Just the cursory act of eating. Like sex with a hooker. Or what I presume that would be like.

  "I’m hardly the advice-giver. You know that. But I think you should just let your conscience be your guide."

  I blurt out a laugh on that one. "Thanks Jiminy Cricket. I’ll keep that in mind."

  "I’m serious. Let me explain. One time, Charlie was golfing in Thailand."

  "Charlie went to Thailand?"

  "Yes. Probably because of the number of inexpensive prostitutes."

  "Ugh."

  "Uh-huh. So Charlie was golfing at this gorgeous golf course when he came up to a green and saw a sign. Play the ball where the monkey drops it."

  "And this has what to do with my little life crisis?"

  "Everything. Absolutely everything Abbie. The monkeys sneak up on the golf course and steal golf balls, run around with them, and drop them somewhere else. It became a huge problem and all the golfers were pitching tantrums and throwing their clubs. So the rules were changed around to accommodate the monkey business, so to speak. Play the ball where the monkey drops it. Just take it as it comes. It is what it is. You do what you have to in order to get by. Don’t go getting your panties in a wad. Stop trying to orchestrate your life. Let life happen to you, Abbie. It’ll all work out."

  "I’m glad you feel so certain about that. Because I sure don’t. But I kind of like the philosophy, because it takes it out of my hands and leaves it up to fate."

  "Crazier things are done than leaving things up to fate."

  "But I’m not going to be your beard. Just remember that."

  "Okay. Fine. How ’bout a moustache?" She laughs.

  "No, no type of facial hair and that’s final."

  "Back hair count?"

  "I have to get back to work Jess. I have to pretend I have value in my place of labor."

  "Think about that, okay? The back hair?"

  "Shut up, Jess."

  * * *

  "So, how was your day?" I ask William, trying to keep things light and fluffy. Like me. Only I’m more like heavy and fluffy. On the menu? Skewered vegetables and marinated Greek chicken. Not so bad, is it? Except for the accompanying cucumber sauce I couldn’t help but make that has whole milk plain yogurt—the kind with the layer of cream atop it—and the good kind of sour cream. I’m sorry
, I just can’t shun the whole, natural goodness of things. My experience is every time I have something with reduced X, Y, or Z, it tastes as if the most important thing in the food has been expunged. Case in point, Oreos minus trans fats. Agreed?

  "Fine," William is quiet while working on a mouthful of food.

  "Anything exciting on the horizon?" I ask.

  "Not a thing."

  Clearly I’m not going to get any elaboration without some cajoling. Guess he’s still brooding on the baby thing.

  "So, I got an interesting letter in the mail today."

  "Fan mail?"

  I used to get fan mail—and hate mail—on a regular basis when I did restaurant reviews. I always suspected the hate mail came directly from relatives of the restaurant owner—or investors. But the fan mail was always lovely. I think people appreciated my candor, my honesty, and my approach to food.

  I grimace. "Fan mail is a thing of the past for me. I don’t even have an office any more."

  William stops chewing. "Mortie stole your office?"

  "Not for himself. He gave it to my replacement."

  William groans. "Oh, ho, ho. I bet ol’ Barry is one happy pig in shit now that he’s got the window office. Honey, you’d better hang up your cleats because he’s digging in for the long haul."

  I’ve decided I really don’t want to talk about work any more. My job has gone from the zenith of happiness for me to the raw source of my misery.

  "Don’t you want to know about my letter?"

  He cocks his eyebrow and angles his head up out of curiosity.

  "My father. Wants to talk to me about things."

  "Things?"

  "Yep. Seems he’s been feeling his mortality and he wants to tie up loose ends. Me being one of them."

  "You planning to see him?"

  I shake my head. "What’s the point? He did what he did. I paid the price for it. I don’t see a need to resurrect dead issues."

  "Unless..."

  William gets that look on his face like what Thomas Edison must’ve looked like just when he deduced that the carbon filament was the answer to his prayers. His light bulb moment, if you will.

  "Unless what?"

  "Hell, I don’t know, Abbie. But maybe you need to tie up loose ends with him. Did you ever think of it that way?"

  "Ha!"

  "Yeah, you laugh now. Go right ahead. But then he dies and you’ll never have the chance again to ask him why. Don’t you have the slightest bit of curiosity about that? Why did he walk out on you? Sure, it’s obvious why he walked out on your mother. But you?"

  With that I dollop about half a cup of sauce on top of my up-til-then-modestly-healthful dinner. Thank goodness there’s that healthy cucumber in it to balance out the fat content.

  "Abbie?"

  I stare at my plate and practically will a huge forkful of food into my mouth. Filling the void.

  "What if he says something I don’t want to hear?"

  With that William gets up and comes over to me, pulling me up out of my seat, and into his arms. "Sweetie, what your father did wasn’t aimed at you. He loved you, in his own stupid, selfish way. You know that, don’t you?"

  "I don’t know! Why would someone do that to his kid? Why do you think I’m so afraid of committing to owning a child? I’m afraid I won’t be able to tough it out, just like him."

  With that, I admit my own folly. Something I hadn’t even admitted to myself.

  William looks at me with new eyes. New and confused eyes, maybe from hurt at this revelation, I don’t know. Yet also with understanding, as a parent would while listening to a child speak gibberish. Instead of saying anything, he just holds me tight. His body trembles slightly. It makes me wonder if somewhere deep down inside, he’s crying. Whether for me or for us, I’m not exactly sure.

  Greek Chicken Shish Kebabs

  2 lbs. Boneless chicken breasts, cut into 2-inch cubes

  1 basket cherry tomatoes

  1 each orange and yellow bell pepper, cut into 1-inch cubes to skewer

  1 zucchini, sliced

  1/2 pound white button mushrooms, rinsed, ends sliced off

  for the marinade

  4 tbl. olive oil

  2 tbl. balsamic vinegar

  3 cloves minced garlic

  1 tsp. oregano

  1/2 tsp. cumin seeds (or powder)

  1/2 tsp. ground pepper

  Serve with Sour Cream Sauce and Grilled Pita Bread (recipes to follow), and brown basmati rice.

  Combine ingredients in Ziploc bag, add chicken. Marinate for at least one hour, or up to overnight.

  Prepare vegetables. Rub oil on metal skewers so that ingredients do not stick. I skewer chicken separately, then skewer vegetables, drizzling veggies with olive oil.

  Grill on medium high grill, for 5 minutes. Turn skewers, grill 5 more minutes.

  Transfer skewers to platter.

  Have ready 1 package of pita bread, brushed on each side with olive oil. Place pita bread on grill, one minute per side. Transfer to platter.

  sour cream sauce

  3/4 c. sour cream

  3/4 c. plain yogurt

  1/4 c. finely chopped onion

  1/2 c. coarsely chopped fresh parsley

  1/2 tsp. salt

  1/4 tsp. freshly ground pepper

  1/2 tsp. oregano

  Combine all ingredients and refrigerate until 1/2 hour before serving, at which point bring to room temperature to serve.

  I’ve decided that perhaps I’m bulimic and just keep forgetting to purge.

  Paula Poundstone

  Simmer Discontent on Low until Just Before Boiling Point

  Fan mail!" Mortie calls out to me as I step off the elevator for work this morning. "You, my dear, have a fan base!"

  He taps me on my head with a small stack of emails some intern no doubt printed out on his behalf. Wow. Fan mail. I mean sure, I’ve had comments before on my reviews, but I somehow have viewed myself as a third party to that. For this, they’re writing in response to my feelings, my emotions. That’s something entirely foreign to me.

  I pull out one and begin to read.

  Dear Ms. Jennings,

  Finally, finally, finally someone gets it. Someone gets me! Never in my life have I seen put into words exactly how I feel about food. I read your column and stuck it right underneath my husband’s nose after re-reading it, just to show him I’m not a freak. This is what it’s all about to me, too. Thank you for understanding me and letting me know I’m not alone.

  Yours,

  Stef Jancowitz

  Queens

  So I took a chance and someone loved it! It made sense to another human being! I just knew that someone out there would feel the way I do!

  I proceed to read through the rest of the stack of emails, emboldened by each one to resolve to continue to write more on issues about which we tend to never speak, out of embarrassment or whatever. Maybe this really is a good thing after all, me launching this column.

  But soon my joy is overshadowed by the black cloud that is Barry Newman. Barry’s smile—or is it a smirk?—is about as wide as the George Washington Bridge span. I think a couple of 18-wheelers could easily careen across it.

  "Abbie! How great to see you here this morning!" He’s laying it on as thick as gumbo, which sounds so divine, now that I mention it. I once had a gumbo in Waterproof, Louisiana (population 834) that I swear would bring about world peace if only everyone got to taste a bite. Can’t imagine I’ll be getting back there any time soon to have another bowl of it myself. Maybe that’s why my life is so lacking in peace these days...

  "Hello, Newman," I growl at him. I think he gets my drift. Nevertheless, he feels compelled to talk about this wonderful new restaurant he ate at l
ast night that I’d been dying to review: Black Tie Bali, which features Balinese cuisine served by tuxedo-clad waiters and waitresses wearing chiffon ball gowns and white gloves. Would I kid about this? The restaurant is the brainchild of master chef Alain DuFuss—just kidding!—Alain DuLongue, proprietor of several chi-chi Manhattan eateries. His ox tongue in sweet nutmeg sauce is rumored to die for. And to think I could’ve even eaten that guilt-free—I am certain that ox tongue contains no carbs. Plus it’s not white. I even heard the boiled bananas were amazing—and fat free (though white, darn it!).

  "It’s so fun dining surreptitiously, isn’t it, Abbie?" Barry digs in the knife a little deeper. "I mean, here I am, eating the most amazing meals, sampling everything, and no one knows why! It’s like our little secret."

  Our secret? That bastard. I wonder if it was our secret. Or if someone tipped off certain restaurant owners about a certain food critic who was going to be dining at certain restaurants in the near future...

  "And the wine!" he’s blathering on. "Do you know the Sonoma Cab I had the other night retails at $800 a bottle?"

  He’s buying bottles of wine that cost three times an average monthly car payment? Is he off his rocker? Didn’t Mortie tell him there’s a budgetary limit to the madness, even by Manhattan standards? Huh, well, I’m sure not going to let on. Maybe I can just sit back and watch him crash and burn.

  "Oh, and the power. The power! Imagine, I can single-handedly bring down a restaurant owned by ultra-rich investors. It’s a heady feeling. Isn’t it, Abbie?"

  I wonder if he’s noticed yet that I’ve plugged my ears.

  "So I’ve given the restaurant review column a new name. I think it fits," he says, holding his hands up, his thumbs and forefingers forming "L’s" as if showcasing a sign. "The Frenzied Foodie!"

  Yes, indeedy, he is off his rocker. I roll my eyes at him and try to get back to my computer screen, but he’s not done. "I want my readership to know that I’m whipped into a frenzy seeking out the best dining experiences for them."