Page 24 of Resisting the Grump

For extra impact, I asked the woman on duty to wrap it in tissue paper for me. She looked at me like I was crazy but wordlessly obliged, and I couldn’t have been happier. Just the thought of Number Seven having to grapple with whether she should unwrap the mysterious parcel was so thrilling it kept me amused all the way home.

If only I could picture her face when she opened the door. That wasn’t possible, of course, because her face was still a mystery, but I suspected she looked like a crotchety old witch, complete with a mole on her chin from which wiry, unpluckable hairs sprouted.

I was setting the offering on her welcome mat and shaking my head at the irony that she even had one when my phone buzzed in my back pocket.

“What’s the dress code at our dinner destination?” Brownie Babe asked.

I made a mental note to change her contact details. “Funny question to get from a woman who’d look good in anything,” I tapped back. Then I forwarded a link to the restaurant’s website.

I’d settled on a French place that was consistently good with even more reliable service. Didn’t seem right to scrimp when she’d already accused me of only asking her out because I wanted to sleep with her. Granted, the thought had crossed my mind at least forty-five times since I saw her earlier in the week, but I had every intention of behaving tonight, if only to prove she’d misjudged me. “Don’t make your mind up till you hear the specials,” I added, in case she was the sort who’d peruse the menu beforehand as I often did. “This is one of the only places I know where the specials are actually special and not just a tribute to the ingredients they’re eager to get rid of.”

She answered a few minutes later with an OK sign emoji.

I assumed the symbol didn’t warrant additional response, but when my phone rang as I was letting myself into my apartment, I was disappointed it wasn’t her.

“Hey, Dad.” I pushed the door open with my shoulder and reached for the light switch.

“Oliver, hi. Am I catching you at a good time?”

I smiled at his predictability. He always asked that before sharing what was on his mind. Of course, I’d figured out over the years that he didn’t do it because he cared about your answer. He did it because he expected other people to start the conversation that way. “Always happy to be caught by you, Dad, what’s up?”

“Your mom had a really good day yesterday.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You should’ve seen the pride on her face when I showed her your headshot in the Star Baker brochure. She was absolutely beaming. As if you’d baked the winning pie yourself.”

“Thanks for telling me that, Dad. I’m glad she was amused.”

“You must’ve been pleased, too,” he said. “It’s a while since you tried your hand at something new.”

I set my keys on the skinny table beside the door. “What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just… There’s a lot of your stuff I can’t exactly brag to her about.”

Ouch.

“Not that it doesn’t make for gripping entertainment,” he said. “Would you believe I’ve been to that shitty pizza place you reviewed recently?”

“Lured in by the world class salad bar?” I asked, making my way towards the window where Simba was lounging. He whacked his tail against the floor when he saw me coming but didn’t bother getting up, so I bent down to greet him, scratching his little orange chin until his mouth puckered with pleasure.

“Abominable,” he said. “Celebration of fresh vegetables my ass. Couldn’t say so myself at the time because it was my publisher’s pick, but I hope he’s seen what you wrote so he doesn’t take clients there in the future.”

“Especially you,” I said, wondering what the guy was thinking. My dad had three Michelin stars. The only time in my life I’d ever seen him eat pizza on purpose was in Italy after too many Peronis.

“I particularly liked your observation that a salad bar defeats the point of going to a restaurant, which is that someone with a better palate and knowledge of ingredients prepares your food. Seems so obvious that average home cooks shouldn’t expect to become chefs just because they suddenly have access to more ingredients than they have at home.”

“I’m glad you thought that was a valid point.”

“It was,” he said. “It’s the same reason all those make-your-own-stir-fry places are bullshit.”

“At least those places toss all your ingredients in oil and give you the option of covering your meal with crushed peanuts.”

“Nonsense. And if you’ve got food allergies, they’re an absolute minefield.”

Minefield. I made a mental note to remember the word in case I needed it for a review in the future.

“I don’t understand how any self-respecting chef can sleep at night after stirring random ingredients together all day like that for people. Sounds absolutely soul-destroying. I’d rather overcook a steak!”

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