Page 29 of Single-Minded
“What?” I ask, unsure I’ve heard him correctly.
“He’s a dick. What kind of selfish jackass lies to everybody he knows for ten years and then expects a party afterwards? I’m sorry,” he says. “That’s not very politically correct of me to say, and you don’t know me from Adam. You seem very supportive, and I admire that. I hope I haven’t offended you. I just have a tough time celebrating outright narcissism and selfish disdain for everybody else. We’re not living in the Dark Ages or some third-world country. The CEO of Apple is gay. Ellen DeGeneres is gay. Anderson Cooper is gay. And I can’t even imagine what this all must feel like for you.” He pauses and sighs. “I’m sorry, it’s not my place. Where are my manners?”
His eyes are kind, which is unexpected after his little speech. His directness is softened somewhat by his gracious Southern accent, but I feel utterly exalted by his candor. It’s the first cool burst of sanity in this whole, rotten mess. He is the one and only person through all of this to say exactly what I feel. Who didn’t tell me over and over again how brave Michael is, or how hard it must be for him, while completely discounting how all of this feels for me. I’ve barely met this guy, and he justgetsit.
I look at Daniel Boudreaux, stunned. Jesus, I like him a lot. He is some fantastic, truth-telling kind of man.
“Thank you, that is unbelievably kind,” I say awkwardly. “More than you know. I’m so glad you were able to make it the other night. My grandma Leona made the cake, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled by your compliment. Anyway, I hope you at least had fun.”
“I did,” he says. “And I didn’t mean to be ungracious. It was a lovely party. The transvestites and the tiaras reminded me a little of home.”
“Where’d you grow up, a brothel?” I quip, and instantly regret it. “Sorry.”
He laughs out loud. “Close,” he says. “New Orleans.”
Well, that explains the dreamy accent. And why transvestites would make him feel homesick.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asks, leading me toward a small round table in the corner with five or six chairs pulled around it haphazardly.
“Absolutely,” I say, pulling out my notepad and pen. “Tell me all about your restaurant.”
He begins to explain his vision for the restaurant and I’ve never seen anyone so animated about anything in my entire life. He talks about food the way other people talk about their children. Two hours later we’ve opened a bottle of wine and are noshing on warm corn bread and the best jambalaya I’ve ever eaten in my life. Apparently construction and cooking do mix.
“So how did you become a chef?” I ask. “Oh God, this is good.”
“Family business,” he says, smiling, “going back four generations. My family owns several well-known restaurants in Louisiana, mostly round New Orleans. Chevalier, The Crab Pot, Royale. I’ve been in the kitchen most every day since I could walk. You know how some people need the TV on when they’re home alone?” he asks. I nod and he continues, “I’ve always got to have a pot boiling on the stove to feel right.”
“Why not stay in New Orleans?” I ask. “Why start from scratch in Sarasota?”
“I wanted to do something a little different than the traditional New Orleans cuisine,” he says. “I love it, but I’ve been doing the old Boudreaux family recipes all my life. I want to do something new, something all mine, a mix of the old and the new. There’s a great creative culture here in Sarasota, a lot of new talent, and of course the Gulf, so we’ve got some of the best seafood in the world right here in the backyard.”
I’m mesmerized by the way he speaks—New Orleans is pronouncedN’awlins.When he says backyard, it’sbackyaaad. It’s the kind of voice that makes you feel instantly at home, like you’re a close friend or part of the inner circle. It’s marvelous.
“Why the boat?” I ask.
“You mean, whythisboat?” He laughs.
I smile and nod. “It’s going to be a lot of work.”
“Things worth doing usually are.” He smiles. “It was owned by an old man named Archer up near Charleston, a friend of my family’s going back forever. We used to go there when I was a kid, and I always told my folks I wanted to buy this boat when I was all grown up. My family’s full of amazing cooks, but old Archer made the best fried catfish I’ve ever eaten in my life. The old man was set to retire, he didn’t have any kin of his own. He knew I loved this place, so he called me first. I bought it on the spot. The old girl needs some work, but she’s gonna be the belle once we get her in shape.”
His enthusiasm and vision are infectious. By the time I leave I feel more excited about this project than I’ve felt about anything in a long time. This is proof, I think, that throwing myself into my work is the key to being happy again, even without Michael.
I take some photos of the interior and exterior so that I can put together my plan book for the restaurant, and then Daniel and I say our good-byes. Just as I’m leaving, he disappears into the back and emerges with a loaded paper bag.
“For later,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, “I could get used to this.”
“I hope you do.” He grins.
Ahhhh. He cooks. He has dreamy blue eyes and a chin like a movie star. He cooks… Why do all the great guys have to be gay?
On the drive home I think about how charming and fun Daniel Boudreaux is. And I think about the cute busboy with the nice eyes. And the restaurant host with the great smile. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? It’s like I’m a hormonally charged teenager or living in a bad romance novel: I suddenly can’t stop myself from noticing every man around me. Which means that Darcy, Samantha, and Michael are probably right. Plus, there was that disturbing dream about Voldemort this morning. I need to lose my gay-husband virginity before I lose my mind entirely. I need to find someone to sleep with me. And the fact that I don’t have the faintest idea how to make that happen is just further proof that it needs to.
21
“You were right,” I tell Darcy on the car ride home. I’m driving over the Ringling Bridge, so my cell reception is a little fuzzy
