Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [95]
“How are you going to refer to me in the review?” Ben asks, while reaching for the last of the conch fritters we ordered as an appetizer. It’s only after citing “truth in journalism” as justification for my having the last fritter that Ben agrees to even split it with me.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on—you’ve read the Nibbler reviews in the paper. He always refers to his dining companion as BFON—Best Friend of Nibbler or MON—Mother of Nibbler. You know, ‘EXSOON found the salad to be too heavily dressed....’ Like that.”
“EXSOON?”
“Yeah, ex-significant other of Nibbler.”
“You read the restaurant reviews?” I ask.
“Sure, sometimes. I mean, the Nibbler’s no Frank Bruni, of course, but still they’re entertaining.”
“Frank Bruni?” I ask.
“Surprised?” Ben answers, his eyes narrowing.
“No, it’s just that I haven’t really given it much thought,” I tell him, trying not to offend him any further.
“Well,” Ben says, smiling at me, “my point is, you ought to come up with something that will distinguish yourself, some kind of gimmick. It’ll make your piece a little more interesting.”
“Yeah, thanks, I’ll think about it,” I tell him. What’s even more surprising than his being an occasional reader of restaurant reviews is the fact that he also seems to have spent some time thinking about them.
Over lunch he talks a lot. In addition to offering a running commentary on the food, he also finds time to disclose that he makes his own beer, plays the bass guitar in a grunge band, and was formerly married to his high school sweetheart, but it hadn’t worked out. Finally, over dessert, a pineapple crisp with a buttery brown sugar glaze, topped with homemade coconut ice cream, which we decide to share, Ben says, “So, what about your ex? What kind of a guy was he?” His eyes shift to Chloe, who has fallen asleep in her stroller. What he really means is, what kind of a guy leaves a little baby? But I don’t want to talk about Jake.
I don’t say anything and instead reach for another bite of the pineapple crisp, which is delicious. “You just want me to keep talking so that you can finish the dessert. Well, forget it,” I say lightly, spearing the last slice of pineapple with my fork.
Ben scoops a spoonful of the ice cream and gives me a speculative look. “Okay. Sorry. Forget I asked.”
I can’t. I don’t know why it’s so much easier to talk while you eat, but now that the pineapple crisp is gone, there doesn’t seem to be much more to say. I signal for the check.
“He’s an okay guy, I guess. He just didn’t want to be married to me anymore. He didn’t want to be a father to Chloe.” In search of a distraction, I scrape the dish with the tines of my fork, trying to loosen the remaining caramel, which is stuck resolutely to the bottom of the ramekin.
Ben leans forward in his chair, rests his forearms on the table, and clasps his small hands. “That doesn’t sound like an okay guy to me.”
chapter 20
Deadlines are an unavoidable fact of life for a journalist, and already I’m having trouble meeting them. Although I lost no time in eating at Koko’s, it’s taken me almost a week to write the review. I took Ben’s advice and tried to come up with a gimmick that would make my piece unique and finally had come up with “BITER”—Buddy I Take to Eat in Restaurants—who in this case, I write, is a guy on a diet who orders only a small mango and jicama salad with the dressing on the side and then proceeds to eat everything in sight, starting with the bread basket and culminating in a near stabbing over the last forkful of the pineapple crisp. I’m hoping it’s cute.
Because I wanted to run my review by Dr. D-P before e-mailing it to Enid, I stayed up ridiculously late last night to finish it. Dr. D-P is pleased with my progress and even takes a few minutes out of our session to read my review, which I present to her the instant I sit down, before I even take off my coat. I watch as she takes out her pen and begins making corrections in the margins.
“These are just little things, Mira. Sentence