Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [46]
The restaurant was a tiny bistro on a narrow, twisting side street, down a few moss-covered stone steps. Inside the floor was slate, with ten tables each blanketed by crisp white tablecloths. Three beeswax candles sat on each table. A row of tall topiary trees lined the far wall. Bebe thought it truly looked like a place out of a fairy tale. “Eliot, you almost get the feeling they have gnomes in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, either that or they serve gnomes for dinner.”
Over an appetizer of paté, capers, mustard, and fresh, crusty bread, Eliot and Bebe had the inevitable Past Relationships from Hell conversation.
Bebe told Eliot of the Gay Weatherman (“I just thought he really happened to like Cher. Then I found the Bob Mackie”).
Eliot topped her with Tales of Theresa, including her infamous I-slept-with-my-brother confessional weekend.
The waiter arrived, waited for a break in their laughter, then offered more wine.
“We’ve both really got to stop dating guests from the Jerry Springer show,” Bebe said.
“Speak for yourself. I’m strictly a Sally Jessy kind of guy.”
Dinner was braised medallion of duck with vegetable confit and, of course, more wine.
As Bebe watched a bite of duck fall from Eliot’s fork and land on his tie, she thought, Is it possible that he becomes more handsome by the minute, more charming?
Removing the stained tie, rolling it up, and slipping it into the outside pocket of his jacket, Eliot told Bebe that although it was only their third date, “I really feel like I’ve known you forever, and I don’t throw my clichés around lightly.”
Bebe admitted that she felt exactly the same way, that the flight over had been magical, and so was dinner—right now.
“I know it’s too early to tell you I’m in love with you, but is it okay if I tell you that I’m very much in like with you?”
“I’m very much in like with you too, Eliot,” she said, unaware that she was absently playing with the candy necklace on her wrist.
For dessert, they shared a cream puff drizzled with Armangac. Two spoons and one plate sat between them on the center of the table. Bebe felt flushed. She couldn’t believe she was in Paris for the evening with this wonderful guy who for some unknown reason owned the Mr. Spotless dry-cleaning chain. She couldn’t believe how quickly her emotions were making themselves known. Three dates. Three dates? How was it possible? Was she that desperate? Or was she that lucky? But why shouldn’t he like her? She was attractive, funny, sane. And it’s not like she was after him for his money. With a salary from Sellevision of well over $600,000 a year, Bebe could have easily afforded to take them both to Paris on the Concorde for the evening. As she sat thinking, eyes focused on the flickering candle flames on the table, she was unaware of what Eliot was doing—which involved a spoon, a small dollop of whipped cream, a bit of physics, and excellent aim.
The whipped cream hit her neck with a splat that startled her out of her thoughts. It took her a second to understand what had happened. She ran her finger across her neck, wiping off the whipped cream. She looked at Eliot, who was beaming mischievously. Had any other man done such a thing on their third date, Bebe would have simply thrown her glass of wine in his face and stormed out of the restaurant, never to speak to him again.
But since it was Eliot, and she, after all, had been Bozo Bebe in college, she simply plucked the sweet red cherry from the top of the dessert, popped it into her mouth and then spat it across the table, directly onto his clean white shirt. The cherry slid down down his shirt, leaving behind a red trail.
Eliot picked up the cherry and ate it.
Bebe laughed.
Eliot told Bebe that she was especially beautiful when she laughed and that that was the only reason he flicked the whipped cream on her in the first place, scout’s honor. To see her laugh.
“No wonder you’re single,” Bebe teased.
Eliot polished off the last of his dessert wine. “That’s funny, I don’t feel very single.”
A
s the Concorde flew against the rotation of