A Second Bite at the Apple (7 page)

On a good day, an appetizer, entrée, and two beers would put me into a full-fledged food coma, but the warm and gooey chocolate peanut butter tart we share for dessert puts me over the top. I can barely breathe. The button to my pants gave up two courses ago.

But I don't even care because, wow, I forgot how wonderful it is to dine at a nice restaurant. And I forgot how nice it is to sit across from someone of the opposite sex who is attractive and interesting and engaging and actually seems to like me. That, of course, suggests I knew what such an experience was like with anyone other than Zach, which—let's face it—I didn't. So, on all fronts, the evening has been a success.

Jeremy pulls out my chair and helps me into my coat. “You look great, by the way,” he says. “I should have said that earlier. I kind of panicked under the whole fifteen-minute rule. But you really do look terrific.”

I feel myself blush. “Thanks. Although I'll let you in on a little secret. I'm wearing two different shades of black. And these pants are at least three years old.”

I have no idea why I am sharing this with him. I blame the beer, along with my general social awkwardness.

“Well, I'll let
you
in on a little secret,” he says, lowering his voice as he comes in close. “This tie is five years old. And I bought it at the Leesburg outlets.”

I widen my eyes, feigning shock. “You're a discount shopper?”

He shrugs. “What can I say? I like a good deal.”

It's about now that I feel an overwhelming urge to lean in and kiss this man, this adorable smooth talker who managed to cajole me into going to dinner with him. But we're still standing in the middle of the restaurant, and though I may lack the ever-elusive quality of grace, I possess at least a modicum of self-awareness that tells me making out in the middle of a restaurant is trashy.

Jeremy and I make our way toward the exit. As we pass the hostess stand, he touches the small of my back, ever so gently, and sends a thrill shooting through my body like lightning.

“Where to?” he asks.

I hesitate outside the front door. Is this a your-place-or-mine type of question? Or does he actually want to
do
something, like go to a jazz club or share a nightcap? I have very little experience with this. I don't know the rules.

“Um, not sure . . .” I look at my watch. “Holy crap—it's ten thirty already.”

He chuckles. “Is that late for you?”

“Kind of.” I catch myself. “Wow. That sounded even lamer out loud than it did in my head. The thing is, I used to work on a morning news show. My bedtime was nine o'clock. Ten at the latest.”

Only when I say this do I realize how little we discussed our careers—current and former—over the course of our three-and-a-half-hour date. I mentioned wanting to be a food writer, and he talked a little about his job in PR, but mostly we just talked about our lives. We talked about our favorite foods and college memories, where we've been in the world, and where we'd still like to go. We talked about what movies and books have shaped our views and what sort of music makes us happy. We talked about what makes us . . . well,
us,
without any mention of our vocations. In a city where what you do and where you work often defines you, I find this very refreshing.

Jeremy claps his hands together. “Well, I'd hate to keep you up past your bedtime. I'll walk you home. We can stay out late another time.”

He slips into his coat, and we stroll up Fourteenth Street, past the Studio Theatre and a bunch of closed storefronts, moving in silence through the chilled February air. As we reach the corner of Fourteenth and R, he brushes against my shoulder, and another bolt of lightning shoots through me from head to toe. I can't deny it: I
like
this guy.

But, as a general rule, nothing in my life goes smoothly when it has the potential to become excruciatingly awkward, and so as we proceed up Swann Street toward my house, I spot my crazy downstairs neighbor, Simon, standing on our front stoop, up to his usual freaky tricks. Tonight, he is applying duct tape over the doorbell to his unit.

“Is this your place . . . ?” Jeremy mutters as I turn through the hip-height gate in front of my building.

“Yep.”

He lowers his voice and whispers in my ear. “Who is that guy?”

“My downstairs neighbor,” I whisper back. “He's a little weird.”

I pull away, and Jeremy raises his eyebrows without replying, as if to say,
You think?

“Hi, Simon,” I say as we approach the front steps. “What are you doing?”

He glances over his shoulder and drags his eyes across me and Jeremy. “My doorbell isn't working. It makes an annoying buzzing sound.”

“Have you told Al?”

He smoothes the sides of the duct tape into place. “Yes. He'll fix it Monday. But until then, I don't want to be disturbed.”

Considering I've never seen anyone visit Simon, I'm not sure what he's worried about.

Jeremy casts a sideways glance in my direction, unsure of what to say or do. The three of us are just standing on the front steps together: me, my date, and my supremely bizarre neighbor. I may not have much experience with dating, but I feel comfortable saying this is one of the stranger ways to end an evening.

Simon clutches his roll of duct tape and runs a hand over his buzz cut. “Well, good night,” he finally says. He walks inside and slams the front door behind him.

“Dude, that guy is creepy,” Jeremy says.

“He's harmless. Just a loner who keeps to himself.”

“If you say so . . .”

We stand next to each other on the top step, grinding our heels in the pavement. I'm not sure what to do next. Every topic for discussion that enters my head is both inane and banal—beer and flowers, neighbors and music, anything to keep him standing here until one of us makes a move.

“Thanks for giving me a shot tonight,” Jeremy says.

I try to smile as naturally as possible, even though my heart is racing. “Thanks for being persistent.”

“Persistence is one of my many fine qualities,” he jokes, fiddling with his tie.

“So . . . do you want to come upstairs for a bit?”

My forwardness catches me by surprise. The words, to me, sound like a canned script from a bad romantic comedy. But the truth is, I want him to come upstairs, and for more than a bit. I want him to spend the night.

Jeremy juts out his jaw and manages a wry smile. “I'm not sure that's such a good idea.”

My stomach drops. “Oh. Okay.”

“Don't get me wrong—I would love to come upstairs. But . . . I don't want to jinx this. I've made that mistake before.”

What he doesn't understand is that I've
never
made that mistake before. I've never let someone stay the night at my apartment. Any dalliances over the past four years have involved a drunken kiss in a bar or a random venture to someone else's apartment (which, admittedly, has only happened twice). I've proceeded with caution at every turn—not just with men, but with everything else too. As a child, I was never the first kid to jump in the pool. I was the last, and I would inch my way in, toe first. Recklessness does not come naturally to me.

So why, the one time I want to make a rash decision, won't this guy play along? Isn't playing along what men have been biologically programmed to do?

“You're sure . . . ?” I ask, hoping he'll change his mind.

He sighs. “Yeah, I'm sure. Though I'll probably kick myself later.”

I nod, disappointed. “Okay.”

“Hang on—you're not off the hook that easy. What are you up to next Tuesday?”

“I'm working at a farmers' market out in Virginia during the day, but otherwise, no plans,” I say.

“Great. Maybe we can try a place in Penn Quarter. I'll give you a call Sunday or Monday, and we can work out the details. Which reminds me—what's your number?”

He pulls out his phone and punches in my number, and as he does, he reaches into his jacket pocket with his other hand and offers me two business cards. “Here's my info,” he says.

I glance quickly at the card. “A business card? Seriously?”

“Two business cards, actually, in case you lose one. My e-mail is on there too. I know it seems formal but—”

I grab him by the tie and pull him in for a kiss. I don't know what possesses me to do that, but I can't help myself. The action is instinctual, impulsive, and unlike me in every way.

We kiss for a few minutes on the front steps, and eventually Jeremy pulls away and smiles.

“There's still time to change your mind about coming upstairs,” I say.

“Nah, one step at a time.” He tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear and kisses my forehead. “I'll talk to you soon, okay?”

I nod.

He kisses me once more on the lips and squeezes my hand. Then he hustles down the front steps and looks over his shoulder twice before disappearing down Swann Street.

 

I'm smitten.

I race up my steps, throw myself onto my couch, and let out a contented sigh. My heart flutters with excitement, and I cannot stop smiling. My whole body feels light and tingly, as if I could float up off the couch. I haven't felt like this since—No. I'm not going to think about that now. I'm not going to ruin the moment.

I throw myself upright and glance down at the business cards I'm still holding: J
EREMY
B
RAUER
, A
CCOUNT
E
XECUTIVE
, C
ARPER
M
ASON.
Looking at his name like that, something stirs in my gut. Jeremy Brauer. He couldn't be the same Jeremy Brauer as . . . No. Couldn't be.

I rush over to my laptop, flip it open, and punch “Jeremy Brauer” into Google.

And then I want to throw up.

Great. I'm smitten with a scumbag.

I should have known. I should have
known.
Not only because I thought he looked familiar, and not only because he seemed a little too smooth, but also because the laws of the universe demand that my love life be an utter shambles. Of course Jeremy couldn't wind up being a normal, nice guy who liked me. Of course not.

I first heard Jeremy's story about six years ago, when the food blogosphere was all a-titter over the
Chronicle'
s bright young talent and his fall from grace. The scandal surrounded a series of columns he'd written for the paper's food section, in which he reviewed a bunch of products and eateries at the behest of some PR firm that paid him for his reviews. When it came out that he'd received “cash for comment,” food writers—and the journalism community more generally—went nuts, and there was an uproar calling for his dismissal. He was fired from the paper, and I never heard about him again.

Until he conned me into going on a date with him.

If I'd known who he was, I never would have agreed to that date. But the scandal had broken while I was in college, so my memory of the incident was a little hazy, and he never told me his last name anyway. I'd had no idea my Jeremy—the man I kissed tonight and with whom I was momentarily smitten—was the infamous Jeremy Brauer.

I'm pissed I didn't make the connection sooner, but what grates most of all, what really burns, is how much I liked him. How could my instincts have been so wrong? And why did the one person I finally let peek behind the curtain have to be even less trustworthy than Zach?

I drift in and out of sleep that night, my mind a whirring mess of anxiety and disappointment, until my alarm goes off at six thirty the next morning, rousing me for my shift at the West End farmers' market. After last night, I have neither the interest nor the patience to deal with Rick and a bunch of cranky customers, but if this latest romantic debacle is any indication, my wants don't exactly rank high on the universe's “To Do” list.

“There she is,” Heidi says as I approach the tent, which she and Rick have already pitched. She tugs at her green-and-white knit hat. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks.”

“Sorry. You just look . . . tired.”

“That's probably because I didn't get any sleep last night.”

“No?”

I wave her off. “Long story. Do you need help with that crate of rye?”

“Nah.” Heidi manhandles the big, black crate, then thinks better of it. “Yeah, actually. Could you grab the other side?”

I help Heidi and Rick unload the bread off the truck, noticing that Rick is in a particularly quiet mood this morning, which feels like a gift from the Almighty. As we arrange the bread and pastries in baskets, Heidi casts sideways glances in my direction, as if she knows there is a juicy story behind my intense under-eye circles and ratty hair.

“So . . . what did you do last night?” she asks.

I heave a sigh. “I had a date. Okay?”

“Seriously?”

“Don't sound so surprised.”

“It's hard not to, given your track record. You wouldn't even go for a drink with Drew. Who's the lucky guy?”

I stack a pile of pumpkin muffins inside a deep wicker basket. “Do you remember the guy we ran into the night I lost my job back in December? The one at Bar Pilar?”

Heidi purses her lips in a moment of deep thought and then widens her eyes. “The guy who called you a loud talker? In the vest?”

“That's the one.”

“No way! How did that come about?”

I shove an empty crate under the table and reach for the container of snickerdoodles. “He stopped by the market the other week, while you were helping a bunch of people on the other side of the tent, and conned me into going out with him.”

“And? How'd it go?”

I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Well, the date went fine. Great, actually. Until I got home and Googled him and discovered he is a total shill.”

“Explain?”

“Do you remember the whole ‘cash for comment' scandal at the
Chronicle
? In their food section? It happened back when we were in college.”

Heidi arranges a stack of oatmeal loaves. “I think so.... Some young reporter got paid by a PR company to write a bunch of reviews, right?”

“Yep. His name was Jeremy Brauer.”

She pounds one loaf against another. “Yes! Okay. That rings a bell.”

“Well, that's who I went out with last night. Jeremy Brauer.”

“No shit.”

“Yep. Total disaster.”

She stacks the loaves in a basket. “I hadn't thought about that story in years.”

“Well, if you have any interest, it's all over the Internet, so you can refresh your memory at any time.”

“That's the glory of the Web, right?”

“Something like that.” I sigh. “We are supposed to go out again on Tuesday, but clearly that isn't happening. I can't believe I fell for his act. I actually thought I liked him.”

Heidi pats my shoulder. “I've been there. Approximately eighty-seven times. Totally sucks.”

I nod in agreement, knowing that Heidi is somewhat of a professional when it comes to poor dating choices. She frequently falls madly, irrationally in love with complete losers, only to discover too late the full extent of their freakishness and potential mental instability. Hence my hesitation in going for a drink with this Drew character, who for all I know is a total psycho.

“Do you think Jeremy will stop by this morning?” she asks as she reaches for a cake stand.

“Oh dear God. I hope not.” The thought hadn't even occurred to me.

“If he does, just hide in the truck. I'll cover for you.”

“That's the best plan we can come up with? Hiding in the truck?”

“You have a better one?”

“No. Unfortunately.”

“Didn't think so.”

We finish setting up the tables, arranging the baskets of almond croissants and raisin bran muffins at one end and the loaves of oatmeal bread and ciabatta at the other. Rick's tattered Wild Yeast sign, whose ends are frayed and whose letters are faded and smudged, hangs on the back of the tent, flapping lightly in the chilled February air.

The market bell rings, and a short man with olive skin and jet-black hair begins playing classical guitar on a grassy area abutting the park, filling the market with smooth, calming melodies. As much as I wasn't looking forward to working this morning, I've come to realize my market gig is like therapy for me. I've always loved being surrounded by food, but what I have come to cherish most at these markets is the sense of community. I know Frank the cheese guy and Barbara the mushroom lady. I swap muffins for raspberry jam with Josie at Jefferson Family Farms and ciabatta for apples with Maggie and Drew at Broad Tree Orchards. They've started to accept me as one of their own, at a time when I could use the company.

Two hours into the market, as I refill a muffin basket with more pumpkin muffins, a woman dressed in a red down parka approaches our tent. Her mousy brown hair is twisted into a knot atop her head, with a few wisps framing her heart-shaped face. Her skin is a study in wrinkles and laugh lines, but rather than aging her, they make her face look worldly and lived in and delightfully at ease. She smiles at me as she slows her step.

“You must be Sydney,” she says. “I'm Julie, the market founder and director.”

“Oh, right—hi!” I dust my palms on my jeans and reach out to shake her gloved hand. “So good to meet you in person.”

“I figured it would be easier to chat in the flesh instead of e-mailing back and forth a dozen times.” She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “I had some ideas for the first few newsletters, if you can read my chicken scratch. There are lots of exciting developments on the horizon here.”

I stare at her, wide-eyed. “Wait . . . so it's official? I'm writing the newsletter?”

“Sorry—yes. Was that not clear from my last e-mail?”

I feel my cheeks redden. “Not really . . .”

“See, this is why I'm not writing the damn thing myself. I'm great in person, terrible in writing.” She sighs. “But anyway, yes, it's official. I love what I've seen on your blog, and I think you'd be perfect.”

“This is so exciting—thank you!”

I glance down at the crumpled piece of paper in my hands. Her handwriting is completely unintelligible. The notes consist of a series of bullet points, the first three of which are as follows:

“So . . . about this list . . .”

“Right. The list.” Her eyes flit in the direction of the bullet points.

“What are ‘dust dial' and ‘winkly prof'?”

“What and what?” She snatches the list from my hands and scans it. “Wow, my handwriting really is appalling. I'm sorry. That first item should read ‘distribution deal with Green Grocers.' ”

“And the second and third?”

She glances down. “
Washington Chronicle
to sponsor Farmland Festival, and weekly profile starting with Rick. Sorry—I abbreviate a lot and use unconventional shorthand. Doesn't help that my handwriting looks as if I've had a stroke.” She looks up. “I haven't, by the way.”

“You want all of this in the first newsletter?”

“No. Here's what I'm thinking. Every newsletter should have a rundown of what's fresh at market that week, a few recipes, and a weekly profile of one of the market vendors. I realize at some point you'll run out of people to profile, but then you can move on to profiling some aspect of their business—a particular product they sell, a new farming technique they're using. Something to humanize the market. All of this will go on our Web site, too.”

“Okay. So what about this distribution deal?”

“Ah. That's one of the potential exciting bits of news on the horizon—though we'll have to tread carefully. I don't know how much you've read about Green Grocers' new CEO, but he has made a big stink about prioritizing ‘local' food more than his predecessor. There used to be so much red tape for any of these guys to sell their goods at Green Grocers, which is why they sell at these outdoor markets around town. But this new CEO—Bob Young—is lowering the barriers to entry for a lot of farmers across the country.”

“But how is that good for you? I mean, if people can buy the same stuff at Green Grocers as they can buy here, why would they bother braving the elements?”

She nods. “A fair point, which is why it's taking a while to work out the details. But there is a huge customer base that never comes to the farmers' market, so this will allow the producers to reach a wider audience. And the people who do come will keep coming because they love the one-on-one interaction with the people who grow and make their food. Plus, the profit margin at our markets is pretty thin, so by giving these guys more of a cushion, it helps us stay in business too.”

“How do you want me to play it? As a quick news item? A full story?”

She scrunches up her lips and wiggles them from side to side. “Nothing yet. Our family of DC markets is part of the pilot project, and we're still working out the details of how all of this would work. Let's see what happens in the next month or two, and we can go from there. In the meantime, you can start pulling together recipes and profiles.” She grins as Rick hobbles over to my side of the tent. “You can start with Rick—I'm sure he has plenty to share with you.”

Rick hikes his pants up around his waist and licks his fat lips suggestively. “You bet I do.”

I ignore his nauseating innuendo and tuck Julie's notes into my coat pocket. “By the way, what sort of compensation are we talking about . . . ?”

“You mean how much will I pay? I'm looking at fifty dollars a newsletter, plus reimbursement for any extra costs, like transportation or whatever. It's not a lot, I know, but it's all we can manage in the budget for now. And hey, it's better than nothing, right?”

I smile politely and nod, but as I look up at Rick, who is eye-raping me as he scratches his balls, all I can think is,
I'm not so sure
.