Restaurant Rich

When Ella entered the apartment, a reusable shopping bag in each hand, she paused a moment. She wanted to absorb the image of Jaime fiddling with the controls to the television, like he’d done every night for the past year. She smiled.

This is the Before picture.

She turned left into the kitchen and called out, “Hey, babe! Getting it all set up?”

Jaime tossed the remote on the couch.

“I thought we’d stream a golden oldie. Maybe North by Northwest. But get this. When I clicked on Classics? Their idea of a classic is 1980s.”

She padded into the room in her socks.

“That’s okay,” she said. “It makes me anxious to watch characters in movies, anyway—so close together without masks. It’s hard to imagine a time when people could just mingle.”

“If it weren’t so cold out, we could go for a walk.”

He hadn’t seen the champagne yet, but as she set the glasses and bottle down on the coffee table, the subtle clink caught his attention.

“What’s that?”

“That’s for nothin’,” she said, using that well-worn mantra of her grandfather’s. “Now start something.” She poured, then touched his glass with hers. They took a sip and touched lips. It was their custom.

She plopped down on the couch next to him. They’d been together long enough that they could take each other’s temperature with just a few words, and they both knew what was in store. He was still miffed about the slim movie offerings, but the techno-problems hadn’t been so dire that he would refuse to be coaxed into a good mood.

“I have an idea. Let’s talk about all the stuff we’re gonna do when Covid is history.”

“It won’t be history till everyone’s vaccinated,” said Jaime. “Like, this summer.”

“Exactly,” said Ella. “Let’s make a plan for summer.”

Her tone was a bit bright. He cast a sly, sideways glance. “Well, the eviction moratorium will probably be lifted, so I guess we’ll be on the street, looking for a new place.”

There it was. He’d gone right to their darkest fear, the wicked problem they always skirted around. They’d never discussed it directly, and there was no point in doing so now. She had to lure him back to the sunny side.

“But imagine we weren’t evicted. Like if money weren’t a problem.”

She sat cross-legged on the sofa, and he followed suit. They breathed a moment—inhale, exhale—staring at a point on the table, as though Ella’s proposition was right there in front of them, tangible.

“You know when money wasn’t a problem?” said Jaime. “When we first came to New York.” He nodded, smiling. “And you had all that cash from waiting tables. It’s hard to believe we were ever that carefree. Unencumbered.”

“Yeah. But I mean right now. What would you do with money if you had it right now?”

“Get outta Dodge for a while. This apartment was never meant to be all there was to life in New York. Maybe go up to Hudson, or Beacon. Rent a loft, make some art.”

Ella pulled a small black notebook from her pocket. She opened and passed it beneath his nose so he could appreciate its aroma of newness, then buried her face in it and inhaled deeply.

He laughed. “Is that a Moleskine?”

“You bet your sweet bunny boots. Had a craving for a bit of beauty.”

“You’ve got a solid case of pandemic fatigue.”

“Well, I’m definitely ready to move on from the whole deadly disease situation.”

She produced a pink pen and scrawled the words Hudson, Beacon, Loft, Art, linking them together with a line that resembled a train track.

“And a fancy pen, too?”

She shrugged, continuing her drawing, now adding a river. “I almost got the pink book that matched the pen.”

"I hain't never seen no pink mole."

Jaime reached out and touched her hair, then let a length of it glide between his fingers and examined the tips. “You've been to see Astrid!”

“Don’t worry, we both wore masks.”

He raised his eyes and implored the ceiling. “Dear God, protect us from those who would let down their guard in this final stretch.” Ella ignored him, continuing to elaborate on her drawing. Now she rendered her signature stick figures, some cycling, some on skates. “What’d she do,” said Jaime, “cut your hair on credit?”

“Never mind about that…so we’re in Beacon.” She drew a circle: You Are Here. “What are we wearing?”

“Same-o, same-o. Gussied up, courtesy of the thrift store, with holey underwear.”

She grinned. “No, silly. I mean, if you could wear anything.”

“I’d buy something nice for you.”

Her pink pen was poised, waiting for instruction. “Okay, then – what am I wearing?”

“Something that shows off your shoulders.”

She sat up and sighed. “Then I’d better start working out. Get rid of this Covid flab. Seriously.” Her arms weren’t visible beneath the sweater, but she moved them back and forth, as though great gobs of loose flesh dangled beneath.

“You’ll see honey…” he began.

“…it’s gonna be great,” she finished. “No, but seriously.” She tapped her front tooth with the pen. “Hey! I know. How about… Join a gym.” She turned the page and wrote the words.

“Who needs a gym when we climb five flights of stairs every day?” He punctuated it with a short, mirthless laugh. “We can’t afford it anyway.”

He was trending bitter, but she wasn’t having it.

“Remember, in this game, money’s no object.”

“I’d rather join a museum than a gym. Maybe the Whitney… or MoMA.”

“Let’s join all of them: Whitney, MoMA, the Met, the Guggenheim, and… n’oublions pas… the Frick.”

“Frickin-A. Dream big, darlin’. You know, Hockney used to talk about being restaurant rich. That, however, was before the advent of the museum restaurant. He’d have had to crank out twice the volume just to maintain the standard.”

Ella kept her pen moving, drew a couple dining beneath an iconic Hockney pool painting. Jaime smiled. Her artwork always lifted his mood.

“This summer,” said Ella, “we’re gonna be museum-restaurant rich. The one I love? at the Met, next to the American wing.”

“How about that swank one next to MoMa?”

“You know what I miss most of all? Breakfast at Café Mogador. Imagine it’s summer, and we’re sitting at an outdoor table with the Sunday Times. Just like before.”

Jaime sighed. He chug-a-lugged the contents of his glass and refilled it.

“All we’ve done for a year is eat and watch movies. Wining and dining was replaced by whining and dining in.” He let his wordplay linger a moment. “Let’s declare a moratorium on food. From now on, I’m fasting.”

“Too bad I brought home cold sesame noodles and chocolate blackout cake.”

“Okay, then. In that case, I’m fasting... starting tomorrow.”

She turned the page and drew two parallel lines.

“You know what we should do? Take the overnight train to Chicago. Just like in North by Northwest.”

“I don’t think that’s really a thing.”

“It sure is. It’s like four hundred a ticket for the sleeper car.”

“Each way?”

“Per person, each way. I’ll dress up like Eva Marie Saint, and I’ll lock you in the overhead compartment. It’ll be fun.”

They were silent for a bit as Ella drew the sleeper car scene. She placed Cary Grant in the overhead compartment, and emphasized the darts on Eva’s tightly packed dress.

“This fantasy of yours,” said Jaime. “We’d need a fortune.”

“Only a small fortune,” said Ella.

“Why are you so confident all of a sudden? Miss grinds-her-teeth-at-night.”

“My teeth grinding days are over.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The moment had come. With maximum dramatic effect, Ella produced a scratch-off lottery ticket from her bra and slapped it down on the table. “Believe it, babe.”

“Ella.” Jaime shivered. “What is that?”

“Behold,” said she. “A small fortune.”

For a moment he didn’t move, and when he did, it was only to lean forward and hover over the ticket. He peered at it without touching.

“You won the lottery?!?”

“Nothing major. Just twenty thousand.”

He sank back on the couch and took a sip of champagne.

“That’s huge.”

“Jaime, my love, it’s just perfect. Cause you know, if it was a PowerBall ticket and I won a gazillion dollars, well… there’s a responsibility that comes with that.”

“Sure, you’d have to go full-on Mackenzie Bezos. Fix the broken world.”

“Exactly. But this? This is just about you and me and an ever-so-brief respite from pandemic fatigue.”

He refilled both their glasses and raised his.

“Mom always said the smartest thing I ever did was marry you.”

Their kiss was longer this time. They savored it, holding onto the moment. She nestled under his arm and, lacking a fireplace, they gazed at the blank TV screen.

“Hey, darlin’,” said Jaime. “I’d like me one of them little notebooks.”

Ella laughed. “You got it.”

“Listen,” said Jaime, pulling away, suddenly serious. “Just not in pink, okay?”