Read Online Food Whore by Jessica Tom - Free Book Online Page B

and ate it. And maybe it was in my head, but this time I tasted a bit of sand.
    The waitress came back. “Two chickens . . . for the ­couple?”
    I sneered at the oblivious woman, then looked back at Emerald and Elliott. It was a tone-­deaf amateur mistake, but I couldn’t blame her. The two of them talked, they laughed. They relaxed while I squirmed. They looked like a ­couple, cool and easy while I was still stuck in some anxious liminal space where you realize that the choices you’ve made might not be the right ones.
    Just then I looked up to see Chef Pascal standing over our table.
    â€œExcuse me for one moment.” He reached over me, and I think Emerald and I both gasped aloud at him. He smelled like bacon and caramelized onions and had a movie-­star-­perfect face, soft but still chiseled. A little stubble. Dark skin and big eyes with long, thick lashes. And the gold streaks in his eyes? Even better in person, luminous and crackling with light.
    Now I felt like Melinda in the living room, asking me what I was. Was he Egyptian? Mexican? Spanish? But of course he wasn’t like me at all. He was closer to a model or an actor than anyone like me.
    Pascal didn’t appear to notice our gawking. He removed the housemade kimchi-­ghee hot sauce from our table and replaced it with a new bottle. He gave a soft, barely there smile, then continued to the other tables, leaving almost every girl—­and many guys—­shivering in his wake.
    â€œHa!” Emerald said, clearly exhilarated. “That was a rush, huh?”
    â€œYeah . . .” Elliott struggled. “That guy . . . has a lot of tattoos.”
    I watched Pascal march back into the kitchen. From the pass, where the dining room met the kitchen, I thought I saw him look back at me, too.
    Yeah, right, Tia, I thought just as quickly. Like that could ever happen. He was probably looking at those other women, the important ones, the ones who didn’t get their table using borrowed clothes.
    E MERALD DIDN’T COME home after Bakushan, and I spent the night reading everything I could about New York restaurants. I wanted to soak up everything—­the places to be, the ­people to know, the things to say. No more being the ignorant one at the table, the sucker who waited in line in the shoddy outfit. I wouldn’t be left behind.
    The apartment building quieted and New York briefly rested, but I stayed up.
    I visited Carey’s Madison Park Tavern Wiki page and ravenously absorbed details about the menu, the flowers, even the soap in the bathroom.
    And I looked up those acronyms I’d seen on Jake’s reservation sheet, to see what lay on the other side:
    LOL: Lots of Love.
    SFN: Something for Nothing. Typically an appetizer or dessert.
    Bubbles: Champagne upon Arrival.
    WFM: Welcome from Manager.
    And then, the term that encompassed them all: PX. From the French.
    Personne Extraordinaire.
    Even as I grew tired, that knowledge strengthened me. By the time I heard the birds singing and the sun had crept up in the sky, I had something to hold on to. Knowledge, authority, direction. And a goal: to become an extraordinary person.

 
    Chapter 5

    I AWOKE THREE HOURS L A T E R T O M Y R O O M M A T E ’ S un-­made-­up face.
    â€œHey there, sunshine! Let’s go shopping for your suit, then brunch. Tonight’s your first night of work, right?”
    â€œJesus, Emerald. I thought you weren’t a morning person. What time is it?”
    â€œI’m excited to doll you up. Did you have fun last night? You looked so good in that dress. Dinner was so-­so, though. Did you try my chicken?”
    â€œNo. I didn’t. And you’re not supposed to go to Bakushan for the boring chicken dish. You go there for—­”
    â€œYeah, yeah. So sue me.”
    She threw the blanket off my body and pulled me out of bed.
    I was going shopping whether I liked it or