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Authors: Jill Kargman
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creative work has ever yet come to birth. The debt we owe to the play of the imagination is incalculable.
—Carl Gustav Jung
W e went inside the dimly lit restaurant where he got a hero’s welcome from the staff and a corner nook, where we were seated on the floor on these cool pillows. It sounds weird but was actually cool and foreign and felt like we were on some kind of trip. Which I was.
We talked about other places in the city he loved, including some trendy tapas bar. He loved the mini paella cakes.
“Oh, I thought you said topless.” I laughed, almost spitting out my papadum.
“I know, it always sounds like that!” He chortled. “Someone should actually open a topless tapas bar. Called Topless Tapas.”
“Oh my god, that’s genius! Let’s totally open that!” I squealed. “We would mint money!” Not that he needed it.
“We’d love another bottle of wine, please, Anju,” Finn asked the pierced waiter. “We have to come up with fun dishes and cocktails for our menu. Put the cock in the cocktails,” he said. “Like Mojitoesucker.”
I almost spat out my Rioja. “Okay, this is hilarious. This is big time. Move over, Hooters!”
“So where do you like to eat in New York?” he asked.
Fuck. Okay . . . here was a perfectly organic, opportune time to introduce Wylie.
“Um, well . . . my uh, boyfriend is a personal chef, actually—”
“Oh, well that must be nice,” he said. I couldn’t read his face but he seemed blasé about Wylie’s existence. “So you don’t even have to leave the apartment!”
“Well, we do, still, but he cooks at home a lot, too. He, um, actually has one client, this hedge fund family on Fifth Avenue, that is so into his food that they want to invest in a restaurant for him with some big New York restaurateurs. So, it looks like that might happen pretty soon, but it’s not, like, definite or anything.”
“Well, ask them how they feel about a nudie Mexican chain. I think our idea has legs. Long ones.”
“Yeah, and boobs.”
“Here’s to our business venture,” he joked, raising his newly poured glass to meet mine.
I felt calmer and happy; Kira was right; it felt good to get out there—not that he would ever think of me as anything other than the lap-barfer from the airplane. We giggled over new Topless Tapas menu offerings, and the mood was light and even straight-up fun. It’s not like I ever lost sight of the fact that I was drinking with my idol, but there was a sweetness and pure fun that infused our pillowed perch. Was I becoming friends with Finn Schiller?
He ordered a second bottle of wine and we clinked refilled glasses as the food came. And nothing I’ve ever tasted had ever been so delicious.
Chapter 15
One supreme fact which I have discovered is that it is not willpower, but fantasy-imagination that creates. Imagination is the creative force. Imagination creates reality.
—Richard Wagner
S ated and slightly tipsy, we drove off from the dinner, and I thanked him for such a lovely time.
“It’s not over yet, I have to show you my special secret lair for your big party.”
We cruised toward the mini-skyline of downtown Los Angeles, which was obviously dwarfed by comparison to my hometown but stood like an imposing metropolis when cut and pasted against the teeny-tinily scaled local architecture. A few minutes later we pulled down a street that didn’t look very Angelino to me. It was exactly what my mind’s eye had fantasized about—huge warehouses with tons of windows, an industrial, edgy vibe with an urban brick-built strength. We got out of the car in front of the most amazing of the buildings and walked inside the huge antique metal sliding door.
“Holy shit,” I marveled. The ceiling had to’ve been fifty feet high, all the interior had been gutted from the days of chocolate bars past.
“Veruca Salt, eat your heart out,” I said, gaping at the massive space.
“It’s fuckin’ cool, right?”
He walked me
—Carl Gustav Jung
W e went inside the dimly lit restaurant where he got a hero’s welcome from the staff and a corner nook, where we were seated on the floor on these cool pillows. It sounds weird but was actually cool and foreign and felt like we were on some kind of trip. Which I was.
We talked about other places in the city he loved, including some trendy tapas bar. He loved the mini paella cakes.
“Oh, I thought you said topless.” I laughed, almost spitting out my papadum.
“I know, it always sounds like that!” He chortled. “Someone should actually open a topless tapas bar. Called Topless Tapas.”
“Oh my god, that’s genius! Let’s totally open that!” I squealed. “We would mint money!” Not that he needed it.
“We’d love another bottle of wine, please, Anju,” Finn asked the pierced waiter. “We have to come up with fun dishes and cocktails for our menu. Put the cock in the cocktails,” he said. “Like Mojitoesucker.”
I almost spat out my Rioja. “Okay, this is hilarious. This is big time. Move over, Hooters!”
“So where do you like to eat in New York?” he asked.
Fuck. Okay . . . here was a perfectly organic, opportune time to introduce Wylie.
“Um, well . . . my uh, boyfriend is a personal chef, actually—”
“Oh, well that must be nice,” he said. I couldn’t read his face but he seemed blasé about Wylie’s existence. “So you don’t even have to leave the apartment!”
“Well, we do, still, but he cooks at home a lot, too. He, um, actually has one client, this hedge fund family on Fifth Avenue, that is so into his food that they want to invest in a restaurant for him with some big New York restaurateurs. So, it looks like that might happen pretty soon, but it’s not, like, definite or anything.”
“Well, ask them how they feel about a nudie Mexican chain. I think our idea has legs. Long ones.”
“Yeah, and boobs.”
“Here’s to our business venture,” he joked, raising his newly poured glass to meet mine.
I felt calmer and happy; Kira was right; it felt good to get out there—not that he would ever think of me as anything other than the lap-barfer from the airplane. We giggled over new Topless Tapas menu offerings, and the mood was light and even straight-up fun. It’s not like I ever lost sight of the fact that I was drinking with my idol, but there was a sweetness and pure fun that infused our pillowed perch. Was I becoming friends with Finn Schiller?
He ordered a second bottle of wine and we clinked refilled glasses as the food came. And nothing I’ve ever tasted had ever been so delicious.
Chapter 15
One supreme fact which I have discovered is that it is not willpower, but fantasy-imagination that creates. Imagination is the creative force. Imagination creates reality.
—Richard Wagner
S ated and slightly tipsy, we drove off from the dinner, and I thanked him for such a lovely time.
“It’s not over yet, I have to show you my special secret lair for your big party.”
We cruised toward the mini-skyline of downtown Los Angeles, which was obviously dwarfed by comparison to my hometown but stood like an imposing metropolis when cut and pasted against the teeny-tinily scaled local architecture. A few minutes later we pulled down a street that didn’t look very Angelino to me. It was exactly what my mind’s eye had fantasized about—huge warehouses with tons of windows, an industrial, edgy vibe with an urban brick-built strength. We got out of the car in front of the most amazing of the buildings and walked inside the huge antique metal sliding door.
“Holy shit,” I marveled. The ceiling had to’ve been fifty feet high, all the interior had been gutted from the days of chocolate bars past.
“Veruca Salt, eat your heart out,” I said, gaping at the massive space.
“It’s fuckin’ cool, right?”
He walked me
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