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  “Goddamn, I’m A Good Cook!” I Holler.

  “You’re super hot,” Eddie says like James Brown.

  “A bad-ass mo-fo,” I tell him.

  “A kicking, killing, slamming, jamming, crazy cooking Italian.” We toast my restaurant’s anniversary again and howl our laughter at the night sky.

  “But you know,” Eddie says and leans in close. “You’d taste better than anything down in that silly restaurant of yours.” He breathes warm breath onto my cheek. “I want to ravage you until you’re as creamy as this here goose liver.” He nips at my neck. “I’ll whip you into a frenzy of mashed potatoes.”

  I laugh into his ear. He smells like olive oil. His hands find their way under my chef’s jacket.

  “You are as rich and creamy as eggs benedict,” he says. “Crème brûlée has nothing on you.”

  “What else?” I beg. This is our joke. The only way into me is through food. He reads me like a menu.

  “You are as tender as a lamp chop. As spicy as the best tagine.” He nuzzles, kneads, and tickles my tingling skin. “You are as voluptuous as uh, uh…Oh hell.” He stops and looks at me. “What do the French call those purple things?”

  “Eggplants?”

  “Aubergines!” he says triumphantly and slides my checked pants over my hips.

  Also by Heather Swain

  Eliot’s Banana

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  DOWNTOWN PRESS, published by Pocket Books

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2004 by Heather Swain

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 1-4165-0762-0

  First Downtown Press trade paperback edition October 2004

  DOWNTOWN PRESS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Jaime Putorti

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Acknowlegments

  For everything they do for me, my love and gratitude go to Dan, Barbara, Richard, Tanya, Chris, Lucinda, Jason, Katie, Laura, Heidi, Marybeth, Anne, and Emily. Thank you also to Amy Pierpont and Megan Buckley for your constant support and endless encouragement.

  FOR MY MOTHER

  And if the earthly has forgotten you,

  Whisper to the silent earth: I flow.

  To the rushing water say: I am.

  —Rainer Maria Rilke,

  Sonnets to Orpheus

  Chapter

  One

  U p on the roof, Eddie stands in front of me with a champagne bottle sticking out from between his thighs like a green glass penis. “Very funny,” I say, but of course I laugh, because I always laugh at Eddie’s antics.

  Thick, blond hair falls across his green eyes as he struggles with the wire casing, then the cork. He looks up, shakes the hair out of his face, and flaunts a cunning smile. “We have to celebrate, darling!” He wrenches the cork from side to side and gyrates his hips, mumbling, “Come on, baby. Come to daddy.”

  “Jesus, Eddie,” I say. “Are you fucking it or opening it?”

  “It’s the only way I can get it, sugar.”

  “Sugar?” I say with a snort, but I like it and he knows it.

  I turn and look over the edge of the roof as he works on the cork. In the distance, the Brooklyn Bridge shines golden in the failing late spring sun. Five stories below, yellow cabs, black town cars, and graffiti-covered delivery trucks roll through the congested grid of East Village streets. They compete with rollerbladers, bicyclists, and pedestrians. The sidewalks are crowded with hipsters, tourists, dog walkers, baby pushers, old women pulling shopping carts, and bums asking for change. I love this neighborhood. These are my people—the ones who choose to be in this tiny corner of the world because they find beauty in its roughness, just as I do.

  “Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah,” Eddie moans as he works on the cork. “I can feel it now. Here it comes.”

  “Do you need some help?” I ask him, then tease, “from a professional?”

  “O ye of little faith,” he says in his sweet southern drawl. Ever since I’ve known him, Eddie’s liked to pretend he’s some hayseed straight off a cotton farm, baffled by big-city ways. But the truth is, he’s been kicking around New York for the past ten years and is more citified than I am, and I grew up here. Plus, his soft gentile hands with their perfectly manicured nails and the ’85 Krug Brut champagne he’s opening expose him as a fourth-generation Princeton grad and grandson of a textile magnate from the great state of Georgia.

  “Here it comes,” says Eddie. “Just a little more. Oh, oh, oh!” He stands up straight and juts his hips forward as the cork arcs into the evening sky. Champagne shoots out from between his legs, and he howls with delight. There’s nothing Eddie likes more than a party, even if it is just the two of us on a roof.

  Never to be outdone by him, I grab the bottle and bring it to my lips. Let the bubbles tickle my nose before I take the first greedy gulp. The champagne scratches my throat and lingers sweetly on the back of my tongue. Before I can take another swig, he scoops me up, one arm under my knees, the other across my back, and gallops around the roof, singing, “Happy Anniversary!” to the tune of the Lone Ranger theme song. We twirl in circles. The sunset blurs. Water towers, chimneys, and satellite dishes spin. Horn honks, tire squeals, laughter, and shouting burble up from the streets and meld into an urban symphony.

  In Eddie’s arms, I am perfectly suspended between the earth and sky. Nothing’s holding me down. I could fly away and soar past the just-rising moon with my hair on fire and my arms spread wide like a human shooting star over Manhattan. Then we collapse, champagne splashing, tiny plates of hors d’oeuvres crashing, onto a white tablecloth spread over the warm tar of the roof. In the center is a huge bouquet of yellow roses. Eddie’s gift to me on my restaurant’s first anniversary.

  He props himself up on one elbow beside me and pants, “You did it, Lem. Congratulations!” He raises the frothing bottle to his lips.

  He’s right. I have done it. After ten years of regrets, mistakes, stupid moves, and pure dumb luck, I’ve gotten what I want. No one expected this from me, least of all myself. I came into the world as a colicky, jaundiced baby with fuzzy blond hair like a troll. My parents named me Ellie Manelli but called me Lemon, which isn’t much better. They left me behind with my grandmother and four aunts in Brooklyn to pursue their beatnik lifestyle, then ended up on the bottom of a river. When I hit eighteen, I took off from the cloistered streets of my small Brooklyn neighborhood to traipse around Europe with every other lost soul looking for some semblance of self. I returned defeated and spent years wandering from job to job, never happy, never satisfied, until I decided to stop grousing and waiting for something to happen. A year ago, a shoe store went out of business on the bottom floor of this building, and I opened my restaurant, Lemon, named after me.

  Now suddenly, I’ve became the new It Girl of the New York cooking world. Various trend-spotters have dubbed Lemon “hot” and part of the “downtown scene.” I’ve been declared a “hip young chef” to watch. A picture of me, complete with my blond hair streaked blue to match my Le Creuset saucepans, graces the pages of Gourmet magazine this month to celebrate our anniversary.

  I don’t know how it happened. Who turned out to be my fairy godmother. Or if the karmic scales fina
lly tipped in my favor. If I weren’t such a cynic, I might claim that every experience in my life has led me to this shining moment, but I think that’s bullshit. All I know is, my luck in life has changed, and it’s about damned time.

  “How about some of these here whores de vors?” Eddie asks. He pops a piece of foie-gras-covered toast into my mouth. The goose liver melts slowly, and I moan happily. He lays a roasted hen-of-the-woods mushroom and goat cheese phyllo purse on my outstretched tongue. When I’m done with that, he tosses me a bright green cerignola olive. I swallow the fruity salty brine, then wash it all down with more champagne.

  “Goddamn, I’m a good cook!” I holler.

  “You’re super hot,” Eddie says like James Brown.

  “A bad-ass mo-fo,” I tell him.

  “A kicking, killing, slamming, jamming, crazy cooking Italian.” We toast again and howl our laughter at the night sky.

  “But you know,” Eddie says and leans in close. “You’d taste better than anything down in that silly restaurant of yours.” He breathes warm breath onto my cheek. “I want to ravage you until you’re as creamy as this here goose liver.” He nips at my neck. “I’ll whip you into a frenzy of mashed potatoes.”

  I laugh into his ear. He smells like olive oil. Always like olive oil. My love for the past five years. Who ever thought it would last this long? I met Eddie when I was a sous-chef at a fake Italian restaurant on the Upper West Side. He came to sell olive oil from his import business to the executive chef, a lazy cook and a lout with horrible hygiene. Eddie saw through the pretense of the oversalted ossobuco and rubbery tagliatelle. I only saw his eyes, green and laughing, sharing a joke with me. I handed him a slice of my roasted red pepper ciabatta dipped in his best extra virgin oil, and he licked his lips.

  His hands find their way under my chef’s jacket. “You are as rich and creamy as eggs benedict,” he says. “Crème brûlée has nothing on you.”

  When I first started going out with Eddie, I figured we’d have a few laughs, drink a few bottles of wine, and eventually part with no hard feelings. Looking at us, you’d never think that we would last. Eddie is every inch the prep school brat, certain of entitlements from the world. I embody my Brooklyn upbringing, complete with the huge chip on my shoulder carried proudly like an epaulet. But beneath our facades, each of us is as ornery as the other one. Maybe that’s what keeps us together.

  “I could turn you into soup,” he says and flicks the snaps of my bra.

  “What kind?” I grab his soft earlobe with my sharp teeth.

  “Vichyssoise.” He draws the word out as if it’s luxury.

  I look up. The sun has set, but the stars are hidden by the glare of city lights. The moon is lonely, with only red-tailed jets to share the sky.

  “What else?” I beg. This is our joke. The only way into me is through food. He reads me like a menu.

  “You are as tender as a lamb chop. As spicy as the best tagine.” He nuzzles, kneads, and tickles my tingling skin. “You are as voluptuous as uh, uh…Oh, hell.” He stops and looks at me. “What do the French call those purple things?”

  “Eggplants?”

  “Aubergines!” he says triumphantly and slides my checked pants over my hips.

  My hands find him.

  “I am merguez!” He rolls the word across his tongue as if he is some conquistador, and we wail at the moon.

  “Now,” I say, and I mean it. “Now!”

  Eddie doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s there already. Away we go. Again, the sky blurs and sounds merge. Everything falls together like all matter sucked deep into a big black hole. My mother at the bottom of the ocean waves her bony hand, her hair is seaweed strands, she rides an electric eel. My father, buried beneath the Greenwood soil, rolls over in his grave and tells the beetles to shut their tiny eyes. This is it!

  Tonight is my night, and I could devour the world. Catch it by the heels. String it up in a tree from a looping snare. Skin it, fillet it, sauté it. Serve it on a platter with bitter wild leeks and potentially poisonous mushrooms shaped like flying saucers. Surround it with delicacies of the rivers and the sea. (Gifts from my long-dead mother.) Exotics from my larder. (One thing from every place I’ve ever been.) An eclectic stew of me.

  I let go a whoop, a holler, a self-satisfied scream for all the world to hear. I am a T-Rex skulking. A warhead launching. A woman to be reckoned with. Watch out, I warn, as I roar with delight. Nothing can stop me now!

  Egg & Sperm

  Ping! Waxing and waning ovaries release a half-life on the twenty-eighth day of May. Swoosh! A squirming sperm army advances at the right hour on a rooftop in Manhattan. Both hurl through space and time until one of those brave swimmers unites its chromosomes with that spaceship egg. Cosmic matter flies. Reenacts the universe from black hole to big bang to self-sustaining planet circling the sun. And suddenly, there you are.

  Or are you? Exactly when will you be you? At what moment do you exist? At the instant of collision? Or when this ever-dividing organism of replicating DNA finds a uterine wall in which to implant? Does it take your mother’s knowledge to make you you? What about her love? Has God breathed life into you, even though on your own, outside of her body in which you grow, you would be doomed? Or does God have anything to do with it?

  Have you been here before? Brought back through some karmic cycle of never-ending life? Do you have something to prove in this go-round? Past transgressions to rectify? Or are you brand-spanking-new to this tiny planet, held secure by gravity in the midst of forever?

  Never mind, never mind. Who cares? You have no say. At this point, everything about you is completely predetermined. So you float, free-form, waiting patiently for discovery while your parents pant beyond you, no different than the two humping mice nestled in the chimney shaft three feet away. Your parents are oblivious to your existence. Unknowing of the changes awaiting them in the form of you. This is the way you are brought into the world. This is the way you are loved. Welcome.

  Chapter

  Two

  F ranny, plate the shad roe!” I yell over a whoosh of fire off the grill high enough to singe my eyebrows. Then I get the hell out of the way as Ernesto tosses sweetbreads searing in one skillet, flips the sea bass grilling in another, and plops a medium-rare filet onto a waiting plate with his bare hands.

  Around us, the kitchen is chaos. Smells of meat, fish, chicken, vegetables, coffee, chocolate, and sweat assault the muggy air. Kirsten and Lyla rush in the double swinging doors.

  “The place is a madhouse,” Kirsten says. She is sleek and fast, a lithe petite dancer who could balance a meal for eight on top of her pirouetting head. She checks her ticket against the food waiting in the window and quickly grabs what she needs.

  “Mel double-seated me, and I’m dying,” Lyla answers in her booming alto voice, better suited for belting out Broadway tunes than reciting tonight’s specials.

  “Did you see the line?” Kirsten asks.

  “They’re all the way around the corner,” says Lyla. She lopes, long and lanky, out the door, plates of steaming food loaded onto her arms.

  Beside me, Franny flails spatulas, tongs, knives, and towels as if she is Lakshmi, the four-armed Hindu goddess of wealth. She slows down just long enough to carefully spoon quivering fish eggs onto a bright blue dish of lemon caper sauce with tiny orange blossoms scattered over the top. Her crazy red curls spiral out from beneath her ever-present Chicago Cubs baseball cap. She’s been wearing it when she cooks since I met her in Nice during our junior year abroad.

  Franny and I were roommates in a decrepit flat that we shared with six other exchange students. We immediately hated each other. I thought she was a loudmouthed American hell-bent on getting as much mileage out of her Eurail pass as possible. She thought I was the worst kind of New York snob who only wanted to befriend the French. We were each right about the other, but we found a startling affinity in the kitchen.

  One day while I was trying to re-create a daube niçoi
se that I’d had at a tiny café in the old city, Franny poked her finger in my sauce and declared it needed orange peel. I begrudgingly added it, and the stew was excellent. After that, we gravitated to the kitchen together, silently dancing around one another as we cooked. I’d chop onions and garlic; she’d add celery and herbs. I’d salt her sauces; she’d deglaze my pans. Together we churned out dinners that quickly became famous with our other roommates, and Franny and I became friends. I’ve never met another person whose cooking style and sensibilities complements mine so well. Franny is invaluable to me in this kitchen, even if she is a huge pain in the ass some of the time.

  Behind me, Ernesto, my old flame, mans the grill. He’s still as beautiful as the first day I saw him, with shoulders like a T-bone in the center of a steak, long legs, and a perfectly round butt. Skin the color of a hickory nut and a strong, square jaw. I met him in a hotel steakhouse in Midtown that catered to expense-account assholes. He was already an old pro then, with hands as tough as catcher’s mitts from years of burns, cuts, and scars. He’s barely older than I am, but he’s worked steadily since he slipped into New York from Ecuador when he was just sixteen. However, unlike most men who work in kitchens, Ernesto is a good guy who saves his testosterone for the woman in his bed. He’s also one of the best grill men in New York, with the grace and timing of an expert flamenco dancer.

  Then there’s Makiko, quietly huddled over a ginger pear crème brûlée, working as carefully as a watchmaker with her tiny blowtorch, mint leaves, and sugared violets. With her delicate Japanese features and whispery voice, she’s often mistaken for a mousy pushover, some submissive mincing geisha girl. But I’ve seen her mad, her black eyes fierce beneath a heavy shag of half-blond/half-black bangs. Makiko knows how to hold her own in an American kitchen.