Our eyes met over the sea of people who had crowded into the Salle Mont-Blanc on the mezzanine. She did not look totally unfamiliar although, at that instant I could not recall where I had seen her before. She snatched a mini quiche from the tray held by a white gloved waiter in a tuxedo, and started weaving among the chattering crowd towards me.

Her fuchsia smile, opening the curtain on a perfect row of teeth, should have been my warning. "Dah-ling, how are you?" she cooed throwing her free arm around me before I had a chance to summon her name, or where we'd met before.

Her greeting did not help since everyone calls everyone else darling at these occasions. We were at the annual awards gala of the Literary Society where it was an unwritten law to schmooze, network and calm the jitters with the flow of wine whetted chit chat in the hour preceding presentations.

She was quite a sight in her crushed-velvet dress, and row of pearls rolling over her ivory collar bones. Her hair was gathered up like a crown; and the charming little curls around her face detracted attention away from the age lines around her lips and her liquid almond eyes.

"G-great, and how are you?" I retorted to a jovial but unimaginative strategy in reply.

"I see your "Moon Worshipers" is short listed for fiction. How exciting!" She stopped another waiter to exchange her empty wine glass.

"Yes, thank you. And how is the family? " I asked obtusely.

"What family?" she waved her hand supporting a rather oversized, square ruby in a dismissive manner. "Gabor and I are no longer together, you know. Of course, everybody knows ! How is Mirèille?"

"She’s great," I replied. "I’ll be joining her in New York next month – her pastel exhibit". There was a brief pause in the conversation as I tried to think of what to say next.

"You don't really remember me, do you?" she asked bemused, as she wolfed down her mini quiche.

Just then, by some divine intervention, memory came back to me and I replied with a smile, "How could anyone forget you, Evangeline? You may change your hairstyle, but the eyes never tell lies." In all honesty, it was the way she had devoured that quiche, after gulping down the champagne, that helped me recall her name in - the nick of time.

I had met her a little over two years ago in November during a book signing at La Paragraphe, and continued chatting, after I had autographed all the books pushed in front of me by my numbered fans. The charming praises she lavished so generously on my novel must’ve made my head spin. After all, which budding new author could pass up such recognition by a lady who turned eyes upon her just by her dazzling presence?

It was approaching one o'clock when the book signing and a brief media interview were finished. It had been a fine morning, but now the real test of success came, as I had to wait for the royalties to start rolling in. After having paid my airfare to Milan to join Mirèille, and the month's rent for the little pad we kept on St Denis Street, I had only a hundred and ninety-seven dollars left in my pocket to last me through the next two weeks.

I noticed she was waiting for me and, as soon as I slipped on my coat to leave the book store, she floated towards me wearing an alluring smile and a shiny, ankle-length mink. "How about doing lunch?" she had asked. "I’d be so honored to dine with a promising young talent, and talk about your “Archer's Revenge” .

That's where I made my big mistake. I should have made up an excuse and moved on. Instead my ego replied, "The honor would be mine. Did you have any particular spot in mind?"

She hadn’t given much consideration to it but Le Coin, she remembered, had a light lunch menu that should be agreeable. Besides they had recently acquired Antoine from The Plaza Athénée . The names did not mean much to me who was more preoccupied with their budgetary implications rather than their culinary credentials.

The oak panelled dining room was furnished with plush carpets, white linen-covered tables, gold-rimmed china and sparkling silver. We were shown to a cozy corner near the fireplace and immediately handed gold embossed, menus by the waiter who asked if we would like an apéritif.

Champagne would suit her just fine. The waiter brought a bottle nestled inside a silver bucket. He poured the bubbly into two champagne glasses and disappeared with a reverent bow. I thought I might as well have some since I had not even planned on a drink of any sort.

Evangeline proposed a toast to my success and we clinked our glasses lightly. She was very animated and talkative, mentioning names of people in the publishing business and captains of industry whose titles rang no bells in my mind. Then she went on to talk about Harold, her current paramour and his latest documentary which had taken him to Papua, New Guinea.

When a lanky waiter appeared out of nowhere to take our order, Evangeline was confessing that she was very particular about her diet. I was biting my lips nervously suspecting that the guest's menu did not display prices. Evangeline wasn’t a picky person. She knew what she liked and went for it right away. She ordered the Belgian endive salad and filet of grilled Arctic Char served with artichoke heart in chive citrus butter.

I swallowed anxiously after a quick mental calculation of the total of our luncheon at that stage, and my eyes searched desperately for the lowest priced item on the menu.

Finally sensing that I was challenging the patience of the waiter who looked like he had more important business to attend to than to be detained by my indecisiveness, I picked a pasta dish whose claim to fame was being lightly tossed with grilled vegetables in E.V.O.O.

"Would Monsieur like a fresh zalâd, or a consommé?"

I looked straight into his eyes with resolve, "No. The pasta will suffice."

Evangeline was amazed at how little I ate. "I have a theory," she was saying when her endives, glistening with the balsamic vinaigrette were served.

"A while ago I read this in a culinary text, and I must admit that the source is quite The authority on his subject. He advises that one should eat like a king in the morning; like a queen at lunch; and like a pauper at night. It is much better on the digestive system."

I made up an excuse that I never ate much, if at all, at midday.

"Dah-ling," she continued, "that is when you should fill yourself up, so that you can burn all the calories before you sleep. Now, I am a late riser myself, so I cannot partake of my king's share in the morning. But dining like a queen at midday, and a pauper at night is quite agreeable with me."

I forced a smile and a nod of compliance as I cheerlessly wondered what cruel twist of fate drove me to her at lunch time instead of dinner, which might have been more affordable for a pauper like me.

Meanwhile, Evangeline dug into her succulent, grilled Arctic Char with the gusto of someone who had not eaten since the night before – and like a pauper at that!

"I enjoy a well prepared seafood dish," Evangeline was saying as she wiped her mouth wickedly on the crisp, white, linen napkin where she left imprints of her painted lips. "One should consume fish at least twice a week, you know." Then she launched into another topic of conversation on the theater and the latest movies she had enjoyed.

Somehow my instinct had warned me that the queen's meal would not end without a royal dessert, so I tried to prepare myself , as much as I could, for the onslaught of the next round of order. Nevertheless, I could not help entertaining scenarios of my washing dishes in the Coin kitchens until my hands turned into prunes in order to pay for the queen's lunch, while the bold headline in The Herald announced :

* Writer Rights his Wrong with Suds up to Elbow ! *

The waiter, who seemed to know which side his bread was buttered on, inquired deferentially if Madam would like to see the dessert menu.

"Would a cat like a canary?" I thought as I grew more uneasy trying to think of a reason why I would not take any sweets myself.

They all sounded scrumptious: Napoleons with fresh whipped cream, peach cobbler with a dollop of vanilla ice, chestnut soufflé napped in creme Anglaise, a dessert named Death by Chocolate, and exotic fruits served in tuilles. Evangeline picked the most expansive concoction on the menu: chocolate rum-pecan bombe with truffle shavings over fresh cream.

 

Beyond shock, I was more resigned to my fate as it was being shaped by this painted creature whose mouth never stopped. Whether it was to receive food or to disperse lavish compliments on Anton's culinary expertise interspersed with comments on my writing technique, her lips were constantly moving. And all I could do, besides listen with a feigned interest, was try to convince myself that I disliked sweets – especially at midday.

Her hearty laughter caught me off guard when I signaled the arrogant waiter to ask for the addition.

"Oh, you must be a mind reader, Dah-ling! I'd love a digestif ."

The waiter, who did not look like he was too worried about where his next meal would come from, was only too happy to oblige with a list of digestifs . Then he looked at me with the same disdainful glance, and hissed, "I suppose Monsieur is not in zi 'abit of taking a digestif à midi?"

I replied with a confirming smile – if only smiles could kill! "I would, however, like a double espresso," I added. My mouth was dry; I had run out of water and saliva with all the gulping at the sight of the gourmet displays laid out in front of me. Coffee was the cheapest way of wetting my whistle and frankly, I was beyond caring at that point.

"You should get into better eating habits," my guest was advising me. "A sharp mind thrives on a healthy body. If you fill it with un-nourishing foods and lethal doses of caffeine, you'll burn your candle at both ends. Dah-ling, remember the king, queen and pauper theory."

It was difficult at that instant to think of the king or queen, but I could certainly identify with the pauper. When she ran out of room in her belly, and compliments to bestow upon me, she looked at her platinum watch and announced, "This has been a wonderful luncheon. I am so delighted to have dined with an up-and-coming talent such as you."

The waiter brought the verdict encased in a leather billfold. Discreetly I placed my hundred dollar note on top of the twenty and the ten dollar bills, and stood up to follow my guest to the vestibule. I really did not want to face the condescending waiter when he saw the paltry change that was left for his tip.

"Thanks again, Dah-ling. Let's do this again soon," Evangeline eased herself into her shiny mink held by the waiter. "I hope by then you'll have another book out to autograph for me. You should also meet Harold– he's such an adorable pussy cat in tiger's skin!"

I walked her out and into the waiting taxi and saw her driven away – like my hopes of existing two weeks on the remaining change in my wallet. Just then a familiar accent I had grown to dislike distracted me from embittered scenarios of begging on street corners. It was the disdainful waiter tapping on my shoulder and extending me a bundle of bills.

“Monsieur! Monsieur! L'addition a déjà été réglé ! . .”

~~*♠**♦*♦**♠*~~

Photo credits: Füsun Atalay  ~ Location: Hotel DuPont- Wilmington, DE.

Füsun Atalay ~ Copyright © Will of my Own - 2011