The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs (18 page)

Rachel jots down a few more notes, and I glance at what she’s written down under
MENU.
“By the way, I’m making pork this time,” I say. “Like it or not.”

“As if I could stop you. Do whatever you want. You’re Hannah Sugarman. You’re in charge.”

And for the first time in a long time, I smile with pride at that pronouncement. “That’s right,” I say. “I am.”

By the next morning, The Dupont Circle Supper Club’s in-box is overflowing with requests. Even with two dinners in one weekend, we can’t keep up with the demand. Other bloggers have posted about our underground venture, and soon the DC food blogosphere is alight with news and reviews and information about The Dupont Circle Supper Club. The e-mails pour in faster than we can read them, and Rachel finishes cobbling together an official Web site to field the many questions from prospective guests. We can’t tell people too much about ourselves, and our schedule is a moving target, subject to Blake’s travel schedule and the congressional calendar, but we dangle enough bait to satisfy people’s curiosity. And yet, even with a Web site and FAQ section, the volume of e-mails continues to explode, at a rate that is both exciting and completely overwhelming.

I barely focus on my work all day Monday, spending most of my day drawing up shopping lists and preparation timetables and cooking schedules. I print out and squirrel away a few more recipes in my secret recipe folder, and each time Mark comes out of his office, I minimize my screens for Epicurious and
Food & Wine
and
Saveur
and instead bring up screens from Bloomberg and the
Financial Times
and Reuters. Luckily, Mark is too busy humming his regular rotation of Verdi and Puccini arias at full volume to notice I even exist.

When I return from work on Monday, I stumble into my still-damp, still-smelly apartment and, as soon as I do, Blake calls.

I stare at the screen, debating whether or not to pick up the phone. If I pick up, he might scream and shout and tell me he knows all about the supper club and, after more yelling, evict me. If I don’t pick up, my apartment might smell like a bat cave until the end of time. How to decide?

“Hey, neighbor,” Blake says as I pick up the phone. The smell, I conclude, is too much to bear. “How’s the apartment?”

“Um … still a little wet and stinky, actually.”

“That’s why I wanted to talk,” he says. “I saw your e-mail and checked it out earlier today. You did a good job with the bleach and towels, but you need to use a dehumidifier for a while.”

“Okay …”

Blake laughs into the phone. “Don’t worry. I’ll hook you up. And a guy is coming out later this week to fix the gutters—for real this time.”

“Great. Thanks.”

My ceiling creaks as Blake paces back and forth above me. “No problem,” he says. He suddenly stops moving. “By the way, did you leave some ice cream for me in the freezer?”

My stomach flip-flops. “Sorry?”

“There’s a container of homemade ice cream in my freezer.” I hear him smack his lips. “It tastes a little like honey? With something crispy in it?”

The ice cream. Shit. How is that still in there? Rachel told me she double-checked everything. “Um … maybe …”

“Maybe? The container has
SUGARMAN
written on it.”

I clear my throat. “I mean yes. It’s a … gift. For you. For the Jewish new year.”

Blake pauses. “It’s half eaten.”

“Right. Yes.”
Fuuuuck
. What is happening? “I … originally made it for myself,” I say, the words flying out of my mouth faster than I can control them. “But I couldn’t stop eating it, so instead of gaining twenty pounds I thought I’d give it to you instead.”

What? Does that even make sense? No. No, by any measure, my explanation makes no sense at all. But, as usual, my mouth works faster than my brain, the result of which is sure to be disaster.

He chuckles. “Okay …”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, no—it’s fine. I mean, don’t make a habit of wandering through my house while I’m away, but I appreciate the gesture. The ice cream is amazing, actually. Some of the best I’ve had.”

“Thanks …”

I hear Blake swallow on the other end of the phone. “No, wow, this is really good.” He takes another bite. “For real. You should pack this up and sell it. Have you ever considered going into business?”

I gulp loudly. “I’ve thought about it.”

“You should. Although not out of that apartment. That’s the last thing I need.”

“Oh …?”

He laughs. “Haven’t you read my election platform? We’re having major problems in Dupont with undocumented restaurant workers and restaurant owners not paying their taxes. A bunch of frustrated restauranteurs are supporting my campaign. I don’t need someone running an unlicensed ice cream operation out of my basement.”

He laughs again, louder this time, obviously amused by the absurdity of this scenario, and I attempt to join in, but what comes out is a halfhearted, “Haaaaa … aaa …
aaaah
…” which is really code for “
shit, shit
, shit!”

Blake pulls himself together and sighs. “Sorry. I’m just teasing.”

“That’s okay. It was … funny.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, right. Anyway, I’ll get that dehumidifier to you ASAP. And in the meantime, thanks for the ice cream. Semi-weird trespassing aside, I think you might be the best tenant I’ve ever had.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“No, seriously. My last tenant almost burnt down the house, and the one before that stole my grill. But you,” he says through a smile, “you make me ice cream. Really
good
ice cream. I think you’re a keeper.”

I laugh nervously as the floor creaks beneath Blake’s feet, the floorboards sounding old and weak, as if they could break any second. “Oh, I’m a keeper, all right,” I say. “That’s for sure.”

Paging Lucifer: save me a seat. I’m headed your way, sooner than either of us expected.

Almost burning down the house is much worse than respectfully, cautiously holding a secret supper club in that house while the landlord is away. Right? Right. And stealing a grill—that’s definitely worse. We haven’t stolen anything. Except the port and scotch, I guess, but we were borrowing those, really. We’re going to replace them. So, in that context, I am a good tenant. Well, maybe not good, but decent. Ish. Decentish.

The point is, we’ve already taken twenty-four reservations for this weekend, so we can’t back out now. Or we could, but we’d risk ruining our supper club’s reputation just when it’s on the rise, and I’d lose the one thing that makes me happy these days, the one thing I look forward to more than anything else. And, dehumidifier aside, my apartment is small and cramped and generally unpleasant, meaning Blake’s house is the only location that makes sense. To me. As for the general public … Whatever. This supper club is the only bright spot in my life at the moment, and we’re not calling it off. End of story.

Thursday afternoon, I sneak over to Rachel’s desk, making sure Millie and the other research assistants are out of sight. “Could you cover for me for an hour or two?” I ask.

Rachel tosses a folder into her desk organizer, a vintage two-tiered oak box she bought on Etsy. “Sure. Where are you off to?”

“Penn Quarter farmers’ market.”

“Near Chinatown? That’s kind of a schlep for groceries. You’re sure you don’t need my help?”

I shake my head. “I’ll be fine. If Mark or Millie asks … say I’m at the dentist or something.”

“The gyno,” Rachel says. “Always say the gyno. No one can argue with that.”

“I’d rather you not share my gynecologic goings-on with Mark and Millie.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

I slip out of the office and scurry up Eighteenth Street toward the southern entrance to the Dupont Circle Metro stop, which sits smack on the circle, right next to an outpost of Krispy Kreme. That I manage to board the escalator without being sucked in by the smell of fresh, hot doughnuts is a testament to my willpower—of which, admittedly, I have almost none.

“I’ll be back,” I whisper over my shoulder at the Krispy Kreme sign as the escalator descends into the black pit below. Riding the escalators at Dupont Circle always feels like plunging into the great abyss. The daylight suddenly disappears at the start of the tunnel opening, and the stairs plummet downward into the darkened tunnel, at an angle that makes it nearly impossible to see where the downward journey ends. At 188 feet, the north entrance is steeper and scarier, but the south entrance nevertheless feels like an amusement park ride, albeit one lacking any sort of amusement whatsoever.

Metro pass in hand, I charge through the turnstile and down another set of escalators and manage to squeeze through the doors to a red line train just before it leaves the station. Clutching one of the metal poles with one hand, I glance down at the piece of paper crumpled in the other, on which I’ve written a brief sketch of the menu for Saturday and Sunday:

Red and white wine (TBD)

Victory Brewing Company Prima Pilsner

Soft pretzel bread/spicy mustard sauce

Cheesesteak arancini/homemade marinara sauce

Deconstructed pork sandwich: braised pork belly, sautéed

broccoli rabe, provolone bread pudding

Lemon water ice

Commissary carrot cake

I’m particularly proud of my riff on the pork sandwich, one of Philadelphia’s lesser-known specialties. Everyone presupposes the cheesesteak is Philadelphia’s best sandwich, when, in fact, my favorite has always been the roast pork. Juicy, garlicky slices of pork are layered with broccoli rabe and sharp provolone on a fresh roll, the rich juices soaking into the soft bread while the crunchy crust acts like a torpedo shell, keeping everything inside. The flavors explode in your mouth in each bite: the bitter broccoli rabe, the assertive cheese, the combination of garlic and spices and tender pork. That’s what I’m going for with my deconstructed version, and if all goes according to plan, the dish will be a knockout.

I jump off the train at Gallery Place–Chinatown and rush up the escalator, heading through Chinatown toward the market. To be fair, Washington’s Chinatown is more like Chinablock. The “Chinese” part only takes up approximately one city block and generally lacks the Chinese character of Chinatowns in other cities like New York and San Francisco. There is a red Chinese gate over Seventh and H streets and a handful of average Chinese restaurants, but that’s about it.

The surrounding area, however—the East End of downtown Washington known as Penn Quarter—is studded with upscale restaurants and art galleries and houses everything from condos and office buildings to the Verizon Center and the FBI. Unlike Dupont Circle and Logan Circle, Penn Quarter is all high-rises and pavement, a full-fledged business district, with the odd museum and government building thrown in and no town houses or backyards to speak of. Every Thursday, a farmers’ market opens from three until seven on a tucked-away stretch of Eighth Street, filling with lawyers and government workers from nearby offices. Today I’ve made the four-Metro-stop trek because this is the only place I can buy “the best pork in America” before our dinners this weekend.

As soon as I turn onto Eighth Street, I spot Shauna’s tent, already swarming with customers at three-fifteen.

“Well, look who it is,” she calls out, waving to me from behind her well-stocked ice tray as I approach her table. She reaches across and gives me a hug. “My favorite customer. You ready for your bellies?”

I pull a folded-up cooler bag from my tote and shake open the top. “Yes, ma’am.”

Shauna digs through one of the coolers behind her stand and comes back with an enormous plastic bag filled with vacuum-sealed pork bellies. “Look at these beautiful babies,” she says, pulling one of the packages out of the bag. She glances at the price tag and scrunches up her lips. “You know what? I’ll give you the employee discount today. You’ve been good to me lately.”

I’m about to tell Shauna she doesn’t have to do that, but when I see the thirty-dollar price tag on one of the packages, I decide to keep my mouth shut. “Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate that.”

“I’m looking to move a few sirloin and strip steaks today, too. Any interest?”

“Yeah, actually. I could use them for my cheesesteak arancini.”

Shauna’s face twists into a skeptical frown. “Your what?”

I shake my head. “Never mind. Another course for the party this weekend. Same idea as cheesesteak spring rolls.”

“Sweetie, I don’t think ‘cheesesteak’ and ‘spring roll’ are supposed to be used in the same sentence.”

“Trust me,” I say. “It’s better than it sounds.”

I first tried a cheesesteak spring roll ten years ago at my cousin’s wedding at the Four Seasons in Philadelphia, and though I wasn’t as unconvinced as Shauna, I had my doubts. That Philadelphians could bastardize a menu item didn’t surprise me—this is, after all, the city that invented The Schmitter, a sandwich made of sliced beef, cheese, grilled salami, more cheese, tomatoes, fried onions, more cheese, and some sort of Thousand Island sauce—but the fact that the Four Seasons found it worthy of their fancy-pants menu intrigued me.