New York City — Early 80s

All my life I’d pretend I was wealthy, especially when in a department store, which does no one any harm, really, because I’m not stealing anything, I’m just pretending I can afford it.

“We don’t have that in your size, I’m afraid,” he says.

I’m holding a black silk evening gown embedded with thousands of crushed beads that are probably pearls. It should be heavier.

“I’m just looking.”

“For yourself?”

“No. I’m just wandering around,” I say and wonder why I told the guy the truth.

But I know why I told the guy the truth. His frisky smile tells me he likes me. I feel obliged and a little off. I always feel obliged and a little off when someone standing nearby likes me.

“And you wander into Place Elegance by an accident?”

Place Elegance is a stand-alone boutique specializing in women’s haughty couture. It’s on the 9^th floor of Bloomingdale’s, in the back. Private and expensive. No pretending.

“I suppose I’m looking to buy a dress for a friend who doesn’t exist with money I don’t have.”

“Ah,” he says, “I see.”

The guy is real close now. He takes the gown from my hand and places it back on the display rack. He tells me his name. It’s François. He’s remarkably clean, polished, a defiantly debonair Salvador Dali. He has a soft but slicing European accent. He says he saw me last week, on the first floor, in Men’s Perfume, working the guy at the Aramis counter for free samples.

I don’t deny it.

“You are bohemian, no? You must be hungry. All bohemians have the hunger.”

“I am constantly hungry,” I say.

He leaves me and has a quiet argument with a woman dressed all in gray. He’s by my side again, sliding into his coat. He says he’s finished for the day and suggests Fettuccine Alfredo. Twenty minutes later we’re sitting at a window table in The Isle of Capri, a nifty little Italian Bistro on Third. I’m embarrassed to be sitting across from him; surely someone so clean can spot my fine layer of grime.

But François is smitten…with me, and I with him. We talk into the afternoon. He says I am his first bohemian, and how would I like to accompany him to Alicante, Spain where he has a house? It hits me that he must have a boyfriend. They all do. I ask him if his boyfriend would mind. He says, “Tedee, this is the 80s. I am not Ozzie or Harriet.”

I never make it to Spain, and François and I never hook up. His boyfriend, Lou, was having lunch with his new protégé at the same restaurant, at the same time. Once I was seen by Lou, I became forbidden.

Three months and two failed jobs later, I bump into François outside Bloomingdale’s.

“François,” I say, “I was just on my way in to say hello.”

“Do not bother, Tedee. I have a new job.”

“Oh…where?”

“I’m head waiter at Le Provençale” he says avec un petit peu of pride.

“Oh really?” I say avec un petit peu of desperation.

Le Provençale

East 60s

Le Provençale lies dormant après le déjeuner. It is a pastel postcard of a French restaurant. The long and narrow dining room smells of Chanel and soufflés. Bistro tables cluttered with the dainty debris of lunch-service line opposing walls. A petite service bar near the entrance keeps its champagne secrets at bay for now.

François, wearing a pure white, billowing waist-to-floor apron approaches. “Wait here, Tedee,” he says and pushes me against the bar, “I will get him.”

François glides off. I picture myself waiting on sophisticates and debutantes, clicking heels, speaking French. Another waiter, Marcel, a short, stout, angry tea-pot, gets near me and scowls, “Que veux-tu? Rentre chez toi. Nous n’embauchons pas!”

I know only one word of French and use it even though I don’t know what it means. “Merde,” I say, happily.

Before Marcel can leap, Lancel, the owner, emerges through a curtained door near the bar, followed by François. Lancel scans the room with one insouciant glance. Satisfied his restaurant is still there, he leans against the bar and lights a cigarette. Even leaning he’s three inches taller than anyone else in the room. He’s dark, solid, just this side of comfortably hairy, his wide lips surrounded by a deepening three o’clock shadow. His smile for me seems genuine and a little bemused.

“Qu’est-ce que c est?”

“This is Tedee,” François says to Lancel, “I told you about him. I thought we could offer him a chance.”

“Parlez-vous Français?” says Lancel.

“Oh, yes,” I say, “many times.”

“François a dit qu’il t’avait rencontré pendant que tu achetais des robes. Est-ce vrai?”

“Why, yes, I love French food…when I can get it.”

“Avez-vous de l’expérience dans les restaurants?”

“I agree.”

“Avez-vous une idée de ce que je dis?”

“I’d love to, and I’m available anytime.”

Lancel says, “From now on, we speak English, no?”

“That would be nice, yes.”

I am hired. Under François’s tutelage I begin climbing the rope-ladder of French service. He says, “Do not be afraid. To learn you must watch me.” And so François teaches me how to look haughty when taking an order, how to roll my eyes and sigh exasperatingly at a customer’s lack of sophistication, how to sell an expensive bottle of wine to a customer who can’t afford it. And he teaches me how to smoke like a Frenchman – hold the cigarette with two nonchalant fingers, shoulder-high, inhale like you don’t care, and blow the smoke in the nearest American’s face.

By the end of my second week I’ve mastered opening a bottle of wine without jamming the cork in the bottle and spraying the customer, like I did three nights ago when I assassinated that $40 bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet and splashed John Irving in the eye (Mr. Irving was not amused, by the way, but his dinner companion, Kurt Vonnegut, thought it was a riot, and merrily chortled from the Croque Escargot all the way to the Crepe Suzette).

It’s difficult work, high stress levels. I don’t speak French so I don’t understand the menu or the customers. With François as a mentor, though, I’m surviving, and making money. I both hate and love it.

Several months later…

I arrive early to Le Provençale to seek out François. He’s the only friend I have in the city. I need his advice. Then again, it isn’t his advice I seek, really. It’s his blessing. I’ve been offered a summer job on Fire Island, and I think it would soften the blow if I ask François’s advice on whether or not I should take it, even though I‘ve already said yes.

François is in the kitchen, toasting a dinner roll on the grill to go with his coffee. He stands as he always stands, erect, with his right ankle casually crossed over his left ankle behind him. His shoulders quiver. Is he weeping? Something’s up.

“Hello, François.”

François dabs his eyes with a kitchen rag, “Ah, good. You are early for a change. Begin your side work.”

“I need to talk with you.”

“Not now, Tedee, unless it is important.”

“I’ve been offered a job.”

“Where?”

“On Fire Island. The Pines.”

“I give you a job when you needed one, and this is how you answer me? You twit.”

“Is everything all right?”

“What does this mean, ‘all right?’ No. I am not ‘all right.’ The doctor tells me that Lou has gay pneumonia.”

“What’s the difference between that and regular pneumonia?”

“Gay pneumonia is for gay men only. It is special.”

“Is it catchy? I mean, will you get it?”

“The doctor says no. He thinks Lou got it by masturbating with the windows open. So do not masturbate with the windows open.”

“I won’t.”

“This job on Fire Island, it is for the summer, no?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get it?”

“Remember that male model I dated?”

“The one that got up and left you in the middle of your first date? Yes.”

“Well, he called me. His ex-boyfriend manages a restaurant called The Botel, and they need summer help.”

“Do you know anything about Fire Island Pines?”

“No, but I – ”

“It is for men only, Tedee. It is “The Garden of Earthly Delights” with jock straps. Sex there is what you will do between meals.”

My mouth hangs open…I want to start work there tomorrow.

“French restaurants are never busy in the summer. Take the job, Tedee. It will do you good to see more of the world even though it is just Long Island.”

“Thank you, François.”

“When you get back, come and see me, if I am still here.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Say nothing to Lancel, but I am talking with Chez Pascal. It has three stars.”

François gathers his coffee and roll, and walks into the dining room. I remain in the kitchen, greatly relieved. François has freed me for the summer. I’m suddenly hungry, so, I, too, toast a roll, just the way François does. I empty two sugar packets in a cup, dash it with milk, then pour the coffee, just the way François does. I put my coffee and toasted bun on a tray and head for the door, but stop when I realize I’m crying softly, just like François.