This post was brought to you by Chloé Montana Rash, a New York-based filmmaker who counts Palm Beach, Toronto, Paris, and London amongst her former residences. Chloe has excellent taste in food, terrible taste in men, and never discusses love on an empty stomach.
“You haven’t seen Woody Allen play the clarinet here before? I’ve been three times already. I need to take you.”
Ah, those five dreaded words: I need to take you. A new, exceedingly depressing, version of swiping right, sending a DM, and never following through with an actual date. When did it become so easy to “take” people places, without the actual intention of going anywhere?
My eyes fixed at the Madeline cartoon on the wall as you held my hand underneath the ledge of Bemelmans bar at the Carlyle. Your wormlike fingers bulged around mine, reminding me of the balloons in the mural in front of us. On some evenings, you would swap out your lion ring for your grandfather’s silver skull ring; he was a sailor who taught you how to ride motorcycles. I often pictured you on a Harley in one of your bespoke three-piece suits, usually burgundy, with that ring glistening against the handlebar. I had always been suspicious of men who wear jewelry.
Our shots arrived. “Santé” I whispered, just as you said “Salute.” Hailing from a myriad of ancestry, you were everything but Italian. The “salute” was a relic from the years you had spent running an exclusive red sauce joint in the city, the same one I had met you at five months prior. It was the end of August and the searing summer heat had dampened my toes – even my shadow was sweating – but, when I entered your restaurant, you didn’t seem to care. Holding a glass of Krug, you floated to me as if you were a tracking shot in a Spike Lee film, promising me the best table in the house. A few minutes later, you gave it away to a blue-haired woman and her unwashed husband: the grand dame snapped her fingers, and the disheveled husband opened his wallet.
Your shot glass empty, you looked at me. “I adore you. I’m going to Rome and I want you to come with me. We can have breakfast in bed, eat pasta, drink wine…you can write from the balcony! Anyway, what I am trying to ask is, will you go with me?”
Before you, I dated an actor who wore pimple cream whilst making love to me, and an ignoble nobleman who collected Easy-Bake ovens. I don’t know if it was the vodka or your flattery, but in that moment, you seemed like the right choice. I was willing to bet on you. Not because you were safe, but because you were the best of the worst. In New York City, you often settle for the mediocre rather than the extraordinary, fearing that most men will stray to greener pastures.
I saw us dancing on water at Palazzo Dama and swilling limoncello at the Hotel de Russie, consumed with the fiery heat of uninhibited conversation. Falling asleep together in palatial rooms that had met lovers, and time, and time and lovers again. We were not your average lovers – our kisses were longer, our breaths were softer, and our palms touched even when our hands were tied.
“Ok, why not? Let’s go to Rome!”
Two weeks later, I was on my way to meet you at Sant Ambroeus. I passed a line of counterfeit peddlers who shouted at me to buy a handbag: “Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Fendi, Chanel!” When I arrived, you were already sitting at a table outside, waiting for me. The pink lapels of your double-breasted blazer matched your rosacea spotted cheeks.
“How was Paris?” you asked. I had just returned from a work trip where I spent very little time working and a lot of time waiting in line at artisanal bakeries.
“It’s different now, quiet. I think people are scared to visit after the attacks.”
“We should go to Paris and stay at the Ritz!” you kissed me as the server placed your martini beside your new Leica camera. I wasn’t entirely sure of when you had become a photographer, but I had an inkling. Even though I had been 4,000 miles away, this didn’t mean that I hadn’t noticed you liking all her Instagram photos. It’s unfortunate that the likes had led me to her profile, which had led me to that photo of her, naked, in your bed, holding that stupid Leica camera. I imagined all the places you had promised to take her: the Seaglass Carousel in Battery Park, Venice, the Dead Sea.. the corner deli.
“Didn’t you tell me your uncle lives there, why don’t you stay with him?”
“God no. I love the man, but I can’t stand his wife and his pretentious daughter. My niece is named after a Picasso painting! Every time I’m in town, she analyzes why I’m forty and unmarried. She thinks I prefer men.”
I guess your niece hadn’t inspected your recent Instagram feed.
“Do you?” I taunted.
“Hush!”
“Well, do you want to get married?”
“I honestly don’t know. My parents are still together, but they shouldn’t be. My uncle and his wife want to kill each other most of the time. Do you?”
I ignored the question because I wasn’t sure if I was marriage material. I had been raised to believe that marriage was a test of one’s domesticity and complacency, and, if so, I had failed on all accounts. My single room apartment in Manhattan forced me to keep my shoes in the oven. Even if I could afford a walk-in closet, I couldn’t imagine sharing it, and I promised myself never to cook for anyone, strictly out of principal. Ironically, I had a somewhat successful career as a food critic: those who cannot do, eat, take a few Gaviscon and then write about it.
“You haven’t given me the dates for Rome,” I diverted.
“Oh sorry darling, work has been crazy, I’ll keep you posted. Are you hungry? Let’s eat!” Not only did you have an Instagram girlfriend, but you had the audacity to blind me with carbohydrates. You were dangling noodles in front of my eyes, buttering me up with Bolognese and bullshit.
Midway into my linguine, I announced resentfully, “I think you should get married!”
“Why?” you scoffed.
“Because we shouldn’t let our parents dictate our future. I don’t believe in marriage — but if I had to do it, I would want an intimate party with meatball fountains. Each guest will have a plate and a bib, and meatballs will fly out of fountains as if they are being ejected from canons!”
“You are ridiculous!” Your wide eyes softened, and you leaned over to kiss my forehead. “When we get married, we’ll have our party at Casa Malaparte.”
“In Capri?”
“Yes. In Capri,” you quaffed your martini. There you were again, peddling imaginary places as if they were handbags on Canal Street.
Against my own best judgement, my mind floated to our wedding in the Bay of Naples. You were dressed in a tux waiting for me at the top of the stairs. The guests would leave sauced and covered in sauce, and I would force you into the ocean with me, until the sky turned cyan and coral. Another imaginary love story.
“They shot my favorite film there! Le Mépris. In English it’s called Contempt. Have you seen it?”
“No, I don’t think I have.”
“It ends very tragically.”
A young mother with protracted ebony hair and an unsheltered décolleté passed our table — she was escorting her little boy to the restroom. Your eyes kissed her lips, and she smiled.
We often try to make things work because we want a partner. We want to share our toothbrushes and Postmates promo codes and justify ordering a four-level brownie cake and breaking it with a chocolate hammer. It is then frightening to let go of the fantasy, watch our imaginary plans for the future wither, and accept that we had sacrificed our time, and shared our food, with a complete stranger.
That’s what you had always been, a stranger, an imposter who spent his entire life ordering daily specials. You never consumed the same dish twice, committing only to kissing bare cheeks and bare bottoms. From your three-piece suits and owl-eyed expression, to the slippery pool of gel in your hair, you were a gimmick — a man in need of a Sinatra overture to narrate your entrances and exits.
For what is a man, what has he got? If not himself, then he has naught.
That was great