Vintage Attraction Read Online Free PDF Page B

It’s a sign,” Izzy said. She randomly followed with, “Do you speak Spanish?”
    â€œFrench,” I said. “I took French, through college, not that I have much to show for it now. I started in third grade. I had to choose between French and German, and my father thought French would be much handier in restaurants.”
    Chef Dominique seemed to find this very amusing, possibly even trenchant. “You can say that again,” he said.
    Izzy said, of the chef, “He’s from Alsace, which was, at one point, part of Germany. We’ve never actually been able to get him to tell us when he was born, but depending on the occupation”—she put her hand on his shoulder—“Chef, you could be German and serving even more sauerkraut at the bistro.”
    â€œ Nous disons ‘choucroute,’ Sommelier. Choucroute . I’m no Sherman.”
    â€œWe can Pinot Gris to disagree.”
    â€œThat’s good,” I told Izzy. “Did you just come up with that?”
    A large woman, moving sideways and wearing what appeared to be a running suit underneath an unzipped fur coat, came over to the table. “Excuse me,” she said, “I hate to bother you while you’re having dinner, but you’re Isabelle Conway.”
    Izzy, gradually looking up from her unfinished burger, and Chef Dominique both nodded. The chef grinned proudly.
    â€œMy name is Nancy Podolsky.” She and Izzy shook hands. To Chef Dominique she turned and said, “Nancy Podolsky,” and they touched palms. I thought it was funny that she kept repeating her full name. “Yes, honey,” she said to the ceiling. It was then I noticed she had a Bluetooth headset affixed to her ear. “I’ll make sure they have barbeque sauce, and horseradish sauce for the fries, which I shouldn’t be having anyway, and can you just wait a second? I’m standing, yes, I’m standing right in front of her.” She lowered her head, setting her sights back on Izzy, whose building exasperation subtly revealed itself only in the rigidity of her mouth. “Can you say something to your biggest fan?”
    â€œHow, um . . .”
    Did this Nancy Podolsky woman really expect Izzy to put her diseased earpiece into—
    â€œHere, wait.” She slapped a button on the headset, and the device screeched. The noise startled several of those at the table adjacent, but Nancy Podolsky was, it seemed, steeled to the terrible sounds. “Okay, Byron, can you hear me? It’s on speaker. Yes, honey, please. I hear him. Can you hear her, honey? Okay, it’s okay.”
    Izzy tried to put in, “I think you have to—”
    â€œJust say something,” she barked at Izzy. Her bald haughtiness was surprising. Chef Dominique straightened his back.
    Izzy took her napkin from her lap and began to fold it into rectangles and then squares. “Hi there,” she said, in the theatrical voice that she used when speaking from the dais at the club tonight.
    Nancy Podolsky ripped the Bluetooth out of her ear. It started emitting a series of unrelentingly high-pitched error tones. “Disconnected,” she huffed.
    â€œWell, I’m sure—”
    â€œOkay, okay, how about this. How about a photo?” She drew her cell phone out of her coat pocket.
    Izzy rose and asked me to take the picture of them standing in a narrow space that had opened in front of the bar. Amid the mortifying stares of those both chary and intrigued dining around us, I agreed, feigning cheerfulness. “How do I—”
    â€œJust press the button that looks like a camera. And then hold down the round button in the middle when it looks good.”
    Chef Dominique sighed. I was the only one to turn in his direction. He took the cocktail straw he’d transferred to his water glass and blew air through it.
    â€œAre you her publicist?” Nancy Podolsky then asked me.
    As Izzy’s wine