cara cara cake
Chapter 2
I turned the oven off, clipped on Maude’s leash, and put on some gloss—you never know who’s on the other side of a window. Then I headed out the door to Highland, in search of the little bistro.
I liked LA this time of day—at a standstill, exhausted but not quite dead. The sun was setting, hues like a Hemingway cocktail. Pale pinks and yellows tie dyed across the sky. It took me to Havana—not that I’ve ever been. Restaurants had just reopened outdoors, so there were chairs outside my local pastry shop. It was nice to feel the possibility of life again. Maude sneezed as she chased wrappers and cigarette butts. We hopped in the car and drove to the edge of Melrose. We needed to survey the scene. My destination—a strip mall. It was filled with basic LA regulars—a donut shop, a nail-salon-slash-foot-massage-parlor, and most important, the bistro.
The valet station was deserted so we self-parked. I grabbed Maude’s leash and we walked to the sign. The awning bleached and burned. The takeout window was mirrored, forcing me to look at myself. I should’ve worn a different mask.
I tapped seven times, just like the note said. It slid open, but no one was behind it, just a grease-stained chef’s hat facing me on the counter.
“Hello” I said, “Mr. Boulevardier?”
A smoldering Russian voice boomed over an intercom. “Turn around and place your order,” it crackled. The Russians always make their mark in these noir stories—fitting, too, since the word bistro is actually Russian.
“Um, I’ll have the Dante’s Inferno?” I whispered, like I was asking myself a question instead of questioning my entire existence, “and a jambon beurre.”
“Close your eyes and count to ten. No cheating. We’re watching you.”
I complied, finally some direction in life. “1…2…3—my mind drifted to my favorite Russian restaurant in NY (the only one)—caviar—perogies—vodka—borscht (whatastrangesoup)—if I made it home alive, I’d make a martini…10.”
I turned around. The hat was gone and its place was a lone Cara Cara cake. Cara Cara oranges were in season. I loved their sweet-tart flavor, orange in the streets and grapefruit in the sheets.
“Eat it at home,” the Russian voice commanded. “And don’t come back!”
I got in my car and went ham on the cake. Maude stared me down from the passenger seat. Hints of Aperol, olive oil, and orange rind haunted me with delight as I devoured it. The bitter tinge and moist mouthfeel made me nostalgic for something I’d never experienced.
I felt something at the back of my throat. I hacked it up. Yeah, I know, disgusting. It was a New Yorker cartoon—classic. It featured an illustration of the nine circles of hell, a couple beneath, with the caption: Honey, I told you we shouldn’t have eaten another slice of cake. A cop car sirened by. I turned the cartoon over to reveal a note scrawled in sharpie: STOP EATING! (WHILE YOU’RE AHEAD).
To be continued…