potato tart
Chapter 1
“It’s time to wake up,” blasted on my alarm clock. It was January 1st, 2021 and nothing had changed. The world was still masked. The unit next door was still empty. My oven still needed to be degreased. My partially sipped amaro was sweating on my nightstand, a trail of peanuts beside it. Maude was licking my face, a white fluff ball with browned ears, my coconut macaroon. It was always cute when we started making out, until I’d think, “Oh god, what if my own dog gives me COVID?”
I grabbed my phone and almost turned off “Do not Disturb” to let the New Year’s messages flood in. I held back and opened the Calm app instead, a meditation to start things off—very unlike me. Maude nibbled my toes while I counted my breaths. After a life-changing eight minutes I turned on my phone. I was ready to be disturbed.
No messages came through. What a surprise. I slumped to the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed my canister of matcha and set my pot to boiling. I’d probably grab coffee down the street anyway, just to feel like a New Yorker again. I scooped a heaping tablespoon and sifted it through a fine strainer into my ceremonial bowl, added boiling water, then whisked. This was my morning ritual, followed by a walk with Maude. Though she was usually the one walking me, leaping at birds, heart racing in hopes of winning the attentions of the odd stranger. People say owners mirror their dogs. Maybe I was leaping at flights of fury, beating for the attentions of a stranger.
Drunk on Bored to Death and Agatha Christie, I decided to pursue my dream of being LA County’s masked detective in the pandemic peak. What better time? I had to hunt something down. I set up an ad on Tinder. A picture of me in a tweed news cap with the caption: “looking for a mystery to solve.”
No swipes came in. No detective in sight. No one had anything to solve.
I was bored. I went to the kitchen and investigated the fridge. A bottle of Beaujolais to start the morning. Shallots, fennel, goat cheese and Yukon golds. A comforting assortment of wintry bulbs, roots and stems. The smells wafted in the air as they sweated in my Dutch oven, Maude whining at my feet. I reached into my freezer for my puff pastry, assembled the dish, and put it in the oven. I self-medicated with a potato tart—we all have our vices.
As the first bite crunched in my mouth, smoke cigaretting from my lips, eight knocks hit the door—I could swear it was to the rhythm of “Fever”. An envelope slid through the mail slot, sealed with the wax stamp of a smile. Maude barked. The smoke detector beeped.
I opened the letter: I saw your ad on Tinder. If you’re looking for a mystery to solve, you won’t find it there. Go to the little French bistro in the strip mall on Highland. Tap on their window seven times. Ask for Mr. Boulevardier. Order Dante’s Inferno and a jambon beurre. The rooks have landed beyond the grave, the pawns are lined in lattice formation, ce n’est pas de la tarte.
My half-eaten tart dropped. A chilled breeze blew through my kitchen window. This is what I’d been craving.
To be continued…