Pastels
I’m on the verge of tears by the time we arrive at Pastels since I’m positive we won’t get seated but the table is good, and relief that is almost tidal in scope washes over me in an awesome wave. At Pastels McDermott knows the ma?tre d’ and though we made our reservations from a cab only minutes ago we’re immediately led past the overcrowded bar into the pink, brightly lit main dining room and seated at an excellent booth for four, up front. It’s really impossible to get a reservation at Pastels and I think Van Patten, myself, even Price, are impressed by, maybe even envious of, McDermott’s prowess in securing a table. After we piled into a cab on Water Street we realized that no one had made reservations anywhere and while debating the merits of a new Californian-Sicilian bistro on the Upper East Side—my panic so great I almost ripped Zagat in two—the consensus seemed to emerge. Price had the only dissenting voice but he finally shrugged and said, “I don’t give a shit,” and we used his portaphone to make the reservation. He slipped his Walkman on and turned the volume up so loud that the sound of Vivaldi was audible even with the windows halfway open and the noise of the uptown traffic blasting into the taxi. Van Patten and McDermott made rude jokes about the size of Tim’s dick and I did too. Outside Pastels Tim grabbed the napkin with Van Patten’s final version of his carefully phrased question for GQ on it and tossed it at a bum huddling outside the restaurant feebly holding up a sloppy cardboard Sign: I AM HUNGRY AND HOMELESS PLEASE HELP ME.
Things seem to be going smoothly. The ma?tre d’ has sent over four complimentary Bellinis but we order drinks anyway. The Ronettes are singing “Then He Kissed Me,” our waitress is a little hardbody and even Price seems relaxed though he hates the place. Plus there are four women at the table opposite ours, all great-looking—blond, big tits: one is wearing a chemise dress in double-faced wool by Calvin Klein, another is wearing a wool knit dress and jacket with silk faille bonding by Geoffrey Beene, another is wearing a symmetrical skirt of pleated tulle and an embroidered velvet bustier by, I think, Christian Lacroix plus high-heeled shoes by Sidonie Larizzi, and the last one is wearing a black strapless sequined gown under a wool crepe tailored jacket by Bill Blass. Now the Shirelles are coming out of the speakers, “Dancing in the Street,” and the sound system plus the acoustics, because of the restaurant’s high ceiling, are so loud that we have to practically scream out our order to the hardbody waitress—who is wearing a bicolored suit of wool grain with passementerie trim by Myrone de Prémonville and velvet ankle boots and who, I’m fairly sure, is flirting with me: laughs sexily when I order, as an appetizer, the monkfish and squid ceviche with golden caviar; gives me a stare so steamy, so penetrating when I order the gravlax potpie with green tomatillo sauce I have to look back at the pink Bellini in the tall champagne flute with a concerned, deadly serious expression so as not to let her think I’m too interested. Price orders the tapas and then the venison with yogurt sauce and fiddlehead ferns with mango slices. McDermott orders the sashimi with goat cheese and then the smoked duck with endive and maple syrup. Van Patten has the scallop sausage and the grilled salmon with raspberry vinegar and guacamole. The air-conditioning in the restaurant is on full blast and I’m beginning to feel bad that I’m not wearing the new Versace pullover I bought last week at Bergdorf’s. It would look good with the suit I’m wearing.
“Could you please get rid of these things,” Price tells the busboy as he gestures toward the Bellinis.
“Wait, Tim,” Van Patten says. “Cool out. I’ll drink them.”
“Eurotrash, David,” Price explains. “Eurotrash.”
“You can have mine, Van Patten,” I say.
“Wait,” McDermott says, holding the busboy back. “I’m keeping mine too.”
“Why?” Price asks. “Are you trying to entice that Armenian chick over by the bar?”
“What Armenian chick?” Van Patten is suddenly craning his neck, interested.
“Just take them all,” Price says, practically seething.
The busboy humbly removes the glasses, nodding to no one as he walks away.
“Who made you boss?” McDermott whines.
“Look, guys. Look who just came in.” Van Patten whistles. “Oh boy.”
“Oh for Christ sakes, not f*cking Preston,” Price, sighs.
“No. Oh no,” Van Patten says ominously. “He hasn’t spotted us yet.”
“Victor Powell? Paul Owen?” I say, suddenly scared.
“He’s twenty-four and worth, oh, let’s say, a repulsive amount of dough,” Van Patten hints, grinning. He has obviously been spotted by the person and flashes a bright, toothy smile. “A veritable shitload.”
I crane my neck but can’t figure out who’s doing anything.
“It’s Scott Montgomery,” Price says. “Isn’t it? It’s Scott Montgomery.”
“Perhaps,” Van Patten teases.
“It’s that dwarf Scott Montgomery,” says Price.
“Price,” Van Patten says. “You’re priceless.”
“Watch me act thrilled,” Price says, turning around. “Well, as thrilled as I can get meeting someone from Georgia.”
“Whoa,” McDermott says. “And he’s dressed to impress.”
“Hey,” Price says. “I’m depressed, I mean impressed.”
“Wow,” I say, spotting Montgomery. “Elegant navies.”
“Subtle plaids,” Van Patten whispers.
“Lotsa beige,” Price says. “You know.”
“Here he comes,” I say, bracing myself.
Scott Montgomery walks over to our booth wearing a double-breasted navy blue blazer with mock-tortoiseshell buttons, a prewashed wrinkled-cotton striped dress shirt with red accent stitching, a red, white and blue fireworks-print silk tie by Hugo Boss and plum washed-wool trousers with a quadruple-pleated front and slashed pockets by Lazo. He’s holding a glass of champagne and hands it to the girl he’s with—definite model type, thin, okay tits, no ass, high heels—and she’s wearing a wool-crepe skirt and a wool and cashmere velour jacket and draped over her arm is a wool and cashmere velour coat, all by Louis Dell’Olio. High-heeled shoes by Susan Bennis Warren Edwards. Sunglasses by Alain Mikli. Pressed-leather bag from Hermès.
“Hey fellas. How y’all doin’?” Montgomery speaks in a thick Georgia twang. “This is Nicki. Nicki, this is McDonald, Van Buren, Bateman—nice tan—and Mr. Price.” He shakes only Timothy’s hand and then takes the champagne glass from Nicki. Nicki smiles, politely, like a robot, probably doesn’t speak English.
“Montgomery,” Price says in a kindly, conversational tone, staring at Nicki. “How have things been?”
“Well, fellas,” Montgomery says. “See y’all got the primo table. Get the check yet? Just kidding.”
“Listen, Montgomery,” Price says, staring at Nicki but still being unusually kind to someone I thought was a stranger. “Squash?”
“Call me,” Montgomery says absently, looking over the room. “Is that Tyson? Here’s my card.”
“Great,” Price says, pocketing it. “Thursday?”
“Can’t. Going to Dallas tomorrow but …” Montgomery is already moving away from the table, hurrying toward someone else, snapping for Nicki. “Yeah, next week.”
Nicki smiles at me, then looks at the floor—pink, blue, lime green tiles crisscrossing each other in triangular patterns—as if it had some kind of answer, held some sort of clue, offered a coherent reason as to why she was stuck with Montgomery. Idly I wonder if she’s older than him, and then if she’s flirting with me.
“Later,” Price is saying.
“Later, fellas …” Montgomery is already about halfway across the room. Nicki slinks behind him. I was wrong: she does have an ass.
“Eight hundred million.” McDermott whistles, shaking his head.
“College?” I ask.
“A joke,” Price hints.
“Rollins?” I guess.
“Get this,” McDermott says. “Hampden-Sydney.”
“He’s a parasite, a loser, a weasel,” Van Patten concludes.
“But he’s worth eight hundred million,” McDermott repeats emphatically.
“Go over and give the dwarf head—will that shut you up?” Price says. “I mean how impressed can you get, McDermott?”
“Anyway,” I mention, “nice babe.”
“That girl is hot,” McDermott agrees.
“Affirmative.” Price nods, but grudgingly.
“Oh man,” Van Patten says, distressed. “I know that chick.”
“Oh bullshit,” we all moan.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Picked her up at Tunnel, right?”
“No,” he says, then after sipping his drink, “She’s a model. Anorexic, alcoholic, uptight bitch. Totally French.”
“What a joke you are,” I say, unsure if he’s lying.
“Wanna bet?”
“So what?” McDermott shrugs. “I’d f*ck her.”
“She drinks a liter of Stoli a day then throws it up and redrinks it, McDermott,” Van Patten explains. “Total alkie.”
“Total cheap alkie,” Price murmurs.
“I don’t care,” McDermott says bravely. “She is beautiful. I want to f*ck her. I want to marry her. I want her to have my children.”
“Oh Jesus,” Van Patten says, practically gagging. “Who wants to marry a chick who’s gonna give birth to a jug of vodka and cranberry juice?”
“He has a point,” I say.
“Yeah. He also wants to shack up with the Armenian chick at the bar,” Price sneers. “What’ll she give birth to—a bottle of Korbel and a pint of peach juice?”
“What Armenian chick?” McDermott asks, exasperated, craning his neck.
“Oh Jesus. F*ck off, you faggots.” Van Patten sighs.
The ma?tre d’ stops by to say hello to McDermott, then notices we don’t have our complimentary Bellinis, and runs off before any of us can stop him. I’m not sure how McDermott knows Alain so well—maybe Cecelia?—and it slightly pisses me off but I decide to even up the score a little bit by showing everyone my new business card. I pull it out of my gazelleskin wallet (Barney’s, $850) and slap it on the table, waiting for reactions.
“What’s that, a gram?” Price says, not apathetically.
“New card.” I try to act casual about it but I’m smiling proudly. “What do you think?”
“Whoa,” McDermott says, lifting it up, fingering the card, genuinely impressed. “Very nice. Take a look.” He hands it to Van Patten.
“Picked them up from the printer’s yesterday,” I mention.
“Cool coloring,” Van Patten says, studying the card closely.
“That’s bone,” I point out. “And the lettering is something called Silian Rail.”
“Silian Rail?” McDermott asks.
“Yeah. Not bad, huh?”
“It is very cool, Bateman,” Van Patten says guardedly, the jealous bastard, “but that’s nothing.…” He pulls out his wallet and slaps a card next to an ashtray. “Look at this.”
We all lean over and inspect David’s card and Price quietly says, “That’s really nice.” A brief spasm of jealousy courses through me when I notice the elegance of the color and the classy type. I clench my fist as Van Patten says, smugly, “Eggshell with Romalian type …” He turns to me. “What do you think?”
“Nice,” I croak, but manage to nod, as the busboy brings four fresh Bellinis.
“Jesus,” Price says, holding the card up to the light, ignoring the new drinks. “This is really super. How’d a nitwit like you get so tasteful?”
I’m looking at Van Patten’s card and then at mine and cannot believe that Price actually likes Van Patten’s better. Dizzy, I sip my drink then take a deep breath.
“But wait,” Price says. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.…” He pulls his out of an inside coat pocket and slowly, dramatically turns it over for our inspection and says, “Mine.”
Even I have to admit it’s magnificent.
Suddenly the restaurant seems far away, hushed, the noise distant, a meaningless hum, compared to this card, and we all hear Price’s words: “Raised lettering, pale nimbus white …”
“Holy shit,” Van Patten exclaims. “I’ve never seen …”
“Nice, very nice,” I have to admit. “But wait. Let’s see Montgomery’s.”
Price pulls it out and though he’s acting nonchalant, I don’t see how he can ignore its subtle off-white coloring, its tasteful thickness. I am unexpectedly depressed that I started this.
“Pizza. Let’s order a pizza,” McDermott says. “Doesn’t anyone want to split a pizza? Red snapper? Mmmmm. Bateman wants that,” he says, rubbing his hands eagerly together.
I pick up Montgomery’s card and actually finger it, for the sensation the card gives off to the pads of my fingers.
“Nice, huh?” Price’s tone suggests he realizes I’m jealous.
“Yeah,” I say offhandedly, giving Price the card like I don’t give a shit, but I’m finding it hard to swallow.
“Red snapper pizza,” McDermott reminds me. “I’m f*cking starving.”
“No pizza,” I murmur, relieved when Montgomery’s card is placed away, out of sight, back in Timothy’s pocket.
“Come on,” McDermott says, whining. “Let’s order the red snapper pizza.”
“Shut up, Craig,” Van Patten says, eyeing a waitress taking a booth’s order. “But call that hardbody over.”
“But she’s not ours,” McDermott says, fidgeting with the menu he’s yanked from a passing busboy.
“Call her over anyway,” Van Patten insists. “Ask her for water or a Corona or something.”
“Why her?” I’m asking no one in particular. My card lies on the table, ignored next to an orchid in a blue glass vase. Gently I pick it up and slip it, folded, back into my wallet.
“She looks exactly like this girl who works in the Georgette Klinger section of Bloomingdale’s,” Van Patten says. “Call her over.”
“Does anyone want the pizza or not?” McDermott’s getting testy.
“How would you know?” I ask Van Patten.
“I buy Kate’s perfume there,” he answers.
Price’s gestures gather the table’s attention. “Did I forget to tell everyone that Montgomery’s a dwarf?”
“Who’s Kate?” I say.
“Kate is the chick who Van Patten’s having the affair with,” Price explains, staring back at Montgomery’s table.
“What happened to Miss Kittridge?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Price smiles. “What about Amanda?”
“Oh god, guys, lighten up. Fidelity? Right.”
“Aren’t you afraid of diseases?” Price asks.
“From who, Amanda or Kate?” I ask.
“I thought we agreed that we can’t get it.” Van Patten’s voice rises. “So-o-o-o … shithead. Shut up.”
“Didn’t I tell you—”
Four more Bellinis arrive. There are now eight Bellinis on the table.
“Oh my god,” Price moans, trying to grab at the busboy before he scampers off.
“Red snapper pizza … red snapper pizza …” McDermott has found a mantra for the evening.
“We’ll soon become targets for horny Iranian chicks,” Price drones.
“It’s like zero zero zero percentage whatever, you know—are you listening?” Van Patten asks.
“… snapper pizza … red snapper pizza …” Then McDermott slams his hand on the table, rocking it. “Goddamnit, isn’t anybody listening to me?”
I’m still tranced out on Montgomery’s card—the classy coloring, the thickness, the lettering, the print—and I suddenly raise a fist as if to strike out at Craig and scream, my voice booming, “No one wants the f*cking red snapper pizza! A pizza should be yeasty and slightly bready and have a cheesy crust! The crusts here are too f*cking thin because the shithead chef who cooks here overbakes everything! The pizza is dried out and brittle!” Red-faced, I slam my Bellini down on the table and when I look up our appetizers have arrived. A hardbody waitress stands looking down at me with this strange, glazed expression. I wipe a hand over my face, genially smiling up at her. She stands there looking at me as if I were some kind of monster—she actually looks scared—and I glance over at Price—for what? guidance?—and he mouths “Cigars” and pats his coat pocket.
McDermott quietly says, “I don’t think they’re brittle.”
“Honey,” I say, ignoring McDermott, taking an arm and pulling her toward me. She flinches but I smile and she lets me pull her closer. “Now we’re all going to eat a nice big meal here—” I start to explain.
“But this isn’t what I ordered,” Van Patten says, looking at his plate. “I wanted the mussel sausage.”
“Shut up.” I shoot him a glance then calmly turn toward the hardbody, grinning like an idiot, but a handsome idiot. “Now listen, we are good customers here and we’re probably going to order some fine brandy, cognac, who knows, and we want to relax and bask in this”—I gesture with my arm—“atmosphere. Now”—with the other hand I pull out my gazelleskin wallet—“we would like to enjoy some fine Cuban cigars afterwards and we don’t want to be bothered by some loutish—”
“Loutish.” McDermott nods to Van Patten and Price.
“Loutish and inconsiderate patrons or tourists who are inevitably going to complain about our innocuous little habit.… So”—I press what I hope is fifty into a small-boned hand—“if you could make sure we aren’t bothered while we do, we would gratefully appreciate it.” I rub the hand, closing it into a fist over the bill. “And if anyone complains, well …” I pause, then warn menacingly, “Kick em out.”
She nods mutely and backs away with this dazed, confused look on her face.
“And,” Price adds, smiling, “if another round of Bellinis comes within a twenty-foot radius of this table we are going to set the ma?tre d’ on fire. So, you know, warn him.”
After a long silence during which we contemplate our appetizers, Van Patten speaks up. “Bateman?”
“Yes?” I fork a piece of monkfish, push it into some of the golden caviar, then place the fork back down.
“You are pure prep perfection,” he purrs.
Price spots another waitress approaching with a tray of four champagne flutes filled with pale pinkish liquid and says, “Oh for Christ sakes, this is getting ridiculous.…” She sets them down, however, at the table next to us, for the four babes.
“She is hot,” Van Patten says, ignoring his scallop sausage.
“Hardbody.” McDermott nods in agreement. “Definitely.”
“I’m not impressed,” Price sniffs. “Look at her knees.”
While the hardbody stands there we check her out, and though her knees do support long, tan legs, I can’t help noticing that one knee is, admittedly, bigger than the other one. The left knee is knobbier, almost imperceptibly thicker than the right knee and this unnoticeable flaw now seems overwhelming and we all lose interest. Van Patten is looking at his appetizer, stunned, and then he looks at McDermott and says, “That isn’t what you ordered either. That’s sushi, not sashimi.”
“Jesus,” McDermott sighs. “You don’t come here for the food anyway.”
Some guy who looks exactly like Christopher Lauder comes over to the table and says, patting me on the shoulder, “Hey Hamilton, nice tan,” before walking into the men’s room.
“Nice tan, Hamilton,” Price mimics, tossing tapas onto my bread plate.
“Oh gosh,” I say, “hope I’m not blushin’.”
“Actually, where do you go, Bateman?” Van Patten asks. “For a tan.”
“Yeah, Bateman. Where do you go?” McDermott seems genuinely intrigued.
“Read my lips,” I say, “a tanning salon,” then irritably, “like everyone else.”
“I have,” Van Patten says, pausing for maximum impact, “a tanning bed at … home,” and then he takes a large bite out of his scallop sausage.
“Oh bullshit,” I say, cringing.
“It’s true,” McDermott confirms, his mouth full. “I’ve seen it.”
“That is f*cking outrageous,” I say.
“Why the hell is it f*cking outrageous?” Price asks, pushing tapas around his plate with a fork.
“Do you know how expensive a f*cking tanning salon membership is?” Van Patten asks me. “A membership for a year?”
“You’re crazy,” I mutter.
“Look, guys,” Van Patten says. “Bateman’s indignant.”
Suddenly a busboy appears at our table and without asking if we’re finished removes our mostly uneaten appetizers. None of us complain except for McDermott, who asks, “Did he just take our appetizers away?” and then laughs uncomprehendingly. But when he sees no one else laughing he stops.
“He took them away because the portions are so small he probably thought we were finished,” Price says tiredly.
“I just think that’s crazy about the tanning bed,” I tell Van Patten, though secretly I think it would be a hip luxury except I really have no room for one in my apartment. There are things one could do with it besides getting a tan.
“Who is Paul Owen with?” I hear McDermott asking Price.
“Some weasel from Kicker Peabody,” Price says distractedly. “He knew McCoy.”
“Then why is he sitting with those dweebs from Drexel?” McDermott asks. “Isn’t that Spencer Wynn?”
“Are you freebasing or what?” Price asks. “That’s not Spencer Wynn.”
I look over at Paul Owen, sitting in a booth with three other guys—one of whom could be Jeff Duvall, suspenders, slicked-back hair, horn-rimmed glasses, all of them drinking champagne—and I lazily wonder about how Owen got the Fisher account. It makes me not hungry but our meals arrive almost immediately after our appetizers are taken away and we begin to eat. McDermott undoes his suspenders. Price calls him a slob. I feel paralyzed but manage to turn away from Owen and stare at my plate (the potpie a yellow hexagon, strips of smoked salmon circling it, squiggles of pea-green tomatillo sauce artfully surrounding the dish) and then I gaze at the waiting crowd. They seem hostile, drunk on complimentary Bellinis perhaps, tired of waiting hours for shitty tables near the open kitchen even though they had reservations. Van Patten interrupts the silence at our table by slamming his fork down and pushing his chair back.
“What’s wrong?” I say, looking up from my plate, a fork poised over it, but my hand will not move; it’s as if it appreciated the plate’s setup too much, as if my hand had a mind of its own and refused to break up its design. I sigh and put the fork down, hopeless.
“Shit. I have to tape this movie on cable for Mandy.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin, stands up. “I’ll be back.”
“Have her do it, idiot,” Price says. “What are you, demented?”
“She’s in Boston, seeing her dentist.” Van Patten shrugs, p-ssywhipped.
“What in the hell are you going to do?” My voice wavers. I’m still thinking about Van Patten’s card. “Call up HBO?”
“No,” he says. “I have a touch-tone phone hooked up to program a Videonics VCR programmer I bought at Hammacher Schlemmer.” He walks away pulling his suspenders up.
“How hip,” I say tonelessly.
“Hey, what do you want for dessert?” McDermott calls out.
“Something chocolate and flourless,” he shouts back.
“Has Van Patten stopped working out?” I ask. “He looks puffy.”
“It looks that way, doesn’t it,” Price says.
“Doesn’t he have a membership at the Vertical Club?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Price murmurs, studying his plate, then sitting up he pushes it away and motions to the waitress for another Finlandia on the rocks.
Another hardbody waitress approaches us tentatively, bringing over a bottle of champagne, Perrier-Jou?t, nonvintage, and tells us it’s complimentary from Scott Montgomery.
“Nonvintage, that weasel,” Price hisses, craning his neck to find Montgomery’s table. “Loser.” He gives him a thumbs-up sign from across the room. “The f*cker’s so short I could barely see him. I think I gave thumbs-up to Conrad. I can’t be sure.”
“Where’s Conrad?” I ask. “I should say hello to him.”
“The dude who called you Hamilton,” Price says.
“That wasn’t Conrad,” I say.
“Are you sure? It looked a helluva lot like him,” he says but he’s not really listening; he blatantly stares at the hardbody waitress, at exposed cleavage as she leans down to get a firmer grip on the bottle’s cork.
“No. That wasn’t Conrad,” I say, surprised at Price’s inability to recognize co-workers. “That guy had a better haircut.”
We sit in silence while the hardbody pours the champagne. Once she leaves, McDermott asks if we liked the food. I tell him the potpie was fine but there was way too much tomatillo sauce. McDermott nods, says, “That’s what I’ve heard.”
Van Patten returns, mumbling, “They don’t have a good bathroom to do coke in.”
“Dessert?” McDermott suggests.
“Only if I can order the Bellini sorbet,” Price says, yawning.
“How about just the check,” Van Patten says.
“Time to go bird-dogging, gentlemen,” I say.
The hardbody brings the check over. The total is $475, much less than we expected. We split it but I need the cash so I put it on my platinum AmEx and collect their bills, mostly fresh fifties. McDermott demands ten dollars back since his scallop sausage appetizer was only sixteen bucks. Montgomery’s bottle of champagne is left at the table, undrunk. Outside Pastels a different bum sits in the street, with a sign that says something completely illegible. He gently asks us for some change and then, more hopefully, for some food.
“That dude needs a facial real bad,” I say.
“Hey McDermott,” Price cackles. “Throw him your tie.”
“Oh shit. What’s that gonna get him?” I ask, staring at the bum.
“Appetizers at Jams.” Van Patten laughs. He gives me high-five.
“Dude,” McDermott says, inspecting his tie, clearly offended.
“Oh, sorry … cab,” Price says, waving down a cab. “… and a beverage.”
“Off to Tunnel,” McDermott tells the driver.
“Great, McDermott,” Price says, getting in the front seat. “You sound really excited.”
“So what if I’m not some burned-out decadent faggot like yourself,” McDermott says, getting in ahead of me.
“Did anyone know cavemen got more fiber than we do?” Price asks the cabdriver.
“Hey, I heard that too,” McDermott says.
“Van Patten,” I say. “Did you see the comp bottle of champagne Montgomery sent over?”
“Really?” Van Patten asks, leaning over McDermott. “Let me guess. Perrier-Jou?t?”
“Bingo,” Price says. “Nonvintage.”
“F*cking weasel,” Van Patten says.