food down his throat. “Mine are fine,” he finally was able to answer. The same scrambled eggs, shining lemon yellow, spread generously along the plate next to three strips of thick, sizzling bacon with the white fatty part puffed at the ends, and two thick slices of a dense brown bread (she had called it an Irish breakfast at first sight). “They are fine.”
“But you always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Because you are afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Of offending.”
“Whom? Surely not you.”
“Hardly.” She smiled. “But the waiters.”
“What are you saying?”
“That you would rather eat cold eggs than complain. You don’t want to upset the waiters.”
“Sarah, that is not true at all. I happen to think that they are at an ideal temperature for consumption.”
“The lengths you’ll go to convince yourself.”
“When the food comes out burning hot you can’t eat it anyway. You have to let it cool down, right? Well, this is the ideal eating temperature. There are no issues of embarrassment or apprehension. In fact, there are no issues at all.”
“Well, it causes you to have to eat faster.”
Max had just taken another bite and was chewing with a slower, more deliberate determination.
“There is only a finite amount of time when the temperature is ideal. Do you follow?”
Max nodded without commitment.
“When it comes out too hot then you can savor it. A little breath to cool it down. Talk. Enjoy. Then another bite. Still hot. Again a little less breath to cool it down. But the way you like it, one has to devour it almost immediately or else it becomes impossible to enjoy. It’s a matter of something being able to stay around for a long time to be enjoyed, and something else being garbled and mangled because its moment of satisfaction is so visibly temporary.”
He swallowed. “I get it,” he said. “Do you want me to order you another dish? Send it back to the kitchen?”
“It’s just that this is ludicrous. Does their Chef Louis find this acceptable?”
“I will try to get the waiter’s attention.”
“It shouldn’t be hard. He has been staring at us unremittingly since we sat down.”
“He is in awe of you.”
“Or he knows that the eggs are cold.”
Max turned around to survey the room. “I will try to get his attention.”
“And when you do, explain to him what I have told you. Or tell him that it’s just like sex. You want the passion to keep burning so you can continue to take little bites and tastes along the night. Or is that how it works with you boys, Molly? Perhaps you men-to-men are the epitome of male aggression, baring your teeth in full savagery, grunting for pleasure and mounting each other in pure ready-to-eat convection. Gnaw and destroy in a matter of moments. Is that how it is? In a way it all makes perfect sense. At least sexually, almost all men believe that women think just like men. That the pleasures are uniformly shared and that everybody wants the same thing. So perhaps it does follow that men would do better with men. They are actually choosing the right partner to fulfill their suppositions and expectations. In a way that is beauty in an aesthetic of logic. Does that sound right to you? Is that how it is?”
Max chose to ignore her. “I see him coming out of the kitchen now. I think…” He waved his hand politely.
“Of course,” she continued, “all the queer men I have been with, and I had a few—some before they were willing to admit it, others who wanted to believe I was a man, and others who would do anything at any time—they seemed to like their food served hot. They wanted to dine. What is the answer, Molly? What
“Here he comes.” Max explained the issue to the waiter, whose fat, round face burst red in a combination of discomfiture and rage at the notion of his guest’s disappointment. He was truly and terribly sorry and hoped that this would not disrupt her morning. It would only be a few minutes, but was there anything else that he could bring in the meantime? And he started to back away, unable to distract his attention from Sarah’s face, the chapter-and- verse definition of starstruck. “Oh,” he paused, “would the gentleman also like a fresh plate? Is it not warm enough either?”
“Well, Molly?” Sarah asked. “We are all waiting to know the answer.”
Max shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Please,” he said. “Please.”
“I wouldn’t have figured it, Molly. I’d have thought you as stubborn as me.”
“That’s why I’m in charge, Madame. The very reason why.”
The waiter stood by the table. His eyes trained on Sarah. “I believe that was a yes, dear,” she said to him.
“My apologies.” He looked flustered. “It’s just that…One moment, please.” He began to back away from the table.
“Pardon me.” Sarah spoke again. “Are you going to remove the plates?”
“Oh dear, indeed,” he said, reaching over to scoop up her plate, then placing Max’s on top, smothering hers, bacon tips peeking out the side. “Your presence just startles me.”
“I will trade you a signature for a hot plate of food. Is that fair? My trusted Max will find a cabinet photo for you that I can deface with my scribble.”
He nodded twice and backed away, looking at her the whole way.
“See, Molly, that was not so hard. Everybody understands that it is better to have things served hot. Endurance and longevity. Almost inevitably more important than talent.”
“And speaking of, we have to get the show in order.”
“Oh here we go.”
“Sarah, you will have had nearly a week between shows. Even you must admit that makes the potential for some sloppiness. But a brief run-through is all we need. It is not necessary to tax the actors so much.”
“They need more than to just familiarize themselves with the set.”
“The set is a whole other matter.”
“What we need to figure out is Marguerite’s relationship to her consumption. Does it control her? Is it the impetus to give her more conviction? Does it make her love Duval stronger, or more distant? When I was younger I saw that disease as part of her strength. That the contradiction of it empowered Marguerite to take on the world with more passion. Again, I am not certain. I am not even certain of the motive of the disease. But to expect that Armand Duval reacts to Marguerite the same no matter how she envisions herself is ludicrous. It alters the emotional staging of the entire play. It is not just about blocking, and making sure that all the props are in place, in order to save cuddle time with the promoters.”
Sarah and Max turned around, expecting to see the waiter but instead saw Abbot Kinney. He smelled of the cleanliness of fine soaps and imported cologne, and his demeanor announced a diligence for perfection. He was both manners and forceful drive. He stood politely with his right hand speared through his trouser pocket, the other fixed at his side. “I have just heard about your breakfast. And I hope to adequately convey the embarrassment of the entire staff by offering this apology. But rest assured, your meals will be arriving shortly. And if they are not satisfactory, then we will crack every egg between here and Mexico until we are certain that you are fully content with your breakfast.”
“Quite all right,” Max said.
“Or I could just go catch some sea bass,” Sarah added. She was the only one who laughed. Kinney looked away. Max stared hard at her.
Kinney gripped the back of a free chair. “Do you mind if I join you for a few minutes? As there are some matters facing the day.” He pulled the chair before the formal invitation was issued, setting himself between Max and Sarah. “Your crew is due to arrive midmorning. Is that right?”
“Both the actors and the crew,” Max corrected.
