Food Whore Read Online Free Page B

fizzled into a confused line.
    â€œWho?” he asked.
    My jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?” My voice was louder than it needed to be. I didn’t want to lash out in front of Emerald, especially since they were having such a chummy time together. But this was Helen . And he was Elliott. I’m not super-­friendly, and I don’t go around trusting everyone. But I trusted Elliott and I never thought I’d ever have to second-­guess him, of all ­people.
    â€œ Helen . Lansky . My idol?”
    â€œOh, God, of course. Helen! Sorry, I thought you said something else.” He hugged me and became just as puzzled and aggrieved as I was. Finally, we were on the same page again.
    But he had scared me a little.

 
    Chapter 3

    D EAN C HANG OPENED HER OFFICE DOOR . S HE WAS A TALL Asian woman who wore a perfectly tailored black skirt suit with a long slit up the side. Maybe it would have looked tawdry on anyone else, but on her and her I-­hope-­I’ll-­have-­those-­when-­I’m-­forty legs, it looked like pure power.
    â€œTia. Hello. Nice to meet you.” She seemed kind but distracted. “I’m happy to chat with you now if it’s urgent, but I’m finishing up some grading. Can this wait?”
    â€œNo, it can’t,” I said, then walked in and took a seat. Dean Chang sighed and went back to her desk.
    Her office was a shrine to the classics. Hanging on the wall were old menus featuring dishes like Cherries Jubilee and Lobsters Thermidor, and chummy photos of her and Julia Child, Jacques Pépin, and Alice Waters.
    â€œDean Chang, I received my placement notification yesterday. May I ask why I didn’t get the Helen Lansky internship? I’m so honored to be in this program, I am. But coat check? I don’t understand. It doesn’t seem like a graduate-­level placement.”
    I wanted to present myself as coming from a place of strength, to negotiate something better from her. But instead, something scared and desperate emerged and I had to fight to remain strong.
    â€œOh, please don’t be upset, Tia,” she said, momentarily pushing her papers aside.
    I’d talked to her like she was a friend, and it was the wrong approach. She remained administrator-­distanced. I began again, this time with more control.
    â€œIt’s just that the coat check position has nothing to do with food. Or with writing. I was planning on pursuing a different course of study.” In that moment, I wished I could be more like Emerald, breezily saying things that sounded calm and clever, but I was just me.
    â€œTia, I understand your confusion,” Dean Chang said with stern warmth, a clear indication she had spent her whole professional career soothing anxious students like me. “Madison Park Tavern is a fabulous restaurant—­four stars, among the best in New York, as I’m sure you already know. Your semester will be fantastic, I promise.” Then she picked up her heavy pen and looked at me like there was nothing else to say on the matter.
    â€œBut why?” I persisted. “I didn’t even put any restaurants on my application. I want to be a cookbook writer. Maybe I could be placed with another writer? Or even a blog?” I preferred Helen over every other option, but I was trying to stay open. I liked nice restaurants, sure. But they weren’t my passion. When I was growing up, my dad was notorious for his “restaurants are a rip-­off” tirade. My parents were inventive cooks and they never considered restaurant food to be worth the cost.
    For a moment, Dean Chang looked unsettled. “Wait a second. You didn’t select Madison Park Tavern as one of your choices?”
    I shook my head. “No, I didn’t. I chose Helen. Helen Lansky first and foremost. And then some other publications.”
    â€œOh, but when you resubmitted your essay in that email . . .” She