Sarah Jessica Parker's Sex In The City

Somehow, Jonathan had gotten wind that I had bestowed Gerry the nickname Mr. Big. The same name Sarah Jessica Parker’s character, Carrie, had given her successful boyfriend in the HBO series, “Sex in the City.” The nickname was short for big shot, and also a reference to her well-endowed boyfriend’s body part. Jonathan had watched the series. So, he presumed Gerry and me were having an affair, and spread salacious rumors about us.
“Office politics can turn ugly fast,” Malcolm says. “Even in academia, I’ve seen it and been subject to it myself.”
“I’m sorry.”
Malcolm shrugs, and returns to the subject at hand. “But if you’re an exec at a studio with friends in high places, working there can have its perks. Makes me think, I should consider

switching careers.”
“They’d eat you alive.”
I’m excited to see the waitress arrive with our food.

I can’t wait to eat the spicy lentils and vegetables in a creamy blend of aromatic Indian spices. When she leaves, the yummy food delights and is a departure from the topic of Jonathan. I eat and between bites his name never comes up again.
Before we leave, I ask Malcolm to show me where he teaches his meditation and spiritual class. He’s delighted, although it’s no longer in a back room of the food co-op. On the way out, he orders a dessert for later.
We leave Café Gratitude satiated, and he drives us to the City College only two blocks from the University. The urban campus feels nostalgic to me. When Mark and I first arrived in Berkeley, I took an art history class here and soon became infatuated with my professor who had studied in Florence. No surprise, creative, intelligent men have always been my weakness.
When we arrive at Malcolm’s office, it’s smaller than the one at the University. Here he shares the cozy space with a colleague, a sociology professor. We sit on a worn leather couch. He hands me the, I AM REVIVED, hot mint tea from the restaurant’s paper bag. And a thick slice of the, I AM ETERNALLY BLESSED, raspberry cake with dairy-free almond frosting. I grab a plastic fork and dig in. I chew several mouthfuls, and ask, “How many students enroll in your

class?”
“Usually around forty, though the numbers dwindle as the week’s progress,” he says.
“I’d love to check it out.”
“Anytime,” he replies, and winks.
I want to tell him how much I missed our friendship during the past fifteen years. Though, I don’t have the chance. When out of the blue, he stops eating, leans in and kisses me on the lips. It’s as sweet and tender as I’d imagined. I accept his kiss as a sign of affection and that he missed me too, nothing more. On the ride back to his house, he mentions that his neighbor has invited us to dinner later.
“I hope that’s all right?”
“For sure, I’d love to meet her,” I reply. Although in my heart, I prefer to have dinner with him alone. There’s so much to catch up with, in particular, I want to know more regarding Lily. And what the state of their marriage is now. Only those private matters will have to be put on hold.

Chapter 2

At seven, we arrive at Emese’s front door. She welcomes us with kisses on both sides of our cheeks. As she escorts us through the front door, I notice how exquisite she is attired in a simple, long sleeved, black jersey dress that hugs her tall, thin frame. Her silver hair, with not a strand out of place, she’s pulled to one side with a vintage barrette. She wears little make-up, except for a pale rose-colored tint on her lips.
When I catch my reflection in the foyer mirror, I don’t dare compare myself to her. However, tonight in my red sundress and flowered shawl, I can’t complain.
Emese’s home is warm with bright colored pillows on the living room sofa. Photographs of her with attractive fellow travelers, all with glowing smiles, cover the walls. I’m impressed that she’s visited every continent. I’d love to hear all the details of her exotic adventures, though it will have to wait. Without delay, she leads us to the dining room. Where, vases of fresh cut roses and bottles of uncorked wines rest on the table. She requests us to take a seat. I glance at a menu at the top of a stack of small plates. Before I’m done reading, she interrupts.
“Let’s eat,” she says, with a subtle British accent.
Right away, a young waiter emerges from the kitchen with our first taste. He serves the food with poise, while she pours the wine. I have no clue why she’s hired a waiter for an intimate dinner party of three. It appears pompous of her. Until my eyes catch a glimpse of the menu. At once, I understand. Our dinner looks similar to The Chef’s Tasting Menu at The French Laundry with an array of small bites: a salad of celery branch and marinated eggs in balsamic vinegar, duck foie gras with yogurt glaze, apricot relish with granola and lavender honey, and sautéed Bluefin tuna and lobster tail with Australian black truffle emulsion.
My mouth waters with anticipation.

I’ve eaten at the celebrated restaurant with my former fiancé on a trip to Napa. And read that Anthony Bourdain, the noted author, former chef and CNN’s irreverent world traveler extraordinaire, named The French Laundry, “The best restaurant in the world, period.” A foodie fact I choose to share with - no reservations.
Malcolm’s impressed with my savoir faire, and holds two thumbs us. Emese stares him down, and insists, “The Chef’s Tasting menu at The French Laundry was merely the inspiration for tonight’s dinner.”
Either way, I reckon the evening has gotten off to a shaky start. Rather than dwell on it, I drink the rich, earthy wine and devour the first bite. The marinated egg is a culinary masterpiece. Any tension experienced minutes ago dispelled. Even Emese appears to have no memory of my inappropriate showing off behavior. Before another bite, she asks, “What brings you to Berkeley,

Joy?”
“An impulsive act of desperation,” I say.
Malcolm laughs, and adds, “Joy and I are old friends. She’s here on a spiritual journey of self-discovery.”
For some ungodly reason, my face flushes similar to a schoolgirl’s. Perhaps because, the truth is I came to Berkeley to abandon L.A. and to visit Malcolm. His spiritual class, I considered secondary.
“Desperation will make you do things, you’ll regret later,” she says. “I married my first husband when I was young and broke in London. After a dozen years, we parted in a hail of misery.”
“Wow,” I mouth wide eyed. She grins, amused by my naiveté. I smile back, and add, “Recently, I lost my job. So when Malcolm invited me to come visit him, I couldn’t say no.”
“Apparently, my friend’s charm can be persuasive.”