Jostle among the heirloom tomatoes, the fancy baked goods, the lavender potpourri. Aging maroon-haired dowagers poke greedy toothpicks into the tupperware bins of sample peach and pluot chunks. Doddering old men, their socks drawn up over spindly calves, seamed faces golf-tanned behind dark glasses, steer two-wheeled shopping trollies through the crowds as ably and aggressively as they once, before retirement, steered talent agencies or law offices through complicated deals and schemes to build their fortunes - and you damned well better watch out if you get in their way.
At one stall, still distinguished in tee-shirt and madras shorts, a white-haired man champs his expensively tended incisors on a ripe strawberry, and waves a jaunty hand at his wife, waiting on the sidewalk with a brace of wee West Highland terriers, circling her Tory Birch shod ankles. Former chairman of the board at a museum.
A bespectacled old codger laden down with bags lips up a mouthful of sticky kernels from the brimming top of a tall bag of kettle-corn, held in a two-handed grip before him. A retired law school dean, perhaps?
Trim, Pilates-toned housewives shove massive strollers like cowcatchers through the crowds, while jerseyed and cleated seven-year olds trail behind their driven, rock-star dads who palpate the heirloom tomatoes knowingly.
A local French bistro is a prime gathering spot for these villagers, sitting beneath the sage-colored market umbrellas, dogs tied to parking meters, or inside, beneath the chalkboard advertising today's pastries. The silver-haired chef sidles through the tables holding aloft a tomato box from the market beyond. He stops, smiles and greets a seated couple.
A grandpa guides a tiny toddler to the bakery counter, barefoot in Batman pajamas. When he places the order, I'm surprised to hear the crisp tones of a European accent. He nudges me and cautions me that the zipper on my handbag, slung over my chair, is open. "You can't be too careful," he says. I'm thinking - in this crowd? If there's any place my pocket change is safe, it's here!
At one table, a lithe blonde woman in yoga wear and a panama trilby fiddles with her I-phone, ignoring the croissant before her - is she a song-writer? Lawyer? Event planner? Her face lights up as her date arrives, tee-shirted and shadow-bearded - Television producer? Real estate agent? Internet executive?
At another table, an elegant couple gossips with a botoxed blonde beauty. They're all in white linen, sunglasses concealing their eyes. The gentleman has a cashmere sweater tossed casually over his shoulders, a grey ponytail, silver turquoise rings on his fingers. The lady lifts one elegantly manicured hand, leans in and lowers her voice confidentially - "Well, she was what they called in those days a torch singer."
Sunday brunch in Pacific Palisades.
Beautiful writing.
ReplyDeleteI wanted more.
"Strollers like cowcatchers..." You are spot on!
ReplyDeletefantastic!
ReplyDelete"Trim, Pilates-toned housewives shove massive strollers like cowcatchers"
ReplyDelete...that is fantastic writing, right there!