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“Since when do we eat steak?” I sound harsher than I intend to.
“Don’t you remember? Last summer Uncle Digger made buffalo steak. They were amazing!”
“I’m not sure the place I normally go to has buffalo steak, but I promise it has the best beef steak you’ve ever eaten,” Ethan tells us. Before any further comment can be made, he pushes his phone button on the dash and says, “Call Maestro’s.”
The phone rings three times before a hostess answers. Ethan says, “Trina, this is Ethan Caplan. I’d like to speak to Tony.”
Seconds later a deep voice greets, “Mr. Caplan, sir, how may I help you?”
“I have a carload of hungry boys looking for steak. Any chance you can fit us in tonight?”
We overhear shuffling papers as though he’s searching through a reservation book. After several moments, he says, “I can fit you in at five thirty, but we’re booked to closing after that.”
Ethan replies, “We’ll need a table for five, and thanks, Tony. You’re the best.”
“Anything for you, Mr. Caplan,” the man says. Apparently, Ethan is used to this kind of bowing and scraping because he takes it very much as his due.
Once he hangs up, Ethan addresses the boys. “I don’t suppose any of you brought suit coats?” A chorus of noes fills the air.
“Why do they need suit coats?” I demand.
“Maestro’s has a dress code.” His reply is curt.
“Then let’s just go to a Sizzler or something.” There’s no way I can afford a place that requires a dress code.
Ethan looks at me. “I don’t think there is a Sizzler in Beverly Hills.”
“Of course.” My tone is harsh. “Let’s just go through a fast-food drive-through and be done with it.”
“Moooooom, no!” Wyatt shouts from the back. “We want to try something new. Isn’t that what this trip is all about?”
“I can’t afford a place that requires you to wear a suit coat. Because that would mean buying dinnerandthe appropriate wardrobe.”
“Aw, shucks,” Wyatt says. “I guess you’re right. Can we go to McDonald’s then?”
“I’mbuying dinner,” Ethan declares. “I’m also buying the attire needed for it.”
He’s so authoritarian and bossy I want to yell at him, but I don’t. Instead, I decide that he owes me a fancy dinner for the crap he pulled at Dodger Stadium.Who agrees to go out with a supermodel in front of the woman who only hours before you were claiming to want to spend your life with?
When I don’t say anything, Ethan asks, “What sizes do the boys wear?”
“What, are you going to wave a magic wand and make them appear?” I demand.
“Yes.” In the direction of the dashboard, he says, “Call Claire at Saks Fifth Avenue.”
This time the phone is answered by a woman with a French accent. “Mr. Caplan,” she gushes. “How can I help you?”
“Hi, Claire, I need three boys’ suits and shoes to be picked up in thirty minutes. I’m going to need one, too. You know my size.”
“May I ask the occasion?” she wants to know.
“Dinner at Maestro’s. Oh, and I’m going to need a woman’s dress and shoes, as well. I’m going to turn you over to Moira. She has all the sizes.”
I spend the next five minutes telling this woman what sizes we all wear before she hangs up and gets busy shopping for us. This whole personal shopper, fancy dinner thing is just another reason why we aren’t the right family for Ethan. Not that he wants us anymore.
We ride the rest of the way in complete silence. Well, Ethan and I do anyway. The boys are riding so high on the day they may never stop talking.
Ethan turns off Wilshire Boulevard before the imposing Saks Fifth Avenue building. He pulls into the valet parking and hands the valet his keys. “We’ll only be about fifteen minutes.” Then he leads the way as we trail behind him like a row of ugly ducklings. Seriously, I’ve never been into a department store fancier than Macy’s and this place makes Macy’s look like Walmart.
