Paris: The Memoir(20)

The Waldorf is a hub for high-society and upmarket business functions, so there’s always fascinating people milling around, interesting conversations going on, and big parties happening.

Also, there’s a salad named after it, and the salad is weirdly yummy, even though it combines mayonnaise and whipped cream with a handful of other things that seem like they shouldn’t go together but do. It’s like ADHD in salad form.

Here’s my recipe for a classic Waldorf salad:

A couple of tart green apples. I don’t know how many. How would I know how big the apples are in your produce aisle? You do you.

Celery. Go big, because fiber.

Walnuts or pecans. Or both. Fear not the extra. Toast them a little if you aren’t easily distracted.

Red grapes. However many you don’t eat while making the salad.

Sugar. Probably just a little.

Salt. Let’s say a pinch. Because pinch is fun to say.

Mayonnaise. It sounds gross, I know! Blop some in there. You’ll thank me later.

Whipped cream. Or Cool Whip. I’m not a purist. I suppose you could substitute Greek yogurt and make the dressing on the side, but why not just embrace it?

Sprinkle with edible glitter or pink sea salt and serve.

Voilà! Waldorf salad.

You’re welcome.

Back to the Waldorf.

My family had moved into a sick apartment at the Waldorf while I was in Palm Springs with Gram Cracker, and I was hella jealous. How could I not be? You have to understand, this was not like a hotel room or even a hotel suite. This was a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot condo with Italian marble, art deco architectural details, stunning light fixtures, and city views from every location, including the bathtub.

It was a little awkward at first, trying to fit in with the rhythm of the household, which was a lot different from the laid-back California household we had before. Everyone was doing their own thing, and I didn’t really have a “thing” right away. Mom had created a beautiful room for me with white linens, a fluffy pink rug, and all the dolls and stuffed animals I loved when I was little. The only problem with it was that I wasn’t little anymore. A lot had happened. I was fifteen now. In high school. I had my own ideas about what I wanted my life and personal space to look like, but I kept this mostly to myself. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, because I was so grateful!

SO. DAMN. GRATEFUL.

Grateful to be home.

Grateful to be loved.

Grateful for the family sounds around me.

My adorable siblings—I loved them so much. I loved watching cartoons with my little brothers, who bounced all over and climbed on me. I loved running around the hotel with my little sister, who swiped my clothes and tried to boss me around. I loved my parents, who were always busy with interesting things and still made time to scold me about school and etiquette and blah blah blah. I’m not being ironic here. I was happy to be back in the arms of my perfectly imperfect family. I wouldn’t have changed a thing about any of them. I was like, “Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Thank you, God!”

Believe me, I was fully aware how blessed and fortunate I was.

The whole block was alive with activity and excitement 24/7. Sometimes Nicky and I got dressed up and invited ourselves to parties. Or we’d sneak into an empty ballroom after a big event, running around in our PJs and bare feet, picking over the fancy dessert carts and checking out the leftover gift bags. It was Candyland for two teenage girls who were increasingly obsessed with fashion, music, and art.

That summer, we vacationed in the Hamptons, and that felt like another homecoming for me. I was in a familiar place with the people I loved. Guys kept hitting on me and telling me I should be a model, which is a thing guys say, so who cares, but back in New York, the people saying that Nicky and I should model were legit people in that world. Agents. Designers. Photographers. We realized we could make some money of our own.

“Absolutely not,” said Mom. “Not until you’re eighteen.”

Nicky always keeps a cool head in conversations like this, so I let her do most of the talking.

“You and Dad were just telling us in the Hamptons that we should get a job,” she said.

“We meant babysitting,” said Mom. “Working at an ice cream shop. Something like that.”

“Mom,” said Nicky, “you were modeling when you were a little baby.”

“That was a different time, and it wasn’t my choice.”

“Are you saying you didn’t want to do it?” I asked.

“I’m saying no one asked me. I wanted to sing,” said Mom. “I worked hard at that. I had a recording contract. But then I got pregnant, and I had you to take care of, and that’s the life I chose.” She said it as if she had simply turned the page from one chapter to the next. I couldn’t read the look on her face.

If you ask my mom how she gets through difficult conversations, she says, “I go like this.” She brings her hand down across her face like a curtain, and when her hands are folded in her lap again, she’s wearing the perfect smile of a Stepford wife. So perfect. So pretty. It’s a skill I eventually learned. My Stepford smile. It gets a lot of play.

We didn’t exactly have Mom and Dad’s permission, but we started booking jobs. We figured we could pop out, do the job, and pop back home without Mom and Dad ever knowing. Most of the time, that worked, but every once in a while, someone would call our mom and say, “Oh, yeah, I just saw Paris and Nicky shooting over at [whatever place],” and then we had to face her when we got home. She didn’t like it, but we chipped away at her resolve.