Behind Aniston’s Back
A dinner in Morocco remembered
“What’s she doing now?”
“She’s dipping a bun in her sauce.” “Wait … what’s she doing now?” “She’s playing with her hair.”
Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, Jennifer Aniston had to walk into mine. No, it wasn’t in Casablanca, and nah, it wasn’t Ingrid Bergman — but, hey, close enough. There I was, on my minty Moroccan tour, in one of the three restaurants found in Marrakech’s storied La Mamounia Hotel, when the star arrived about three-quarters of the way through my meal. Immediately, I sought to add a few more quarters to the jukebox — yes, I will have the cheese course; please, yes, do bring a second secondi — but, immediately, too, I realized this was going to be one of the most painful experiences of my career as a social columnist.
Though I was only the next table away from her, the gods had conspired that I take the chair that had its back to Aniston. And, so, while my Moroccan dining-accomplices could see everything perfectly from their perch points, I was, chair-wise, a dollar short and a day too late, like Stevie Wonder at the Taj Mahal.
“What’s she doing now?”
My shoulders twitching like a tasered cheetah, I continued to probe. And risking both sudden waist-expansion and a mal à la tête the next morning, we continued to order. And order.
“Rumour has it,” snarked one of my dinner companions (knowledgeable with the Aniston canon), “that she has a really strong handshake.”
He’d just watched her —here in this classic Italian restaurant, all warm reds and macho banquettes — stand up and greet one of her own dinner companions. She was eating with a crowd of, not thousands, but a few.
“Like a politician’s handshake?” Definitely not the limp pleased-to-meet that is the mainstay of the Hollywood leading lady, we agreed.
“Actually, I think she was underrated in that movie from a few years ago, Friends with Money,” I said, talking behind Aniston’s back. “I didn’t see it,” said another at the table. “ Frances McDormand, Joan Cusack, Catherine Keener …” I trailed off. “They raised her game.”
“I wonder if she’ll have the grandma’s rigatoni,” one of us piped up. We’d all just had it — a small pasta monument done up in the gotcha colours of the Italian flag.
“Omigod, she is!” Soon enough — via one of my “interpreters” — I learned that she was into the anti-Atkins. Angelina Jolie’s non-BFF had ordered “family style,” and pasta was for the pickin’.
At which point — not able to play it cool any longer — I zipped right around and had a quick carb-peek. Jen looked right at me, her Us Weekly pupils searing right into mine.
“That was so obvious of you!” scream-whispered companion No. 1.
“I couldn’t help it. Just couldn’t take it anymore.” I huffed by way of mea culpa.
“I’m so excited she’s in a tank top.” So replied companion No. 1 by way of non-sequitur.
“Why?” I took my time in asking back.
It’s the way I imagine her, came the explanation. In a California-dreamin’ tank top.
“Is it actually a tank top?” I asked, shortly after ordering dessert (again, I think).
“It’s a tank top and camisole,” came the further analysis. “She’s layering.”
“Layering,” I repeated, sighing.
“I love the lobster.” That was Jennifer. I heard her. I could hear her! I dared not turn around.
At some point or another — after the second espresso, but before the limoncello — someone in the nearby hotel lobby began playing My Funny Valentine. The strumming slushed through the room.
“Does she look sad?” I asked my Morocco-moored meal-mates. “Is she thinking of Brad? John Mayer? Someone?”
“She’s playing with her hair.”
This originally appeared in Shinan Govani’s column in Canada’s National Post on December 2, 2009.
