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Brooklyn Decker in Esquire Magazine

February 21, 2011 4:51 pm
Pinstripe Magazine Staff
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In case you missed it check out Brooklyn Decker in February’s issue of Esquire. They had a chance to sit down with her and interview her. So before she made it to Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue she was on cover of Esquire and named the sexiest woman alive on esquire.com.

Outside her apartment, on the cold and dusky streets down under the Manhattan Bridge overpass, Brooklyn Decker, wrapped up just a bit too tight against the wind, gives a weak, unconvinced handshake. It has the feel of a first handshake, the kind you give early in your handshaking life, when you can’t figure why anyone would want to meet you. When we start walking the tilt of the hill down to the high-end grocery store near her place, she widens her eyes, so blue they seem backlit, and admits, “I’m not sure what you can say about me yet.”

Maybe it’s just the time and place, some play on the obvious trope. Like Brooklyn in Brooklyn. Brooklyn Decker lives inside her name. So much Brooklyn.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. She’s heard it before. I can do better than that, I tell her. I don’t want to disappoint. Just give me some time. Half a block later, we’re at the market. The scale of Brooklyn surprises. She is so tall, for starters.

The starter is a salad. That’s the only starter Brooklyn makes. Green-leaf lettuce, avocados cut up like pats of butter, ground pepper, and dressing pulled mysteriously from her refrigerator. She whisks it from the door and back again.

To the doorway and back again, while cooking, for an adjustment to the lights. When Brooklyn Decker walks toward you, the world feels a little bit of all right. She brings promise with her. Light of heart and unexpectant, she gives the impression that being present is easy, that passing time talking with a man she doesn’t know is exactly what she wants to do on a Friday night in New York. She makes her little salad. What do I like? What do I not like? She even seems a little curious about my preferences. I’m cool with whatever, I say. I can handle anything she dishes up. But Brooklyn doesn’t cook like that. She doesn’t want to disappoint. She just wants me to like it. There is no protest or resistance in her voice. It’s just something she can do.

She cannot cook, she says, but she’s learning. This chicken thing, with its components handpicked at her grocery store — two organic breasts, five slices of prosciutto, two avocados not yet collapsed in ripeness, a nameless jar of spice — is her one thing, her one dinner. There’s no apology or excuse. She’d made an offer: this in lieu of a restaurant. She knows this one thing, one reliable ritual of assembly, leaving her free to stand and cook for a guest who sits schlumped on the other side of her kitchen island. This is so she can offer wine, tend to her guest without apology for the things she can’t do.