Fed Up (16 page)

Are the herbs fresh?
I wanted to ask.
Could you tell us one more time?
I also refrained from asking whether it was only the
leg
of the chicken that had been raised on a farm, whereas the rest of the bird had grown up elsewhere. And no way was I going to eat
foam
. I’d seen enough
Top Chef
episodes to know that gastronomic foam meant a substance that looked like spit. The waitress left the table without so much as a nod.

Robin raised her glass. Whoops! Pardon me. Robin lifted her drinking vessel. “Cheers to the wedding!” She took a sip and opened the menu. “Let’s take a look at what else Marlee has for us.” Addressing me, she advised, “Sometimes it’s best to order off the menu.”

The menu had such long, grandiloquent descriptions that it was all I could do to decipher what was actually being offered. Also, I had the sense that I was reading a culinary version of the “The Twelve Days of Christmas”: nearly every dish included numbers:
Six Clams Simmered in White Wine and Five-Herb Garlic Butter
,
Two Slices of Pork Loin Seared and Served with a Three-Potato Gallette
, and
A Tower of Four Shrimp with Seven Seasonal Vegetables.

“Fiiiive golden rings!”
I sang in my head.

Because I wasn’t sure whether Robin was paying for dinner, the high prices had me scanning the menu for the cheapest items. Furthermore, the reports on the Mayor’s Food Court had left me leery. Under no circumstances did I ever go out of my way to order a dish garnished with food-borne illness—
Salmon with Salmonella
, let’s say, or
Sole on a Bed of E. coli Spinach
—but now, a few days before Adrianna’s shower, I especially wanted avoid the risk. I decided on the cucumber soup and roasted cod. As I decoded the description of the fish, the dish had something to do with pureed chickpeas and, needless to say, a mountain of fresh herbs.

“So I gather that fresh herbs are the theme of this restaurant, huh?” I asked the table.

“Absolutely,” Robin answered.

“I wonder how Marlee finds time to garden? Considering that she must work here all the time.”

“Oh, she’s an avid gardener. And the herbs are very important to her.”

Hmm. An avid gardener who might grow more than just herbs? “Does either of you garden?”

Nelson shook his head. “Nah. I don’t care about flowers and all that. I’ve got a small apartment with no yard, anyhow.”

“Same here,” Robin said. “I’ve got a black thumb when it comes to flowers. Not that my apartment has a yard or a balcony, even, but I can’t keep so much as a houseplant alive. I forget to water them. Marlee!” Robin stood up and smiled as Marlee made her way through the dining room.

The female chef looked even pastier than the last time I’d seen her, and her soiled white chef’s coat did nothing to flatter her stocky figure. “I heard you were out here, Robin.” Marlee tucked her short hair behind her ears, a move that only exaggerated her round face. I caught sight of her dirty fingernails and desperately prayed that she was cooking with gloves on. “I’m so glad to see you. Hi, Nelson. Hi, Chloe. I have to get back in the kitchen, but I wanted to say hello and let you know that I’ll send food out for you, so don’t bother with the menus, okay? I’ll pop out again if I can.” Marlee smiled curtly and waved.

Robin reached under the table and pulled a yellow note-pad from her bag. “Now, I want to talk about the process of obtaining permission to solemnize a marriage. This is going to be a great piece. We’re not filming today, because I want to run the story by the station first, but they’re just going to love it.”

Phew! So I’d continue to be spared Nelson’s camera. I went over the simple process of solemnization with Robin, while Nelson munched on a green bread stick that, according to Robin, was flavored with pureed fresh thyme.

“Adrianna is really excited at the idea of having her wedding filmed,” I said. “If it weren’t for you, the only footage she’d have would be from a home video camera, and the result would be shaky images and bad lighting. With the baby coming so soon and the shower this weekend, this is one less thing she needs to worry about.”

Robin’s eyes lit up as I talked. “So, wait! Adrianna is giving birth soon after the wedding?” She looked at Nelson.

“Cool. Now I’m really interested in filming the wedding. Maybe she’ll go into labor! Talk about good film.” Nelson’s eyes brightened, probably in the hope that Adrianna’s water would break in the middle of her vows.

“Well, we must film the shower then, too! What an exciting time for your friends, Chloe. And maybe I can use some of the footage of the shower in the piece on solemnization. This will be wonderful!”

“Sure. I guess that would be okay with Adrianna.” I made a mental note to add two more people to the guest list for Saturday. “And Adrianna will still have a few weeks before she’s due. So,” I said lightly as I eyed Nelson, “let’s plan on filming the shower and the wedding and
not
the delivery on the same day.” As if Nelson’s hopes could induce labor! Still, I had the superstitious sense that his greed for dramatic events to film could jinx Adrianna.

Robin’s cell phone rang shrilly. When she pulled it out of her purse, its color—metallic hot pink—should have told me that she had no desire to use it unobtrusively. Foolishly, I expected her to turn it off. Instead, she not only answered but spoke loudly. “Hello? What? I can’t hear you. Speak up. This isn’t really a good time. Not now.” Although the people at the next table glared at her, Robin kept talking. Meanwhile, Nelson and I sat in uncomfortable silence, unable to converse even if we’d wanted to over Robin’s noisy phone call. She finally snapped her phone shut.

Food began to arrive. Mindful of the Mayor’s Food Court, I looked nervously at my plate as I inspected its contents for signs of improper storage or rat poop. Finding nothing noticeably wrong, I picked up my fork and stared in disbelief: the fork had only two tines. I looked at Robin and Nelson, and then glanced around at other customers who were eating. Was I the only one who found it completely bizarre that we were expected to use this
prong
? Evidently so. Reconciling myself to impaling my food or possibly balancing it, I turned to a dish that Marlee had sent out, a shrimp tower of sorts that initially resisted the attack I mounted with the not-a-fork. After a couple of failed efforts, I had to use my fingers to yank out a rosemary spear that elevated the shrimp above a mountain of thick brown mush almost covered in what appeared to be grass clippings. Although the shrimp were terribly overcooked, I managed to chew and swallow a few bites, but I nearly choked on a small prongful of grass.

“It’s got a kick to it, huh?” Robin handed me my water. “That’s the jalapeño Marlee puts in her mushroom and sprout puree.”

“Very unusual,” I sputtered.

Robin’s cell phone went off again, and she began another loud exchange. A male server approached our table. “Ma’am? I need to ask you to turn off your phone.” He pointed to a prominent sign on the wall requesting that all cell phones be turned off in the restaurant.

“Oh, all right,” Robin said sharply to the server. “Shit, I’ll go outside.” She made quite a display of stomping across the floor and rolling her eyes as she marched out of the restaurant. At least she found the exit. I made a mental note of its location. Looking embarrassed, the server left the table.

“Just you and me, Chloe.” Nelson chomped happily on the vile food. “I’ve been hoping to get a chance to talk to you. Maybe we can find some time to talk on Saturday at the shower.”

Eeek! To cut Nelson off, I signaled the server who had asked Robin to leave. She’d been so rude to him that I felt compelled to apologize, as I couldn’t do in her presence. “The sign about not using cell phones is pretty clear,” I said. “I’m sorry for what happened.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Friend of the chef. That’s how it is. Thanks, though. Excuse me, I have an order to bring out.”

Nelson was gazing at me with strange intensity; he almost seemed to be in a trance. In what I intended as a startling tone, I said, “I didn’t know that Robin and Marlee were friends. I thought they just knew each other from
Chefly Yours.
”

“Oh, yeah. They’ve been good friends for a while. Robin wants to keep that quiet, though, because she doesn’t want it to look like she’s playing favorites on the show.”

Well, Robin most certainly
was
playing favorites! And having a chef friend of hers in the competition was bad enough, but keeping the friendship secret was even worse. Granted, Robin couldn’t control the number of viewers who actually called in to vote for each chef, but for all I knew, she could falsify the voting results. What if Marlee ended up winning the show because Robin had tinkered with the numbers?

I was fuming. It ticked me off to realize that Josh could lose to a chef who served such disgusting food at her restaurant. In the single episode that Marlee had done, the food had looked better than the revolting stuff I’d eaten tonight, but Josh’s cooking was incomparably better than Marlee’s, and his on-camera personality outshone Marlee’s by light-years.

Nelson’s hand slithered across the table toward mine. I swiftly yanked my hand away while desperately looking around for Robin. Mercifully, she was on her way back to her stool.

“Sorry about that. That waiter is an asshole.”

I pushed my food around on my plate and watched in awe as Robin polished hers clean. Nelson ate all of his food, too, but he struck me as someone who’d be unable to discriminate between a dinner at a run-down roadside shack and one at La Tour d’Argent. When the entrées appeared, I repeated the process of pushing my food around and managed to ingest only a tiny portion of the lavender-and-oregano-infused salmon that Marlee had chosen for us. Chosen for us? Inflicted on us, I should say.

To avoid Nelson’s ogling, I shifted around to face Robin and concentrated on giving her a detailed description of the wedding plans. Robin sounded delighted to have the opportunity to produce Adrianna and Owen’s wedding video and assured me she’d edit the footage down and set it to whatever music the couple wanted.

“Another delicious meal!” Robin pronounced as the waitress cleared our plates. “After that, I think I’m too full for dessert tonight.”

“I agree. Stuffed. I’m absolutely stuffed.” The last thing I wanted was cilantro-scented ice cream or whatever other vile dessert Marlee would send out. I was already brainstorming about where to stop on the way home to buy an edible dinner.

“Would you like to go see the kitchen? I know Marlee wouldn’t mind.” Robin put her napkin down and gestured to the depths of the restaurant. “Nelson, we’ll be back in a minute. Here’s my credit card. Will you get the check?”

“I’d love to see Alloy’s kitchen,” I said cheerfully. I went on to thank Robin for treating me to dinner. Thank God I hadn’t paid out of my own pocket for that terrible meal.

A restaurant kitchen was no novelty to me—I already knew the ins and outs of Simmer’s—and I was less than eager to examine the source of dishes that had made me gag, but I could hardly say so to Robin, who was Marlee’s friend and who was footing the bill. Still, a visit to Alloy’s kitchen would give me the chance to see for myself whether there were any signs of all those code violations I’d read about. There presumably wouldn’t be rodents or insects in sight, but I was so used to Josh’s exceptionally sterile kitchen that I should be able to detect iffy conditions in Marlee’s.

As it turned out, no experience was required to spot unhygienic areas in Alloy’s kitchen. Chicken pieces lay uncovered on a plastic cutting board, their juices running onto the counter and floor. The floors were wet and filthy, and the one drain I could see was covered in gray gunk. In contrast to the minimalist metallic dining area, the entire kitchen had an air of chaos. I did notice a spray sanitizer, but its nozzle hung over containers of chopped vegetables that sat on a long stainless counter. The soap dispenser over the sink was empty, its drip spout clogged. I shuddered to think of the bacteria that must already be growing in my poor gut.

“How was your meal?” Marlee rounded the corner from behind a high shelf that held teetering pots and pans. “Not too shabby, was it?” She smiled at what she assumed to be her outstanding culinary skills. She wiped her forehead with a dish towel and then slapped it onto the counter, where it landed in the chicken juice.

“Brilliant, again, Marlee,” Robin chirped.

“Thanks. Business has been up and down.” Marlee shrugged and examined her filthy hands with no visible alarm. “What’re you going to do, right? I just do the best I can and put out a great product. Anyone who wants to complain can get out.”

“Thanks so much, Marlee,” I said politely, resisting the impulse to douse her with a bottle of sanitizer. “And, Robin? I’ll give Adrianna your number so she can call you tomorrow and talk to you about the shower.” I couldn’t wait to escape. “I should get going,” I said. I gave Robin quick directions to my parents’ house and said good-bye.

As I turned to leave, I noticed a large corkboard by the doors to the dining room. Pinned to it were the usual permits and postings from the state, but what stuck out was the Boston Mystery Diner’s damning review of Alloy. The article was covered in black marker: a large
X
ran across the typeface, and “Eat Me!” and “Screw You!” were printed in angry letters at the top of the page.

Most noticeable, however, was a gleaming, stainless-steel knife that had been plunged into the center of the review.