Food Whore (15 page)

“Actually, I believe it's freeze-­dried.”

My gaze leaped from the coconut crisp to the source of the foreign-­sounding voice, smoother and younger than Michael Saltz's agitated lisp. Pascal Fox.

“They make a conventional cookie, then,
shoop,
in it goes with dry ice, and the thing is a mere shadow of what was before.”

His black hair was slightly matted and spiked, hair that was—­amazingly—­a bit like mine, thick and straight in places, wispy and fine in others. He wore a cobalt-­blue button-­down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his tattoos. In the semi-­dark, I made out a mural of forks and knives, cows and pigs, carrots and eggplants and squashes and melons, like a super-­hot, toned supermarket. He seemed to be showing off the whole mural to me.

“Oh, hi!” I said.

“I remember you. You came to my restaurant about three weeks ago, right?”

“Wow,” I said. “You have a good memory.” I couldn't stop blushing and I regretted eating all that food. It was hard to feel pretty when I felt nine months pregnant.

“I don't remember everyone. Just the special ­people.” He nudged his body an inch toward mine and my breath caught in my throat. Up close, I noticed he had a slightly crooked smile and somewhat stained teeth. I liked that he wasn't the perfect model he appeared to be in all the magazines. He was almost a regular person.

“What's your name?”

“Tia,” I said, knowing full well that Michael Saltz would have wanted me to say Deirdre or Emily. But when you enter a raffle, you don't write the wrong phone number. The odds aren't in your favor anyway, so what's the harm?

“Are you eating dinner here?” I asked him.

“No,” he said. “I took tonight off—­first night since the restaurant opened two months ago—­and I wanted to say hi to my friend Chris­tian before I go out to dinner with some friends.”

“Chef Chris­tian Rhodes?” I asked, in a voice that came out way too geeky.

“Yes, Chef Rhodes.” He laughed. “You know your stuff, don't you?”

“Oh, I just saw it written on the menu,” I said. I had told him my name, but I knew I shouldn't take it too far.
You must be incognito, discreet.
Things I didn't want to be in front of a hot guy showing interest in me.

“I really like your restaurant,” I said.

I really like your restaurant
? For real? Why hadn't I said,
Everything was so yummy in my tummy
? “Thank you, I appreciate that. Coming from someone like you.” He looked down at the massacre of dessert plates on the table. “You here with a boyfriend?”

“A friend! A friend!” I said a little too loudly and quickly. I stuffed Elliott and Michael Saltz toward the back of my mind, making way for Pascal's hotness and attention. It was just for a ­couple of minutes. I'd get back to reality soon enough.

“Oh,” he said. “You should invite him—­or her—­to Bakushan. It'd be great to see you again. I have some new things on the menu that I think you'd like.”

I spotted Michael Saltz in the bathroom hallway, waiting anxiously for Pascal Fox to get out of his chair.

“Ask for me, and I'll make sure you get seated right away. There's a chef's table, you know. Right in the kitchen with me. It's the best seat in the house.”

My mind did some quick computations. The stylish women at Bakushan—­they'd only sat in the front window. Little had I known, there was better currency, better social clout. You just had to know the chef. That was the ultimate in.

“It was nice seeing you again,” Pascal continued. He stood up, walked around the table, and gave me a little kiss on my left cheek. He stayed there for a bit, and my face burned so much I was sure his lips would singe from the molten heat of my blushing.

Then he walked out the door.

I couldn't move. I still sensed Pascal's stubble on my cheek, the smell of meat and toast from his skin. “What the hell was that?” I said to myself, my lips moving, but not a sound coming out.

I ran over the entire interaction in my mind. Partly to make sure that I hadn't accidentally cheated on Elliott. And partly to relive Pascal's singular magic.

Michael Saltz returned and shoved his chair in so tight the table pummeled his hollowed-­out stomach.

“I don't want you talking to ­people at restaurants if you don't have to,” he said, his voice a swift jet of wind. “It draws attention to yourself. And Pascal Fox! Do you think I go around talking to chefs?”

“Well, I . . . he came up to me. I didn't mean to hold you up at the bathroom, but—­”

Michael Saltz surveyed our table, locking eyes with my phone and every plate and bowl. “And don't you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, I do,” I said with a pang of regret. But did I regret what had happened, or just that I'd gotten caught? “It wasn't like that. I didn't call out to Pascal or anything.”

Michael Saltz gave me a look like,
Sure, it may not have been your fault, but you liked it all the same.
“Listen. I'll only say this once, because I know you're a smart young woman. This is not a joke or some idiotic after-­school program. This is my job and my name. If a single soul finds out about our arrangement, I will lose everything. That would be bad for me, and disastrous for you.”

I suddenly felt woozy. All that food and Pascal and now this—­something that sounded like a threat.

“If my position is compromised, I will have no choice but to bring you down with me,” he continued. “I have far-­reaching connections and will not hesitate to end your career before it's even begun. I can do that one hundred times over.”

His words opened like switchblades in that raucous jewel box of a restaurant. Sure, he had given me an opportunity, but he had also trapped me.

But despite his anger, I felt relatively calm. Like he had said, we were partners, and by then I knew that he wouldn't accept any errors from me. I'd always known this would take some necessary sacrifices.

His stare drilled into me. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said. “I understand completely, so you don't have to threaten me.”

“Well, I'm just reminding you for your sake and mine. Not to mention the sake of your dear boyfriend. We'll reconvene tomorrow to go over the review. Can you have some notes written by then?”

“Tomorrow?” I was supposed to meet up with Elliott later. It was Friday and I was going to use the weekend to write a paper for my Twentieth-­Century Food Systems class, due on Monday.

“Sure, I guess.” What else could I say, especially after I had just pissed him off by talking to Pascal? I'd have to make the time.

Michael Saltz took out a fancy pen to sign the check under a fake name. I guessed the credit card bill went right to the
Times
. “Good.” He released his pen with a heavy thud.

Outside Tellicherry, I trailed behind Michael Saltz as we walked to the corner. He raised his hand to hail a cab.

“This was not a good first run. That Pascal Fox incident could have been disastrous. Remember that for me, okay?” Michael Saltz said, his voice like live wires at the edges, like he might zap me at any moment. He stood so close, the tips of our shoes touched. “You can order anything you want, you can buy anything you want, but you must be careful. Don't trust anyone with our secret. Too much is at risk.”

His voice was soft, almost gentle. He seemed to be making up for his tone earlier, but I wasn't too sure he had that apologetic streak in him.

“I understand,” I said, and I really did. I didn't want to screw this up.

“Talk to you tomorrow,” he said. Then he put me in a cab, slammed the door, and I sped away.

I
CALLED
E
LLIOTT
and told him that I wasn't going to be able to hang out that night.

“Work stuff,” I said. “I'm so sorry.”

His end of the line went quiet. “Okay, whatever you say,” he said. Then he hung up.

Shit,
I thought. Elliott had never once hung up on me. Was he busy at the lab? Was his boss around?

Or was he so annoyed that he had nothing to say?

I wrote the review but picked up my phone every ­couple of minutes, thinking that I'd text him
hey
or something.

But eventually, the writing carried me away and I forgot about Elliott. I was so worked up about the night's food, seeing Pascal, and Michael's warnings that I stayed up until four in the morning, hammering out an entire review. I started:

Tellicherry blossoms like an electric kiss, tempting you along the way with everything it can: truffles and caviar, yes, but also an old-­fashioned, sweep-­you-­off-­your-­feet seduction. For hedonists, Tellicherry is a paradise, full of fragrance, boldness, and refined sensuality.

Spellbound, I wrote about the headiness of the food and its power to save you. Why bother with some other boring, less tasty fate?

The meal comes to a crescendo at dessert. The shaved ice with candied tropical fruits takes you on a sumptuous vacation, and the curry ice cream with mini brioche puffs will make you want to tear up the return tickets.

Tellicherry comes at you unexpectedly, with a new aroma at every corner. It's a restaurant that foretells a new future, and should be closely watched and lavishly commended.

FOUR out of FOUR STARS

By the end, I'd written myself into conviction. I loved Tellicherry. I hoped Michael Saltz would read the certainty in my review and agree. As for the inherent dangers of flirting with Pascal, there was no getting Michael Saltz's or Elliott's agreement on that.

And yet.

The mere thought of Pascal sent electricity through my body. Pascal sitting across from me, his lips on my cheek, an inch away from my own. The adorable way he'd said
shoop!
The thoughts reverberated, each cycle becoming stronger, more defined, more calming.

I sent the review to Michael Saltz without reading it over, then went to sleep fantasizing about a world in which I could have turned my head ever so slightly to meet Pascal's kiss.

 

Chapter 15

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, I
WOKE TO MY PHONE RINGING
.

“
Hello, Tia, are you up yet?” Michael Saltz said from the end of the line.

“Um, yeah? I am now.”

“I read your piece,” he said. “I asked for notes, not the whole damn thing.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to be presumptuous. It just came out of me. Delete it if you want.”

“No, it's fine, for the most part.”

I sank into the recesses of my bed, relieved. Had I really sent my words to Michael Saltz, thinking he'd be okay with that? But amazingly, he was.

“Great. I'm glad you liked it. I don't think I captured everything, but I know you'll put it in your own words. I was just trying to weave it all together.”

He went silent for a while, which I took to mean he was thinking. “Like I said, it's fine. I'm going to make some adjustments to it but I'm more than able to write a column.”

“Okay . . .” I said, not expecting such defensiveness. I had figured he'd tweak the review. He was the mentor, and I was the protégée. How else would it be?

He kept breathing heavily, and in the background I heard the faint sounds of his mouse tapping and glassware pinging.

“Well . . . I should be going now,” I finally said.

“Wait!” he said, snapping to life. “I have another meal for us. Can you do lunch on Thursday? I'm visiting a place on the Upper East Side.”

“Next Thursday? Oh, I have my internship seminar then. I have to go or else Dean Chang might find out, and my scholarship—­” I rambled.

“
Eugh,
” Michael Saltz grumbled. “Tia, tell me. Why are you still so insistent on this program when I'm offering you a far superior experience? I never should have told you I was ambivalent about your enrollment.”

“Oh . . .” I responded weakly. If you compared them side by side, Michael Saltz's “internship” was obviously better—­a wider reach, more restaurant exposure, more contact with a true leader in the field. But what was I supposed to do, abandon NYU for a whole other life—­a secret life, no less?

“Have you heard of Le Brittane?” he asked.

Everyone had heard of Le Brittane. The restaurant was among the handful of New York four-­stars, the elite group that Madison Park Tavern had once been in. Within that group, each had its special realm of distinction. Sakura was ascetic, even severe, but served the most heartbreakingly fresh sushi outside of Japan. Alici served luscious Italian food in a baroque, palatial setting. Le Brittane wasn't so extreme. It specialized in seafood and was elegant and posh. If you were in a fifty-­mile radius and wanted to propose, entertain a dignitary, or have some other experience smooth in every respect, you went to Le Brittane.

“I'm re-­reviewing them. I've gone for dinner many times over the years and now I'd like to experience the lunch. You'll get to be my polished Upper East Side niece. How does that sound?”

“That sounds . . .” I thought about it for a millisecond, a quick calculus of weighing the pros and cons, this life versus that. It was certainly worth missing a class or two. “Okay, I'll go.”

“I sense hesitation. Is Le Brittane beneath you?”

“No, no, I meant . . . I mean, it's great. Thank you.” I tried to sound grateful and be in-­the-­moment, but I couldn't stop thinking about how I'd fit this in my schedule. I was already on thin ice and I couldn't disappoint Dean Chang, Jake, or Elliott any more.

“Your time will be rewarded, I promise. I hope you'll see that this is worth more than some silly classes.”

“Mmhmm,” I said, as if to say,
They're stupid classes.
But were they? Now I wasn't so sure.

“How do you think I should dress?” I asked.

“Well, it will be midday and you'll be my niece. Pick a career.”

“I want to be . . .” I thought for a second. “An actress.” That'd be the only way I could lead these multiple lives. I had to become someone else.

“Oh yes? Well, you're already an actress when you're out with me.” He laughed. “But I like where your head is. You're getting into the spirit of disguise.”

“Ha. I guess I am,” I said, already fantasizing about what I'd wear, imagining how it'd make me feel. “Le Brittane on Thursday, then. When does the Tellicherry review come out?”

“This Wednesday.”

“This coming Wednesday? Like, in four days?”

“Yes, that's what Wednesday means.”

“Sorry. I guess I'm surprised everything's happening so fast.”

“The process of reviewing may be slow. Earlier in my career, I'd visit a restaurant at least three times. But once I send the review, it's done. It'll get fact-­checked first thing on Monday, sent to the printer on Tuesday, published on Wednesday morning. It's practically a done deal.”

“Oh, okay.” When I'd written the review the night before, I hadn't thought my words would be published in a matter of hours. Now, I was second-­guessing my monkfish judgment. Had I talked too much about the truffles? Not enough? And was it really a four-­star? How did I even know what the best of the best was?

Michael Saltz had said he was going to tweak the review. But in what direction? I had written it was a four-­star, but he had a lower opinion. At Madison Park Tavern, I had seen what a review could do to a restaurant. So many ­people worked so hard, just for a single person's ruling.

We must treat him like a king,
Jake had said.
But it is us against him.

“You came through nicely, Tia Monroe,” Michael Saltz said in glowing tones. “Keep up the good work.”

“Thanks,” I replied, and all self-­doubt dissipated. I accepted the comment for what it was. I was good at something . . . and I wasn't going to apologize for it.