Garlic and Sapphires (20 page)

“My teacher wants to know if you'll come on our class trip,” Nicky said as I removed the bacon from the refrigerator. He puffed out his chest and added importantly, “We're going to the Metropolitan Museum to draw the Temple of Dendur.”

“Do you want me to come?” I asked, thinking how miserable it made me when my mother came to class.

He nodded solemnly. “Please?” he asked.

“Of course I'll come,” I said, putting the spaghetti into the pot. I turned to Michael and said, “What a day! You're not going to believe it; I've got a lot to report.”

A
t the office the next morning I found myself telling Carol Shaw about meeting Dan at Palio. She was instantly amused. But when I told her that I was going to dinner with him, she frowned.

“You sure you want to do that?” she asked. “It would serve the guy right, but it seems sort of risky.”

“What could possibly happen?” I asked. “I'm meeting him in the restaurant, and he can hardly attack me there. I'm paying my way, so he can't think I owe him anything. And when dinner's over I'll jump into a cab and go home.”

She shook her head. “I don't know why it makes me nervous, but it does. What did Michael say?”

“It makes him nervous too,” I admitted. “He wanted to come and sit at the next table just to make sure I was okay. I talked him out of that, but he said that if I wasn't home by midnight he was coming to get me.”

“Good,” she said. “That makes me feel better. But I sort of wish he was going to be there.”

“Don't even think it,” I said. “It took me hours to talk him out of that scheme.”

The doorman at the St. Regis greeted me with a warmth I was sure he saved for blondes. I got out, sailed through the door, and heard my heels click along the hotel's marble floor as I watched the maître d' scrutinize my approach. I was positive he did not recognize me. Relieving me of my coat, he murmured, “Welcome to Lespinasse. Are you joining someone?”

As he led me into the dining room I saw how perfectly Chloe suited this cream and gilt décor, which seemed to have been designed to show her off. Or perhaps it was the other way around: as Dan stood up and the maître d' held my chair, I wondered if I had unconsciously designed the perfect patron for this Louis XIV fantasy.

“I'm relieved that you're here,” said Dan. In his neat black suit and starched white shirt, he looked less handsome than he had the night before; what he brought to mind was a prosperous penguin. “I was a little afraid that you might stand me up.”

I said nothing and he continued, “I've been going over the wine list—” He stopped, looked at the maître d', and said, “If you'd be good enough to send the sommelier?”

A little robin of a man came bouncing to the table and stood, balancing expectantly on the balls of his feet. I could feel him assessing Daniel Green, could sense him estimating how much money this particular customer was worth. “Perhaps a little Champagne?” he offered.

Dan shook his head. “No,” he said, and I had the feeling that he would have rejected any suggestion, just to get the upper hand. “I think we'll begin with a white Burgundy.”

“Excellent, excellent!” approved the sommelier, and I saw that he knew exactly how to handle his customers. Last week, when I had shown a disinclination to engage him in discussion, our transaction had been brief and businesslike. Now he said, “I assume you'd prefer the Côte de Beaune?”

“On the contrary,” said Dan, and although it might have been my imagination, I thought I detected a small smile flit briefly across the sommelier's face. “I see you have an '89 Musigny here, which interests me very much. I consider a good white from the Côte de Nuits a thing of great beauty.”

“Very wise,” said the sommelier, his head cocked to one side. His voice rich with admiration, he added, “So few recognize the merits of the whites from the north.” Unspoken, but surely there, was the phrase “but you are obviously among the discerning few.”

“As for the red,” he asked, “will we stay in France?” It was not lost on me that he was now employing the royal we.

“Certainly,” said Daniel Green. “Chef Kunz's food is so subtle. It would be criminal to assault the delicacy of his flavors with the brashness of American wine.” I made a note to try to remember these phrases for later use; they might come in handy. I liked the idea of wine assaulting food with criminal intent.

The sommelier nodded respectfully. “How right you are!” he said, and I wondered if he was not overdoing it just a little. I sneaked a glance at Dan; apparently not. I hoped my face was wearing an appropriately admiring smile. “Will we continue with Burgundy?”

Dan indicated that this was exactly what we would do. “I wonder,” said the sommelier, “if your eyes had wandered toward Le Corton?”

“Precisely!” cried Dan happily. “You have read my mind!”

Not all that difficult, I was thinking to myself. A man who chose whites from a region known for reds might be reasonably expected to choose a red from a region known for white wines. And since Le Corton was the only
grand cru
on the list from the Côte de Beaune, it hadn't taken Sher lock Holmes to make that guess. But now the sommelier was coughing diffidently; he was still in the game.

“Might I venture to say that the wine isn't drinking at its best just now?” he said hesitantly. “It is having a small awkward period. Might I suggest this Clos St.-Denis?”

“An '86?” cried Dan. “You're suggesting an '86 over an '88? I'm intrigued.”

The sommelier gave a timid shrug. “The wine is lovely,” he said. “I tasted it only yesterday and I was most impressed.”

“We'll take your advice,” said Dan. There was just the slightest hint of threat in his voice.

“If you don't like it,” soothed the sommelier, “I will drink it myself. With pleasure.” He bowed and walked away.

“The remarkable thing,” said Dan when he had moved out of earshot, “is that the red wine he's suggested is considerably less expensive than the one I was going to order. That is a very good sommelier!”

We still had the tasting ritual before us, and Dan dragged that out for fifteen minutes. He wanted the white plucked from the ice so that the red could be “brought up to cellar temperature.” This initiated a conversation about American restaurants always serving their red wine too warm, which somehow led to a discussion of root stock and vintage years. This was man talk, and I was not invited to join the conversation. The minutes ticked by. Finally it was over. Or so I thought.

Dan raised his glass and took a sip. “Violets,” he said. “Silver. A cool brook babbling in a forest. Sunshine on rippling leaves.” I looked across the table and saw that his eyes were closed as he took rapid little sips of wine. He opened them and said, “When I first taste, I like to concentrate and just let images come. It helps me remember. Try it yourself.”

I obediently closed my eyes and took a sip. “Grapes,” I thought. “Chardonnay. A bit of oak.” I tried to come up with something more romantic, just to please him, but all I could see was the grapes hanging on the vine. I pulled back the focus and looked again. “A village,” I said. “A little stone village with roads twisting through ancient green hills.”

“Good,” he said, “very good. You see, I have a method for filing flavors so that I can access them later. To me wine is more than mere enjoyment; I'm attempting to build a mental encyclopedia that I can recall at will. The next time I encounter a Musigny, I'll need to compare it to this one.”

“Fascinating!” I said. This time I meant it.

It was time to consider the menu. I was tempted by the foie gras with quince and lentil salad but then the shimeji broth leapt out at me. It seemed like just the thing that Chloe would order.

“And for your main course?” asked Dan.

“Steamed black bass with lime?” I said, realizing that I had just ordered what amounted to a diet dinner.

Dan frowned. “That's going to be difficult with the red wine,” he said.

“Of course,” I said. “What if I tried the salmon braised in Syrah?”

He smiled approvingly. “Much better!” he said, beginning to debate the merits of short ribs versus squab ragout; the ribs won.

“I have an idea,” he said happily. “Why don't we share the steamed bass as a mid-course?” I stole a glance at my watch. It was only three hours until midnight, and at this rate we'd never be done with dinner. He'd probably insist on cheese before dessert and cognac after. I hadn't reckoned on an endless feast.

“Tell me some more about your wine filing system,” I said when the decisions were finally behind us. “It's so fascinating.” I was sincere about this, and he sensed that and relaxed.

“It's an ancient trick,” he said. “A device for memorization. You pick something—anything—as a way of differentiating the intangible to yourself. How do you define flavor? Some people might do it chemically, but that seems too cold; it would never work for me. Some might try colors, but my imagination doesn't run that way. So I ascribe an image to each wine and file it away in a sort of mental photo album. Take this Musigny . . .” He lifted his glass and held the pale wine up to the light. I followed his gaze. “Take a sip,” he urged. “Close your eyes. I am going to describe what I see.”

I closed my eyes and heard him take a sip. Then his words began to wash over me. “I am standing deep in the forest,” he said. “It's early spring, and the leaves are just changing from little buds to leaves. They're still that tender green they have when they're new, and a little breeze is rippling across them so that they catch the light and are faintly silver.” He took another sip. “It's cool here, and there is a brook at our feet, which murmurs softly. Violets are poking their heads up, between fiddlehead ferns.” I put my glass to my lips, and as the cold wine splashed into my mouth I could see what he was describing very clearly. It was beautiful in that forest, the air fresh and delicious.

“Incredible!” I said, my voice soft and awestruck. But then I opened my eyes and the image disappeared, leaving me back in the pseudo-palace on the ground floor of the St. Regis Hotel. I quickly squeezed them shut and asked, “Can you remember the last Musigny you tasted?”

I could sense him flipping through an invisible file. “In the woods, definitely,” he said. “No violets, though, just fiddlehead ferns. The brook is still, the leaves darker. It's later in the year, a wine with less delicacy, less finesse. Yes,” he pondered for a moment, lost in his forest, “it's an '88. Not as good a year, and a bit clumsier in the mouth.”

I was trying to taste it in my mind when his voice changed and he said, “Here's our first course!”

I opened my eyes and watched the waiter approach, holding a tapered Japanese bowl, very narrow at the bottom and wide at the top, an inverted pyramid balanced on the plate. It seemed oddly modern in the formal antiquity of the room, but when I leaned over and let the steam bathe my face, I forgot everything but the surprisingly fragrant aroma. I dipped my spoon into the broth and tasted lemongrass, kaffir lime, mushroom, and something else, something that hovered at the edge of my mind, familiar but elusive. I took another taste and it was there again, hiding just behind the citrus.

The shimeji mushrooms went sliding sensuously across my tongue with the lush texture of custard. The sensation was first sour, then spicy, and then, there it was again, something sweet but not sugary that came whirling into my consciousness and then slid maddeningly away before I could identify it. What was it?

“I can see that you like your broth,” said Dan, and I blushed, realizing that I had not said a word in many minutes. “Chloe, please don't apologize,” he said, noting my embarrassment. “I like to see a woman enjoy her food. And my tuna is excellent! Would you like to try it?”

“You must taste my soup,” I said, pushing the bowl toward him so that he had no choice but to hand his own plate, reluctantly I thought, across the table. “I have never tasted anything quite like it.”