Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance (18 page)

It was Sally’s turn, and after sending Jim and Karen off with big hugs, she did a promo to air the week before the Italian series would be shown and told the audience all they would miss if they didn’t tune in to watch. “We’ll be in Parma, Bologna, Florence, Ravenna, and the hills of Chianti with our own
Morning in America
chef, Casey Costello, who will cook right in the kitchens with real Italians. We’ll show you how true parmigiano-reggiano is made and see the fat pigs that give us Parma ham. You’ll learn how to cook a Tuscan steak the size of a cow, make a real Bolognese sauce, pasta the Italian way”—she leaned forward and gave the camera a coquettish twinkle—“and what to do with a squiggling eel.” Who could resist?

We cleared out the kitchen so she could change her blouse without having to go upstairs and she took her place on the stool behind the cookbook display. She described what each one was about and why she had chosen it. Whenever she said, “You just have to have this one,” I could imagine the stampede of feet as people rushed to their bookstores or the clogged
phone and cable lines as they logged on to
Amazon.com
. A good word from Sally was all it took.

W
E ARRIVED AT
O
RAN
Mor just after noon; the restaurant was already crowded. Kim the greeter saw us come in and strode right up to us. “It’s so good to have you here again,” she said. She was looking at Sally, of course. “The rest of your party is already here.” She led us to a table where Mary was nibbling on
amuse-gueules
and reading a menu. As soon as we had greeted each other, a waiter arrived, handed us menus, and announced, “Danny would like to send you a selection of appetizers but he said to order any that you like. The kitchen is very busy right now, but he said he’d be out to see you before you leave.”

“Good,” said Sally. “We’d love to talk to him. Just so you’ll know, I have to leave by two-fifteen.” I knew Sally was meeting George, and I was grateful that she hadn’t let him worm his way into lunch.

“I’ll let him know,” the waiter answered and then offered us complimentary cocktails or wine of our choice.

Danny sent out four appetizers in addition to the ones we ordered. We managed to finish them all. In addition to our entrées, the waiter delivered the lamb dish that Danny was going to make on the show. “It’s not on the lunch menu,” he said, “but the chef thought you would like to taste it.” I had tasted the sauce on Saturday but not the lamb itself. The tiny ribs were easily the best lamb I’d ever tasted. The flavor was meaty yet delicate, with none of the mutton taste of an older animal. He obviously had a special source. Sweetie herself delivered a large assortment of her desserts, proudly describing each of her own creations. We were passing them left to right when I saw Danny walking through the dining room. He had on a clean
chef’s coat, but it was obvious that he had been working hard. He had the glisten of someone who had just stepped off the StairMaster after a grueling workout. Mary nudged me under the table and raised her eyebrows. I ignored her. He stopped at several tables, shaking hands and saying a few words, before approaching our table. I hoped he wasn’t going to kiss me again. That is, I hoped I wasn’t going to want him to kiss me again.

Sally took hold of his hand and said, “That lunch was one of the best I have ever eaten, Danny.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Can you sit for a while?” Sally asked.

“Love to. The kitchen has finally quieted down.”

“Where do you get your lamb?” I asked after he sat. “It’s amazing! I’ve never had any with that much flavor.”

“Neither had I. It’s from a small farm in Pennsylvania. The lambs are raised on a special diet that includes herbs that flavor the meat.”

“How’d you find the farm?” Mary asked.

“Before I opened Oran Mor, I spent a lot of time going to small farms and tasting the products. Product’s what it’s all about, and I’m always searching for good ones. I really enjoy that part of the business.” He leaned his arms on the table. “I just heard about a wild guy in Long Island, only about forty-five minutes away, who raises chickens on a special feed.”

“Michael McLaughlin,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said, seemingly surprised that I knew his name.

“I’ve heard he’s a real character,” I said.

“He sure sounded like it on the phone. He told me he’d have to meet me before he’d agree to sell me his chickens, so I’m going out this afternoon to try to convince him. He said his babies couldn’t go to just any old eatery to be overcooked and oversauced.”

Sally laughed and lightly pounded her fist on the table. “That’s just as it should be. And good for you for searching for the best. Using only high-quality ingredients and careful cooking is why your food is so good and your restaurant so popular.” The dining room was less crowded now, but for the past two hours it had been hopping. “Is it this busy for lunch
and
dinner?”

“Thank the Holy Trinity it has been.”

“You probably have no time to yourself,” Sally went on.

“Not much.”

“Do you get back home to Ireland at all?” Mary asked.

“I haven’t been home since four months before we opened. None of the staff has had more than a few days off at a time, so we’re going to close for a week starting next Sunday and I’ll go home. The last time I called, me mam said I sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place the voice. I think it’s time.”

We could see Sally’s car pull up to the curb. She stood up, telling us to stay put, but I walked out with her anyway. The driver held the door open for Sally and I saw that George was sitting in the back seat. Our eyes met, and I grudgingly said, “Hello, George.” He said hello without using my name and then told Sally they had a schedule to keep and had to get going. When I leaned into the car to kiss Sally’s cheek, he said, “We are going to be late. Please close the door.” Sally squeezed my hand just before the driver shut her in and I gave George the evil eye, which he probably missed with his nose in the air like that.

When I returned to the table, Danny asked what else I knew about Michael McLaughlin.

“I heard that he named all his chickens Ella so he wouldn’t get too attached to any one of them in particular. Then he named his rooster Sam and planned to call his farm Sam-and-Ella. His
wife convinced him that it was a very bad idea. He said he wanted to discourage casual business.”

“Well, that would discourage mine, I can tell you,” Mary remarked, standing up. “Look, I have to run. It’s been real, Danny. Thanks.” She kissed him on both cheeks, threw me one, and was off.

“Back to McLaughlin,” Danny went on. “I really want to persuade him to sell me his chickens. Do you know anything in particular about him that can help me do that?”

“Not really. Sonya had wanted to use him as a talent on the show. Crotchety is always entertaining, but he wasn’t interested. ‘Too much exposure,’ he said.”

“Why don’t you come with me to see him this afternoon. Maybe we can both convince him?”

“How are you getting there?”

“Driving.”

“You keep a car in New York?”

“Not exactly.” He stood up. “Follow me.” He led me to his office, where he handed me a motorcycle helmet and a leather jacket. “You game?”

“Sure,” I said, noticing that the jacket was a woman’s size and wondering how many had worn it.

“Brilliant.” He took off his chef’s coat and said he was going to wash up a bit and would be right back. He returned in clean jeans and a red plaid flannel shirt. “What do you think? Does it say ‘trustworthy farm boy’ to you?”

I was actually thinking “hunk,” but I said, “Absolutely.”

He changed from his kitchen clogs to short black leather motorcycle boots and grabbed his own leather jacket and gloves. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

We walked around the corner to a garage, where the attendant obviously knew him well.

“How’s it going, Chef?”

“Great, Bob. How about with you?”

“Can’t complain. You taking the bike out?”

“Yeah. It’s a great day for it.”

“Sure is,” Bob said. “I just polished her this morning, so she’ll look prettier than anything out there.”

“He polishes your motorcycle for you?” I said as we walked down the ramp into the garage. Most people were lucky to find a garage in New York where the attendants didn’t pass the time playing dent-the-fender with your car.

“Yeah. A few months ago I began to bring him food from the restaurant, and then he started polishing the bike. He knew it was special to me.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“Sentiment.” He walked to an area that held a number of motorcycles. “It’s over here.” He removed a soft flannel cover from the motorcycle and said, “This is it.”

I had no clue what was special about it. “It’s really good looking,” I said. “What a pretty color!” I didn’t know enough about motorcycles to say more than that.

He patted the handlebars and smiled. “This, my friend, is a vintage 1962 Triumph Bonneville.” He turned to me. “Triumphs are made in Britain. This honey was my da’s. He gave it to me before I went to culinary school and we restored it together. The
pretty
color is British racing green. It’s not the original color, but it’s my favorite for a bike, so Da and I painted it.”

“I can see why it’s so special.” Somehow, my mother had managed to pipe her voice into my head and I asked on her behalf, “Is it safe?”

“Of course. Put your helmet on.”

I slipped the helmet over my head and began to struggle with
the chin strap. Danny lifted my visor so he could see my face. “Here,” he said, securing the strap. “You look awfully cute in that, Casey.”

“I bet you say that to all your passengers.”

“Only the cute ones,” he answered, snapping down my visor. He climbed on the bike, and after warning me to keep my legs away from the pipes whenever we stopped because they would be hot, he took my arm and hoisted me behind him. I wrapped my arms around his waist and he took them in his hands to tighten my hold. “You don’t want to fall off,” he said and started the engine. It was a beautiful day, and the ride was incredibly therapeutic. I loved feeling the breeze around me and the sure, swift way we moved together with the road. In no time at all we were out of the city and moving along a back road that led to Michael McLaughlin’s chicken hatchery. “Isn’t this great?” he asked when we stopped at a light. “Who’d believe this was so close to the city? Are you okay back there?”

“Fine.” My voice sounded as though it were coming from an echo chamber.

We found the tiny farm, where Mrs. McLaughlin answered the door. “He’s out with his chickens,” she said, pointing to the back of the house. “Around that way.”

Michael McLaughlin was a big man, tall and rugged, with a mass of white hair, big bushy eyebrows, and a huge mustache. He was cooing to his chickens as he scattered feed to them. “Here, Ella, Ella, Ella. You too, Ella, Ella, Ella.”

“Mr. McLaughlin, I’m Danny O’Shea.” He shook Mr. McLaughlin’s hand. “And this is my friend Casey Costello.” I shook hands and then brushed the residual feed away on the back of my jeans.

“Look at these fine birds,” Mr. McLaughlin cooed. “What makes you think your cooking is good enough for them?”

For the next twenty minutes, Danny charmed his way into Mr. McLaughlin’s suspicious heart. He told him how he wanted to cook with only ingredients that were grown and raised with care and feeling. He said that no amount of culinary training could compare with the skill needed to produce those ingredients. The derivation of McLaughlin’s name had not escaped him, and his brogue had become so thick I could hardly understand him. When he told Mr. McLaughlin about spending summers on his grandparents’ farm and how they never ate anything that they didn’t raise themselves, the older man put his arm around Danny’s shoulder. I wondered if my summers at Girl Scout camp would have had the same effect. By the time we were ready to leave, Danny had locked up a place in Mr. McLaughlin’s limited customer base and, seemingly, his heart; but Sam and Ella’s dad still refused to appear on
Morning in America
.

“You’re going to have to work on your blarney, Casey,” Danny said as we were getting back into our helmet gear.

“Well, if anyone could teach me, it would be you. That was very impressive. Did you really spend summers on a farm?”

“Would I lie?” he asked with a grin.

“To get what you want? My guess would be yes.”

He laughed and then asked if I was in a hurry to get back to the city.

“Not really. Why?”

“I know this great little place on the way back that serves the best
café liegeoise
this side of Belgium.”

“What’s a
café liegeoise
?”

“Hop on. You’re in for a treat.”

We drove for about twenty minutes and then Danny pulled off the highway, turned down a side road, and stopped in front of a small, charming bakery with blue-and-white-checked curtains and blooming flower boxes. Inside there were six small
round metal tables. Danny told me to grab one while he ordered. “Do you want a pastry or two or a dozen to go with the
café
? It has ice cream, but you may want something else as well.”

“I’ll start with the
café
and see after.”

He returned to the table with two tall, thick-handled glasses with soft whipped cream oozing over the top. He handed me a long spoon and a straw. “Which one do I use?” I asked.

“Both,” he said, plunging his spoon into the bottom of his glass, taking a bite, and then sipping through his straw. I did the same, and since I’d never been to Belgium, I found it the most incredible
café liegeoise
this side of anywhere. The bottom of the glass held hot, strong espresso coffee, topped with vanilla ice cream—homemade, with visible flecks of vanilla beans. The ice cream was drizzled with a dark chocolate sauce, and the whole was topped with real whipped cream. The combination of flavors and hot and cold temperatures was totally seductive.

Danny was halfway through his when he looked at my empty glass and asked, “How many more do you want?”

“One should do it.”