Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance (8 page)

“Didn’t I mention that I bought a gerbil? I’ve really grown very fond of him.”

“You did. But I thought that just might be a passing fancy.”

“Nothing passing about it. Gerbils can live for two or three years. That’s a lot longer than my past relationship. ‘It’s not love, but it ain’t bad,’” I sang.

“Don’t know that one. Roy Rogers?” Sally isn’t much of a fan of country music—she’s more of a Gershwin devotee—but she likes to hear me sing.

“Merle Haggard.”

“Never heard of him. I think you should come to Washington and meet this chef.” She raised her eyebrows in a question, and I smiled at her.

“We’ll see.” I said.

She turned her attention to Mae. “What about you, Mae. Are you still seeing that cute boy, Timmy?”

“Tommy. No. I ended it last week and I’m so over dating twenty-year-olds with overdeveloped sex drives and under-developed communication skills. I’m looking for an older, sensible man who doesn’t consider beer guzzling and giving his
friends wedgies cultural events. But, it’s so not happening.” Mae was in a tough position. For all that she looked like she’s playing dress-up from her nana’s closet, she is very mature. Older guys just don’t give her a chance to prove it.

“What’s ‘older’?” Sally asked.

“At least in his thirties.”

“Huh!” said our septuagenarian.

“I guess everything is relative,” Sonya said. The truth is that none of us ever thought of Sally as any age but ours. It wasn’t that she
tried
to act younger than she was; she
was
younger.

“Hey, most boys do outgrow beer guzzling and wedgies at some point.” I wasn’t certain about the “most”; it was probably more like “a few.”

“It’s not just that. Whenever he calls to go out, he says things like ‘Hey, you wanna go out sometime this week?’ I say, ‘Sure, that sounds great.’ Then he says, ‘Cool,’ but he doesn’t say where or when. At first I’d suggest something and that’s what we’d do. But it really began to annoy me that he wouldn’t at least once have an idea of his own. You know, call and say, ‘How about catching some sounds at the Knitting Factory Friday night’ or ‘Let’s go for Thai food and a flick on Tuesday.’ So after a while, when he’d call and say, “Wanna do something?’ I’d say, ‘Fine’ but make no suggestions. And he’d just hang there waiting for me to decide what we’d do. That would go on for days. He’d call and ask, ‘When can I see you,’ I’d say, ‘Whenever you like,’ and he still didn’t come up with an idea. I think it’s a definite sign of a couch potato in training.” She did have a point.

“You can do better, Mae.” Having been married to the same handsome, adoring, man for over twenty years, Sonya was a creditable adviser. “I think that Danny O’Shea is pretty cute. And he’s single.”

“I think he’s into Casey. He was, like, totally coming on to her but, you know, she was acting all chefy.”

“Hey, I was nearly naked. I felt vulnerable. Besides, coming on to women seems to be his natural persona. He was much too obvious about it. I didn’t take it personally.”

“I liked that he was open and direct. I’ll bet when he calls a girl he’s got definite plans,” Mae said.

“I’m sure he does. And I’d bet those plans aren’t dinner and a movie.”

Sally thought that was pretty funny. “What makes you think that?”

“He’s flirtatious as hell and full of himself. He just acted like someone who spends all his free time seducing women.”

“A real Casanova,” Sally said.

“You got it.”

“In my day, they would say that young men just need to sow their wild oats.”

“Well then, my guess is that Danny O’Shea qualifies for a farm loan.”

“So what about his party tomorrow night. Shall we all go together?” Just as we’d suspected, Sally was craving to go.

“Definitely,” said Mae.

“Since you’re staying out in New Rochelle, Casey, do you want to change at my hotel room tomorrow? As a matter of fact, it’s a suite, so why don’t you spend the night.”

“That would be great. I was going to sleep on Mary’s couch, but it’s about two inches shorter than I am and it’s hard to stay curled up all night.”

“I’m going to lunch at
Gourmet
tomorrow, so I’ll bring you your own key in the morning and you can just help yourself.”

Finally, the apples were all in place. We covered three of the pans with Mae’s perfect circles of dough and slid them into
the oven. As soon as they were baked, we would be ready to call it a day. Sonya looked at her watch and said she’d better run. I remembered that she was meeting with George and the suits and I was grateful the offices were in another building. I really hated to be in the same room with him. Sally said, “I think we should go out for a good, big lunch today. How about that?”

“Count me in,” I said.

“Oh, bummer.” Mae frowned. “I have to work at the family place this afternoon. We’re short-staffed since April and June are gone.”

“The months or your sisters?” I asked.

Mae had to be sick of my inane jokes about her family’s names. “That’s so lame, Casey.”

“I know. I am sorry you can’t come, though.”

“Thanks.”

Sally suggested we try Jean-Georges Vongerichten’s new place.

“Well, good luck, Sally. That’s one of the most happening lunch places in the city. I
wonder
how we will get in,” I teased. Never had a restaurant been too crowded to seat Sally.

Sally took out her cell phone and little black address book. “I’ll make a call.” After waiting a few minutes for an answer, she boomed into the phone, “Jeannie, this is Sally . . . Woods. Do you think your brother could get two of us into lunch at Jean-Georges’s new place, today at one o’clock? Okay, call me on my cell phone.” She gave Jeannie her number and folded the phone shut.

“Who’s Jeannie?” I asked.

“She’s my hairdresser here in New York. Her brother is a dishwasher at Jean-Georges’s.”

“Did it occur to you just to call the restaurant and tell them
who you are? Or, for that matter, just say, ‘Hi, I need a table.’
Everyone
knows your voice,” I said.

“Oh. They wouldn’t care that it was me. They see real star types all the time.” Sally was probably the only one who really believed that restaurants weren’t wild to have her eat there. Even the haughtiest of places are willing to bend over backward to accommodate her. When we were in San Francisco on our way to Napa Valley, we decided at the last minute to eat at a trendy new restaurant known for its crab claws and attitude. I got there before Sally, and when I asked the very bored maître d’ for a table for three he looked at me as though I had warts covering my face and asked if I had a reservation.

“No. We just decided at the last minute because we heard how remarkably good the food is.”

My flattery did not impress him. He made snooty, snorting sounds and said, “We are full months in advance. And we never have empty seats.” That’s when Sally and Sonya arrived and Sally asked me if we could get in.

“Not for a few months,” I said.

There was a lot of undecipherable stammering on the maître d’s part, but we did make out the words “sudden cancellation.” Next to the crab claws, the best part of lunch was having him fawn all over us.

Just before noon, Sally’s phone rang and she had a brief conversation with Jeannie. “We’re all set,” she told me. I hope we don’t have to wait a long time at a crowded noisy bar. I’m hungry.”

W
E ARRIVED AT THE
restaurant, and Jean-Georges himself met us and led us to a table in the center of the room, where a nervous-looking waiter was shifting flatware and plumping napkins. Jean-Georges pulled out a chair for Sally
and with some effort shifted her back in to the table. “We are so happy to have you here, Mrs. Woods. We’d love to send some
amuse-gueules
to the table for you.” Loosely translated, the term refers to small, one- or two-bite portions of food meant to tickle the appetite. I was tickled already.

Sally folded her hands together in prayer-like fashion and dipped her head demurely. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

“I guess he had time to Google you up and found out you were somebody,” I said when he’d left the table. “That’s great, because now we’ll get all kinds of goodies.”

The goodies began to arrive in short order. In addition to the appetizers we had chosen, the waiter delivered three complimentary ones from Jean-Georges. Sally finished the soup she had ordered, tasted my crab spring roll, and was plunging her fork into a complimentary mushroom tart when she reached her free hand over to touch my hand, the one that wasn’t shoveling food into my mouth. “You’re still very sad about Richard, aren’t you?”

“More disappointed. And still angry, I guess. But, truthfully, the breakup was coming for a long time. Our relationship wasn’t going anyplace. When we weren’t arguing, we were more like good friends than lovers. I just hate how it happened.”

“It was mean. In my day, you did such things directly, like a gentleman. Unless, of course, it was during the war and you were in a hurry to marry someone else. Then you sent a ‘Dear John’ letter, but it was on decent stationery and included a little chitchat.”

“Well, there was definitely no chitchat. Not even ‘Remember to floss.’”

“It’s this high-tech generation.” I knew she wasn’t criticizing technology in general, because she herself was very much into the latest in hard- and software. “People are just not as
courteous as they used to be. But Richard’s in the past and you have to move on to something other than a gerbil.” I gave her a sarcastic smile. “Do you know what you want?” she asked, taking another forkful of my spring roll.

I thought for a minute before saying, “I’d love to have what you and Peter had.”

Before he died three years ago, Peter Woods was a brilliant government scientist whom Sally had met when she was a sophomore at Goucher in Maryland. He was eight years older than she was, but according to both of them, it was love at first sight and they married the day after Sally graduated from college. Peter was amazing—brilliant and charming. It was Peter who introduced Sally to good food and encouraged her to take cooking classes whenever she could. They went everywhere together. He was in his early seventies when he died of a heart attack. I know Sally misses him, but she loves to talk about him and their times together. At least, she usually does.

When I mentioned his name, she said nothing for a minute and then sighed and said, “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

I was stunned. “What do you mean? Weren’t you happy together?”

“We were very happy; it’s just that recently I’ve learned . . . ” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Things I didn’t know when we were together.”

A number of ugly thoughts raced into my head, and I said the only nonugly one that came to mind. “Oh, Sally. Peter loved—no, adored—you. It was so obvious.”

“I know that, but it doesn’t change everything.”

I waited for her to tell me more, and when she didn’t say anything I asked if she wanted to talk about it.

“I’d rather not, Casey. Forget I said anything. I’d rather talk about how you are handling this breakup with Richard.”

Or not handling it, I thought, looking at the beautiful food Jean-Georges had sent to the table. It deserved better conversation. “Screw it, Sally. Let’s not talk about either of them.”

“Good idea. Pass that one over here.”

Somewhere between devouring the entrées we had ordered and doing our best with the gratis ones, we began to talk about Italy. “I understand that George Davis is going with us?” I said.

“He’s not going
with
us. He’ll be there when we are. We have some business there.” Sally’s tone said that was all there was to discuss, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“What are you going to be doing?” My tone was light and inquisitive, not pressing.

“It’s personal. Not anything you need to know.”

Whoa. This was as close as she had ever come to telling me to mind my own business, and I felt shamefully out of order.

“I didn’t mean to sound short with you, honey, but George is, well, a temporary situation.” That was sure good news. “I have some business with him and when it’s over, I don’t expect he’ll be around anymore.” That made sense to me. Maybe her new lawyer had arranged the deal with George and Sally was too honorable to back out of it.

“When does your contract with him expire?”

“We don’t have a contract per se. It’s an agreement.”

I looked up from my forkful of braised duck. “Can you get out of it?”

She shook her head. “No. I can’t now.” She put her fork down and looked straight at me. “
I
know he’s a sleazeball, Casey . . .” In spite of the unpleasant topic of conversation, I had to smile at her choice of words. Sally has such a charming way of blending words from all the eras she has lived in. She didn’t try to imitate contemporary slang, but every now and then threw in a word or two that would seem out of place with her age, were
she not who she was. “And I know you must wonder why I’ve let him handle my business. It’s complicated. I’ve wanted to say something to you because I know he treats you rudely, and you and I have always been able to talk to each other.” I put my own fork down and sat quietly, ready at last to hear what was going on. But the next words were not from her.

“I don’t believe it! My two favorite people at the same table!”

We both looked up and saw Suzy MacDonald. “Suzette! What are you doing here?” Suzy is an American who teaches cooking classes in Paris, hence the “Suzette.” She had worked with Sally and me on a number of projects, and her bubbly personality makes her one of our favorites as well.

She immediately had Sally wrapped in a big hug. “I’ve come over for my brother’s wedding. I’m meeting Linda here for lunch.” Linda is the food editor for
Cooks Today
and every bit as lovable as Suzette.

“You have to join us,” Sally insisted.

Suzy pulled out a chair and sat. “But of course!” She said it with a French accent. “This is
très
fabulous!”

Linda came along soon and, exclaiming her joy at finding us all together, sat down. Our lunch, laughter, and guiltless gossip went on for over two hours, and by the time we’d finished the last of the eight complimentary desserts, I was no longer thinking about the unpleasant topics that had started our lunch.