Spiced to Death (2 page)

I didn’t want to uphold my end of the conversation with too much conviction as I was afraid I might distract him from his driving, which needed a lot more practice. So I managed an occasional nod or look of comprehension. By concentrating on his words, I learned that he was a Latvian and from Riga, which was what he had been proudly trying to tell me. He had only been here six months. I would have believed six days but didn’t press the point as he used fingers to illustrate the number and that didn’t leave any hands for the wheel. America was a wonderful country, he told me, and we embroidered on that theme all the way in to Manhattan, making full use of our joint vocabulary, which eventually stretched to about two dozen words.

New York hadn’t changed that much, I noted. Traffic was just as thick and the cars seemed so much bigger as they always do. The streets were a little dirtier and more untidy but then, on returning to London after a spell away, that was noticeable there too. People looked more polyglot as they now look in all big cities.

When the cabby dropped me at the Courtney Park Hotel, it was like the parting of two old friends. He clapped me on the back and let me lift my own bags out of the cab.

The lobby was stunning with a tinkling fountain in the center and a chandelier above it that would have had the Phantom gnashing his teeth in envy. Shops and boutiques ran off along small streets in all directions from the fountain and the sign said that the display of life-size sculpture was changed every week. Don Renshaw had meant it when he said that accommodation would be first class.

There were lines waiting at each of the four check-in desks and though I switched a couple of times, I was still in the longest when I signed in. I was handed a note from Don saying that he and his wife, Peggy, would pick me up at 7:30 for dinner.

This was my home away from home, the brochure in the room assured me, but they obviously didn’t know that my apartment in Hammersmith in West London could fit into the bathroom here. From the window I could see a corner of Central Park. I had a long and leisurely shower, then watched some television.

This was something that had changed in the country since I was here last. Television’s emphasis was no longer on entertainment but on exploitation. I watched in near disbelief as first a black woman was encouraging a studio audience to applaud couples consisting of men and women who had stolen their best friend’s spouse; then a Puerto Rican gentleman was investigating homosexuality in mental institutions; and then an Asian interviewer was telling how she used promises of confidentiality to persuade guests on her show to divulge scurrilous opinions of famous people, then blabbed them on the air. I skimmed through the channels but Bugs Bunny seemed to be the nearest I could get to entertainment.

I dressed and went downstairs. The shops and boutiques were full of fabulous merchandise at what, by London standards, were extremely low prices. I made a second tour and then sat by the fountain until Don and Peggy arrived.

They didn’t look a lot different, possibly a little fatter and more affluent. Don was stocky, of medium height with fair, thinning hair and a ruddy complexion. He greeted me effusively, then Peggy and I exchanged hugs. She was light blond with a smooth English complexion and eyes that always looked happy.

The short taxi ride to the restaurant was taken up with exchanges of information on mutual acquaintances, their progress and problems. It was not until we were seated that I was able to get to the questions that had been burning in my brain ever since Don’s phone call.

“Sorry to talk business so soon, Peggy,” I said, “but this is the most exciting thing that’s happened in the food business since an innovative caveman found that meat tasted better cooked than raw. Finding a crop of Ko Feng—it’s amazing!”

Don smiled. “I know. I felt the same way at first. I’ve had some time to get used to the idea so I’m finally beginning to accept it. It certainly sounded incredible when I first heard about it.”

“I take care of the Spice Warehouse when Don’s away, buying or whatever,” Peggy said, “so I’m just as enthusiastic as you. I must admit I hadn’t heard of Ko Feng before this, though.”

“It’s been extinct for centuries, so not many people know it,” Don said. “Folks in the trade have heard of it, of course, just as many have heard of Melegueta peppers.”

“Known as the Grains of Paradise,” I contributed. “Nobody expects to hear of either of them cropping up today, though.”

“Nice choice of a verb,” commented Don.

“Sorry—it was accidental. But how
did
somebody find it? And who was it? Was he looking for it? How did he know it was there?”

The wine waiter arrived and introduced himself. This is a practice which is creeping into the London restaurant scene but hasn’t made significant headway yet. Under some circumstances, I respond with “I’m the Gourmet Detective and I’ll be your customer tonight” but my head was spinning with questions and anyway Don was the host.

If America is a melting pot, then New York is a cooking pot. Surely no city in the world has so many eating places and such an enormous variety of ethnic cultures on which they are based. There cannot be any cuisine in the world which is not represented in New York.

We were in the Mondragon, one of Manhattan’s newer eating establishments. The canopied entrance was in soft French blue with gold lettering. Inside, the stained-glass ceiling panels, the elegant mahogany-railed curving staircase leading to the upper dining level and the luxurious leaf-patterned carpet made a sumptuous background. Don caught me looking around.

“Don’t worry—the food’s as good as the decor.”

He ordered a bottle of champagne by way of celebration—it was the Dom Ruinart Brut Blanc de Blancs.

“Well, that tells me one thing about the buyer of the Ko Feng—he’s paying well for this job,” I said, knowing that the price tag would be close to $100 for the bottle.

Don nodded. “You were asking about him. Name’s Alexander Marvell. He was in the restaurant business for many years, then went into the food importing field here in New York. When I first opened the Spice Warehouse, he bought some turmeric from me. It was from Alleppey in India—the very best kind as you know. I’ve sold him a couple of other shipments since then but that’s all. I was surprised when he picked me for this assignment.”

“Willard recommended you, that’s why Marvell picked you,” said Peggy.

“Willard Cartwright is Marvell’s right-hand man,” Don explained.

“Nobody better qualified than you, surely,” I said. “The Spice Warehouse must have put you in the forefront of spice experts.”

“It’ll work the other way too,” Peggy added. “There’s a lot of prestige involved here—should boost business in the warehouse by a few percent.”

The wine waiter brought the champagne and opened it expertly, enough of a pop to satisfy but not enough to make heads turn. It bubbled perfectly into the glasses and we drank and studied the menus.

Don and I both decided on the Oysters Rockefeller while Peggy chose the crab meat with avocado and lemon grass with a red pepper coulis. For the main course, Peggy and Don had the rack of lamb while I ordered the
Jarret de Veau à l’Italienne
—a refined French version of osso buco, one of my favorite dishes.

We finished the champagne and Don ordered a Diamond Creek Cabernet Sauvignon. The appetizers were excellent and so were the main courses. Don and Peggy’s rack of lamb was rosy red and oozing with taste, they told me. My slowly cooked veal shank had been sprinkled with gremolata, that wonderful blend of garlic, parsley and lemon zest, and it was slightly dry rather than being drenched in braising juices, a common fault with this dish. The imaginative accompaniment was a purée of white beans.

The waiters were prompt and attentive, and Don and I compared service in New York restaurants with their counterparts in London.

“Many’s the time I’ve had to wait thirty minutes for a check in London,” Don said, “even in the West End. Some restaurants seem to have a positive aversion to bringing it.”

“English middle-class disdain for any dealings with money,” said Peggy. “Anyway, waiting for the check never bothered you—you’d just order another bottle of wine.”

“Isn’t that out of character for a nation of shopkeepers?” I asked.

“We never were,” Peggy said. “That was just Napoleon’s way of showing his contempt.”

“Or his ignorance,” added Don.

We sipped the wine. “Meanwhile,” I said, “back at the Spice Ranch with the Ko Feng …”

Don laughed. “The way it was found, you mean? Alexander Marvell was in Saigon negotiating a contract for rice—that’s one of his biggest commodities. One of the men he was talking to mentioned a cinnamon plantation that he thought Marvell ought to take a look at. Marvell doesn’t handle that many spices so he was reluctant, but he couldn’t get a flight out right away so he went.

Well, the way Marvell tells it, they were driving along and from the jeep, Marvell looked down into a valley where he saw a strange-looking crop. He said it glowed in the setting sun and he asked what it was. The answer was ‘Just weeds.’”

The waiter brought dessert menus and I reluctantly tore myself away from Don’s fascinating story. The specialty was a
mascarpone
sorbet with wild strawberries and all three of us ordered it. Don continued.

“Marvell said he couldn’t get the image of that peculiar crop out of his mind. He felt there was something about it that was far out of the ordinary. He went back again the next day and took a sample and went into Saigon to the university.”

“I have to chip in here,” Peggy said. “If Alexander Marvell didn’t have an import business, he might be running a religion. He’s an extraordinary man—I can just picture him standing there, looking down into that purple valley and having an unshakable conviction that there was something magical about it.”

Don nodded in agreement. “It’s true, that’s how he is. Anyway, the people at Saigon University were puzzled. It was no weed they recognized—or plant, for that matter. So Marvell changed his flight plan back to New York. Instead of going via Bombay and London, he booked in the opposite direction so as to stop off in San Francisco”—he broke off and looked at me—“I’m sure you can guess why San Francisco …”

“Probably because that’s where the Mecklenburg Botanical Institute is. They’re number one in that kind of study.”

“Right. He even stayed in a nearby hotel and pressured them into going to work on the investigation right away. Once they had started, they got really interested and—to cut a long story short—they eventually concluded that it must be Ko Feng.”

“Which presumably didn’t mean much to Marvell at that point. I mean, not being a spice specialist, there would be no reason for him to even know the name—”

“He didn’t. Once he read up on it, though, he became really excited.”

“I hate to ask such a crass commercial question,” I said, “but how much do you suppose Ko Feng is worth on today’s market?”

Don grinned. “It’s okay to ask the question. You’re in the U.S. of A. now—commercialism comes with the territory. This wouldn’t be the country it is without commerce. Money lubricates the wheels of progress.”

“We still want to know how much,” Peggy said, tapping a spoon on the table for emphasis. “I was asking you this question the other day and I never did get an answer.”

Don spread his hands. “It’s so hard to say. How can you value something like this? It’s worth whatever someone wants to pay.”

“Sort of like the
Mona Lisa?”
Peggy asked.

“In a way, yes.”

“Or that Van Gogh that a Japanese bought for thirty million dollars?”

“They’ll do as examples. What’s the Van Gogh worth? Wood, paint and canvas—total twenty dollars. The
Mona Lisa?
Maybe less, the materials are older.”

“There is a difference, though,” I pointed out. “When a million visitors to the Louvre have looked at the
Mona Lisa,
another million can come and look at it. When this spice has all been eaten up—then what?”

“The scarcity makes it all the more valuable,” Don said.

Peggy looked at Don. “Hasn’t Marvell said anything about value?”

“I haven’t been able to get any clue from him as to what he’s going to sell it for.”

“Will we get some?” Peggy wanted to know.

“Doubt it. I told him I’d like some, though.”

“What does saffron sell for now?” I asked. “It’s the most valuable spice there is today.”

“At the point of retail sale—about $200 an ounce,” Don replied.

“Ko Feng must be worth far more than that. Like ten times more?” I pressed.

“More, probably.”

“And the shipment is—what did you say, Don—about forty kilograms?”

“About that.”

Peggy was doing quick sums on the tablecloth with a fork.

“That’s two to three million dollars,” she said softly.

We sat silent for a moment, all of us awestruck at the thought of such wealth in such a simple form. The dessert arrived to end our reverie.

It was superb. The piquancy of the wild strawberries contrasted perfectly with the smoothness of the
mascarpone,
which is one of the newer arrivals on the dessert scene though long a popular cheese in Italy.

Peggy ordered tea, Don and I coffee. Before it came, I had already asked the big question.

“About tomorrow. How do we go about authenticating a spice that has been unknown for centuries?”

We sat over coffee discussing it until the waiter came by for the second time to ask if we wanted more coffee or anything further.

“Big day tomorrow,” Don said, examining the check. “Pick you up about eight o’clock. There’ll be some formalities to go through before the flight gets in at ten forty-five.”

“I can hardly wait,” I said, and I really meant it.

I
T WAS COLD WITH
a blustery wind and there was the threat of rain from a gray sky. The yawning expanse of the cargo area at JFK added to the bleak aspect of the morning but I was tingling with anticipation. It was a rare occasion and I was going to enjoy every minute of it.