Spiced to Death (7 page)

She shrugged carelessly. “Everybody cooks modern food but there is an awakening of interest in what those of the ancient world ate and drank. I use the same cooking tools and the same methods of preparation that my ancestors used two thousand years ago.”

“The same ingredients too?” I asked.

“As far as possible—though that can be more difficult. The herbs and spices, for example, used in earlier days are not easy to find.”

I was unable to look anywhere but deep into those gorgeous eyes and I realized that her words were uncannily intuitive. It was as if she were reading my mind.

A voice called from nearby, petulant, demanding, but it was in a language I didn’t understand. I presumed it was addressing her but she ignored it.

“I see from your face that you know something of spices. Come inside. I will show you Phoenicia.”

She moved as gracefully as a ballet dancer but with a catlike deliberation. I was relieved to escape from her spell but I couldn’t wait to be enveloped in it again.

The kitchen where we went first was a remarkably faithful-appearing replica of the real thing. Copper caldrons stood alongside wicker baskets of fruit and vegetables. A stone mortar and pestle were near a wood-burning stove. Ayesha pointed to a stack of thick green leaves. “Those are our plates.”

In a wooden tray was cutlery—two-pronged forks and bone-handled knives. Earthenware pots and bowls could easily have been a thousand years old. Flat stones were scratched and worn. “Those are our chopping blocks,” she said musically. The walls of the adjoining restaurant area looked like the interior of a tent and the floor was at different levels, each carpeted differently in bright colors.

“We are featuring lamb today,” this exotic creature told me as she pointed a slim elegant hand with purple nails and several jeweled rings. She gave a tinkling laugh. “You are thinking this is not a costume for cooking or serving. You are right but America is show business, is it not? Hype and razzle-dazzle.”

“I’m sure the food is as good as the presentation,” I said.

The lamb was in large pieces and turned slowly over a spit in an alcove like a fireplace. Other pieces hung on chains.

“We burn only olive wood—it does not smoke,” she told me, then she indicated a heap of flat cakes of bread, thin enough to be sheets. “We call this
petlah
bread. It is unleavened, and it is thin so it serves also as a table napkin—you can wipe your mouth with it and then eat it. The poor people buy these on the streets from vendors and fill them with vegetables.”

“It’s fascinating,” I said. “You’ve done a remarkable job of reproducing the ancient styles of cooking and eating.”

“Thank you, kind sir.” She gave me a curtsy. Her eyes mocked her action but her smile was full.

“You mentioned spices. What spices do you use?”

Her expression changed, became serious.

“Yes, you are very interested in spices—no, more than that, involved even. Is it not so?”

I was debating an answer, not sure how much to tell her.

“Who are you?” she asked softly.

I handed her a card. She took it in long slender fingers and her wonderful eyes turned to me.

“You are one who tasted the Ko Feng,” she said, and her voice was as reverent as if she had referred to an audience with the Dalai Lama.

I nodded.

“Let us go over here and talk.” She led the way to a table. The restaurant was still empty. It was early for people to be eating, though the streams of visitors passing by were thickening.

We sat then she rose abruptly. “Let me get something.”

She was back with porcelain cups and a steaming brass vessel shaped like a samovar. She poured from it and set down a tray of delicious-looking cookies. “Rose-hip tea and those are almond paste—we call them
sanbuniya.
Now tell me about the Ko Feng.”

Her imperious tone didn’t offer me any alternative but it didn’t matter because I would have seized any opportunity to have this glorious creature hanging on my every word. I told her all I knew.

When I told her of the disappearance of the Ko Feng, she frowned.

“It is not possible! How could this happen?”

“I wish I knew.”

“The East is a place of magic and illusion—but here, in New York …” She shook her head in bewilderment and I was ready to speculate just to keep the conversation going when there was an interruption. The same petulant voice that I had heard before called out loudly, then a man came in through a curtain at the back.

He had a head of tight black curls and dark, darting eyes. He wore a white silk shirt and black matador pants with a belt of decorated leather and calf-length black boots. He showed white teeth but it wasn’t a smile.

Ayesha didn’t seem inclined to introduce him. She gave him an annoyed half glance.

“What is it, Lennie?” she asked impatiently.

He wasn’t going to be dismissed that easily. His gaze held mine. He looked at the samovar and the tray of cookies.

“I’m Lennie Rifkin,” he said. “Are you selling something?”

“No,” I said and let it go at that.

He was about to address me again but he turned abruptly to Ayesha. “Haven’t the figs arrived yet?”

“Not yet,” she said without looking at him and as if they were of no importance.

“You did order them?” he said accusingly.

“Of course.”

He hesitated, then turned to walk away. As he did so, he tossed a parting comment over his shoulder. “My wife often forgets.” He exited through the same curtain with a flourish.

Ayesha resumed her conversation with me as if there had been no interruption.

“We would have been one of the many restaurants that wanted some Ko Feng.”

A thought struck me. “Had you contracted to buy any?”

“No. I don’t know that any contracts were issued although many people knew of it. I presume you are trying to get the Ko Feng back—after all, you are a detective.”

“Actually, I’m not—a detective, that is.” I explained but she didn’t look convinced. “I am trying to recover the Ko Feng, though, “I added, anxious to maintain my status in her eyes. I wasn’t sure if I did that or not.

“You might want to talk to some of the other restaurant owners in the city. Several of them are here.”

“That would be very helpful. Who do you suggest?”

She ticked them off on brilliant fingernails. “Selim Osman is here—he has the Topkapi Castle; Abe Kefalik is in the next pavilion with his Himalaya restaurant; then there’s Louis Alacourt of the Duke of Gascony; Jim Keillor of the Hunters’ Lodge—oh, and you might see Mike Earhart, he’s planning on reopening Tony Pastor’s. Others who aren’t here at the fair are sure to be wanting some Ko Feng—Robert De Niro’s Tribeca Grill; Mandarin Court; ‘21’; Lutèce; even Lespinasse and La Caravelle …” She waved a hand in a glittering arc. “What chef would not want to have the Celestial Spice!”

“That’s a lot of competition.”

She shrugged, disdainful as Nefertiti on hearing that another pyramid had collapsed.

“This is New York. Competition is what makes this city. But we are not like all the others. Topkapi Castle is Turkish, Himalaya offers food from all those countries surrounding the mountain range—my intention at Phoenicia is not only to serve the foods of the ancient world but also to cook them in the ancient style—to be authentic in every way.”

She gave me a long look from those beautiful eyes. “You must come and taste for yourself. We are limited here, as you can see.”

“I will,” I promised.

A couple drifted in and sat down. A family with strong Southern accents came in, staring at the cooking pots.

“I’d better go,” I said.

“Yes. Go and find the Ko Feng. It is very important.” Her voice was earnest, almost pleading.

I was almost outside when she called to me.

“Ex-wife.”

Out in the madding crowds, it was becoming harder and harder to move around. Most of the stands and booths were doing a good business. Barbara’s Breakfasts were obviously popular and I paused to eye in amazement the enormous amounts of food being consumed. It all looked good too—thick buttermilk flapjacks, creamy scrambled eggs, fat brown sausages, slabs of succulent ham, crusted hash-brown potatoes, red-golden tomatoes, plump mushrooms, crispy bacon …

The fast food stands were lining customers up already—hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza, tacos, burritos, Orange Julius, Coke, beer, root beer … Chicken in a dozen ways sizzled and smoked—fried, Southern fried, baked, roasted, broasted, grilled, char-grilled plus every state’s variation from Kentucky Fried to Rhode Island Roasted.

I found the Himalaya first. An artist’s depiction of the majestic sweep of the world’s mightiest mountain range was a mural that was really eye-catching. A few people were already seated and appetizing aromas were drifting among the tables.

Abraham Kefalik, the owner, was easy to find. A huge, barrel-chested man with a bushy black beard and a deep, booming voice that came from the very bottom of that barrel, he was arguing with an unfortunate fellow delivering a crate of rolls. The disagreement ended in Kefalik’s victory—an outcome that was never in doubt. He looked at me quizzically from under beetling black brows.

I told him who I was and gave him a card. I added that I had just come from Phoenicia.

His reaction was cool. “What do you want?”

“To talk to you for a few minutes.”

“I’m very busy here, as you can see.”

He didn’t look that busy.

“Ayesha said I should come and talk to you.”

His face split into a big grin. “Ayesha! Ah, what a magnificent woman! Why didn’t you say so? I thought that miserable, no-good Lebanese bandit sent you!”

“Lennie Rifkin? No. I saw him for a few seconds but he had other things to do than talk to me. He’s a very lucky man to have such a wife.”

“They are divorced,” Kefalik said with a booming laugh. “Good thing, too—for her, anyway.”

“But they work together in the restaurant, don’t they?”

“She does all the work.”

“What’s he—head chef?”

“Poof! He is nothing. An entrepreneur before he met her. What she saw in him, nobody knows.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Women! They are wonderful, are they not? But sometimes, they do crazy things—” He stopped and gave me a questioning look. “You said you wanted to talk to me—what about?”

“About Ko Feng.”

His demeanor changed sharply. “You had better come in.” He dropped the bread crate he had been holding and bellowed for a kitchen helper to come and take it. He led the way to a corner table.

The Himalayan motif had been carried throughout and a snow-capped peak met the eye wherever you looked, either singular or in ranges. On the walls were a multistringed lyre, a farm yoke with leather strapping, a long curved sword with a bronze handle and a lot of other items that looked either useful, deadly or just strange.

A few tables were occupied. People were drinking thick black coffee and eating gooey buns dripping honey. Kefalik sent his voice booming in the direction of the kitchen and a young girl with doelike eyes and a voluminous dress scurried away to return quickly with a silver pot and china cups. She poured coffee like congealing tar and smiled shyly.

“Is good coffee, is it not?” Kefalik asked. He was watching me drink. He chuckled and it sounded like a boiler overheating. “You drink this before, I can tell.”

“In my business, I eat and drink a lot of things from a lot of countries. I like this coffee. Is it Kenyan?”

“From Ethiopia—the home of coffee, many say. It is hard to get now.” He looked at my card again. “So you tasted the Ko Feng—was it wonderful?”

“Word gets around fast in the restaurant trade.”

Kefalik laughed. “Faster even than the hairdressing business.”

“Yes, it was wonderful. Hard to describe, too. Hints of other spices yet not really like any of them.”

“And then you lost it.”

“Yes,” I said ruefully.

“And now you are trying to get it back.”

“Yes. Well, not just me, “I added hastily. I didn’t want Lieutenant Gaines to hear that I was doing some investigating. “The police are working on it. I was just here at this food fair and was talking to Ayesha—”

He squinted at my card once more. “But you are a detective …”

Perhaps I should get some different cards. “Not exactly.” I explained what I did and he nodded.

“Like I said, you want to get it back.”

“Were you planning on buying some?” I asked him.

“Every chef in New York would want some. The romance of it alone—imagine! lost for centuries, then it is found! And it is probably the most famed of all the old spices. Even more than silphium—you know about silphium?”

“I know something about it.”

“It was not only a spice but a valued drug—it was bought with silver. Did you know that?”

“Yes, I knew it.” Was he avoiding my question? I tried again.

“Were you offered any Ko Feng?”

He poured more coffee.

“Before Alexander Marvell decided to buy it, you think he let news of it slip out? No, someone else would have stepped in.” He laughed his booming laugh once more, alarming a couple in shorts and Hawaiian shirts. “We are good fellows in this business,” he said earnestly. “Most of us—no, nearly all of us. But there are one or two—maybe a few more than that—who would do anything.”

“Such as steal the Ko Feng?”

“Including that.”

“And then what would they do with it?”

He nodded slowly. “I see what you are saying. It is so special that it is worth nothing unless it is known for what it is. To sell it announces that the seller is the one who stole it.”

“Something like that.”

He grinned. “You have a problem, my friend.” He stood up and held out a hand. “Good luck with it—and please, come and dine at the Himalaya. You like grilled yak?”

“I’ve eaten a lot of different foods but I don’t recall ever eating yak,” I said cautiously.

“Call me a couple of days ahead. It needs marinating.”

I didn’t doubt it. Scampering up and down the Himalayas would develop a lot of muscle that would need tenderizing.

Farther down the aisle was the Armenian stand. Armenia no longer exists as a separate country but its traditions and customs endure and its food is still eaten with enthusiasm by millions in the region. Many of these foods were on sale—Armenian sausages, which are not quite like any other sausage;
lavish
—thin bread like crackers;
lehmejun
—the small meat pieces that are sold on every corner stand in the Middle East; plus many items not readily found but common in Armenian cooking, such as pine nuts and
mahleb,
a fennel-like flavoring.