Delicious! (8 page)

“Really?” He’d never given me the smallest cue that he thought that, and a little arrow of pleasure went rushing through me.

“Indeed. He has asked me to keep an eye on you. And I can see that we are going to be fast friends.” Sammy took my hand in his, drawing me into a cluttered office. I looked around at the jumble of objects stacked in precarious towers that threatened to topple at a touch. The rays of sunlight entering through the thick, bubbled glass had an ancient
quality, as if they had come from some distant past. I remembered Sammy’s description of Marrakech.

Sammy affectionately patted his possessions as if they were long-lost relatives. “Are you aware that this office was once the domain of James Beard?”

“One of the crazier callers mentioned that he’d worked here, but I didn’t know it was true.”

“Indeed. It was at the very commencement of his illustrious career. Long before he was known as the father of American cuisine.” Sammy stopped to caress an antique metal object with a huge wheel on the top. “Is this your first encounter with a genuine duck press? The French Tourist Office sent it in gratitude for the Paris issue I produced in 2003.” His fingers moved on to explore the hilt of a richly jeweled sword. “This is from the Maharaja of Jaipur.” Sammy pointed to a photograph of a small turbaned man riding an elephant with elegant ears. “Rather extravagant thanks for an extremely small story. The jewels, sadly, are faux.” He tapped another picture—himself rafting on the Nile.

“What are those?” My attention had been captured by the large, showy white blossoms cascading down the far wall. “Don’t they have pots?”

“They live on air.” He petted the orchids as if they were small birds. “Exquisite, no?” He picked up a bottle and began to gently spray the flowers. “They require no soil, but they do appreciate a gentle mist. Richard kindly cares for them in my absence.”

Sammy made me feel as if I’d been reunited with a long-lost uncle, as if we’d always been connected. He led me to an ornately carved wooden chair (“I discovered this in Venice”) and handed me the carpetbag. “Remove every object,” he instructed, “and then we shall decide where to place them. But first we shall indulge in a cup of tea.”

He turned on a hot plate and brewed Darjeeling in a beautiful copper pot, while I rummaged through the carpetbag, pulling out dried
figs, enormous pistachios in pale-blond shells, and little squares of dark chocolate.

“I make it a rule to return from each voyage with a trinity of new foods.” He handed me a fragile porcelain cup. “I learned that on my very first assignment. Sugar?” Picking up his own cup, he settled into a large leather club chair. “What a trip that was!” He took a sip, cleared his throat, and opened his mouth. But he apparently thought better of that story. “Perhaps later …”

He reached for the smallest bag I had extracted from his carpetbag. “Hold out your hand.” I cupped my palms and he filled them with a shower of orange blossoms. They tickled, delicate as butterflies, and a sweet, slightly citric fragrance filled the room. “Do you know what this is?”

I didn’t.

He held a blossom to his nose, inhaling gratefully. “This is osmanthus. It grows in southern China, where it is used in sweet-and-sour sauces and to concoct the most exquisite tea. It is impossible to procure in the United States, and it is my fondest hope that Maggie will be incapable of identifying it, thus unhinging her.” He threw that out, a challenge and a question, as he watched my face. “Ah.” He nodded with satisfaction. “I was certain that she was making your life wretched.”

“How’d you know?”

“Have you been informed about Maggie and Jake?” His expression and tone were difficult to read.

“I know they once had a restaurant together. Maja, wasn’t it?” I tried out tentatively.

“Yes, back in the dark ages, before you were born. They were a very odd couple. He was much as he is today—a smooth, handsome man to whom everything has always come too easily. But you would not have recognized Maggie. She was a splendid creature with a wild mane of black hair. She wore very short skirts and exaggerated makeup, and she was the first woman of my acquaintance who sported a tattoo.”

“Maggie’s got a tattoo?” I was mentally erasing the beatnik girl I’d imagined earlier.

“Three. One on her upper arm. One tiny one just above her ankle. And a very artful butterfly on her shoulder. This was long before every individual who toils behind the stove considered a tattoo de rigueur. But that was Maggie—tantalizing, provocative, rather flinty.” He watched me readjusting my impressions of Maggie before continuing. “Maja was a defining moment in American cuisine. They were among the first to insist upon local products. Jake’s friendship with Sal dates from that time. Maja’s signature dish was stuffed squash blossoms, which relied upon Fontanari’s fresh ricotta. I believe Jake was at least partially responsible for the current fame of Fontanari’s.”

“That explains a lot; I wondered how they’d become friends. So what happened to the restaurant?”

Sammy took a sip of tea. “Success.” His voice implied that this was obvious. “Jake authored his first cookbook and then became embroiled in one of those dreadful television shows. He commenced traveling, and young women trailed after him as if he were a rock star. Meanwhile, Maggie was left behind to tend the restaurant. She saw a picture of him with another woman.… The rest is rather trite; I am persuaded you will have little difficulty in imagining what happened next? She came to work at
Delicious!
and it was years before their next encounter.”

“When he became the editor?”

“Indeed. Maggie arrived here in the mid-eighties, and it was another dozen years before Jake made an appearance. Even then, she was so choleric that she maintained a rigid silence for two entire years.”

“God.”

“Our Maggie serves revenge very cold.”

“But she obviously got over it.”

His smile was rueful. “That is entirely due to her ingenious coping mechanism.”

“Yeah, she transfers her animosity to his assistants. Very convenient for him.”

Sammy patted my knee in a there-there gesture. “Should you desire advice, I can offer some assistance. The delightful Diana emailed me
with the information that you have the ability to identify almost any ingredient in a dish. Is this true?”

“I try.”

“And that you nevertheless decline to participate in activities of the culinary persuasion.”

“True. I don’t cook.” I wasn’t sure I liked where this was going.

“Never learned?”

“I can cook. I just don’t.”

“A major miscalculation on your part.” His tone was neutral. “You must have a reason?”

“Not one I want to talk about.”

Sammy raised his eyebrows. “Goody. I adore a mystery.” He stood up. “You had best scurry off now. Jake is nice, but not nearly as nice as he thinks he is. I have no desire to get in his bad books on the first day of my return.”

“I should go, anyway.” I stood up too. “Jake’s taking me out for sushi, and I’ve got a lot to do before lunch.”

Sammy’s eyebrows went up. “Ah, the traditional two-month mark. Be prepared.”

“For what?”

Sammy gave me an enigmatic smile. “You shall see.” He held the door open.

JAKE
’
S FAVORITE RESTAURANT
was a serenely spare space on 8th Street that seemed more like a spa than a dining room. The staff greeted him with deep bows and bustled about, taking our coats and leading us to the front table so everyone could see that Jake Newberry was gracing them with his presence.

A beautiful older woman brought steaming towels and rustic ceramic cups of green tea. “Sumiko, we are in your hands,” he told her, unwrapping his chopsticks and placing them on a smooth black stone. Then he looked at me. “Sal tells me you’ve been working at Fontanari’s.”

“Oh, only on weekends.” I could feel my heart begin to race; was this
a fireable offense? But that was stupid; why would he take me to a fancy lunch to tell me it wasn’t working out? “Should I have asked?”

“What you do on your days off”—Jake seemed smoothly indifferent—“is entirely your own business. If you want to fill every waking hour with work, that’s your prerogative. But I’ve been wondering why Sal calls you Willie.”

“Rosalie disapproves of boys’ names for girls. She calls me by my real name, Wilhelmina; Sal shortened it.”

The waitress set a small glass bowl in front of each of us. Lacy little green fronds waved up through clear liquid; it reminded me of a forest stream in early spring, just after the ice has melted. I picked up a frond, and as I put it in my mouth, I experienced a moment of cool, pure freshness.

“What is it?” I asked Jake, enchanted.

“Mozuku, a special kind of seaweed from Okinawa. You don’t think it’s slimy?”

“Slippery, but I love the way it feels in my mouth.”

“I knew I was right to hire you!”

My earlier worries slipped away with the first few tastes of the mozuku, and before long I was telling him about my almost daily conversations with Mrs. Cloverly. “I’ve been writing down the ridiculous recipes she comes up with.” I spooned up more of the pliant seaweed. “They’re so incredibly comical.”

Sumiko returned with a slab of slate on which ten perfect pieces of sushi were artfully arranged. I watched Jake pick up a piece of nori-wrapped fluke, dip the fish into the soy sauce, and swallow, thinking how lucky he was to be able to afford sushi whenever he felt like it.

“You know, Sal Fontanari is very fond of you.” The change of subject was so abrupt that it startled me. “He called after you took the Sal Test and said that the two of you were on the same wavelength. Did you know you’re the first person outside the family he’s ever allowed to work there?”

“Really?” No wonder Jane had been so surprised to see me behind the counter.

Jake nodded. “Really. And that’s given me an idea.” He ate a piece of tuna sushi, and I saw him shudder at the impact of the wasabi. “I’ve always wanted to run a story about Sal, but you know what he thinks about publicity. Every time I bring it up, he gives me a lecture about the fickleness of fame. Then he changes the subject. But I bet
you
could get him to change his mind. Tell him you want to write about Fontanari’s.”

“I’d love to!”

Jake wagged a finger at me. “Of course you would. Why else would you be here? That’s the whole point of being my assistant.”

“And Sal’s a wonderful subject.”

“No one better,” he agreed, winking as if we were coconspirators.

That stopped me. I’d been so excited at finally being asked to write that I’d overlooked the main point. I stared down at my plate and dialed back the conversation, thinking about Sal. I knew I couldn’t do it, couldn’t even ask.

I looked directly at Jake; he wasn’t going to like this. “I can’t ask Sal to go against his principles.” I hated the way I sounded. So prim.

Jake took a piece of tuna. “I thought you were ambitious. I don’t think I’m asking too much.” He flipped the fish expertly into the soy sauce, just a little dip, and put it in his mouth. “This is the first time an assistant’s ever turned me down.”

“I’m sorry.” He had to lean in to hear me. “I just can’t.”

“Well, find another story, then.” Jake was cold; I’d disappointed him.

“But what should I write about?”

Jake scanned the room for the waitress, made that little signing gesture, asking for the check. “That’s entirely up to you. But the job won’t be official until you write something for the book. And you’re turning your back on a wonderful story. You’ll never find anything half as good.”