Food Whore (2 page)

“So, Tia, you're heading to that venue over there, yes? I see you're a first year . . . an Ivy Leaguer . . . a writer.”

“Yes, sir,” I admitted.

“Do you know who I am?” He was an odd-­looking man. His cheekbones were sharp and knobby like knees. He wore an immaculate suit full of custom bells and whistles—­dark silk lining, leather buttons, plaid lines that matched up perfectly at the seams. And yet it didn't fit. What was the point of a tailor-­made suit if you swam in it so cartoonishly?

“You're . . .” I looked around for Helen again, but the sidewalk had emptied.

“Go on, you can say it.”

“You're Michael Saltz, the
New York Times
dining critic,” I said. He wanted the truth and I gave it. What else could I do?

He nodded solemnly. “That is correct. Well done.”

But I wasn't congratulating myself. I could tell by the sarcastic lilt to his voice that he didn't want to be ID'd. But he wasn't being discreet, either.

“And are you bringing those . . . cookies . . . to the reception?” he asked, blinking twice at the plastic container cradled under my arm.

“Well, yes,” I said. “They're called Dacquoise Drops. They're kind of my specialty . . .”

“Oh!” Michael Saltz said. “
The
Dacquoise Drops? As I remember, that was the top emailed recipe for three months straight. Not developed in-­house, but by a college-­aged savant named . . .” His eyes lit up, then returned to my name tag. “Tia Monroe. I've been looking for someone like you. So you're the cooking and writing prodigy, hm?”

He was looking for someone like me? In what way? “Oh, I wouldn't say a prodigy, per se. Plus, that article came out a long time ago.”

I said it because the situation seemed to call for modesty, but in fact I had never tired of that recognition. My creations were usually a private affair, but that had changed for one glorious moment after the article. I'd been flooded with emails from readers who wanted more recipes, and even gone on local TV for a cooking demo.

But eventually the emails had stopped. Nothing had happened after that TV appearance, and ­people forgot about it. I had poured myself into each article since, mining every part of my life, sure
that
day's column would be the gem that would return me to the spotlight. Every once in a while, I'd receive a random email or tweet and it'd make my day. But otherwise, silence. And yet I'd persisted on that track. Stay in New Haven, go to class, write for the paper, hope for the best. Hearing that Michael Saltz remembered—­I was flabbergasted. The rush of recognition came back, extra sweet because he was so prominent and it had been so long.

“And, let me guess. You'd like to intern for a blog?
Gobbler
?
Diner Nation
?”

“No,” I said. “I'm not interested in blogs. I want to write cookbooks and study under—­”

“Helen! Now I see. Of course the prodigy would want Helen's internship. As I remember, Helen loved your writing
and
your recipe. Was she the food editor when you were . . . front page, was it?” He closed his eyes and waved his hands in the air, like the end-­of-­days soothsayer I had seen two blocks down on Sullivan Street. “In the picture, you were sitting in the dining hall with a bowl of cherries.”

Bingo. His words glowed on me like a heat lamp and I basked in every second. He wasn't exactly pleasant, but he spoke in the most persuasive way, with a tingling insistence. Still, I realized I was losing valuable time with Helen. I had one chance to talk to her before the placements were announced, and I couldn't waste precious minutes with anyone but her.

And yet, he kept talking and I kept listening.

“Well!” he continued. “You must think that Helen made that happen, yes? Let me guess . . . You came straight from college. Yale, no less. Then came this article . . . all by the hand of Helen, our fearless editor at the time. You never gave yourself a chance to see the outside world.” He laughed, not with me, but at me.

I found none of this funny. He sounded a bit like my parents. They loved food and it was their method of choice when showing their love, but graduate school struck them as impractical. Still, I had wanted to go for it.

Plus, Michael Saltz was also making me seem like some obsequious little girl, following her childhood idol with no real-­world experience. Maybe I was, but I didn't care. There are things in life that drill into your core. Helen was my idol. She had anointed me into the
New York Times.
She'd been the one to help set me on my path.

“But, cookies?” he replied when I didn't respond. “You think anything in this town gets done because of cookies? No, you must do better than that.” He took the Tupperware out of my hands and opened the lid. But as soon as the top was off, Michael Saltz lost his grip and the cookies fell to the ground. A morning of sourcing the best ingredients, an afternoon of blistering four types of nuts, a night of making fifty cookies and keeping only the most perfect dozen. All gone. He had wiped out my best plan to secure Helen.

“What did you do that for?” I screamed and scrambled to pick them up, but they had splayed themselves over the filthy ground.

Immediately, I started thinking about a plan B. Could I dust these off? Make another batch and send them to her in time? Either way, the first step was getting away from Michael Saltz.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” he said, not looking sorry at all. “That was terrible of me.”

I had turned away, thinking I'd never say another word to this psychotic man ever again, when he spun me around.

“But tell me,” he started. “As I remember, those darling Dacquoise Drops are quite labor-­intensive. How many nuts did you use? Three? Four?”

I shot him a glare. He'd destroyed my cookies and now he wanted to hear how I'd made them?

“Four,” I said. “And I shelled every one of them.”

“Unshelled cashews? How in the world did you manage that? They're related to—­”

“Poison ivy, I know. My boyfriend helped me roast out the oils,” I said. “And now we'll have to do it again since you ruined this batch. But first I'm going to talk to Helen—­with no cookies, thanks to you.”

I was ready to storm off when Michael Saltz ran in front of me, standing partially in the street while I stood on the sidewalk. A taxi pulled up so close I thought it might hit him.

“Again, I'm sorry. That was idiotic. But it's become clear that besides being an exemplary cook and writer, you'll take great pains to be with Helen. Am I correct?”

I ached for the Don't Walk sign to change and looked away from him. But from the corner of my eye, I saw that he never wavered, even as a car pulled up two inches away from him.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Would you do anything for her?”

Finally, the Walk sign lit up. I stepped from the curb and said, “Yeah, I would.”

After I crossed the street, I looked around to see if Michael Saltz had followed me. But he remained in the same spot and now had a wild grin on his face.

E
LLIOTT RAN UP
the second I stepped into the reception hall.

“Tia, there you are!” he said, winded. “She arrived a ­couple of minutes ago. Come on! ­People are already surrounding her! I tried to text you but—­”

I had no time to tell Elliott about Michael Saltz. We ran and made a full circle of the room, but neither of us saw Helen anywhere.

“Did we lose her?” Elliott asked me, genuinely distressed.

I spotted Kyle and ran over to him, desperate for info. I'd been so close to Helen. Why had I stayed with Michael Saltz?

“Have you seen Helen?” I wheezed.

“Oh, hey,” Kyle said. “Yeah, she was in here for like, five or ten minutes, and then she left. I barely chatted with her.”

“You
chatted
with her?”

“Yeah . . . I'm gunning for her internship, so of course I talked to her. At least a dozen ­people bombarded her with gifts. Did you see her?”

His question sucker-­punched me. No, I hadn't. Would I ever? Had I lost Helen, just like that?

I climbed up a set of stairs to get a better view of the room. The room was still crowded with faces, but none was the one I wanted to see.

Then I felt a tap on my leg and looked down to see Elliott, his mouth tight and wary. “Hey,” Elliott said. “I was asking around for Helen, and this gentleman said he knows where to find her.” He gestured behind him to Michael Saltz, peering at me with those curious, predatory eyes.

“Tia! I'd like to make up for the incident earlier. I'll connect you with Helen. Send me your application essay, and I'll ensure she sees it and makes her desires known to the committee.” He took out a pen and scribbled a generic email address, then held out his hand to Elliott. “I must go, but I realized I didn't introduce myself. I'm Paul,” Michael Saltz said.

“Elliott,” he replied as he shook. With the other hand, Elliott touched the small of my back as if to say,
If this weird guy does anything, I got you.

I loved that. But at the same time, I was amazed at Michael Saltz's persistence, even after I had stormed away and Helen had expressly warned him against attending this very reception. Amazed, and a little flattered.

“And Tia,” Michael Saltz said, turning to me again, “such a pleasure.” He held out his hand and as my flesh touched his, he clamped my fingers and swooped down for a kiss. His lips were dry and frail. His cold nose touched my wrist and a chill ran through my bones.

Elliott grabbed my other arm and pulled me away. I looked behind me and saw Michael Saltz smirk his good-­bye.

“Ugh, sorry I subjected you to that guy. Who was that creep?”

“He was . . .” My heart was pounding so fast I could hardly breathe.

What could I say to Elliott? He was the
New York Times
restaurant critic. Helen's stubborn friend. An interloper at the reception. A sickly thin man who frightened and aggravated and—­I had to admit—­fascinated me.

The man who would give my essay to Helen. But what was in it for him? I couldn't quite figure it out, so I echoed the critic's lie, to give myself time. He obviously hadn't wanted to reveal his identity to Elliott, so I didn't give him away. “His name is Paul.”

Elliott heaved a sigh of relief, as if that explained everything. “Well, glad we got you out of there.”

I made a sound of agreement, but my skin still tingled from Michael Saltz's kiss.

E
LLIOTT AND I
had planned to wander our new neighborhood for good restaurants, but I didn't want to socialize after the NYU reception disaster. Instead, I made an excuse and stayed in my apartment and thought.

Now my application was out of my hands.

I needed to get the Helen Lansky internship and wanted to start the year on the right foot.

In retrospect, I'd had so many things handed to me in high school and college. But after that article, I'd stagnated, waiting for opportunities to arrive at my doorstep. I'd devoted myself to articles that only a handful of ­people read.

And I'd thought I'd land a top-­tier graduate school internship placement with a batch of cookies.

As much as I didn't want to acknowledge it, Michael Saltz had put something into sharp relief. I couldn't stand idle about my own future now. I had gotten all the way to grad school with one person in mind. Why would I leave my entire future in other ­people's hands if I had the ability to help things along?

I wasn't thrilled about accepting back-­channel help from an erratic, mysterious stranger, but I decided my days of passive waiting were over. This was New York, and if you don't push, you'll be pushed. And I couldn't let that happen.

I pulled Michael Saltz's email address out of my pocket. He had written it on a receipt from a restaurant called Sargasso. The total: $608. Each line was some complicated dish reduced to two words:
offal terrine; rye risotto; papaya choux
. It was a different food world than Helen's. I had fifteen of her books on my bookshelf and not one of them had a recipe for rye risotto. What did rye risotto taste like, anyway?

I typed out the email address—­a vague collection of random letters and numbers—­pecking at the keys one by one. I kept my message short and sweet, knowing deep down that this was an underground transaction, wrong in some intangible way I couldn't put my finger on.

Hi—­I've attached my essay. Please let me know if Helen needs anything else.

But he was the one doing me the favor. So I deleted the last line and started again.

Please let me know if there's anything else I can do for you.

Send.

I still don't know what made him pick me. Maybe my cookies had told him something about the level of my desire. Or maybe he'd know from that one line—­
anything else I can do for you—­
that I would play by his rules, as long as it got me closer to Helen.

He never responded to my email. The next time he wrote to me, it was under his real name.

 

Chapter 2

“H
EY!
D
ON'T YOU LOVE MANGOES?”

Emerald Grace whirled through the door in a backless teal boho maxi dress with three bags and a big leather purse hurled over her shoulder. The straps of her bag tamped down her long hair and I thought she looked quite beautiful and exciting, like an heiress forced out of her mansion by revolutionaries.

My glamorous roommate had returned.

I had moved in two weeks earlier and seen her just three times since, always at weird times when she seemed to be rushing off to somewhere more important. I had found the apartment through Roooomies.com and ultimately chose it because Elliott's new place was two blocks away. He and I had considered living together, but we'd both heard horror stories of college ­couples who made misguided decisions to cohabitate in New York. Suddenly, you have less space, things cost more, work winds you up. Explosions abound. Besides, there was always next year, and we didn't want to rush it.

And so I'd sublet a room in Emerald's three-­bedroom in the East Village. Emerald and I had Facebook friended and chatted a bit. There were a lot of exclamation points and
Can't wait
s to soften the blow of the dry logistics: move-­in day, what she had and what I needed to bring, deposits and all. Still, I'd thought I had an idea of what to expect: a twenty-­five-­year-­old fashion designer trying to launch her own business.

I was wrong. Charisma doesn't translate that well on the computer. Emerald's real-­life presence was a force, something you can only see in the flesh. I enjoyed her online, but now I found myself slightly shrinking as she spoke.

She tossed some mangoes on the couch and one fell onto the floor with a bruising thump. “Are you settling in okay? You must think I'm a deadbeat landlord. Will you forgive me?”

“Uh, sure, I forgive you,” I said, trying to play along but not sure where she was leading me.

She laughed. “Ohmigod, don't think of me as a landlord. We're roommates, 'kay? Oh, and I heard from the third girl, Melinda. She's coming in next week from Cleveland. And these are for our living room.”

She removed a bouquet of peonies from one of her bags and tossed it on the couch. Then, without a thought as to a vase or brushing her hair or sitting down, she opened up the coat closet and started to put on a large men's suit jacket.

“I'm meeting some friends for drinks now. You wanna come?” she asked.

“Oh, I can't. I'm sorta waiting to hear about this grad school thing I applied for. And my boyfriend is coming over.” I'm not sure why I was so vague. With this gorgeous whirling dervish of a roommate, I clammed up.

Right on time, Elliott ambled through our doorway. I could always sense his arrival from the trot-­like cadence to his step. It wasn't hugely noticeable, but I knew him so well that even the nuances of his gait were obvious.

“Oh, hey,” he said to me before turning to Emerald.

She flashed a toothy smile and took off the big men's coat she had just put on, revealing the elegant line of her naked back.

I got up from the couch and walked over to Elliott. “Emerald, this is Elliott . . .” I said, in a voice I hoped sounded like her cue to exit. But her eyes didn't leave his and her long, thick eyelashes seemed to flutter in slo-­mo, all the more tantalizing.

“ . . . my boyfriend,” I finished.

Her concentration broke. “Your boyfriend? Oh! Your boyfriend! Good for you!” she said.

Elliott didn't seem to notice her subtle condescension. He wrapped his arm around my waist. Immediately, I calmed down.

“Well, Ellllllliott,” Emerald said, her voice dripping with honey. “Nice to meet you.”

He looked at her for two beats, like she was some novelty toy whose function he couldn't figure out. “You work as a fashion designer, right? Tia and I googled you together.”

“Yeah, I liked the stuff in your portfolio,” I ventured. I really did.

“Why, thank you.” Emerald tilted her head and made a flourish with her hand.

Then Elliott adjusted his backpack and I saw him take in the whole Emerald package: the curves, the hair, the twinkling, flirtatious eyes. Elliott was also looking good in a blue long-­sleeved tee that hugged his just-­right muscles. Those muscles actually seemed a little bigger today. Had he been working out or was it that my perfect and gorgeous roommate had triggered the jealous Neanderthal part of my brain?

I tried to push those insecurities out of my head. I was with Elliott. My Elliott. That was all that mattered.

But then again, I was in New York now, a city populated by models and designers and billionaire socialites. Anything was possible. You felt it in the thrum of the streets, as a spark in the air.

Emerald had the confidence of a native New Yorker. I knew that from our emails, but I could tell it in person, too. She knew what she wanted, and at that moment, I feared that might mean Elliott.

I sat on the couch and distracted myself with my laptop. A new email landed in my NYU inbox, which had been empty moments earlier, save for a very purple welcome email from the University president.

SUBJECT:
Fall Graduate Schedule

Name:
Tia Monroe

Core classes:
Clinical Nutrition Assessment & Intervention, Food Systems: Food and Agriculture in the Twentieth Century

Internship:
Madison Park Tavern: Operations, Coat Check

Elliott and Emerald were still talking. Apart from gagging a little, I sat stone-­still. What was this? Madison Park Tavern? Coat check? I was going to grad school . . . for coat check?

I tried to calm down and take stock. Helen Lansky was my first choice, but something had happened. I'd been edged out by someone else. But who? Why? I took a deep breath.

Five days ago, Michael Saltz had said he'd put in a good word. He must've forgotten, or maybe he didn't have as much clout as he thought. Maybe Helen was so mad at him that she'd purposely gone against his wishes.

“Hey,” I whispered to Elliott, holding my hand out. It swung around languidly, like a heavy piece of underwater kelp.

I tried to telepathically tell him to kick Emerald out, but they were still deep in conversation. Elliott had already talked to my roommate ten times longer than I had. Somehow, they were chatting like old friends.

“Now,” Elliott started, locking eyes with Emerald, “here's something I've always wondered: why in the world would anyone pay two hundred dollars for a pair of jeans? Is that a girl thing?”

“There's a huge difference in denim quality,” Emerald said, crisp and cocky. “It's like the difference between leather and pleather.”

I held out my hand again, this time higher, but Elliott didn't seem to see. This whole thing with Emerald played before my eyes as if I were a cook observing her rising soufflé. The conditions were set. Now everything that happened was beyond my control.

“Pleather! That's another thing I don't get.”

“What's not to get?” Emerald raised her perfectly tweezed eyebrows. “It's a synthetic leather. Typically associated with strippers.”

“Yeah, but why is it this taboo thing? It's just fabric,” Elliott responded, arching his own handsome brow. “There's no scenario in which you and a pole dancer could each live your separate lives and find happiness with clothes made of the same fabric?”

Oh, Elliott,
I thought.
Stop! You're falling right for it!

Emerald thought about this for a moment with mock gravity. “Maybe you're right, Elliott.” Then, she wrapped her freckled arms around herself, like a little girl. Her lips curled up in a wry smile, as though she and Elliott were sharing a private joke. “I suppose, under
certain
conditions, strippers could offer me some useful style advice.”

Elliott shaded his eyes like he couldn't face some terrible truth, but he was grinning like an idiot. “No, no, no. Don't tell me any more. I think we've just crossed some invisible line into seriously inappropriate material for first conversations.”

“Oh, agreed,” Emerald said. “We should probably save this discussion until we've known each other for at least fifteen minutes.” Then she giggled maniacally and tossed her disturbingly adorable chin, the wind from her hair slapping me across the face.

Suddenly I saw Elliott through a stranger's eyes. Elliott was hot. He wouldn't be seen as the geeky, sweet college kid with the scary encyclopedic knowledge of worms and plants for long. He'd be Elliott Chambers, a naturally handsome guy who charmed naturally lovely girls . . . girls like Emerald Grace.

“Elliott,” I finally said in a just-­loud-­enough squeak. “I didn't get Helen Lansky.”

He turned to me, and his beaming smile fizzled into a confused line.

“Who?” he asked.

My jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?” My voice was louder than it needed to be. I didn't want to lash out in front of Emerald, especially since they were having such a chummy time together. But this was
Helen
. And he was
Elliott.
I'm not super-­friendly, and I don't go around trusting everyone. But I trusted Elliott and I never thought I'd ever have to second-­guess him, of all ­people.

“
Helen
.
Lansky
. My idol?”

“Oh, God, of course. Helen! Sorry, I thought you said something else.” He hugged me and became just as puzzled and aggrieved as I was. Finally, we were on the same page again.

But he had scared me a little.