London Broil (14 page)

"Doubtless they'd
have run screaming from him; the man was a twisted little dwarf,
you know," said Nolly, in a smug tone that suggested he was
blissfully unaware of his own physical imperfections.

"But such a
genius!" Laura felt compelled to defend her hero. "Women find
that attractive, at least I always have. There's something so
irresistibly sexy about a towering intellect, even in a
diminutive body."

"Right, did you
hear that?" said James. "She's just suggested that the two of us
are great, hulking cretins."

"Speak for
yourself, my friend," said Nolly loftily.

"I said no such
thing," replied Laura. "And you shouldn't sell yourself short,
James. I saw the books by Joyce on your shelf. Have you actually
read
Finnegans Wake
?"

"Only about a
third of the way," he said, looking chagrined. "I bogged down in
that one, though I liked it."

"You got through
more of it than I did," she said. They both looked expectantly
at Nolly.

"I refuse to read
anything written after 1900," he said defensively. "Pound,
Eliot, Joyce, all that modern rot has no attractions for me." As
their order began to arrive, James explained that Nolly was a
traditionalist. Except when it came to food, he believed that
anything new was a ruinous threat to the fabric of society.

"Oh, one of those
Tories who believes in Merrie Olde England?" she asked
innocently. Nolly looked taken aback, but recovered quickly,
saying "Precisely. The dear old Church of England, the village
green, the sanctity of marriage..." he was interrupted by the
sound of James choking on his wine. Laura pounded James on the
back, and matching Nolly's tone said, "Pray continue. The
sanctity of marriage?"

"James is
incredulous because I happen to have been married... more than
once," said Nolly primly. "And because, at least until he met
you, he chose to affect the persona of an aging reprobate --a
veritable rake, I say!-- who preferred to disparage that most
honorable estate... my word, what is this delicious substance?"
he said, pointing to a forkful of marinated tempeh, which he had
speared from a bed of grilled kale, lentils and pickled onions.

"It's fermented
soybeans. Doesn't sound very appetizing, but it's great, isn't
it? Have you been to an Indonesian restaurant? You may have had
it there, as satay."

"No, I don't
believe so," he replied. "And this creamed spinach," he said,
reaching over to spoon some up from the plate in front of James,
"You said it was made with cashew cream instead of real cream?
How odd! It reminds me of a spinach dish my dear Constance used
to make. What a talent that woman had in the kitchen! Her
boeuf bourguinon
was so
ravishing that I proposed to her on the spot after tasting it."

"Constance was
his second wife, and she was indeed a gifted cook," explained a
smiling James. "I've stood up for him at four of his five
weddings. I've almost learned the service by heart."

"With my body I
thee worship," quoted Nolly nostalgically.

"With your
belly, is more like it," replied James.

"Laura, I must
caution you against too intimate an association with this
godless Irishman," said Nolly. "James is, by his very nature,
impervious to the intimations of transcendence that move me."

"Leaving aside
his perviousness," James said with a wink at Laura, "I merely
reply that nothing moves Nolly like a plate of chocolate éclairs
from Euphorium placed within his visual range. He points like an
English setter and then moves with surprising agility for a man
of his
avoirdupois
."

"Heathen," said
Nolly, "will you never cease taxing me with the éclair
incident?"

"You didn't
leave me even one," said James.

"The statute of
limitations had expired."

James said to
Laura, "The last time Nolly dined at the Singing Capon, Chester
Rosenberg
 
told me
he was inspired to create a new dish and name it for him."

This caught
Nolly's attention. "Eh, what's that?" he said, almost visibly
swelling. Rosenberg, an English chef whose Singing Capon rated
three Michelin stars, had won celebrity with a style of cooking
called molecular gastronomy, which emphasized unusual techniques
and multisensory experiences. One of his best-known dishes
involved listening to a recording of ocean waves while eating
fish and seaweed served on a bed of nori-flavored breadcrumb
"sand" and garnished with seawater-flavored jelly bean
"pebbles."

"Oh yes, didn't
you know?" James went on. "It's his interpretation of the
traditional Spotted Dick. That's a boiled suet pudding," he
added for Laura's benefit. "Chester puts in plenty of suet,
boils it in cheesecloth for an hour, and then uses his vacuum
jar to aerate it. The air bubbles inside expand so that when the
diner pierces it, there's a great blast of wind."

Shaking his
head, Nolly changed the subject by asking whether Laura's
research had been successful so far. "It's very promising," she
answered, explaining how she had visited J. Roworth's bookshop.
"He's impressive. He remembers everything he ever sold, and he
has the most delectable books. I had trouble restraining
myself."

"I hope you
limited your enthusiasm to his paper assets," said James.

"Don't be
absurd. He's old enough to be my father. Now, I've tracked down
the books I need to a library in Yorkshire. You two are
journalists. Can you tell me how to find a Baron Belmont-Speck?"

"Nothing
easier," said Nolly. "He's my sister in law's brother in law.
That is, there were two sisters. One married my brother, and one
married old Speck. Why, I'm going up there for the grouse
shooting in two weeks. I'll get invitations for you two."

"Laura, you can
close your mouth now," said James, looking amused. "Nolly's got
a lot of friends. I'm not surprised he knows this Speck bloke."

"That's... I
mean, it's incredibly kind of you," she stammered. "But...
grouse shooting
?"

"Oh, you won't
have to do that. It's a driven shoot. The Baron makes ends meet
by bringing in paying guests. Though I daresay he'll insist that
James join in if you both come with me." James didn't look
particularly pleased at the Baron's generosity. Nolly said that
he'd let them know about the prospective visit, and turned back
to the food, taking notes on a little handheld recorder. Given
his massive girth, he never bothered trying to disguise his
identity or to hide the fact that he was a food critic.

As it turned out,
Nolly preferred the tempeh, the lemony "seitan piccata" with
creamed spinach, and even the marinated grilled tofu better than
the dishes with no savory proteins. James was less enthusiastic,
but as they exited the restaurant, Nolly was declaring his
intention to eat at Fava weekly until the three months of his
red-meat embargo were completed.

James insisted on
taking Laura back to her flat. "Don't worry," he said, "I'm not
going to keep you up late. I only want to see you home safely.
And I've not had a chance to talk with you tonight."

"It's true. Nolly
more or less sucks up all the oxygen in a room, doesn't he? But
I like him very much," she said. "Your relationship with him
reminds me of something Pope once said:
I would love my Friend, as
my Mistress, without Ceremony, and hope a little Rough Usage
may not be more displeasing to one than it is to the other
."

"He took far too
great an interest in you," said James. "If he calls you and asks
for a refresher course on the difference between seitan and
tempeh, don't agree to meet him. He's not to be trusted."

"James, I don't
find Nolly attractive. I like a big man, but he's a little too
massive even for me."

"I don't suppose
you know who Nicholas Soames is. A very well-fed chap who used
to be Food Minister. His girlfriend said that making love with
him was like having a wardrobe fall on top of you with the key
sticking out. It got into the papers and made a big splash. But
what most people didn't realize was that she nicked the quote
from Constance."

She put her hand
under his arm as they walked. "I like feeling your weight on
me," she said. "'Oh happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony.'
Do you know that line? I always thought it was sexy."

"
Antony and Cleopatra
is one of my favorites. I did a little amateur drama in my
college days and that was one we put on."

"Did you play
Antony?"

"No, Enobarbus. I
got to say the best line: 'Other women cloy the appetites they
feed, but she makes hungry where most she satisfies.'" He turned
to glance at her as he quoted this. She felt the implied
compliment, and though she didn't comment on it, she squeezed
his arm a little tighter.

"How did Nolly
get so many women to marry him?" She'd meant it when she said
that he wasn't particularly attractive, though he was amusing
enough.

"Nolly's a toff,
and a rich one. His brother's titled, childless, and not in good
health. So if he dies, Nolly becomes milord. Also, Nolly's got a
peculiarity that attracts certain women. He loves giving a lass
a good seeing to. Errm... between the legs."

Laura laughed.
This wasn't what she'd expected.

"Nolly's
developed a bit of a fetish about it," James continued. "He
swears that you can tell what a woman's been eating when you
taste her. Phyllida divorced him after he insisted on feeding
her sage leaves fried in butter and salads full of thyme and
rosemary for weeks on end. He had this theory that it would
produce the perfect bouquet."

"Like a
jamón ibérico
," said
Laura, thinking of the Spanish pigs that were pastured on
mountain herbs and acorns to make their flesh perfumed and
delectable.

"Yes," said
James, scrutinizing her expression to see whether she was
offended at this wholesale analogy of female flesh to swine
flesh. She wasn't, because she knew that Nolly's passion stemmed
wholly from his sensitivity to aroma and flavor. With his long
nose that came to a quivering point, Nolly himself was not
unlike a hound or a pig trained to seek out exquisitely scented
truffles.

They had reached
her block now and were almost at the front steps to her
building. She thought sage leaves fried in butter sounded
delicious, but said nothing, lest she give the impression that
she would like to become one of Nolly's bouquets. Finally James
asked tentatively, "Laura, has a lover ever kissed you...
between your legs?"

"I've only
experienced that a couple of times," she answered, "Clayton, the
man I used to live with, made it clear that he thought he was
doing me a favor. He didn't want a mouthful of hair, and said
women's bodies had a fishy smell. After that, I was far too
inhibited to enjoy it."

"Bloody hell,"
said James. "Listen to me. A woman has a scent like
fruits de mer
if she
hasn't bathed for a day or two. It's exciting to a man. If you
want to try it with me, I'll see that you have just enough to
drink that you don't feel bashful, but not so much that you lose
sensation."

"Would you like
me to get a Brazilian wax?"

"God no," he
said, revolted. "That makes a woman look like a wee lass. Just
trim the hair nice and neat. Nolly's the expert on such things,
and he says that removing all the hair is like drinking cabernet
out of a martini glass."

They were
standing outside her building. "Do you remember the first time
you walked me back here?" she asked.

"I'll not soon
forget it. I wanted you to invite me in, but you slipped away
the minute I kissed you. I stood out here and smoked a cigar,
thinking that you might change your mind and open the door, but
you never did." He took her in his arms and kissed her, open
mouthed, his tongue caressing hers. She felt as though the
cartilage in her knees was dissolving, and she was about to ask
him to come upstairs with her, when he said "Goodnight, Laura.
I'll see you on Friday. Sleep well," and gave her a little push
toward the door.

19.
The Poetry of Flavors

The next morning
she emailed James:
Come
Saturday (not Friday) at 6:00. My place.
Before the end of
the day she saw his reply:
Are you going to cook for
me? Looking forward to tasting your dish.

Laura spent
Saturday cleaning her flat and planning the menu. She made a
leisurely bath the last of her tasks before cooking the meal.
She wore some black knit pants that clung to her behind and
thighs but had wide boot-cut hems, and what she hoped was a sexy
dark red top with a low back and bare shoulders, and a high neck
in front. When she slipped it on, she could clearly see the
outline of her nipples. Good, she thought. A woman bent on
conquest had to have some volume in the bustline, or else show
some nipple. She thought of Magda, with her blonde chignon and
full breasts, and hoped that she wasn't suffering by comparison.