Food Whore (14 page)

“Hm,” Gary said, drilling his eyes into mine. I stayed still and strong.

“Her
word,
” he continued. “Tricky thing with words, though. You can't trust a liar's word. But I suppose that's all we have.” He inhaled and for a second, despite his intimidation tactics, I thought he was giving me the benefit of the doubt. He briefly let his head-­honcho guard down and I didn't think he really believed I was as wicked as he said. But of course he was oblivious.

“Thank you for letting me stay at the restaurant,” I said.

Dean Chang shook her head and looked out the window. Jake got up out of his chair and held out his arm with the slightest bow, just as he had when he'd first welcomed me into Madison Park Tavern.

“Come on, Tia. I think it's time you leave. You don't have to work tonight.”

“Make sure you stay out of my sight!” Gary called after me.

The whole encounter only took a ­couple of minutes, from the locker room to the office to the dismissal. I had gotten away with it. Nothing had changed. The rush caught up to me and suddenly I was gasping for air. Somehow, the restaurant knew—­maybe not the ­people, but something in the walls, the twinkle of the glass, the marble of the stairs. If I wouldn't be punished by Gary, Dean Chang, or Jake, then maybe the restaurant would have its own karmic retribution.

I retrieved my things from the locker room and was about to escape when Carey called after me from the dining room. “Hey! What are you doing? Ser­vice starts in twenty minutes.”

“I . . . I'm not working tonight.” I held on to the wall for balance.

“Oh, gosh, Tia. Are you sick? I'll call you tonight after ser­vice. Or we can talk about it now?”

“No,” I replied, softening my voice to a whisper. “Don't. It's better if you don't know. Or, rather, I don't want to get you sick.” I reached for the rotating door, but it was rotating too fast, and I couldn't keep up. I thought it would tear my hand off.

She looked at me, confused, then gave me a hug. I was sure my body was pulsating with tension and guilt, but maybe my coat was too thick, because she didn't seem to notice.

“Okay, Tia,” she said. “I'll see you later.” Then she ran back up into the dining room.

I walked into Madison Square Park and sat on a bench. Gary Oscars pulled away in a town car. Guests arrived for dinner. I hoped to the ends of the earth that the review wouldn't affect business. I hoped Chef Darling would prove himself to the world and that Carey and Angel and Chad and the whole gang would make it out unscathed.

And I hoped I'd be able to pull off this balancing act.

 

Chapter 13

T
HE NEXT DAY
I
DID EVERYTHING BY THE BOOK.
I
WENT TO
class, did my reading. I texted Elliott, but he didn't text me back. I wrote extra-­precise notes about my internship and sent them off to my seminar leader two hours early. Everything would be just fine.

Around seven, Melinda and I got hungry and walked to a fancy bodega near NYU. I wandered around the buffet and served myself a smattering of arugula leaves, a spoonful of canned tuna, and some other small bites. Moving between worlds—­NYU, Madison Park Tavern, Michael Saltz—­was a shock to the system, like an astronaut blazing into a new planet's atmosphere every ­couple of hours.

“Were your classes today as boring as mine?” Melinda said as she scribbled in her hummus with a carrot.

Her voice spun in the air until it landed with a flat, incomprehensible thump on my head. Class! As much as I had tried to focus, that was still the last thing on my mind. “Classes? You're taking classes?” Last I heard, Melinda was working on her acting career.

“Yeah, I'm taking figure drawing classes. They're okay. I'm quitting soon, I think.”

“Oh, yeah. That sucks, they suck,” I said, mirroring her apathy. I smooshed everything together on my plate—­olives, peas, arugula, mustard.

“Yep.” Melinda sighed.

I looked down and saw I had accidentally made a tuna niçoise. This tiny autopilot act grounded me a little.

I mixed and tasted and went back for other ingredients until the tuna salad was near perfect. It was filling and bracing and pickled. It didn't taste like bodega food at all. The simple act of cooking and tasting calmed me like nothing else.

We sat in Washington Square Park and picked at our food. It felt nice to be outside, where no one expected me to be anyone or say anything. But apparently we picked the wrong park to sit in, because I saw Dean Chang walk out of her office right across the street.

Twilight had turned to night and the park twinkled with streetlamps and stringed lights. Our gazes caught and she walked toward me, a tempered pace like she was deciding how it'd go.

“Tia, it's nice to see you here. How . . . how are you?” she asked, searching my face, presumably for distress or any other reaction from yesterday.

Melinda looked at her blankly, then went back to taking baby bites of her steamed broccoli.

“I'm okay. It's been an eventful ­couple days. As you know,” I said, digging into my salad. The truth was, I already felt like I was juggling one too many things, and I hadn't even officially reviewed restaurants with Michael Saltz yet. Something would fall through the cracks, so I had to tighten up ship. There was no other choice.

“I see,” she said, looking at Melinda, who didn't look back at her, which was crazy because Dean Chang was tall and imperious, a woman who commanded attention. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

I turned toward Melinda, but she didn't signal approval or otherwise. She gave me a perfect
whatever
face. “I've gotta go,” she said. “See ya, Tia.” And then she left, taking a pack of cigarettes out of her purse after she threw away her food.

Dean Chang gracefully settled on the bench wearing a long black silk skirt with tiny pleats and an asymmetrical hemline. Issey Miyake, I realized with satisfaction.

She started, “Yesterday afternoon disappointed me, and I would like you to tell me, in confidence, what happened at the restaurant.”

“I don't know,” I said, mimicking the tone I had taken with her yesterday, but with greater conviction. Practice makes perfect.

“What do you mean you don't know? Why were you with Michael Saltz in the basement? And before they received that disastrous review? Something isn't right.”

“I didn't—­”

“Tia. Please, talk to me. Did he do anything to you?” She bent her head, confidentially, motherly, filled with a warmth that, despite my efforts to remain hardened, broke my heart.

“Who cares about the review,” she continued. “I only care about you. I want to help, but you have to tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened.” I stiffened. I wished she would lay off. This had nothing to do with her.

“Oh, Tia. Fine. Keep your secret. But I hope you realize how lucky you've been up to this point. Have you noticed how few first-­year grad students are even allowed into the self-­directed internship program? This is the best program in the country, filled with students of staggering caliber. We picked you and placed you at one of the finest restaurants in the world. Think about what you've learned in just a few short weeks: food, culture, consumption . . . interior design, sociology, even floral arrangements! In no other place are you going to rub elbows with dishwashers and fishmongers and CEOs and celebrities.”

She was right. I had learned about those things, but it was hard to trace the origin. Was it the restaurant or Carey's Wiki page or Michael Saltz's access? I couldn't quite define the outlines in my life anymore. The mind wants things clear-­cut, but instead everything blurred.

She stood up and continued, “Don't derail your academic—­and professional—­career now. Graduate school is a place for you to plant the seeds of your entire life. I've seen very promising students set terrible precedents for themselves. It's unfortunate, and I don't want that to happen to you.”

This was going to work out fine. Life had gotten mixed up, but there'd be plenty of time to sort it out. I shouldn't have been surprised that there were some transitional bumps. Surely the girl who sold ice pops had overcome some hurdles before she'd made her dream come true. Looking at it that way, of course I could survive a little restaurant interrogation.

Sorry, Dean Chang,
I wanted to say
. I'm building my foundation, but it's not according to your blueprint.

I saw some girls in the corner of my eye watching my exchange with Dean Chang with rapt attention. One guy was creeping up to us, eavesdropping. It wasn't comfortable, but at that moment, my resolve to push through became stronger than ever.

I'd thought I had my future figured out. I'd get good grades. Get into a good college. Pursue food and writing in grad school. ­People had tried to tell me that grad school wasn't necessary, but I hadn't listened. That degree was a badge. Validation.

But now I realized that was naïve. Nothing is handed to you. I had learned as much with Helen. You could want something so bad that your feverish desire was practically a neon sign on your forehead. You could work hard, do all the right things, and still not succeed. You weren't better than anyone else and you didn't have a claim on rewards that everyone else wanted, too.

So instead of telling the world that you wanted those prizes, instead of wearing your best dress and your most cloying smile, it was better to just grab them. Beat your way to the front of the line.

Your best intentions aren't enough.

Dean Chang's words clarified this for me. She was nice and helpful and well-­meaning—­but she was dealing me bad hands, telling me adversity made me stronger and then wondering why I was struggling.

The proof was in the pudding. Or, in this case, my two-­hundred-­dollar La Perla bra and five-­hundred-­dollar Hermès cuff. My dinner with Michael Saltz. My words in the
New York Times.
That was the real, in-­the-­hand jackpot. I just had to be strong and careful. Dean Chang talked about the unsurpassed education I would receive working at Madison Park Tavern, but with Michael Saltz, I was on the better side of the table. I'd receive food, not serve it. I'd judge instead of being judged. The choice was so clear.

“I'll only ask you one more time. What does Michael Saltz want from you?”

“He doesn't want anything from me,” I said, like she was stupid and this was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You have real talents, Tia,” she said. “I don't want you to waste them. If that's what you say about Michael Saltz, I believe you.” Then she spun on her high-­heeled shoe and left.

I sighed and returned to my clever tuna niçoise salad, now looking more wilted and wan.

Strong and careful,
I thought. I ate my salad by myself.

 

Chapter 14

O
NE WEEK LATER,
M
ICHAEL
S
ALTZ AND
I
DID OUR FIRST
review together. Tellicherry was not a subtle restaurant. It was loud, crowded, and white-­hot cool.

I had spent the week reading up on everything about the chef, Chris­tian Rhodes, and all the go-­to dishes. Several bloggers and reporters—­the ones who weren't anonymous and who could accept invites to dinners and launch parties—­had already reviewed the restaurant. I read these with curiosity and just a little bit of self-­satisfaction. They and I both knew that many ­people considered the
New York Times
the final word.

I had also read every review Michael Saltz had ever written, studying the last three months extra carefully. After he lost his sense of taste, he must have enlisted some friends, gotten them drunk and talking about the food, and just used their impressions. Reading them now, I could tell the difference. The critiques felt surface, like assessing the costume design rather than the play. Michael Saltz must have known that was unacceptable in the long term. So here I was.

At Tellicherry, Michael Saltz wore a realistic strawberry-­blond toupee that made up for all the other ridiculous toupees in the world. It turned him from a neurotic rich guy into an all-­around good guy. To complete the look, he'd worn khaki pants, a purple-­and-­white-­checked shirt, and pointed brown shoes. He looked like a guy you'd ask for directions, someone who'd happily let you take his cab. I hardly recognized him.

We did not match at all. I wore an emerald long-­sleeved dress by Vivienne Tam and a pair of tangerine Chris­tian Louboutins. I had seen the same look in one of Emerald's
Vogue
s and asked Giada to overnight it. I learned quickly, though I wasn't very original. I'd changed in a coffee shop next to my apartment, then hopped into a cab.

“Next time we must coordinate outfits beforehand,” Michael whispered as we sat down. “I was going for ‘salt of the earth' today.”

“Oh, I wanted to match the décor,” I said.

Tellicherry felt like a sexy, sinister jewel box. A rich sapphire blue stained the walls in large, meandering splotches, like dye dropped into water. Bronze silk leaped and dipped in the cushions. The waitresses wore black dresses with seductive lace panels revealing flesh-­colored bits, and the waiters slinked in semi-­sheer pajama-like outfits, conjuring bedtime escapades, none of which involved sleeping.

Michael Saltz shook his head. “Wrong approach. Consider this—­would a restaurant critic look like I do now? Like a dad from Bergen County?”

“No, I guess not.” I leaned over the table so no one could hear me. “Should I always dress the opposite of the décor?”

“Not always. Think strategically. Sometimes you want to blend in. Sometimes you want to look like an aberration. When making multiple trips, you have to change your plan of attack every time.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” I said, hiding my clutch, the same sapphire blue as the walls. “So, I wanted to tell you in person that things have gotten a little crazy for me. I got put on probation at Madison Park Tavern.”

“Is that right?” he said, surprised, even though he was the reason I'd gotten in trouble in the first place.

“Yeah. They think there's something fishy with the review. They saw you and me in the basement on the security tapes, and—­”

“Wait, what? Do they know about us?” He put his napkin on the table as if ready to leave.

“No! Gary and Jake don't think that. Neither does the director of the program. I told them we didn't discuss anything important and that I had no idea who you were.”

He tapped his fingers on the table, then flattened them with a slap when a very handsome waiter came over. The way he introduced the food, I could tell he was a nerd, though a hot nerd. Like a nerd who could also throw around a football and model for a sporting goods company.

“Well, I suppose that was the best you could do,” Michael Saltz said after we ordered. “But a probationary period isn't good for maintaining secrecy. Your behavior will be under stricter scrutiny. Which reminds me, where's your phone? I thought I made it clear that I'd like it on the table, face up, when we have our dinners.”

I brought it out and Michael Saltz nodded in acknowledgment and appreciation. Strangely, he seemed more worried about my incoming phone calls than the possibility of someone at Madison Park Tavern discovering our arrangement.

“So, this is what I think so far,” Michael Saltz said. “I think . . .” He looked up, averted his eyes from a passing guest, then whispered under the Euro-­beat music, “I think Tellicherry has the makings of a three-­star restaurant.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

Michael Saltz blinked his eyes ten or so times. Every once in a while, he did these weird sensory wake-­ups, the way ­people scratch their head to get their ideas flowing. “You get a second sense about these things.”

The waiter returned with a pre-­appetizer amuse-­bouche, a soup spoon filled with diced radishes, shortbread crumbs, and a black pepper gastrique. After the waiter left, Michael Saltz said, “They're trying. Hard.”

The flavors surged. The radishes had been pickled, articulating their peppery bite and giving them a sharpened edge. The shortbread grounded the bite with a bready, buttery mouthful and the black pepper–vinegar sauce finished it with an elegant and seductive wisp of sweet, salty, and spicy.

“This is very, very good,” I said.

“I know. I can see and smell the craftsmanship. You can tell where this restaurant is shooting,” he said, his spoon suspended in the air like a conductor's wand. “It wants to be a three-­star restaurant.”

But judging from the amuse-­bouche, this food was sensational—­why couldn't it be four stars if the food was that great?

Our waiter approached with several more dishes, and I adjusted my dress.

“Here is the monkfish wrapped in yuba,” the waiter said. “Underneath you'll find a gingerbread vinegar puree tossed with a cranberry bean ‘soil.' And this is the rutabaga–duck confit terrine with licorice lace wrapped around an orange-­scented breadstick.”

“Fantastic, thank you so much for this,” I said, eager for the next bite.

“My pleasure. I'm Felix. What's your name?”

“Hi, Felix. I'm Tia,” I said.

Michael Saltz kicked me.

“I mean, Mia,” I lied, clutching the table.

“Very good, Mia,” he said, and I thought he had a twinkle in his eye, almost as if he was flirting with me.

“Why would he want to know your name?” Michael Saltz shook his head as Felix left. “And, Mia? You must do better than that next time.” He cut through the monkfish with the side of his fork and plunged it into his mouth.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I'm starving, but it all tastes like boiled potatoes to me, which is sadly the most appealing taste I've had all day. The wrinkly texture of the yuba is interesting. Does it add much to the flavor though?”

I took my first bite. “Hm. Yes, I think so. It's very thin and crackled, almost like chicken skin. And, look, it's bonded to the fish somehow. But what I really like is this gingerbread puree and cranberry bean soil. It's so unique. The gingerbread spices sort of unlock the monkfish's meatiness and muscle. Then the bean soil scratches your tongue and sort of forces the flavors into deeper levels of taste. And I love how you can't place it. It's not ethnic, it's not market-­driven, it's its own thing.”

“Good, good. Let's continue.” He passed the rutabaga and duck terrine toward me with the tips of his fingers. “Isn't this a little odd?”

I wanted to like it, I did. I pushed the ingredients around with my knife and fork, trying to understand it and formulate an opinion.

Then Felix swooped in. “Oh, miss. Pardon me, I was helping another table. That's supposed to be served with something else.” He looked at Michael Saltz sheepishly, and Michael Saltz turned his toupeed head away. “We added this dish today, and I'm still getting used to serving it. The proper preparation includes just a bit of truffle.”

He took out a fist-­size beige knot from underneath a white napkin. The shavings rained down in ruffled, translucent strands. Felix backed away as I poked my fork through the tangle of truffles, into the terrine.

I had read about truffles—­their taste, their hormonal, almost sexual aromas, their exorbitant cost—­but I had never even seen a truffle in person before, and had a hard time understanding why ­people paid thousands of dollars an ounce for something so humble-looking.

But at Tellicherry, I understood. I melted in my chair.

“Mmm . . .” I couldn't stop saying it. “Mmmm.”

Michael Saltz, excited too, picked up a large pinch of truffle shavings and held them to his nose. “These are very good. The finest.”

“Oh God,” I said, in a state of delirium. “This makes the dish so much better. Why aren't truffles on everything?” I had forgotten about the funky terrine. Now it was just a vehicle for the magical urgings of the truffle.

A few minutes later, Felix came out again. “Here's your next dish, potato pearls with black, green, and crimson caviar in a cauliflower cream nage.”

The caviar shined like little jewels among the equal-­sized potatoes. They bobbed around in the soup, glistening as if illuminated from within. I took a small spoonful and in surged a soft, sweet ribbon of cauliflower essence. I popped the caviar eggs one by one.
Pop,
went one, a silken fishiness.
Pop,
went another, a sharp, tangy brine.
Pop,
went a seductive one, dark and mysterious and deep.

Michael Saltz rolled the caviar in his mouth, too. “This is quite nice, isn't it?”

“Really nice,” I said, feeling a million well-­fed miles away from that bodega salad bar and my idiotic tuna niçoise.

The rest of the night proceeded like this. It didn't seem real. We found our table filled with dishes of sausages and mousses, soups and salads, deep fried balls of this, grilled à la plancha that. None of my online research had prepared me for the quality and imagination of this restaurant. You could never completely describe the real thing, and I thought myself silly that I had thought otherwise.

Michael Saltz barely ate anything, but after a while, I stopped feeling self-­conscious about it and devoured every dish. After each one, Michael Saltz made me render some ruling, guiding me along the way, asking me to be more precise in my wording, more rigorous with my logic.

Needs to be sweeter, or more pumpkiny.

The fish's velvety sweetness is tempered by the ashy bleu cheese.

Fabulous char on this. They must have an excellent stove and the finest, heaviest cast-­iron pans.

My stomach felt like it was about to burst. But we still had dessert.

“Wonderful, this is excellent material for the review,” Michael Saltz said, finishing yet another glass of Bordeaux.

“It is? That's great,” I said, genuinely pleased that I was doing a good job.

We had ordered the shaved ice and candied tropical fruits, the curry ice cream with mini brioche puffs, and the lemon basil profiteroles with blueberry-­oatmeal brittle. But a small army of servers brought out even more: chocolate fondant sandwiched in coconut crisps, cinnamon apple churros with maple syrup tapioca, chocolates, macarons, marshmallows. Felix delivered the petit fours himself, and whispered to me, “I'm sorry for the delay with the truffles. Try the lavender-­peach macarons. They're my favorite.” Then he smoothed his bangs back and gave me an extra-­long look that made my hair stand on end.

Michael Saltz didn't notice. “Any good?” he asked, once the fleet of servers had left.

“Yes, very good,” I said, the dough of a churro still wedged in my cheek. “Is this the way it always is?”

“Well, the extra desserts are a little suspect. Perhaps he was making up for being late with the truffles?” He looked around. “I can't decide if we've been made.”

“ ‘Made'?”

“Yes, when a spy's cover has been blown, he—­or she—­has been ‘made.' ”

“Oh,” I said, looking around the room. Everything seemed to be operating normally. No one was staring at us or taking our picture or anything. The restaurant looked routine, but then again, I had only ever eaten at a few fancy restaurants before I met Michael Saltz.

Michael Saltz wiped his mouth with a satisfied grin. “I'm going to the bathroom. Don't eat it all,” he said with a wink.

I ate a coconut crisp and the whole thing shriveled in my mouth, evaporating into nothing but pure taste. I held another up to the golden light as someone sat down across from me.

“I can't figure out this cooking technique. Do you think it's a meringue?” I asked.