Delicious! (11 page)

“Any suggestions?” he’d ask, but I’d just shake my head and say, “You’re the cook.” I had no desire to broach the “I don’t cook” conversation with him.

“Why won’t you give him a chance?” Rosalie asked after witnessing one of these exchanges.

“He doesn’t want one.”

Rosalie’s lips quivered, holding back her words, but she said nothing. She was convinced that I was missing an opportunity. I had thought, after the day of the dumpling, that there might be something there, but he never sought me out again.

It was okay; I was very busy. By the time I’d been at
Delicious!
for a year, running Jake’s office had become an easy routine. During the weekdays I answered his phone, fielded reader requests, and bought endless smoothies for Sherman. I endured Maggie’s meanness, and at
least three times a week I listened to Mrs. Cloverly’s increasingly convoluted complaints about the
Delicious!
Guarantee.

But I was also writing regularly. When Jake accepted the Fontanari’s piece, the job became official, and he urged me to keep writing. I suggested shadowing Benny, and Jake agreed that the butcher would make a great story. In early April I spent a week with him. First we drove to Pennsylvania in his beat-up refrigerated van, visiting a gentleman farmer who raised free-range lambs on the most beautiful land I’d ever seen. The lovely animals were grazing across the hills, but when they saw us they came running. “Easter’s coming,” said Benny as they nuzzled our hands. He made a deal for a dozen lambs, and it made me sad to think that the next time I saw them they’d be nothing more than meat.

The next day we visited a young farmer in western Massachusetts. As we drove up the Taconic, Benny said, “Sean raises the best pigs you’ve ever tasted.” Farmer Sean turned out to be a shy bearded guy, very handsome and not much older than me. We helped him load the pigs into his pickup and followed him to a small family-run slaughterhouse. I couldn’t watch, or listen, and I was happy when our pig was in the van and we were on our way back to the city.

But in the shop I forgot my squeamishness, as Benny showed me how to break the animal into roasts, hams, loins, and chops, until we were down to the hooves and tail. At the very end we boned out the entire head, rolling up the crunchy ears, smooth snout, and tender tongue into a tasty little bundle.

Jake loved that piece, and in the summer he sent me off to Long Island Sound to spend a weekend with a chef who went fishing every morning so his customers could have the freshest catch. I learned to love what he called “trash fish,” especially the mild little blowfish tails that he battered and deep-fried, turning them into something resembling ethereal fried chicken.

In the early fall, Thursday told me about the Northeast Organic Wheat Project; she was so enthusiastic about their stone-ground wheat that I made a pilgrimage to Trumansburg, New York, to find out what
made it special. The farmers there were a serious group, convinced that native wheats were the answer to gluten intolerance. I followed them through the fields as they proudly showed off heritage wheats. “This here,” said Farmer Greg, “is called ‘Rural New Yorker.’ It was developed for this climate back in the late 1800s by a plant breeder named Elbert Carman.” Jake was jubilant when that article was picked up by every organic organization in the country.

Later that fall, I foraged for matsutake mushrooms in the Pacific Northwest with a guy who insisted on blindfolding me and driving me around in circles for an hour so I’d be unable to divulge his secret spots. Jake liked that one so much he promised to promote me the next time something opened up. But I wasn’t holding my breath; nobody ever left
Delicious!

Between my regular job, writing articles, and working at Fontanari’s, I was too busy to lament my lack of a social life. Still, it wasn’t a complete zero: The
Delicious!
people often gathered after work, and Sammy regularly invited me to fantastic dinners in his glass dining room.

I was feeling so much more anchored that when Dad called, begging me to come home for Thanksgiving, I actually considered it. “I know you needed to get away,” he said, “and I’ve been trying not to bother you, trying to let you build a new life. But, Billie”—I could feel him swallowing his emotions—“it’s been over a year since I’ve seen you. And I just miss you.” I didn’t say anything, and Dad spoke into the silence. “I know Genie won’t be here. But do it for me. Please?”

How could I refuse?

“Thinking about going home without my sister makes me nervous,” I confided to Diana. She and I had an easy friendship, unlike anything I’d known before. We went drinking once a week, and she often ditched Ned and his burgers so we could share a serious meal. One night, after the third glass of wine, I said, “Remember that night—God, it was more than a year ago—when we first went to dinner?”

“You mean Nowhere? When you gave me the beret?” She reached up and touched the hat; she wore it all the time.

“I was so nervous about that. I thought if you hated it, it’d be really awkward and you’d hate me too.”

“Hate you? With that palate? Are you crazy? What I remember most about that night is how Tom kept trying to get us to identify his secret ingredients, and you nailed them every time. He was so impressed!”

“But it’s so easy.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that.” Instantly, I felt awful; I kept forgetting that it wasn’t that way for everyone. “It makes me feel worse. You’re like one of those people who can hear a tune once, sit down at the piano, and just start playing it. It’s so unfair. Speaking of which …”

I knew what was coming next: Diana had been trying to get me to give her the Cake Sisters recipes since the day I was hired.

“I tried making your gingerbread again last night, and I can’t get it right.”

“I can’t give you the recipe. You know I promised my aunt I’d never give that one away,” I said for at least the hundredth time. “I’m sorry. But think how great you’ll feel when you finally get it.”

“I
will
get it. Someday. But I know this is your revenge for all the awful things I said to you that night. I still feel bad about that.”

“Don’t,” I told her. “It was kind of a relief, because I knew you’d never say stuff like that to someone you didn’t care about.”

ON THE LAST DAY
of October I woke to the shock of early snow; a freak snowstorm had blown in, covering the streets with a dense white blanket. I’d now strolled New York’s sidewalks in every season, enough to know that etiquette proscribed eye contact. But the unexpected Halloween weather surprised us into friendliness, and I walked to work smiling at everyone I passed. By the time I reached the Timbers Mansion, my cheeks were red.

My phone was ringing when I got to my desk. Young Arthur’s early, I thought, recognizing the number and noting the time. Mr. Pickwick called every Monday promptly at ten. I picked it up to hear his clipped speech. “I need Jake ASAP,” he barked. “Put me through.”

I transferred the call, thinking nothing of it, and sorted the morning mail. I printed out Jake’s calendar for the day and brought it into his office.

He was sitting at his desk, holding the phone away from his ear as if it would scorch his skin. His face looked as if his bones had melted.

“Jake! What?” I thought he was having a heart attack, but he waved me away. Sherman lay belly-down beneath the desk, one paw across his nose. The air felt radioactive; I fled.

Seconds later I heard the phone slam into the cradle, and I tiptoed back and peeked in. Jake’s face was gray. He was holding a piece of paper, watching it tremble with a kind of disbelief. “Call everyone into the …” His voice cracked. “Photo studio,” he finally got out. “In an hour. The entire staff.” Then he got up and closed the door, leaving me standing there, biting my nails, terrified about what was going to happen.

An hour later we filed into the studio, past a group of ominous-looking men in shiny suits. I was startled to find Young Arthur standing awkwardly among the cameras and the lights.

We stood in a loose semicircle, kitchen people on one side, editors on another. The art department huddled together, but Richard took one look at Jake’s face and went to stand beside him.

Young Arthur cleared his throat, as if he needed to get our attention. “After much consideration …” You could tell he was hoping to sound apologetic. “We have decided to close
Delicious!
The advertising environment is challenging just now, and we are going to concentrate our efforts on our other publications. I’m very sorry.”

Most of us were too stunned to do more than stare at him with our mouths open. Everybody knew that the magazine business was having a hard time, but we hadn’t known things were this bad.
Delicious!
was over one hundred years old, an American institution. When he finished talking, the only sound in the room was breathing.

Until Maggie burst into tears. I was shocked, but then I remembered that she’d been at
Delicious!
for almost thirty years. For the first time ever, I felt sorry for her. What would she do now? And then it hit
me that Maggie was not alone: None of us had a job anymore. I looked at Richard, at Diana, at Jake; in the last two minutes, all of our lives had changed.

Jake went over to Maggie, patting her shoulder and handing her fancy cocktail napkins that had been laid out for a shoot, until she finally got herself under control. “How soon do we have to leave?” she asked, her face wet and swollen.

Young Arthur pulled at his shirt cuffs and stared at the floor. “I think that’s immaterial,” he mumbled. “You can be out of here very quickly.”

“A couple of weeks?” The question came from Diana; I was sure she was already making a mental inventory of her kitchen.

“Oh, no.” Young Arthur looked over at her. He seemed taken aback, and the tension in the room eased as we realized we were going to get a small reprieve. “It’s the last day of October. Your passes will work today. And tomorrow until five
P.M
.”

“Tomorrow?” Diana gasped. “You want us to get everything moved out by tomorrow night?”

“Yes.” Young Arthur actually smiled. “You won’t be taking much.” He threaded his way through the cables. “I wish you all much luck,” he offered when he got to the door. “Human Resources will be over shortly to answer any questions.”

“Wait!” shouted Maggie.

He turned. “Yes?” He peered at her. “Maggie, isn’t it?”

“I just want you to know,” she threw at him, “that your father is rolling in his grave. This was his first magazine, the start of the Pickwick empire, and it was always his favorite.”

“You may very well be right,” he replied. “But my father, you know, is in that grave he’s rolling around in.” He walked out, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

We stumbled out of the studio in a collective daze, eager to flee that unhappy room. I went next door and found the kitchen in chaos. The cooks had been preparing to photograph a Southern feast, and every counter overflowed with food.

“My pork shoulders!” wailed Maggie. “I spent a week finding
enough for this shoot. We’ve got fifty pounds of blue crabs and twenty-five pounds of sweetbreads too. I wonder what they’re going to do with all that?”

“That’s not your problem anymore,” boomed one of the suited men who had accompanied Young Arthur into the building. Five pairs of cold eyes watched us, missing nothing. Lori was carefully wrapping a knife into cheesecloth. “Where do you think you’re going with that?” one of them asked.

“It’s my knife,” she said defensively. “I got it when I graduated from culinary.”

“Too bad.” The goon wrenched it from her hand. “You had no business bringing personal equipment into this kitchen. The equipment all stays here; it’s company property now.” He flung the knife onto the counter, where it clattered violently before coming to rest.

“Time you got new knives anyway, Lori.” Paul tried to soothe her. “It’s been a long time since you graduated.”

“They’re supposed to last a lifetime,” she snapped.

Paul handed her a glass of wine from an open bottle sitting on the counter. It was eleven in the morning. “No point in leaving this for the Pickwicks.”

One of the men glanced up at that, staring pointedly at the glass. Paul stared back, daring him to claim the wine as Pickwick property. The man’s shoulders shifted uncomfortably inside his suit, but he blinked first. Paul ostentatiously took a giant gulp, sucking air noisily into his mouth like a professional wine taster. The goon gave him an ugly look, but he walked away, motioning for the others to follow.

Diana was silently emptying her shelves, packing up her cookbooks, rolling her secret spices into the vintage aprons she liked to wear, and I watched her, thinking, She’s too calm. She didn’t even seem angry. “What are you thinking?” I asked.

She kept methodically transferring spices, flour, and cans from the shelves to a box. “Plenty of other jobs out there for trained cooks.”

I looked at her face, awed by her composure. Most of the cooks were crying as they packed. The magazine business was changing, and jobs
were hard to get; test kitchens like this were a thing of the past. Would they have to work freelance from now on? Goodbye, benefits. My stomach felt as if I had swallowed stones, and I found myself holding it with both hands as I went back to my office. Brown cardboard boxes had sprouted through the hallways, and I gave one a vicious kick and listened to the satisfying thud as it went end over end down the stairs.

Jake was in his office, hunched over his desk; Richard sat on the other side, looking grim. They waved me in.

Jake was forlorn. “Richard thinks I knew what was going on. He can’t believe Young Arthur would do this without warning. He thinks I knew about it, that I’ve been working behind the scenes, trying to change their minds. Will you please tell him the truth?”

“Richard, if you’d seen Jake when the call came … I’ll never forget the color of his face. He didn’t see it coming.”

“Those bastards!” Richard slammed his fist onto the desk as he got up. “Right before the holidays? Couldn’t they have waited?”