Food Whore (18 page)

Hey. This sounds really exciting! I'll be there.

Elliott's email
was
exciting. I was proud of him and happy that he was happy. And yet. After I pressed Send, the words looked so sterile and forced. They didn't look different from any other email I had sent to Elliott, even when we were at the height of our love. And yet those days seemed so far away.

In New York, my best moments had been at Madison Park Tavern, Tellicherry, Bakushan. The ­people I liked most were food ­people, who lived and breathed it like me. Maybe all the times Elliott had chased a food adventure with me in college, he'd just been playing along because he couldn't think of anything better to do. But now we had options besides each other.

And so I turned my attention to Pascal's texts. Where would we have dinner? My mind raced to what I'd wear and what I'd order.

But Michael Saltz wouldn't approve of me texting back and would forbid me from seeing him, so I did nothing. For now.

Still, Pascal Fox had texted me. That was something. I savored it, and for the time being, that was enough.

 

Chapter 19

M
Y
L
E
B
RITTANE–
S
YMPOSIUM–
M
ADISON
P
ARK
Tavern triple-­header started at one thirty. After class, I walked to a coffee shop and went straight to the bathroom.

I took off my jeans and sweater and jumped into a fitted Carolina Herrera skirt and a chiffon Moschino blouse with a patterned sash wrapped around the waist. Ballet flats, off. Red Prada slingbacks, on. I'd put my Burberry trench coat on later. I stuffed my old clothes in my Goyard tote and checked myself in the mirror.

Today I was playing an actress. I had a lot on my plate, but the key was to own the part. For the next ­couple of hours with Michael Saltz, I put my old self aside.

I had some extra time, so I ordered a coffee and sat down with my schoolwork. I think some ­people looked twice and I imagined them thinking things like,
Why is the woman buried in books? What if she gets highlighter on her nice blouse? Surely she must be “someone.”

I let them wonder and pretended to study my Nutrition notes like they were the lease on my Monaco house, handling them delicately, as if my nails were freshly manicured.

W
HILE
M
ADISON
P
ARK
Tavern was tall and bustling, like an haute indoor greenmarket, Le Brittane was rather dim and cozy. Some restaurants make you feel like you're on top of the world with sweeping views of street and sky. Le Brittane, on the other hand, seduces you into believing you're part of an exclusive club, a luxurious world of Upper East Side ivory moldings and gilded purse hooks.

I passed my Burberry to the coat check woman. Michael Saltz was already sitting at a circular banquette in the middle of the room. He wore pewter-­gray slacks, a dark blue button-­down, frameless glasses, and a smug sense of ease. He looked like an uncle of the renegade type, the naughty rich one who never got married. All his disguises must have been some variation of rich, powerful guy—­he couldn't play anyone else.

“Hello, Tia,” Michael Saltz said. “You look like quite the uptown lady. Nice work.”

“Thank you,” I said, pleased.

“Now?”

I took my phone out of my purse and placed it, face up, on the table. As much as I hated being watched like this, I had to accept it as standard procedure.

“Good afternoon, my name is Hugo,” a tall, gray-­haired waiter said. He wore a gray vest tight across his narrow chest, and despite his hair, he didn't look old, more like an exotic cat or a black-­and-­white Calvin Klein ad. He handed us the menus, beautiful, narrow pieces of paper, periwinkle blue and letterpressed with gold foil.

“Let's start the tasting menu, if you please,” Michael Saltz said, leaning back in his chair.

I tried to silently catch his attention. Le Brittane was the most seafoody of seafood restaurants. Looking at the menu, I noted a variety of possible pitfalls—­an oyster and sea bean salad, langoustine cream, clam-­miso emulsion.

“Very good, sir,” the waiter said. “Is this your first time?”

“Yes, first time,” Michael Saltz said quickly.

I was about to cancel the order so I could spend more time with the menu when he edged me out.

“Her first time, too.”

“Excellent,” Hugo said. “Chef will take good care of you.” He took the menus from the table and walked away.

“Hey,” I said. “We can't just get the tasting menu. I'm allergic to crustaceans and bivalves. Remember?”

Michael Saltz slapped his face in despair. “I realize that. But we're here for the tasting menu and that's the end of the story. You can eat around certain components.”

“But if I can't eat it . . . and you can't . . .”

He sneered and put his hand up to silence me. “Don't say it. Eat what you can and make up the rest. We have to see the dish in its original preparation. What are they supposed to do, substitute bacon for oysters? If neither of us can taste it, then we at least have to see it for the review.”

“I don't know, Michael,” I said. “I don't want to risk anything because I have a thing right after this and I don't want to get sick.”

“How sick?”

“Not fatally sick, but close enough. It's pretty dire. Sick!”

“Okay, okay. Noted. I'm not making you eat anything you can't,” he said. “But we need to get the unadulterated menu. Once you make substitutions, you're tarnishing the chef's original vision.”

Sure, I got that. But I wasn't ready to risk my life for a chef's vision. Hugo approached and set down the first course. Before he left, I asked for the menu again so I knew what I was eating. Hugo graciously obliged.

“What are you doing?” Michael Saltz hissed. “Now they know we're paying extra attention to the food, instead of eating it like normal ­people.”

Really? He left me speechless with how little he seemed to care about me, when I was supposed to be his precious, treasured protégée.

“Don't pout,” he said. “Now that you have the menu, tell me what this is.”

“Tuna, vanilla brioche crumbs, and a bruléed disk of monkfish liver.”

“Ah, monkfish liver. Foie gras of the sea!” Michael Saltz said, lifting his cup in a toast. I refused to join him and just tipped the bite back like a shot, letting the mouthful take shape all at once.

Michael Saltz squinted at me while I set the cup down. If he disregarded me, then I'd disregard him.

Next, Hugo brought out a single octopus tentacle, roasted to bring out the burgundy speckles in its skin, painted with sweet, sea-­infused balsamic squid ink and framed by two quarters of a ruddy pear.

We stayed silent as I ate.

Skate came wading in a chorizo broth, a cap of seaweed poking through the surface like an island paradise. Like always, Michael Saltz barely ate anything. This whole menu was on me.

I processed every dish the moment it hit the table. Daring. Subtle. Safe. Classic. I didn't eat the oysters or clams, but I tasted what the chef wanted to convey. And whatever I couldn't taste, we'd just make up. Still, I felt bad for the readers. They thought they were getting thoughtful criticism, but they got us: a disabled critic and his “protégée” who couldn't eat a third of the menu. It'd be better if I could take over: choose the restaurants, order the dishes, write the review. I wanted to have it all.

In between courses, I went to the bathroom to regroup. It shouldn't have been a surprise that Michael Saltz didn't care about my well-­being. He was an egomaniac hell-­bent on protecting his identity. What else did I expect? But maybe Michael Saltz and I were just getting used to each other. Of course there'd be some bumps in the road. I took a deep breath and went back out.

White-­haired ­couples and men in suits watched me walk by. I could feel their curiosity swirl as my heels clicked on the pink marble tiles. Le Brittane was a gorgeous restaurant, and the ­people had a sophisticated uptown look. White pants, even in the fall. Smooth sweaters with not one pill. Clothes from legacy designers who had dressed First Ladies. I told myself to enjoy.

But as I walked back to the table I saw that Michael Saltz had a stern look on his face. And he was holding something: my phone.

“Whose number is this?”

He showed me a text, still on the lock screen.

YOU, ME, BAKUSHAN . . . TONIGHT?

Luckily, I hadn't put Pascal's name in my phone, so it was just a phone number.

“Oh, that's my roommate,” I improvised.

I was ready to take it out of his hands when the phone chimed with another text.

I'M HERE ALL NIGHT. COME & I'LL TREAT YOU TO THE CHEF'S TABLE.

Michael Saltz cocked his head and reread the texts. I quickly tried to think of it from his point of view. Would my roommate really be at Bakushan? And be in a position to get us chef's table seats? In truth, no. But did he see that? I braced myself for an interrogation.

“ ‘I'm here all night . . . I'll treat you'?” he repeated. “ ‘I'll treat you'? What does that mean?”

I couldn't tell if he was playing dumb or if he genuinely didn't know.

Hugo returned to our table. “Chef is thrilled you're visiting us today,” he said. “The first time is always the most special.” He grinned with an air of suggestion in his eye and held out a dish. “On the house, a little interlude: ginger-­infused egg custard.” He left out two tiny spoons with luminous mother-­of-­pearl handles. The dish itself looked rather plain, a yellow jiggly surface like every other custard I had seen, even in my less-­than-­four-­star life.

I kept my eye on Michael Saltz, who still seemed like he was pondering the damning texts. How could he not see it? Was he testing me? Or was he that dense? Was he planning how he was going to offload me?

And would he make good on what he had said—­if I brought him down, he'd bring me down with him? At the time, it had seemed like an abstract thing to say, a bluff. But now that I had spent some time around him, I wasn't so sure.

“Are you ready to talk now?” he asked. Talk? He wanted a confession out of me? Now? I wrapped my arms around myself as armor, as a brace, to touch these clothes one last time. I had just gotten used to them.

Would Michael Saltz tell Elliott about Pascal? He'd have to find a way to condemn me without condemning himself. It seemed difficult to pull off, but I didn't doubt Michael Saltz could do it if he wanted. He'd said he could end my career before it began. Maybe ending my personal life came with the package.

He was still looking at me with disturbing calm, waiting for me to explain myself.

“Well . . . I didn't do it on purpose!” I said, almost crying. “He came up to me again at—­”

Michael Saltz took a big gulp of his wine and laughed. “Tia—­”

“I didn't think he'd call me. I wouldn't do that to Elliott. Or to you.”

Michael Saltz scratched his widow's peak and shook his head gravely. Who was I kidding? He didn't need me. He could drop me just as fast as he'd picked me up. I had no doubt that he'd have another person doing my job in two days.

“Tia, I think you're overworked,” he said. “If your roommate wants to take you to dinner, that's his choice. I'm surprised you have a male roommate, that's all.”

The worries racing through my head halted. Really? He had no idea that was Pascal on my phone. Pascal Fox, maybe the second-­most discussed man in food, after him. His texts and our Whole Foods shopping and our steamy Bakushan cooking lesson—­those all remained hidden.

The relief knocked me out.

“Never mind!” I said, hoping my voice would obey my commands to be steady and breezy even when I was anything but.

“Okay, well, eat your thing. I didn't catch what it was, did you?”

I hadn't. But I was too worked up to think about the components of this little jiggly cup. I plunged in with no expectations but for something smooth, something creamy, something to set the stage for the rather spectacular-­sounding next course: the escolar and Kobe beef surf and turf.

The custard slipped down my throat like a fish down a stream. I liked its muscular, silken force, until my throat seized and my face inflated like an emergency raft. I tried to reach for some water, but my eyes clouded and suddenly I slid into the banquette. The mother-­of-­pearl spoon catapulted under my forearm onto the floor.

A pair of hands cradled my head as the dizziness mounted.

I had almost lost this job and my shot with Helen.

I felt a cold piece of fabric on my forehead, then the taste of artificial strawberry sizzling on my tongue.

I had almost lost Elliott.

Someone had fished one of the allergy pills from my purse and placed it in my mouth. Finally, I felt my heart begin to take it easy, telling my blood to slow down, like it was a rambunctious child during recess. I guessed there were benefits to Michael Saltz being nosy.

My eyes opened and I saw nothing but a bright sheet of white, the tablecloth draped over me like a blanket. I swatted it away and saw Michael Saltz was now sitting next to me in the banquette. He looked up and around, then brought his face close to mine, wet cloth napkin in hand and a brow furrowed with a blend of anger and worry.

“Shellfish, huh?” he said. “That was dramatic.”

I slowly sat and Michael Saltz propped me up as we stepped out of the banquette, looking as natural as possible. Lunch business was slowing down and few ­people were in the dining room. We made our way to the women's bathroom and after I told him the coast was clear, Michael Saltz entered and locked the door behind him. I stayed at the sink for a long time until I vomited. My face was scarlet from my hairline to my neck. Michael Saltz held my hair as I splashed water on my face.

After all this, I thought that maybe he wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Maybe he'd threatened my career because it seemed like the thing to do, the last checkmark when you're sealing that sort of deal.