Food Whore (30 page)

“No, I didn't,” I said. “And I never wanted to lie.”

“Maybe not. But you
loved
taking restaurants down. Madison Park Tavern. Le Brittane . . . you did it without flinching. And you loved bringing them up. Bakushan?”

Just hearing the name sent me backward into my chair.

“You cannot tell me that you didn't like benefiting from that, too.”

I realized with a sting that what he said was all true. I sat and thought and started idly spooning the cioppino, letting the broth's scent fill my nose, a rich tomato infused with fish and shellfish, salt and seaweed. I imagined what it would be like to have this as my last meal, an ocean of bloodred soup, vast and complete and deep.

I could have tasted it, as he had asked. Part of me wanted to. I could've cleansed myself of every awful and fraudulent thing I'd done over the last few months. Tasting this soup would've destroyed me, and that's what I thought I deserved. I could gulp the cioppino until that point where consumption was no longer about pleasure but about filling your belly and thumbing your nose at hunger, as if it was some childhood lisp, some mean friend, some sadness that thought it could get the best of you.

“So there, Tia Monroe. No secrets. We're truly on the same team.”

But we were never on the same team. Not now, not ever.

I put the spoon down, picked up my phone, and got up from my chair.

“Where are you going?” he said, standing up. “Did someone call?”

“Yes,” I said, then showed him the screen. The last forty-­five minutes, recorded and still going.

“Our lovely conversation has been uploaded into the cloud, out of your reach no matter how hard you try, or whatever bullshit you spew.”

Then I walked out, leaving Michael Saltz slack-­jawed at the table.

I
WENT STRAIGH
T
home, closed my bedroom door, and listened to the entire conversation. Some parts were hard to hear, but the story line was intact.

Journalistic fraud. Exploiting and intimidating a young woman. Even insisting she eat a dish he knew she was very much allergic to. That one was a bonus.

I edited out my name and everything about Helen. I was just a female voice, a nobody, but Michael Saltz's arrogant lisp came in loud and clear.

This was nothing like sending my reviews to Michael Saltz. This wouldn't go out to the entire globe. The recording had no sense of art, and in fact was rather disturbing to listen to. But Carey's Wiki reached the right ­people and I knew this news would ignite their world.

I titled the entry:
Michael Saltz exposed as fraud, using young woman as ghostwriter for three months.

I wrote an overview, so ­people could make sense of the conversation more easily. As further evidence, I also included screenshots of the reviews I'd fed to Michael Saltz, with my name and email blocked out. I signed it “Guest 59.”

Finally, I uploaded the file.

I wanted to bring Michael Saltz down without taking myself with him. I had a name to protect and to build. Though there was a chance that Felix or someone else would reveal me, I hoped that Michael Saltz would be destroyed before that happened. He could try to bring me down, but who would listen to him or take his side when he himself had disrespected his craft and his peers so egregiously? That's what I kept in my head as I pressed Publish.

I kept waiting for freedom to wash over me, but it never did. Like always, I had sent my words into the world and all I could do was wait and wonder if ­people would believe me, if I had cut to the bone of truth.

 

Chapter 32

B
Y THE NEXT DAY, THE NEWS HAD GONE VIRAL.
R
EALLY VIRAL.

Based on what I could see, first a ­couple of waiters tweeted something about it. Something to the effect of:
What the fuck?

Then more ­people tweeted.
Grub Street
picked it up first, but just a ­couple of minutes before
Eater
. By ten thirty
A.M.,
the
New York Times
had issued a curt, inscrutable tweet: “Since 1851, our number one priority has been journalistic integrity.”

Other national newspapers jumped on it next.

From the
Washington Post:
S
ECRETLY HANDICAPPED
NEW YORK TIMES
RESTAURANT REVIEWER
CAUGHT IN EXPLOITAT
ION SCANDAL.

From the
L.A. Times:
I
NTE
RNET RECORDING SUGGESTS MICHAEL SALTZ,
NEW YORK TIMES
RESTAURANT CRITIC
, FALSIFIED 6 MONTHS
OF REVIEWS.

From the
Boston Globe:
NEW YORK TIMES
REV
IEWER DISGRACED AFTE
R LEAKED RECORDING O
N INDUSTRY WEBSITE.

As an admin, I could also see that the Wiki's traffic had spiked to ten thousand unique views, fifty times what it normally received.

Yet no one had come close to guessing that I was Guest 59. Thankfully, my payback had been bloodless and quiet. I got no phone calls or texts or emails for the first half of the day.

I imagined Michael Saltz in his apartment, watching everything escalate. Him and his jars and his one coaster and his huge dining room table with every chair but one buried under a pile of books. Why had I thought following Michael Saltz would lead me to the life I wanted? Thinking about his apartment, that life was everything I feared.

I wanted to call Carey, but figured it was better to wait, to pretend I was just as surprised as everyone else. But I didn't have to wait long. She called me around noon, right as I stepped out of class.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you have a sec?”

“Yeah . . .” I thought she'd be excited that her Wiki had made it into the mainstream. But instead, her voice was strangely level. “I guess you've heard about Michael Saltz?”

I could hear her take a breath. “Yeah. I have. I'm at the restaurant now and Jake wants you to come by. Michael Saltz is here.” Then she hung up.

I
WAS THERE
in less than ten minutes, checking my phone every ­couple of seconds for new articles about the revelation, but they had slowed down.

The lunch crowd at Madison Park Tavern was still going strong, a mix of early Christmas tourists and business­people taking extra-­long meals in the wintry chill.

So Michael Saltz wanted to meet in person. Maybe he was afraid of emailing or calling me. Smart. I knew he'd want to intimidate me, to tell me I was done for, but so far only he had suffered, not me.

I saw him sitting at the bar, drinking a martini. No one would have suspected that he was a man at the edge of his demise. In fact, he looked downright cheery and I hated him more for that. When could I actually be rid of this man?

I took the seat next to him and saw Carey and Jake from the corner of my eye.

Michael Saltz took another sip of his martini, then slowly lowered it down to the bar.

“Tia . . .” he said, still looking forward at the bar and not at me.

“Michael . . .” I was glad we were in a public place now. No more clandestine conversations, no more hiding our identities.

We sat there for two more minutes while my mind raced. Was he losing his mind? Would he lash out at any second? I had come in thinking that this would be our showdown, and yet he had barely looked at me.

Nearby, Angel was giving me looks like,
If he does anything, you just holler.
Jake and Carey were circling around us.

Finally, I spoke up. “Michael . . . why did you ask me here? I'm done with you . . . with this.” I moved my hand in the space between us.

He turned his head and seemed to let the thoughts in his head boil over. “You silly, stupid girl. The recording was a waste of your time. The
New York Times
is never going to fire me based on some anonymous posting on some no-­name website.” In this beautiful bustling room, his words oozed like venom.

He wasn't bothering to take me down because he didn't think I was a threat. I loathed his egotism, that he was so sure he was above justice.

“You missed out on your one chance. You had it so good with me and you ruined it. And now you'll never get Helen. You'll never make it in this industry. Done before you even started. I'd say it was tragic, but you deserve it. Good-­bye, Tia. Good luck getting on without me.”

He downed the rest of the martini and got up from his seat. “I'll leave you the bill. God knows you owe me.” He put on his cashmere coat and swaggered away.

I sat at the bar, frozen.

Angel ran over first, then Carey, then Jake.

“What did he say?”

“What did he want?”

“Are you okay?”

I came to the sickening realization that he was probably right. Who would side with the anonymous Guest 59? Sure, some ­people knew about me and my “special relationship” with Michael, but they didn't know the exact nature, and even if they did, would they risk coming out against the most powerful man in NYC food?

Restaurants were a world of PXs and status codes, rooms where your worth was explicitly mapped in seatings and servings. I had seen disgusting, terrible men being treated with the utmost respect at Madison Park Tavern. Who was I kidding? Restaurants didn't care about character or even truth. They cared about influence. And by that score, it was no contest. The press may have jumped at the story, but at the end of the day, he was still the powerful man; I was the “silly girl,” that “ignorant slut.”

I racked my brain for ways I could double down. Maybe send something to his editors? Or stake him out at a new restaurant with his inevitable new “protégée”? Or maybe I could work for him again, and take him down from the inside? I'd build up more evidence and post it online. I'd have to live in the shadows again.

Or perhaps I could let him win. What good would it do me to speak up? He'd just deny it and drill me into the ground.

“Listen,” Carey said. “Let's just get this out in the open. We know you were the one who posted that recording on the Wiki.”

Of course she would know. I felt a surge of resistance, but before I could make any excuses for myself, Carey spoke up again. “I own the site and know who posts what.”

Jake stepped closer. “And this morning, I checked Michael Saltz's bill. I saw that he didn't order the pork with ras el hanout, as he had said in the review. Is that what you were talking about in the basement?”

I clenched my jaw and instinctively wanted to deny everything. I had been doing it for so long, thinking that playing dumb and keeping silent would protect me.

“
You must be incognito, discreet.
” The words panged in my head.

But if I didn't come clean now, with ­people who were offering compassion—­and maybe even understanding—­then when would I? I didn't want to be alone anymore.

I had to accept their help, but before that, I had to accept that I had failed, too. Lied, cheated, deceived. I had done it all and I had to own up to it. I didn't want to drag myself and my name into this, but if I wanted to bring him down, I had to take the stand.

“Yes,” I confessed, feeling my body rebelling against my words. “I was the one who loaded that recording on the Wiki. And I spoke to Michael Saltz about his dinner. It started off innocently. He asked me what I thought of some dishes. I never should have told him—­”

Jake stopped me right there. “You're entitled to your opinions, though I wish you had channeled them differently. But let's focus on Michael Saltz, the real bad guy here.”

Angel crossed his hands over his chest and said, “He's not the only bad one. Today I heard what happened at Room 113. I wasn't sure what to think of it, but now it's clear. I always thought Chef Pascal was an upstanding man, but not anymore.”

I heaved and tried to control my shaking body. Lunch ser­vice was getting a bit sloppy. ­People were sitting up from their chairs, looking for help. ­People were standing in the foyer, waiting for tables. And yet Carey, Jake, and Angel stayed with me.

I had been “made,” and it felt great.

I looked them each in the eyes, wondering how I could thank them for believing in me and sticking up for me, even when I'd done Madison Park Tavern harm.

In his expert maître d' way, Jake read my mind.

“I know you're no angel,” he said. “I cannot fathom the lies you had to tell to get in this position. But I'm sure you've paid the price personally and we all agree . . .”

Carey grabbed Angel's sleeve so we all stood in one tight circle. “We all deserve second chances,” she said with a swift and certain nod.

“Right,” Jake said, smiling. “And now we'll help you get yours.”

“A second chance?” I asked, bewildered. That was the best I could have asked for. A do-­over.

Jake pressed his palms together. “Yes. Come back in an hour so we can finish up lunch ser­vice. And then it's on.”

That gave me just enough time to talk to one more person who I thought could help. I rushed back to the apartment, and thankfully, Emerald was there.

“Hey,” I said, catching my breath.

“Hey,” she said curiously, because we still weren't quite sure how to interact with each other after her confession about her mother.

“Emerald . . . I need to tell you something.”

I told her everything. My heart beat faster after every sentence. Showing her myself wasn't easy—­I cringed at every word—­but I wanted to do it.

I had never spoken so much to Emerald. She stayed quiet until I finally said, “And I'm sorry our friendship got off on the wrong foot. I'm glad you were a good friend to Elliott. Better than I was. Can we give us another shot?”

Emerald chuckled darkly, and I realized that maybe the friendship boat had already passed us by. “It's funny,” she said. “I've thought about why we were never friends, even after you found out about my family. ­People think secrets bring them together, like they've made some sort of promise to one another. But that's not true, is it?”

“Yeah,” I said, staring at the wall. “I guess not.” I tried to smile, but it was hard in the face of rejection. “Okay, see you later, then,” I said, sorry and resigned. I couldn't blame her for not wanting to get involved.

I turned around to go back to the restaurant, then felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned into Emerald's hug. For a split second, I resisted. But then I couldn't hold it anymore.

I hugged her back and started to cry, not individual tears but a steady sheet that washed everything away.

“You'll be okay,” she said, and her voice was that same Emerald honey, soothing and sweet. “I'll help you out because I know how it is. You think you're the one who keeps the secret, but really it's the secret that keeps you.”