Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance (11 page)

“Aye. I did. I was working with him for three years in Dublin when he moved here and asked if I’d like to come. It’s a brilliant opportunity, I can tell ye. He’s taught me so much.” I didn’t doubt that for a minute. “Well, if there’s anything we can bring ye, please let us know and we’ll be happy to do it.”

As soon as she left, we began to concentrate in earnest on the platters in front of us. Chef Danny O’Shea had truly outdone himself. In addition to the two types of salmon, and the foie gras brioches, of which Sally had just taken a second, there were artichoke bottoms filled with chervil-laced lobster, potato gaufrettes slathered with crème fraîche and topped with caviar, and wedges of hot fingerling potatoes coated with melted cheese
and sprinkled with crumbled bacon. Carefully trimmed vegetable crudités garnished the platter of appetizers.

“What beautiful presentations. We should show how to do some of this on one of our shows.” Sonya was never far away from producing.

Mae, who was rapidly working her way around both platters, said, “The important thing is they
taste
good. Remember the cake.”

“Remember the cake” was our inside reminder that food is supposed to taste as good as it looks. A few years ago, a local baker who had wanted to appear on our show had pitched herself by presenting us with an elaborately decorated cake complete with a painted marzipan sculpture of herself appearing before a chocolate camera. Sonya was blown away and said we definitely should get her for the show. When Mae and I tried the cake, we said, “You’ve got to be joking. It tastes awful! It’s a packaged cake!” Foodies have their priorities.

Small groups of friends wandered over to our table to chat or, more likely, to see what we had to eat that they didn’t. They talked, nibbled, and then continued to circulate. The talking, tasting, and sipping Mintinis was keeping us so busy that I didn’t notice Mary until she was standing right next to me. “Wow,” she said. “I practically had to make an obscene offer to that ridiculously cheery green man outside to let me in ahead of the crowd. What a party!” Mary, who had met Sonya, Mae, and Sally on a number of occasions, displayed her continental sophistication by kissing them all on both cheeks. When she kissed me, she whispered in my ear, “What’s with the shawl?” Then she sat down, took a glass of champagne and an artichoke bottom, and asked, “Did you see the Chihuly up front? It is
so
incredible. It blew me away.”

Mae tilted her head. “What’s a chihuly? A type of salmon?” We food people can be so single-minded.

“Dale Chihuly. Probably the foremost glass artist in the world today. His works are in museums all over the world and then in places you don’t expect to see them. Like the Rainbow Room, St. Peter’s church, and right here. They cost a small fortune. That piece out there is a lot of smoked salmon, believe me. The restaurant must be doing really well.”

Sonya said, “Well, if this crowd is any indication it sure is.”

“You were smart to get the chef for the show, Sonya.” Sally was never threatened by other people’s success. In fact, she had helped more than one food star rise to the top.

“I think he’ll be a hit with viewers,” Sonya said. “He’s good-looking, charming, and personable. Who knows? He may become the next star chef with his own show.” If so, Danny wouldn’t be the first chef she had introduced to the public who’d wound up with his own TV show.

“I wonder if there are any chefs today who don’t want to be television stars. Seems like none of them want to stay in the kitchen and just cook,” I said. “You know, today he’s curing his own salmon. Tomorrow he’s touring the country and ordering packages of cured and sliced salmon from a food distributor.”

Mae said, “That’s not true of all chefs. Lots of them can do both—be on television and run a great restaurant.”

“Do you think this chef is more interested in stardom than his restaurant?” Sally asked me.

“Oh, I don’t know. He certainly is egotistical and arrogant enough to want to be a real big deal. He
does
spend a lot of time all over the city doing demonstrations for Irish products. And just look at this crowd. He sure spent a lot of money to
impress the press.” I reached for another piece of salmon.

“Aren’t you biting the hand that’s feeding you home-cured salmon—
avec garni
?” Mary can be so annoyingly frank.

“Hey, I’m not criticizing. Large egos usually go hand in hand with success. I’m just stating a fact.”

Someone came up behind me and spoke directly in my ear in a low, sexy voice. “Hello, darlin’. Having fun yet?”

“Sully! What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see you, my darlings.” Sally Sullivan owned a highly successful public relations agency in Boston and possessed the three most coveted qualities in the PR business: connections, connections, connections. She knew just about everyone, and if she didn’t know someone, she knew who knew them. On top of that, she had an outgoing personality and a droll wit that made her great company. If her approach to PR was hard sell, you’d never know it. We knew her because she pitched a number of her clients to
Morning in America
and usually came to the studio when they appeared on air. I introduced her to Sally and Mary.

Sully shook hands with Mary while telling her she’d obviously gotten the looks in the family, then shook hands with Sally. “Great name,” she said to her.

“You too. Are you Sarah or Sally?”

“Sally. And Sally-May-Jane when I’m wooing a southern client, or good old gal Sal when I’m pitching anyone over sixty. Unfortunately, since a long childhood bout with tomboy behavior, born simply from wanting to play touch football with the boys next door, my friends have always called me Sully.”

“Did you come to New York just for this party?” Sonya asked.

Before Sully could answer, I knew. The A-list of people, the
Mintinis, the green man. “Is this your doing?” I asked.

“If you’re having a great time, it is. If not, then blame it on that party crasher from the Johnson PR agency over by the bar.”

“It’s, like, the best,” said Mae.

“I thought the leprechaun was a bit much,” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“Careful, Casey. Those are my people.”

“How do you know Danny?” Sonya asked.

“I didn’t before I got involved in this event. One of Danny’s chefs, Brian Reardon, came here from a Boston restaurant I represent. Danny wanted to have a party to celebrate still being around after a year, but he was going to invite a bunch of friends and spend all his money to drown them in Guinness. Brian convinced him to call me and see if I could make a press event out of it. Danny was a bit hesitant, at first. He’s not much of a star fucker, pardon my English. Besides, he didn’t know any of the movers and shakers in the business. With all due respect, Sally, he’d never even heard of
you
.”

I got “So there” looks from everyone except Mae, who said, “So there!”

“Okay. Okay. Okay. So, he’s not a user. I still think he’s egotistical, arrogant, and, don’t forget, a major womanizer.”

“In my business, most people are egotistical and arrogant, but what makes you think Danny’s a womanizer?” Sully asked.

“Just the way he looked at me when I met him.”

“You were naked,” Mae reminded me. “So he copped a look. Who wouldn’t?”

“Half naked! It’s not the same thing,” I said, but I wasn’t sure of the distinction.

“Which half?” asked Sally.

“Does it matter?” asked Sonya.

“Someone tell me what’s going on or did go on,” Sully said.

Mae filled her in, adding, “Just for the record, I thought he was perfectly charming.”

“He
is
charming. And gorgeous. I certainly wouldn’t mind him looking me over,” Sully said.

“I’m dying to meet him,” Mary said.

“So am I,” said Sally, “but I think he’s still very busy in the kitchen.”

Sully cringed. “Ouch. A PR nightmare. A chef who’d rather cook than circulate. I can’t get him to stay out here. I’m going to go fetch him. Meanwhile, be sure and taste the potato wedges. They have Irish cheese and Irish bacon on them and are out of this world.” Sully headed for the kitchen.

“See if he has any crow on a cracker for Casey to eat,” Mae called after her.

A waiter came by to check on drinks, friends and fans continued to stop by to socialize, and we kept on drinking and eating. My seat was facing the entrance, so I was the first to notice Kim speaking to the gruesome twosome: George Davis and Carol Hanger. In spite of what appeared to be an attempt at dressing the part of party animals, they looked woefully out of place. George was wearing his usual ill-fitting pants but, for some God-only-knows reason, had on a red smoking jacket and an ascot. Noël Coward in a smoking jacket and ascot was classy and elegant. George Davis looked like an ass. Maybe he knew it and had put on the large sunglasses to disguise himself. When Mr. Hollywood stepped aside, Carol came into full view. She had squeezed her thick, round figure in some sort of pink jersey pantsuit, and its stretch ability was being tested to the limit. She should have brought a change of shoes, because the psychedelic green sneakers she wore for walking did not go
with the suit. Then again, I’m not sure anything would go with that suit. Her short, straight haircut (which always reminded me of what Mary’s had looked like when she was eight and I had put a bowl on her head to cut her hair) was dyed a new color. The label on the box of the do-it-yourself dye kit had probably said something involving the word “red,” but it had turned her mop into an unreal rose color that came close to matching her suit. I wondered if they thought this was a costume party. Kim started them on a path to our table, and I caught Sonya’s eye and nodded in their direction.

“Anyone have to go to the ladies’ room?” she asked without missing a beat. Mae saw what was coming and left with Sonya. I had to hang around to see Mary’s reaction when she got a load of these fashion statements. She didn’t disappoint me. When George and Carol got to the table, she choked on her champagne, sending a thin spray of bubbles into her napkin, which she brought to her mouth just in time.

“Excuse me. The champagne went down the wrong way,” she said.

“That can happen when you drink too many glasses of it. How many of those have you had?” That was Carol. All tact.

“Carol, George. This is my cousin Mary Alfano. Mary, George Davis and Carol Hanger.”

George and Carol nodded at Mary without smiling and turned away so quickly that they left Mary with her hand outstretched. They said hello to Sally and sat down in the seats vacated by Sonya and Mae. Sally said hello to both of them; no kisses, no “honey.”

“Is this what they’re serving?” George asked, looking over the drinks on the table. He had a very high-pitched, effeminate voice and an affected accent, the origin of which was difficult to trace other than, perhaps to a constant hair across his ass.
Before anyone could answer him, he raised his arm above his head and snapped his fingers at a waiter, who came right over. In an exaggerated gesture, he removed his sunglasses and said, “I’ll have a Seven and Seven in a tall glass without too much ice. Carol?”

“I want a Diet Coke in a large glass with a glass of ice on the side.”

I was so hoping the waiter would say, “Give me a break,” but he said, “Right away, sir,” and departed for the bar.

George turned to Sally. “Did you get my fax?”

“I did.”

“Good. I’ll meet you there then.” He turned to me and gave me a look that I could read only as “Up yours.” I turned away to talk to Mary. She was trying to make conversation with Carol, who was piling food on a napkin, but it was obvious that Carol had dismissed Mary as a lush. I turned back to talk to Sally, but now George was leaning close to her ear and talking in a one-on-one tone that implied, “Don’t interrupt.” She looked so uncomfortable that I had the urge to put my hand on hers and ask her if she wanted to leave.

Mercifully, Sully returned to the table with Danny by her side. He had on a clean white chef’s coat with the shamrock logo and just his name stitched on it—no “Executive Chef” or “Head Honcho.” His hair was neatly combed, but there were a few stray strands on his forehead just above those startlingly blue eyes, which were smiling and twinkling right at me. “Hi, Casey,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. My stomach did a complete flip-flop. It must have been too much salmon and the raw onion I ate with it. Then again, I seem to have a thing about men in white professional coats. I was crazy about seeing Richard in his dentist’s jacket, and when I was nine, I’d had a major crush on the vet who treated my cat,
Meatball.

“Hey, Danny. This is a terrific party,” I said, looking around at the happy party people. “And the food is
incredible
.”

“Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”

Sully put her hand on Danny’s arm and said, “Danny, this is Sally Woods and Casey’s cousin Mary.” She waited for them to shake hands and then added, “And George and Carol.” I was hoping Danny would not think that they were friends. Danny shook hands all around; although George actually shook his hand, he didn’t stand, and his wrist looked like a limp rag in Danny’s firm grasp.

“Can you sit with us for a while?” Sally asked.

“It’s a bit mad in the kitchen, and—” Danny began.

“Sit,” said Sully as she pushed him into the chair next to me. She pulled an empty chair from the next table and squeezed it in between Danny and Carol. Danny scooted closer to me to make room; Carol didn’t budge.

“Your food is just delicious, Chef,” Sally said with obvious enthusiasm.

“Thank you. I have a great group of chefs to rely on.”

“What part of Ireland are you from?” Mary asked.

“Cashel, in county Tipperary.”

“That’s a long, long way,” I said.

“She has her father to blame for comments like that,” Mary said.

Danny smiled and laughed. A good, honest laugh. “I’ve heard it before. Often.”

“Where did you train, Danny?” Sally asked, reaching for a potato gaufrette.

“I studied hotel management at Shannon College. By the time I graduated, I’d realized that I didn’t want to run a hotel, I wanted to be in the kitchen. So I went to culinary school at
Ballymaloe, in county Cork.”