Delicious! (3 page)

I traced the letters on the old-fashioned brass nameplate with my finger. “ ‘Samuel Winthrop Stone.’ ”

“Travel editor.” Jake gave the dog’s collar another tug. “C’mon, Sherman, Sammy’s in Morocco. No smoothie for you. Maybe you’ll have better luck in the kitchen.”

At the word “kitchen,” Sherman pricked up his ears and raced for the stairs. “This dog is so smart.” Jake said it softly, as if worried that Sherman might overhear. “He loves smoothies, and he knows exactly who the suckers are. Paul even brought in a special little juicer just for him.”

I followed them up the stairs. “The art department’s on four,” said Jake, pointing. I followed his finger, noticing the graceful plaster swags and garlands decorating the walls. The Timbers Mansion really was beautiful; if Genie were here she’d be reaching for her sketch pad. “Library’s up there too, but you don’t need to worry about that: It’s been locked for years. Down here”—we’d reached the third-floor landing and he turned left, sweeping me into an enormous cream-colored room—“is the kitchen, which you’ve seen, and the photo studio, which you haven’t.”

The photo studio must once have been a ballroom. Even now, with lights dangling from the ceiling, thick electrical cords snaking along the floor, and half a dozen tripod-mounted cameras, it clung so stubbornly to the past that I could easily imagine an orchestra tuning up for the next waltz. As we watched, the door to the kitchen opened and a woman inched out backward, carefully sheltering an arrangement of vegetables.

“That’s Lori,” Jake whispered. “She’s a food stylist—and our best baker.” Taking tiny steps, she edged into the middle of the room and very slowly lowered the plate onto a pedestal in front of a huge cloth-covered camera.

“Valente?” Jake called, and a short, solid man surprised me by emerging from beneath the cloth. He shook my hand briefly and then ducked back inside the camera. Jake and I watched Lori fussing with the plate, moving microgreens and midget carrots first one way, then the other. She picked up a tiny brush from a tray sitting on a nearby table and fastidiously applied olive oil, then added flecks of cheese, one by one, with a pair of tweezers. From beneath the cloth, Valente directed the precise positioning of each tiny morsel.

“Move the parsley to the right, Lori,” Valente ordered. She pinched up a minuscule bit of green with her tweezers, moving it an infinitesimal fraction of an inch.

Suddenly the door flew open and Maggie came charging in. At the sight of her, a spark of adrenaline shot through me; was I going to have to see her every day? Buoyed by the breeze, the parsley leapt into the air, and as it floated back down, Valente appeared again. “Damn it, Maggie,” he shouted, “now we have to start over.”

“Oh, sorry.” She was unconcerned. Valente snorted and pulled the cloth back over his head. She turned to Jake. “Do me a favor? I need really good anchovies, and Thursday’s cornered the market on menaicas.” She made a face, doing that thing with her lips that made her look as if she’d swallowed vinegar. “Again. If I send a messenger it’ll take all day. Do you think the new girl could …?”

Jake seemed embarrassed, reluctant to ask me to run this errand but even more reluctant to turn Maggie down. He shrugged and turned to me. “Do you mind? Thursday’s the chef at The Pig.”

“I’ve heard of her.” You’d have to be a hermit not to know about America’s most famous female chef. “Her picture was on
Eater
this morning; Patti Smith threw a big party at The Pig last night.”

“I know; I was there.” Jake handed me a twenty. “Grab a cab. It’s not far, just into Chelsea, but it’ll be faster.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER
I was standing on 16th Street, so far west I could see the Hudson River. From outside, The Pig looked like any other scruffy tavern. I’d been expecting something fancier, or at least more exotic. In the famous Annie Leibovitz picture “Midnight at The Pig,” the restaurant has a dark, gritty glamour. The photographer had caught Keith Richards lounging across a scarred wooden table, surrounded by eccentric friends. The picture always made me think of Paris in the twenties—you wanted to be there—and I’d anticipated something with a bit more style.

I banged on the door until a tattooed man with a nose ring finally let
me in. It smelled like spilled whiskey, and daylight had drained every bit of romance from the room. “Thursday’s in back,” said a man with a ponytail from behind the bar, jerking his head toward a swinging door. He tossed an empty bottle into a giant garbage can. It clattered noisily to the bottom.

I gave the battered door a push. The kitchen was dim and much smaller than an average California kitchen, so crammed with industrial equipment that there was barely room to move. Thursday was standing at the stove, swathed in a cloud of steam. She was elegantly beautiful, with an ash-blond braid reaching almost to her waist and big black-lashed eyes that hovered somewhere between gray and blue. “I’m—” I began.

“Taste this.” Thursday thrust a large wooden spoon into my mouth. Her eyes watched closely as I swallowed. She had fed me a fluffy cloud, no more than pure texture, but as it evaporated it left a trail of flavor in its wake.

“Lemon peel,” I said, “Parmesan, saffron, spinach.” She held out another spoonful, and this time, at the very end, I tasted just a touch of … something lemony but neither lemon nor verbena. It had a faint cinnamon tinge. “Curry leaf!”

“I’m impressed.” Her hands were on her slim hips and her voice was—what? Sarcastic? “But I didn’t mean it as a test. I just wanted to see if I’m getting anywhere with this new gnocchi.”

“That’s an amazing combination. The saffron’s brilliant—it gives it such a sunny flavor. But what made you use curry leaf? I never would have thought of that.”

“It kind of came to me at the last minute. So you think it works?”

“Yes! But maybe you should use a little more?”

I blushed; who was I to be giving Thursday Brown advice? But she was tasting the gnocchi, rubbing her lips together in that way that chefs do. “You think so?”

I was about to ask if I could taste it again when she cried, “Sal!” with such delight that I looked over my shoulder. A tall, broad man in a baseball cap was standing in the doorway. He had the look of a plumber
come to fix a leak—blue jeans, work boots, and a plain blue work shirt. He was probably fifty, but his face had a curious innocence. When he removed his cap, a thatch of thick, graying dark hair sprang joyfully upward. Thursday scooped up another gnocchi. “We were tasting my new gnocchi.” She thrust one into his mouth. “What do you think? She—what did you say your name was?—thinks I need more curry leaf.”

“I didn’t, actually. Billie Breslin.”

Thursday looked at me now, really taking me in. “So you’re Jake’s new assistant? That should work out well. I bet there isn’t one person in a hundred—no, a thousand—who’d know there was curry leaf in there.”

“Curry leaf?” Sal tasted again. “There isn’t one person in a thousand who’s even heard of it.” He was studying me the way Thursday had, as if he were trying to see into my mind. “One taste and you could tell it was there?”

“Yeah. Curry leaf doesn’t taste like anything else. It’s like there’s an echo of cinnamon right behind the lemon.”

Sal reached into the pot and scooped up another gnocchi. “You’re right!” He sounded truly excited. He turned to Thursday. “And she’s right about using more too. But if you ask me, you’re using the wrong cheese. That’s the fall Parmigiano—am I right?—and it’s too rich. You need the spring cheese. I’ll send you some.”

Definitely not a plumber.

“I need that cheese right now!” She turned to look at me again. “Sal knows more about cheese than anyone in this city. Why don’t you go with him? Fontanari’s isn’t far, and he can give you my cheese. By the time you get back I’ll have figured out where I put those anchovies.”

I hesitated. “I really should get back.… ”

“You’re new to New York, right?”

I nodded.

“Then you need to see Sal’s shop. Fontanari’s is incredible; every cook should know it.”

“I’m not a cook.”

“You
aren’t
?” She peered at me as if she’d just encountered a rare specimen in the zoo. “With that palate? Then what the hell are you doing at
Delicious!
?”

“Oh, leave her alone, Thursday,” said Sal. “You’re embarrassing her.”

I smiled gratefully. “I’d love to come with you, but Maggie wanted me to bring the anchovies right back.”

Thursday crossed her arms. “She’ll wait. I don’t even know where I put the damn jar. Go on, now!”

She made little shooing motions with her hands, and resistance seemed futile. I followed Sal out the door.

“That’s right.” Sal gave me a cheerful smile. “No point in arguing with a chef. They’re all bossy, but Thursday’s the worst. Did you know she once worked at
Delicious!
?” He glanced down at me. “I can see from your face that you’re wondering how that turned out. Well, let me tell you, it was pretty bad. Thursday was just out of culinary school, but even then she had to have her own way. She and Maggie …” He whistled. “All I can say is, when it comes to Thursday, there’s no point in arguing. You might as well give in at the start. Where you from?”

“Santa Barbara—”

“Now, me, I’m from right here.” To my relief, Sal was as talkative as he was kind; I wouldn’t have to say a word. “My family shop’s been on the same corner in Little Italy for a hundred years.”

“Little Italy?” I tried to remember where that was.

“Just a couple of miles,” he said comfortably. “A good walk that will take us past some of the finest food in the world. Coming from—where’d you say you were from? This is going to be a treat for you.”

“Santa Barbara. Maybe we can take a cab?” I pleaded.

“A cab?” He sounded scandalized. “To go a couple miles? If you’re going to be a New Yorker, you’ll have to learn to walk. It’s the only way to get around this town. Besides, this way I can give you my personal tour.”

Sal walked through the streets as if they belonged to him, utterly indifferent to the concept of straight lines. He meandered, breaking
off in the middle of a sentence to beckon me across the street and point out the attractions of some shop. Everything from hats to hardware captured his curiosity. The nightclubs and restaurants of the Meatpacking District were still sleeping, but once we got to Bleecker Street he stopped every few feet to peer into the windows of bookstores, toy shops, and art galleries. The neighborhood aged as we walked south, and as the shops grew more venerable he paused to breathe in the aroma of old bakeries and to appreciate salvage shops, cutting a zigzag path so we missed nothing. I’d never met anyone like Sal; his knowledge was encyclopedic, and he seemed to know everyone we passed. Part of me knew I should get back to the office, but he was taking so much pleasure from this walk that I found myself irresistibly drawn in, sharing his pleasure, enjoying the moment.

“Joey! Great to see you!” Crossing Seventh Avenue, Sal had spotted a policeman. “Where you been? It’s been a while. Please don’t tell me you’re buying your salami somewhere else.”

“The line at your place is always so long.” The cop actually looked guilty.

“Not for you.” Sal put his arm around the policeman’s shoulders. “Never for the boys in blue. Come see us soon, okay? My sister, Theresa, misses you. We all do.”

Every panhandler got a dollar and a “Good luck to you.” “Rosalie—that’s my wife—thinks I’m too soft a touch, but I say, there but for the grace of God. I’d rather be a fool than hard-hearted.” He swiped a hand across the upturned nose that made his face so amiable.

“There’s Benny!” He waved me across Carmine Street. “You have to meet him. I bet you don’t have any real butchers in Santa Barbara, and Benny’s one of the greats.”

He led me proudly into a shop that looked as if it had been here, unchanged, for at least a hundred years. There was sawdust on the floor, and the clean forest scent hung in the air, mingling with the mineral aroma of good meat. Framed in bouquets of parsley, the various cuts were proudly displayed in a tall refrigerated cabinet. Sitting on top
was a huge old-fashioned roll of pink butcher paper; an antique dispenser of twine dangled above it. Photographs of customers were everywhere, and a huge calico cat sat curled on a bench, purring loudly.

The man behind the counter had a bloodstained apron wrapped around his mountain of a body. He looked like an aging prizefighter, and everything about him—body, hands, even his feet—seemed thick. But when he smiled, I saw that the gap between his teeth made him less formidable. Sal pushed me forward. “Meet Billie. She’s just gone to work for Jake.”

Benny held out a mammoth hand. “Come on back here.” He swept me behind the counter and through a heavy wooden door. It was dark and cold in the meat locker, and I found myself staring at a quarter of a steer hanging from a hook. “Look at that loin!” Benny swung the carcass onto a scarred slab of wood. “Do you know where the T-bone ends and the porterhouse begins?”

I shook my head. He began cutting up the animal, and I stood watching, mesmerized. I’d never seen a real butcher work, and Benny was as precise as a surgeon as he showed me how the muscles met, his knife flashing down with incredible speed, carving up steaks, roasts, and chops. Benny’s whole appearance changed when he had a knife in his hand, each motion so sure and economical that the bulky torso became graceful. It was like watching a bullfight, without the thrilling terror of the kill.

Benny held up a long loin of prime aged meat, its exterior hardened into a crust the color of withered roses. Picking up a thin blade, he trimmed the crust off with a single pass of the knife. The meat beneath was bright red and heavily marbled with fat. “Some people think that wet-aging in Cryovac is just as good as dry-aging. Sure, it’s cheaper. Sure, it’s easier. But the only way you get a respectable steak is you let it hang a few weeks. Me? I like twenty-six days, but some like it longer. Concentrates the flavor. No other way to do it.” He sheared off the thinnest sliver. “Open your mouth.”

It was like nothing I’d tasted before, the rich slice melting onto my
tongue, its texture so soft I barely needed to chew. The flavor, on the other hand, was potent, filling my mouth with the slight tang of iron. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything more wonderful.”