Delicious! (7 page)

“I should get you drunk more often,” she said as we walked out the door. “This was so much fun. Let’s do it again, soon.”

I went to bed that night feeling like I’d finally made a friend in New York. Or at least a start.

But in the morning I felt awful. My head was pounding, my mouth was dry, and I was still wearing the clothes I’d worn the night before. The day yawned emptily before me.

I drifted out the door and clumped down the stairs. The weather was gray, the streets filled with that Sunday morning silence that makes you feel like everybody else is home with people that they love. I thought about Diana, home with Ned. I wondered what Dad and Aunt Melba were doing and if they were doing it together. Passing a newsstand, I glanced at the headlines. The papers were still talking about the rescue of the Chilean miners earlier in the week, and the feel-good stories were all about them being reunited with their families after sixty-nine days underground. Somehow that made me feel even more alone. I went into the bookstore on Prince Street, but my heart wasn’t in it, and I left with empty hands. I kept moving, surprised when I found myself in front of Fontanari’s. My feet had known all along where they were going, but my head had just caught on.

I tried to go inside, but it was after noon and the little shop was so crowded that the door would open only a crack. Even from out here I could smell the pungent, nose-prickling aroma of salami and the rich, milky perfume of cheese, and it was so enticing that I gave the door a hard push and edged inside. There was yet another scent now teasing my nose, and when I looked up I saw the strings of bright-red chilies dangling from the rafters.

It was as clamorous and cozy as a cocktail party, everybody deep in conversation. I stretched up on my toes, trying to see over the heads to the counter in the front of the store, just as Sal looked up from the customer he was serving. His face relaxed into a delighted grin. Putting his knife down, he pushed his way through the crowd.

“Folks”—he sounded so happy—“we got lucky. Help has arrived.” He propelled me through the throng and whisked me behind the counter. His sister, Theresa, gave a little nod, as if she’d been expecting me.

“But what do I do?” I was utterly bewildered.

“First”—he was matter-of-fact, as if the question was idiotic—“you go into the back kitchen and wash your hands.” He held up a plain white apron. “Then you put this on. Then you ask the next customer what he wants. And finally you give it to him.”

“But I don’t know how to slice salami or cut cheese!”

He took my hand. “It’s not exactly rocket science. Just do what I do; you’ll be fine. Rosie.” He towed me into the back, where a pretty woman in her late forties with silver-streaked black hair stood making mozzarella. “This is that girl I told you about from
Delicious!
Billie, my wife, Rosalie.”

Rosalie was a compact woman, with big breasts, comfortable hips, and a tiny waist. Her smooth hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, and she was wearing an apron of impeccable whiteness. She was the cleanest person I’d ever seen.

“I’m very happy to meet you.” She had come over to the sink where I was washing my hands. “Sal can’t stop talking about the day you spent together.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell him I told you, but he’d have been so disappointed if you hadn’t come back. Let me see that apron.”

I looked down, embarrassed, at my rumpled clothes, but she took no notice. She twitched the apron down, straightened it, and retied it so snugly that I felt neat, covered, contained. “That’s better.” She clicked her teeth in satisfaction. “Is your name really Billie?”

“My real name’s Wilhelmina.”

Her eyes lit up. “Much better! A name for a queen. That is what we will call you. Sal says he’s offered you a job. I hope you’ll say yes. And from what I know of Mr. Pickwick, I imagine you could use the money.” She tucked my hand into the crook of her arm, escorted me to the counter, and pointed at a stocky woman with short gray hair in the front of the line. “Jane”—she gave me a little push—“this is Wilhelmina’s first day, so be nice.” In a stage whisper she added, “Jane was the great love of Sal’s life.”

Jane’s eyes danced with amusement. “You should know that this
great love affair ended before we reached the first grade.” She looked me frankly up and down. “Sal’s letting her work?”

“He trusts her palate.” Rosalie said it with finality, as if no other explanation could possibly be needed.

“Then I’m impressed.” Jane gave me a small salute, and I realized that what I had taken as Rosalie just being nice was more than that: Sal really did want me to be here.

Rosalie patted my arm. “Jane’s a fussy customer, but don’t let that trouble you. She’ll want you to show her every single ball of mozzarella before she makes her choice—”

“I will not!”

“And she’ll watch like a hawk when you slice her prosciutto,” Rosalie continued. “Not to mention demanding tastes of so much cheese she won’t need lunch.” Jane huffed slightly at that. “But”—Rosalie gave my arm another pat—“you take your time and you’ll be fine.”

That seemed to be the Fontanari mantra; as the day progressed and the crush of customers grew more intense, Sal refused to rush. When he spied a small, slight man with pure white hair and skin so translucent you could see the tracery of blue veins beneath it, he cried, “Gennaro!” Sal rushed from behind the counter to kiss the man on both cheeks. “How’s your mama? Better?” He gestured to his sister, who was slicing mortadella. “Theresa, can’t you see this man is starving? Give him something to eat before he faints on us.”

He moved among his customers, handing out chunks of pecorino, asking after family, telling stories. It was the perfect place for me, where being quiet was an asset. But I noticed that Sal kept glancing expectantly toward the door and then away, slightly disappointed. I wondered whom he was waiting for.

At around two o’clock a bearded man came through the door, and I had the answer to my question. All the lines on Sal’s face moved upward, and his look of expectation changed to one of pure pleasure. He struggled to control his expression, overjoyed to see the man but reluctant to show it. He pointed across the counter.

“We all call him Mr. Complainer,” he said in a low voice. “Guy comes in every Sunday. Never stops complaining. According to him, we do nothing right. And still he keeps coming.”

Mr. Complainer was tall and broad, probably in his early thirties, with lively brown eyes that reflected amusement, thick curly brown hair, and a scruffy beard. He was carelessly handsome, dressed in softly faded denims and a wrinkled linen shirt. Every eye in the shop was on him, and he seemed comfortable with that. “Who’re you?” he said to me.

“Meet Wilhelmina,” said Sal.

“Don’t tell me you’ve finally hired help!”

“Your prayers have been answered.”

“No, no, no.” Mr. Complainer shook his head in a parody of woe. “It would take a lot more than one little woman to answer my prayers.” He turned to address the other customers. “It’s almost un-American, the way they run this place. Best damn cheese in the city, but you have to wait hours. So what does Sal Fontanari do?” He pointed at me. “He hires this unfortunate soul, who is obviously unaware what she’s gotten herself into.” Looking into my eyes, he added, “Take my advice and flee. Run as fast as you can. Go before it’s too late!”

I struggled to come up with some clever comeback, but Sal was already speaking. “You,” he said hotly, “have no soul. If it were up to you, Fontanari’s would be turned into a factory.”

The man was unrepentant. “Would it kill you to make the place a little more efficient?”

“As I keep telling you, my friend, plenty of other places would gladly sell you cheese.”

Mr. Complainer turned to me again, and I had one of those moments when I wished I looked at least a bit like Genie. But I’m not sure it would have mattered; I was just an extra in this ongoing drama, and Mr. Complainer was deep into his part. “As you can see, the man’s hopeless. But”—he gave a comically dramatic shrug—“you’re a start. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be able to do something with him.”

Everyone in the store had stopped to watch the show, which was obviously giving both men pleasure. I had a vision of them enacting this familiar ritual week after week, year after year. Did this happen every weekend? Sal reached for a salami and tilted his head, silently asking if he wanted the usual. Mr. Complainer nodded almost imperceptibly, and as Sal started to cut, the man’s mouth parted in a little sigh of satisfaction. Then Sal picked up a ball of mozzarella and the man shook his head violently. Sal smiled and put his hand into another bowl, coming up with a different ball. The man nodded.

“I just opened the summer Parmigiano.” Mr. Complainer held out his hand, and we all watched him put the golden shard into his mouth. He nodded, just once, and Sal cut him a substantial wedge.

They had not stopped talking, although I wondered if the words even mattered. This was obviously an old routine, a ritual. “Sure,” Sal was saying. “We could work faster, we could make more money. But would we have time for this conversation? We would not. What’s the point of making piles of money to enjoy when you’re not working? I’d much rather enjoy my work.”

Mr. Complainer laughed. “Oh, Sal, you never let me down.”

“My friend,” Sal replied, “I hope I never will.”

The man took his package and hesitated, his eyes running along the shelves, seeking something else to purchase, trying to delay the moment of departure. He apparently came up empty, because he gave a defeated little shrug and walked toward the door. People parted to let him through and out the door.

“Next!” said Sal. He picked up a small wheel of cheese and held it out. “Stelvio! It just came in. Very rare. They only make it in the summer, when the cows go up the mountain to their summer pasture. Let me give you a taste; it’s buttery but pungent. See?” His voice never stopped, a soothing ribbon of sound buoying us through the exhausting day. At six the crowd began to ebb, and by seven the last customer was walking out the door. Sal sat down on a stool and wiped his forehead.

“Saturdays are even busier,” he said. “You coming back next week?”

“I don’t know.” I picked up the last piece of Stelvio and stuck it in my mouth. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to be working a second job. Jake might not like it. I’m not even sure it’s allowed.”

“Allowed?” his voice rose indignantly. “Allowed? This is America. The question is—did you enjoy yourself?”

Every muscle in my body ached and my hands were sore. But Sal had shown me the secret of real aceto balsamico, making me taste again and again until I could discern the flavor of each barrel the vinegar had passed through, from the mellow oak, to cherry, chestnut, mulberry, and finally the astringent prickle of juniper. Theresa had plied me with tiny cups of espresso made from beans roasted over wood. And at the end of the day, just as we were closing, Rosalie sliced a melon and handed me a bright-orange triangle. “Wilhelmina,” she commanded, “taste!” I took a bite, stunned by the roar of cantaloupe juice inside my head.

“Yes,” I said. They had made me feel that I belonged there. “Yes, I did.”

“Then we’ll see you next Saturday.”

T
HE STEPS WERE NOW COVERED WITH LEAVES, BUT IN THE AUTUMN
light the Timbers Mansion looked even lovelier than it had in the heat of summer. I loved Mondays, loved the feeling of the old house welcoming us back after a sleepy weekend. Walking into the lobby, I stopped to appreciate the smell of aged wood and furniture polish.

But when I got upstairs, I was startled to find a portly gentleman stretched across Jake’s battered leather sofa, orange socks perched on the armrests. He was dressed in tweeds so ancient they seemed a part of him. Jake wasn’t in yet, and I eyed the man warily, wondering how he’d wormed his way past security.

He just lay there, arms behind his head, openly studying me. He gestured to his jacket. “Peerless, is it not? I have been donning tweeds for eons. Each time my travels take me to London, I scurry off to the tailors of Savile Row. When you hit on something you like, cleave to it. That is my motto.” He got up, stretching languidly, and held out his hand. “The new Sarah, I presume?” I liked his cologne, spice edged with smoke. “Come help me unpack.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Jake had arrived. “Sammy’s always trying to lure people into his lair, where they disappear for hours, doing his bidding. It’s like falling down the rabbit hole. Defend yourself now or it’ll be too late.” Sherman bounded in, jumped up, and licked the man’s face ecstatically. I felt like an idiot.

“You’re Sammy!” How could I not have known?

“At your service.” Sammy executed a funny little bow. He looked like
an old-time professor, the generous face and oversize features framed by sparse sandy hair and punctuated by horn-rimmed glasses. It was impossible to tell how old he was, but older than Jake. I guessed sixty. Maybe.

“I have just journeyed back from a sojourn in Marrakech. Such a mysterious and sumptuous destination. Have you ever been?”

I shook my head.

“How unfortunate. It is the precise equivalent of clambering into a time machine and dialing back the clock.” Sammy leaned over and began to rummage through the battered paisley carpetbag at his feet. He emerged, triumphant, with a huge coil of sausage, which he wrapped jauntily around Jake’s neck. “A small token of my appreciation,” he said.

“How’d you get this merguez through customs?” Jake recoiled a bit. “Didn’t the dogs sniff you out?”

“Moi?”
Sammy asked, as Sherman nuzzled his hand. “I will have you know that those canines are my boon companions. Someday you must come journeying with me; I might divulge a few cherished secrets.” He offered me a winning smile. “Help me unpack? You have my solemn word that you will not regret it.”

“Sucker!” Jake called, restraining Sherman as I followed Sammy down the hall.

“Jake thinks highly of you,” he confided as we walked toward his office. “He dispatched an email informing me of your triumph on the Sal Test. Highest marks. He feels that you are a most promising young lady.”