Garlic and Sapphires (31 page)

The busboy cleared the table; the waiter brought our main courses. Helen took a bite of her fish and nodded thoughtfully. “I adore Chilean sea bass,” she said in a voice meant to carry to the next table, “such a rich and elegant fish.”

“Actually,” I said, “that's not Chilean sea bass.”

“Thank you very much,” she replied indignantly, “I am quite aware of what I ordered.”

“I know you ordered Chilean sea bass,” I insisted, trying to reclaim a little dignity for poor Betty, “but there is no such thing. You are eating Patagonian toothfish.”

“I couldn't be,” she said.

“You are. I'm sure you won't be surprised to learn that it didn't sell very well under its own name. So they changed it.”

“Really?” There was grudging respect in her voice. I thought I'd see if I could keep it. “May I taste those prosciutto-stuffed mashed potatoes?” I asked. She passed me a bite and I tasted, thoughtfully. “Good-quality prosciutto,” I said.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“I can taste it. Real prosciutto, the kind they make in Parma, has a sweetness and a softness that others lack. Lesser prosciutto has a waxy quality, and it's often over-salted. The color's different too.”

“How odd that someone like you should know so much,” said Helen, giving me a long slow look.

“Yes,” I said sweetly, “isn't it?” And I turned back to my food. Meanwhile Helen and the man at the next table kept exchanging glances, and Claudia sat there like a director admiring the scene she had created.

“Dessert, ladies?” asked the waiter.

“Oh no,” said Helen, “I never eat sweets.” She glanced briefly at the next table. The silver-haired man smiled. Claudia ordered gingerbread, and I pointed at a waiter walking cautiously across the room.

“Young man,” I said, pointing at the drink the waiter was carrying with such care. It looked like a captive rainbow. “What is that beautiful concoction?”

“A pousse café, madam,” he replied.

“A who?” I asked.

“It's a kind of cocktail.”

“All those layers? How do they make it?”

“Carefully,” he said, “very carefully. You see, different liqueurs weigh different amounts. So if you start with the heaviest, and then keep pouring a lighter liqueur on top, you can keep them from mixing. At least, a good bartender can.”

“Isn't it difficult?” I asked.

“Oh yes, madam,” he said, “very.”

“What if you trip while you're carrying it?”

“The bartender kills you,” he said solemnly. “And the court rules it justifiable homicide.” This was clearly a joke he had made before.

“I'll have one,” I decided.

As he walked away I murmured, “Grenadine, crème de cacao, maraschino, curaçao, crème de menthe, parfait amour, cognac.”

“What's that?” asked Helen.

“The order of a pousse café. Red on the bottom, followed by brown, white, orange, green, violet, and finally the cognac on the top. They have to be made very, very slowly. Bartenders usually pour them over the back of a spoon to spread out the liquid. They're difficult to make correctly.”

“I thought you didn't know what it was,” she said, giving me another long look.

“I was just testing him.” I peeked at Claudia and saw that she was enjoying herself hugely.

When the drink came, I held it out to Helen. “Would you care to taste it?”

“Oh no,” she said. The silver-haired man was looking at her again and she smiled—a little coyly I thought—and said, “Well, maybe just a sip.”

She grimaced—the thing truly was horrid—and then there was a small awkward silence. Helen was looking at me, clearly weighing whether or not to say what was on her mind. Finally she decided. “May I speak frankly?”

“Certainly,” I said.

“I don't know what to make of you, but you seem like a good enough person. Why don't you take better care of yourself? A good haircut—and perhaps a silver rinse—would do wonders. I have a facialist who could improve your skin tone. And I could point you to a shop where a few chic outfits would not cost much money. I just can't understand why anyone would go through life looking so . . . pitiful.” She looked at my face and added, “I hope I have not offended you?”

“Not at all,” I said. “That's very kind. I'd be very grateful for your help.” Claudia made a little choking sound.

“What, may I ask, is so funny?” asked Helen.

“Later, my darling,” gasped Claudia, attempting to control her mirth. “I will tell you later.”

Helen looked miffed and Claudia abruptly changed the subject. “Have I told you,” she asked, “that I am moving to Los Angeles for a few months?”

“You didn't tell me that!” I said, so shocked that I used my own voice. Helen's eyes narrowed. I lowered it to ask, “Why?”

“One of my old students has been given an excellent role in a big new film, and he insists that I must come coach him. I thought it might be fun. And I cannot deny that the notion of leaving New York for the duration of the winter has enormous appeal.”

“I'm going to miss you,” I said.

“Don't worry, my darling,” she said, patting my hand. “I will come hurrying back. I could not bear to miss seeing the transformation Helen has planned. I suspect you'll be an entirely different person. In fact, I'm sure of it.” She tried to catch Helen's eye but Helen was, once again, looking at the man at the next table. I wondered if anything would come of it.

Betty never got her makeover. Helen was furious when Claudia told her the truth, and when I called to apologize, she hung up on me. But in the ensuing months Betty slipped unobtrusively in and out of Felidia, Aquavit, Lutèce, and Gramercy Tavern. My most useful disguise, she usually went with a group, sitting silently at the table like somebody's poor old aunt, the charity case, brought along out of duty or as an act of kindness. Betty never looked at a wine list and when confronted with the menu tended to say, “You order for me, dear. You know much more about food” in a voice so soft it was barely audible. Since she never paid a bill she had no need for credit cards, and she continued to be as anonymous as a shadow.