Garlic and Sapphires (35 page)

“Have you seen something that interests you?” he asked, fingering the chain.

“I was thinking of starting with this Stony Hill Chardonnay,” said Mr. Shapiro.

“Ah, a connoisseur,” said the sommelier. “You zeroed right in on one of our treasures. So few people know those great Stony Hills.”

“I'm a bit worried about its age,” said Mr. Shapiro. “An '85 seems rather old for an American Chardonnay.”

“Those Stony Hills don't begin to come into their own for at least ten years,” murmured the sommelier. “I don't think you'll be disappointed.” It was not lost on me that Mr. Shapiro had zeroed right in on one of the list's pricier whites. “And after that?” queried the sommelier.

“A Burgundy, I think. Which ones do you favor at the moment?”

The favored wine, it seemed, was the '89 Clos de Vougeot. This was fine with Mr. Shapiro, who began quizzing the sommelier about the vineyard, clearly trying to trip him up. Failing to do this, he began holding forth about his own recent visit to the Clos and some of the astute purchases he had made on that occasion. The sommelier put on a face as admiring as that of a southern belle charming a man on their first date.

They progressed to Bordeaux. When they had agreed on an '82 Léoville Poyferré, Mr. Shapiro asked, “Will you decant it?”

“Of course,” said the sommelier reverently. “The '82s are magnificent, but still a little young.”

“I'm glad you don't buy the argument that wines get all the air they need in the glass.”

“Ridiculous notion!” said the sommelier. I looked up, caught his eye, and realized that if Mr. Shapiro had fallen into the do-not-decant school of wine, our young man would have agreed with equal alacrity.

By now they were discussing sweet wines, and Michael's leg was jiggling beneath the table with furious impatience. Unfortunately, as soon as the sommelier moved off the waiter moved in, and the food warrior leaped into the next negotiation. By the time the ordering was over, we had been at the table for more than an hour. No bread had arrived, but we had been served the
ahmusey
: rillettes of pork on a little piece of toast, with bell pepper oil on top. Mr. Shapiro took one bite and instantly set it aside.

“Delicious,” said Michael, demolishing the tidbit.

Mrs. Shapiro eyed her rillettes longingly. The toast began moving toward her mouth. Across the table Mr. Shapiro vigorously began shaking his head and did not stop until his wife's hand stopped in midair and then reversed its motion. She replaced the toast on her plate and held it out to Michael. “Want mine?” she asked sadly.

Michael picked it up. “Thanks,” he said. Mrs. Shapiro's eyes never left his mouth as he swallowed the tidbit in a single gulp. An awkward silence fell over the table.

“So,” said Michael cheerfully, doing his part, “David, what business are you in?”

“Education,” Mr. Shapiro said shortly.

“Oh, a teacher.”

“Not exactly,” said Mr. Shapiro. “I'm a businessman. I manufacture educational equipment. Desks, blackboards, that kind of stuff. Most people have no idea how much profit there can be in schools.”

I winced. We were heading for a cliff, and it was up to me to change the topic, quickly, before Michael gleefully elicited all the sordid details. “I guess,” I said, trying to turn the wheel of this conversational vehicle, “those blackboards must buy you a lot of wonderful meals.”

“Exactly!” said David Shapiro. “All those blackboards allow me to live the life of a food warrior.”

We were still in dangerous territory. “What was the best meal you had on the trip with Bobby?” I asked, desperately trying again.

That did it. Mr. Shapiro now offered detailed descriptions of dinners devoured in the far corners of France. One by one the stars came out, and he polished each one in his collection.

“Robuchon,” he said, “you've been there?”

“Amazing,” I replied. “My friend Patricia Wells, who wrote his cookbook, made our reservation, so of course we had exceptional food. It was the only time in my life that I have eaten food of such technical complexity that I could not figure out how it had been made.”

“Exactly!” he said.

Michael and Sherry were both silent.

“And Ducasse?” he asked.

“Oh, I love his food,” I said. “I spent a few days interviewing him when he was in Los Angeles. Such an interesting man! It was a long time ago, and he was very concerned that the Japanese were stealing everything from the French. He thought there should be a quota on Japanese cooks in French kitchens. But I imagine he's changed his tune.”

“He's a master,” said Mr. Shapiro. “But did you ever meet Alain Chapel?” I told him about translating for the great chef, years ago, when he was cooking at Mondavi, and how we had scoured the coun tryside for the cock's combs he needed for his meal. Mr. Shapiro seemed impressed. He mentioned the Auberge de l'Ill and I told about the time I'd gone there with Paula Wolfert and Jim Villas. Next he described the great meal he had eaten at L'Espérance, and I described the way Marc Meneau had fed me and my friend David everything on the menu in one glorious and terrible five-hour meal. “Some people think Meneau is no longer as great as he once was,” said Mr. Shapiro.

“Some people,” I said, “are wrong.”

He agreed and we continued on our journey, working our way south. Before long he was regretting the downhill trajectory of Roger Verge, and I was bragging about the time I'd spent in his kitchen.

“Are you in pain?” Mr. Shapiro asked suddenly.

I turned to look at Michael, who was holding the side of his face. “Wouldn't you be if you were dining with you?” he muttered under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Shapiro.

“Yes,” said Michael, “my teeth hurt. I had oral surgery this morning and I guess the painkillers are wearing off.”

This was a complete fabrication. “Traitor!” I whispered. Michael did not even flinch.

“If you don't mind,” he said softly, “I think I had better go home now.”

“Warm water and salt,” said Mr. Shapiro. “That's what you need.”

“Yes,” said Michael. “And, I think, a couple of sleeping pills.”

And with that he escaped into the night.

Mr. Shapiro had not exaggerated when he said that he made it his practice to close restaurants. We worked our way through the whole foie gras, which was still too rich, and the pancakes, which were still too heavy. Mr. Shapiro gamely ate the squab cooked in salt. His wife and I shared the duck with kumquats, and then we went on to dessert. By then Mr. Shapiro and the sommelier were on a first-name basis. We had an '83 Rieussec, which was maderized, so we went on to an '85 followed by a Sémillon from Chalk Hill gloriously infected with noble rot. It was past 1 A.M. when the last guests departed, and Mr. Shapiro refused to even consider leaving before they did. When we finally rose from the table, we had been sitting for six hours and I was so stiff I could barely walk.

“The night is still young,” said Mr. Shapiro.

“Not for me,” I said, wondering what else the Food Warrior could possibly want.

We rode the elevator down in stomach-tumbling silence, and when the doors opened I fled into the echoing lobby, heading for the coat check.

“Ruth!” cried a voice behind me. Turning, I found Daniel Johnnes, author, winemaker, and wine director of restaurants like Montrachet and Nobu, waving wildly at me.

“Daniel!” said Mr. Shapiro, moving in front of me and holding out his hand.

“Yes?” said Daniel with a distantly polite do-I-know-you look. He accepted Mr. Shapiro's hand, but he did so gingerly.

“I met you at Montrachet,” brayed Mr. Shapiro. “Don't you remember? I brought a seventies vertical of La Tâche?”

“Oh, sure,” said Daniel, in such a noncommittal tone that I could not tell if his memory of Mr. Shapiro was negative or nonexistent.

“What are you doing here at this time of night?” I asked.

“We're having a party for Nobu up in one of the private rooms,” he said. “Why don't you join us?”

“You know I wouldn't do that,” I said. “I don't go to parties with chefs.”

“We do!” said Mr. Shapiro. He grabbed Daniel's arm and walked him back into the elevator, pulling his wife along. As they stepped in, Mr. Shapiro waved and shouted, “Good night. Good night. Thanks for dinner. Good night.” I caught a brief glimpse of Daniel's face. He looked like a man caught in a nightmare. And then the doors closed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

H
ow could you abandon me like that?” I raged at Michael the next day. “How could you go off and leave me with those people? Were they really so unbearable?”

“It wasn't them,” he said quietly.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

Michael touched my arm. “I don't want to hurt your feelings,” he said, “but they weren't the ones I couldn't stand. It was you.”

“Me?” I said. “Me?”

“You,” he said. “I couldn't stay and watch what you were doing. I hate it when you pretend to be that person.”

“What person?” I asked.

“The Restaurant Critic of the
New York Times.
The Princess of New York. Ms.-I-know-I-am-right-about-food-and-don't-argue-with-me. Take your pick.”

“Was I that bad?” I whispered. My cheeks burned and I could feel the sweat prickling against my skin.

“Worse,” he said. “You were the person you used to make fun of.”

I felt sick. But Michael wasn't finished. “You really enjoy food, and you're able to translate that pleasure for others. But if you turn into a . . . what did Mr. Shapiro call it?”

“A food warrior,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “If you let yourself become that. . . .” He paused for a minute and then started again. “Last night this line from T. S. Eliot kept running through my head. It's from the
Four Quartets.
‘Garlic and sapphires in the mud . . .' I remembered that when you got into this it was almost a spiritual thing with you. You love to eat, you love to write, you love the generosity of cooks and what happens around the table when a great meal is served. Nothing that went on last night had anything to do with that.”

“But I did it for charity,” I protested.

“There must be better ways to give,” he replied. “Don't give yourself away.”