Food Whore

by Jessica Tom

  “Faith.” I squinted my eyes and thought. “Say I were to believe you. What would come next?”

  Michael Saltz raised his eyebrow, a gesture of game on. “Well, you can still work at Madison Park Tavern, if it’s necessary for your degree. But for the purposes of this relationship, it’s unnecessary. A liability, even. After we finish up this semester, I’ll just call Helen and you can work with her in the spring.”

  “Work with her. As a recipe tester or research assistant or something?”

  “Recipe tester?” he scoffed. “You’ve been spending too much time in your graduate school bubble. No trivial work for you. No fake ‘exercises’ that count for nothing in the real world. This is real, true, the biggest of the big leagues. As I said earlier, you are an unusual talent, Tia. If you prove as much to Helen and work very, very hard, she is the sort of fair-­minded person who will want to reward you accordingly. I would think that, under the right conditions—­and with the right introduction from me—­Helen would consider crediting you as a coauthor on her forthcoming cookbook. Your name would appear on the cover below hers. Think about it, Tia. This is a chance of a lifetime, the finest education in food writing you could ask for. This autumn, you’ll serve as my protégée. Then, you’ll work with Helen in the spring. Your whole career will just fall into place after that. It’s rather simple. An easy decision, if you ask me. You’ll leave behind your other, more mundane life for something extraordinary.”

  Extraordinary. My heart raced; my palms began to sweat. Could I do this? Manage this second life, without telling a soul?

  “Well?” he asked.

  With one word, I’d get closer to Helen. I could walk into any New York restaurant with my head held high. I’d have something, like that girl with the ice pops and the women at Bakushan, that made me shine above all others.

  “Yes,” I said.

  And so it began.

  Michael Saltz gave a slow, conspiratorial smile. “Wonderful. Come, let’s toast! I have just the thing.”

  He opened his cabinet, and I thought he would take out one of his many bottles of wine there, but instead he reached in the back and brought out a large foil bag. As he opened it, a strong coffee aroma rolled through the air. He ran his fingers through the beans and the smell amplified. It smelled like a million coffee shops in one. The purest expression of a roasty, toasty coffee flavor.

  “Nice, right?” said Michael Saltz. “I love this. It’s called kopi luwak. The rarest coffee in the world. Goes for a hundred dollars a cup. Thankfully I can at least smell it.”

  I reached for the bag so I could hold a handful under my nose. I couldn’t get enough of it.

  “A civet cat has already digested and fermented the beans,” Michael Saltz continued. I pulled my hand away. It was already digested? By a cat?

  “But perhaps I love it so much because I’ve never had the chance to taste it.” His face was clear and open. “Every cup is like water to me. So now I just brew it and smell it. Heat creates another dimension of smell. It amplifies and deepens and . . .” he hesitated, looking for the right word by waving his pointy white fingers. “Pierces. But, come. I want you to tell me how this coffee tastes.”

  We walked into the kitchen, a room littered with spices and herbs and jars of what looked like dried fish and wrinkled brown citrus peels. There was a fresh pineapple on the counter, split open with the exposed yellow part desiccated away. A wasabi root the size of a child’s shoe sat perched on a porcelain grater, its smell prickling the air.

  “It’s an obsession, I know. All these jars, they’re the reason I can get by. I’ve spent thousands of dollars to recapture through smell what I’ve lost in taste.” He smiled abruptly. “But now I have the surgery lined up. And I have you!”

  He pulled out a shiny Italian grinder and poured some beans into it. Grinding the beans released even more incredible aromas. Then he tamped the grounds and screwed the portafilter into the espresso machine. The coffee came out in a rusty, rushed stream. He inhaled it longingly before he handed the tiny cup to me.

  “Go on, taste.”

  I didn’t even like coffee that much, but even I could tell this was exceptional. It was easy to forget that it had come from the inside of a cat and figure out why ­people paid so much for it.

  “Well? Does it taste like it smells? Or is it even more amazing?” He started idly combing through the beans, rustling up their scent.

  The coffee did smell amazing. But the truth of it was: it tasted even better. It had a sudden, violent character, hitting you over the head and grabbing you by the throat. It was a full, lusty drink that needed all the senses, but especially taste. That’s what made the coffee exceptional.

  “Yes,” I said to him. “It tastes like it smells.” My first lie. It came out accidentally. Something in me wanted to put his mind at ease.

  Michael Saltz took his hand out of the coffee bag, stopping the search for whatever he yearned for. “Really?”

  “Really. Exactly the way it smells.” My second lie. This time it came more easily.

  He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, his mouth slackened, and the wrinkle in his forehead smoothed out. I had never seen a man so relieved by a coffee description. “I’ve been wondering about that for so long. Thank you,” he whispered.

  “What else do you miss?”

  Michael Saltz’s eyes softened. “Everything,” he said with resignation. “It’s torture to go to these restaurants and not be able to experience them. But I also miss the simple things. Coffee in the morning. Popcorn at the movie theater. A fresh bagel on a Sunday.”

  I nodded. I’d miss those things, too. Take away the rituals of eating and you remove the bones of the day, your connections to others.

  “And . . . when did you lose your taste?”

  Now Michael Saltz had fallen fully into a reverie. “I lost it about three months ago,” he said. “It turned off like a switch. For a while, I was in denial, but . . .” He rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. “This condition isn’t easily treated through medical means, so I’ve been treating it using my own tactics.”

  I didn’t dare ask how he’d published a weekly review for the past three months, afraid that the question would make him angry and he’d rescind his offer. Had he really been faking it the whole time?

  “Is there a name for what you have?”

  “Well, that’s an interesting question.” He grated the wasabi, holding his nose to the porcelain spikes where the pungent smell collected. “When you lose your sight, you’re blind. When you lose your hearing, you’re deaf. When most ­people lose their sense of taste, they’re actually losing their sense of smell. There’s a name for that, too. But my brain tangles tastes, sometimes nullifies them. If I’m lucky, things just taste like nothing. But other times they taste like sawdust or cardboard, or like something else entirely. I’m one of the unlucky ones. And there’s no name for what I have.”

  “Why is that?”

  Michael Saltz took a long time to answer. “Maybe because it’s too terrible.” He put his hand on my shoulder, the smell of the coffee beans still stuck to his skin. “But let’s not dwell on that ugly past. This is an exciting arrangement, for both of us.”

  “I agree,” I said. Then he opened a kitchen drawer and gave me a wad of hundred-­dollar bills.

  “Here’s some pocket money for miscellaneous expenses. Remember, use my personal shopper at Bergdorf Goodman and don’t mention the New York Times. Just ask for Giada Fabrizio and put it on my tab. It’s family money, and it’s of no object to me. I’m not your typical restaurant reviewer, and this is not a typical arrangement.”

  “Yes, I realize.” I exhaled. “I’m looking forward to starting.”

  Michael Saltz shook his head. “No, no, don’t look at it like that. You’ve already started. You’re already in.”

  Again with his insistence t
hat we were more involved than we were.

  “Okay, then. Yes. I’m in,” I said. I didn’t say it with confidence, a yes clenching its conviction. No, I said it like a question in the dark, hoping someone would catch it. I had no idea how this would work, and already he expected me to be fully committed. But I’d go along. I’d catch up with him eventually.

  “Very good,” he said. “It’s very important you think about this in immediate, immersive terms. I need absolute discretion. Even your saffron-­harvesting boyfriend cannot know. It’s usually the ones closest to you that hold you back. Especially ones from a prior, simpler life. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “You understand . . . what?”

  “I understand . . . I have to be careful. And not tell my boyfriend.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because . . . you have to look out for the ones who are closest to you.”

  “No, that’s not what I said. I said the ones closest to you are the ones who hold you back.”

  “Right,” I said. “That’s what I meant.” Perhaps they were one and the same. You just had to pay attention to the ­people in your life. I convinced myself that Elliott would be fine. No casualties.

  Michael Saltz smiled a sweet but devilish smile. “Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now, going forward, keep your schedule flexible. I will call you when I need you.” I wasn’t sure how a graduate student with major obligations could remain “flexible,” but it was the price I had to pay for this arrangement.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Thank you?” It came out like a question, but Michael Saltz softened, as if he empathized.

  “I’ll call you to schedule our next dinner. You may not have time to go to Bergdorf beforehand, so I guessed your size and got you this.”

  He unzipped a garment bag labeled Prabal Gurung and revealed a silk sheath dress in a golden peacock print. Then he opened a shoebox of copper strappy stiletto sandals embellished with little gems.

  I had never touched clothing this exquisite, much less worn it. This was the world I was stepping into, and it couldn’t have come at a better time.

  “This is just to tide you over until you make it to Bergdorf. I will see you soon.”

  I rushed out of the apartment and found the hotel-­like smell of the hallway cleansing after the stench of Michael Saltz’s place. When the elevator door closed, I collapsed to the floor and screamed. For thirty-­five floors, all I could say was “Yes, yes, yes!”

  I made sure the Bergdorf bag was in clear view as I entered the lobby, and just as I expected, the doorman—­the stupid doorman who couldn’t be bothered to even smile thirty minutes before—­ran to open the door for me.

  Helen and the Times were cemented into my future. The city was my playground. I’d be heard. I couldn’t have imagined a better scenario. Walking to the subway, I realized I held my head higher. I wasn’t afraid of this cacophonous city or intimidated by the achievements of others. And I even put aside my worry about what would happen to Madison Park Tavern after that two-­star review. A rush of possibility flooded my heart, and I rode the wave all the way home.

  Chapter 9

  IN THE TWENTY-­FOUR HOURS THAT FOLLOWED MY MEETING with Michael Saltz, I did as he said and didn’t tell a soul. I woke up and did my reading about food systems in Australia. I wore my regular clothes and went to my internship seminar and talked about modes of leadership.

  But the whole time, our conversation tingled. Here I was, sitting in a concrete cell, talking about drab assignments. My classmate Rachel was studying canned mackerel and brought five tins to class, one of which had leaked foul-­smelling oil into her new purse. Geo thought he’d be recruiting a new class of bakers into the incubator, but was spending all his time doing paperwork thirty blocks away from the actual space.

  They had accepted this as their lot, and I don’t think they were even unhappy. It was what they had asked for, and they’d gotten it.

  I was glad I wasn’t in their shoes.

  AFTER MY MORNING class, I went to visit Elliott. We had yet to find a good rhythm to our days. My classes and internship shifts were scattered and herky-­jerky. And though he had a full-­time job, that didn’t mean he had a regular schedule, either. Experiments went long, fund-­raising events held him captive. Sometimes he worked the night shift and returned home on sleepy subways taking their time making all local stops.

  But today, we had found time.

  “Tia!” Elliott said as he opened the door and gave me a hug. “I got a thing! For the apartment!”

  I looked in the farthest corner of the room, a mere five feet away in Elliott’s tiny studio, and saw an end table. He’d even hung a wreath on the window behind it.

  Elliott was determined to get “real person” furniture—­no funky hand-­me-­downs and no bottom-­of-­the-­line IKEA. Lucky for him, his studio was so small it didn’t take much to fill the space. In college, we had both lived on-­campus and never bought anything that couldn’t be abandoned at the end of the year. Now I was pleased to see the adult Elliott coming to the forefront. An adult Elliott who like hardwood end tables and sage and lavender wreaths.

  Though he still hadn’t gotten chairs, so we stood awkwardly in his space.

  “I love it!” I replied, then gave him a hug and a kiss.

  “Good, I’m glad you said that. Because maybe in a year or so, we can find a place and . . .”

  I hugged him again. He was shopping for our future apartment! So Elliott.

  “How was your day?” he asked.

  “Oh, you know, class, things.” I felt my meeting with Michael Saltz pushing itself into my consciousness and I focused on forcing it out. “How are you?”

  “Great. So great. Today we harvested our first samples from those South American specimens I told you about.”

  I didn’t remember him telling me about any South American specimens, but I stayed quiet as he continued. The thoughts about Michael Saltz had bubbled over and now all I could think about was my first dinner. My clothes. My words in the paper. Those three things cycled in my brain so fast I felt like I was hovering over real life, disconnected by the ecstasy of excitement.

  “Tia . . . hello?” Elliott said, and I snapped to attention. “Did you space out? I just said you’ve barely been over since we got here.”

  “I know, I know, I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just . . .” But where could I start? I wanted to tell him so badly, but I couldn’t. I had never kept anything from Elliott in our four years of dating.

  “Hold on a sec . . . I did get something else. Close your eyes!” Elliott tiptoed his fingers over my shoulders and closed my eyes with his palm. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel his excitement. I loved Elliott’s surprises.

  I heard the tap-­tap of his feet and the sound of things hitting the floor.

  “Okay, open!”

  Elliott gestured toward the queen-­size bed, which took up a third of the room. His messenger bag and folders had been thrown to the ground.

  “New. Sheets. Five hundred thread count.”

  “Hooray!” I said.

  For the longest time, Elliott had said that thread count was a hoax. The human body can’t detect thread density, he’d said. But then we’d stayed in a hotel in D.C. that had 750-­thread-­count sheets, and he was converted. We’d had amazing sex that night, and he—­scientific mind that he was—­deduced that it was the sheets. I didn’t think the linens had anything to do with it (more likely a delicious dinner, perfect weather, and drinks that buzzed us just enough), but there was no point in bursting his bubble. Elliott was happiest when he had a problem to solve.

  “Well?” he said. “You may approach the sheets.”

  I bent over and ran my fingers across the fabric. They were white and very smooth but reeked of the vinyl packaging. You could see still see th
e crease marks from the folds. But on the whole, they were nice. I ran my hand across the duvet as Elliott came up behind me and kissed the back of my neck.

  “Want to give it a go?”

  I gasped as if I couldn’t believe how louche he was being, even though I loved every second.

  “Should I?” I teased.

  “You should,” Elliott said, nodding with his whole head and torso. “In fact, you have to.”

  “Oh, is that so?” I said, my fingers tucked into the front of his jeans.

  Elliott stepped forward and I stepped back, but his binoculars were in the way and I ended up tripping and hitting the bed with not just an unsexy collapse, but a mood-­killing thud.

  Elliott fumbled down right after me and then we were kissing and grappling all over those sheets. I guessed they did have magical powers. I’m sure we didn’t look very sexy or competent, but we were enjoying each other. It occurred to me for a fleeting second that we’d been in New York for more than a month and hadn’t had sex yet. There were some days when we didn’t even make contact with each other.

  But his touch erased any distance. Elliott and his perfect body, the ideal size for me, the right height and boniness and flesh and heat and hair. I couldn’t have fashioned a man better fit for my hands and hugs than Elliott. I’d missed him.

  His fingers slipped under my T-­shirt. Suddenly, I wished I had something from Bergdorf at that second—­anything to replace the boring stuff I was wearing. Lately, Elliott seemed to be caring more about nice things. And I was, too.

  Elliott started kissing me on the nose. I nudged myself closer and we kissed faster, deeper. He unbuttoned my jeans, then swept his hands up my shirt and under my bra, barely touching my breasts but just holding them, understanding their shape.

  I could hear the next-­door neighbor playing the keyboard, repeating the same lines in a manic tumble that sounded like marbles falling down the stairs. She kept on going, laboring over and over that part.