by Jessica Tom
“But what are you saying? Do you think you might not get the surgery?” I had visions of having the column to myself, with my name as the byline. Maybe Michael Saltz would pass it on to me. It’d make history.
“No, no, it will happen,” he said. And then, as if reading my mind, “Don’t dance on my grave yet, Tia Monroe.”
THE LE BRITTANE review was the top emailed story on the New York Times website. The comments section exploded. Hordes of people tweeted about it, reposted it. And then, just a few hours later, there were articles about the article, and then comments about the articles about the articles.
The review took on a life of its own. There were arguments about the role of white tablecloth restaurants, about Michael Saltz’s refreshed writing style, even about responsible fish farming. I had given birth to something big and I felt like a conductor before her orchestra. Read! Reflect! Rebel! It’s shocking how easily you can shake people up, even if you can never control what they say.
Mostly the conversation centered around the downfall of another restaurant. Like Madison Park Tavern, Le Brittane was an institution, and New York with two fewer four-star restaurants was like a basketball team without two of its star players, a city stripped of its iconic landmarks. Only three four-star restaurants remained. I had changed the character of New York, not once, but twice.
I went through all the avenues of the Internet, chasing down articles and blog entries and tweets. The Le Brittane Wikipedia page added the watershed New York Times two-star review. Then a new section emerged: Controversy.
The reactions to the review exhilarated me. I was alone in my room and yet I felt like I had company. Out there, these people were talking to me. They listened to me. It was the most gratifying conversation I’d had in weeks, though they never knew my name.
Chapter 21
OVER THE NEXT THREE WEEKS, MICHAEL SALTZ AND I WENT to three different restaurants. Harpsichord, a restaurant inspired by the Appalachian trail and where the waiters carried walking sticks. (The food was surprisingly refined, yet hearty. Perfect for late autumn weather. Two stars.) Crangteen, a greenhouse-inspired restaurant where guests could request herbs plucked off the walls. (Fresh and delightful. Three stars.) On Halloween we went to XB5, a modernist restaurant promising a new style of molecular gastronomy featuring neurological taste triggers administered by various stimuli and actual dishes. Michael Saltz was excited about this one, but it felt more like a Disney-fied hospital cafeteria, which horrified us both. The Times rarely gave zero stars—if it’s not worth at least one star, it’s not worth a review—but Michael Saltz was so appalled by the execution that he wrote most of the column and used it to make sure XB5 would be closed within a month.
Michael Saltz had told me that critics typically visited restaurants at least three or four times, but we only went once before we dealt our rulings. Michael Saltz didn’t see the need for multiple visits. He was strict as always and made me keep my phone on the table. He insulted my outfits. Threatened me and my career.
But he kept on using my words and inviting me to meals. And I kept going with him so I could get to Helen.
I had kept my life stable, but only by doing three things: school, restaurant, and dining with Michael Saltz. Plus some clothing requests to Giada, who basically just shipped my wish lists.
After the scare at Le Brittane, I had learned how paranoia could overtake me. So I kept my world small and contained. I was friendly and agreeable in class, but never went out of my way to hang out or show an interest in anyone. I avoided Emerald altogether. We saw each other for less than ten minutes a day—if at all—and we mostly never said a word to each other.
Finally, one day in early November, Michael Saltz asked me about the one restaurant I had been dreading.
“Bakushan?” I repeated on the phone.
“Yes, Bakushan. The kitchen should be up and running smoothly . . . Or so we’ll find out.”
I was getting out of class and swerved into a more private hallway. “I guess,” I whispered, “but it’s still so new. I don’t think it should be reviewed now. Pascal—or, Chef Fox—probably needs more time.”
“I give them three months, that’s my rule and we will follow it. We saw Pascal Fox taking a night off at Tellicherry a month ago, so obviously he’s at a point where he can relax. Besides, I’ve heard some rumblings that the service is snobby and the cooking is sloppy. It looks good on paper, but taste is a different story. We need to get in there and organize the masses.”
“Organize the masses?”
“Yes, add direction and clarity to the conversation.”
I knew what he meant, in theory, but I had no direction or clarity to give when it came to Bakushan. In my mind, it existed away from my world with Michael Saltz, as a place where I wasn’t a critic but a girl. Every week or so, Pascal would text me new dishes that reminded him of me. One day, it was a freeze-dried lemon square. Another time, it was an ostrich omelet for six. He made me laugh and I felt close to him. I never answered any of his texts, but he kept sending them for some reason. But I drew the line at seeing him again, alone.
Every time Pascal texted me, I texted Elliott. Most times he never responded, or replied with a curt “ha” or “k.” But I kept checking in anyway. Call it love. Call it guilt. All I knew was that I wasn’t ready to let him go.
“I disagree,” I said. “Bakushan’s not ready.” But maybe it was. I just didn’t want to do this, the whole “disguise and judge” thing. I wanted to have his texts, his attention in pocket form that I could control and hide. I wanted to see him so badly, but I couldn’t. So I just stalked him on the Internet and read every single thing ever written about Pascal Fox.
“If you want it done, I think it’s better if you go without me,” I said.
“Don’t be absurd. You need to go with me,” Michael Saltz snapped. “Eight P.M. Next Tuesday. Don’t be late.”
“Wait!” I said. If I couldn’t avoid this dinner, then I’d have to remove myself in another way. I had four days. “Should I get a new look for Bakushan?” I was going to explain why—that Pascal might recognize me from Tellicherry, that I thought it would help me separate my food critic “character” from my grad student reality—but Michael Saltz didn’t need to hear any of it.
“Oh! That’s a brilliant idea. Highlights and a fresh cut. I’ll refer you to my stylist now.”
It was one thing for me to think I needed a makeover, and quite another for someone else to agree so immediately. But Michael Saltz was never one to spare my feelings. At least he and I were in agreement. It was time for a true transformation.
I took a walk to Mercer Street later that day and entered a gigantic salon that soared up and sank low from the entrance. A tall, handsome man greeted me as I walked in.
“Tia, right? Let’s get freaky.” He ushered me to the back, where the daytime clientele of trophy wives were getting their blowouts and manicures.
He treated me no differently, even though we both knew I was there on someone else’s dime. I suppose, to him, it was a regular thing, five-hundred-dollar cut-and-colors given as gifts. He played with my hair, lifted a strand then let it fall, rubbed his fingers at my scalp to measure the density. He circled around me like a sculptor in front of marble, or in the case of my unruly hair, maybe a matador in front of a bull.
“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”
I realized then that he, too, was gorgeous—tall, dark, chiseled jaw, hair tied into a surprisingly alluring man-bun. Yet another specimen in a disorienting stream of hunky men. Was it New York? Or was it me, attracting them with some force? Two months ago, that would have been ludicrous. And yet since arriving in the city, ludicrous had become the norm: strikingly handsome men, four-star meals, an unlimited expense account at one of the world’s most glamorous stores.
“Well,” I started soft, like
I was apologizing.
When Pascal had first met me, I was just a scared girl. But now, with some reviews under my belt, I had grown. Theoretically, this makeover was so I’d disappear in front of him. That’s what I had told Michael Saltz.
But, really, I wanted him to notice me. I wanted him to see how far I’d come in terms of clothing and looks and restaurant cred.
My volume grew. “I don’t want to be a kid anymore. I want to command attention and be beautiful and sexy and powerful.” My hair had fallen in my face as I got worked up.
The stylist pushed my hair aside and looked at me in the mirror. “Honey, you’re already all those things. I can just give you a nice hairdo.”
In the end, he transformed my black hair to a dark brown with subtle auburn highlights. My erratic straight hair plus frizzy waves inflated into a voluminous va-va-voom thing. I never in my life had imagined myself with dyed hair. What was the point when you were born with perfectly good coloring?
But those weren’t the same eyes looking back at me in the reflection. In the last few months, I’d had a couple of moments like this: getting dressed by Emerald before Bakushan and by Giada at Bergdorf. The moment I had decided it was okay to return to Bakushan with Pascal and give him my number. And now this.
I was ready to see Pascal again, ready to step out as a new person. I had already changed on the inside, and now the outside had caught up.
ON THE WAY back home, I felt people’s eyes on me. My hair made me look bolder, sassier. I was dressed head-to-toe-to-underwear in designer. My stilettos navigated cobblestones and ragged asphalt. I didn’t particularly care when the tip of my heel got stuck in a grate—I could always get a new pair or ten.
I detoured to the SoHo Prada store and admired a fur coat.
Not one, but two attendants rushed to me. They were practically groveling: their spines curved, their hands pressed in pleas.
“Good afternoon, miss,” one said.
“Would you like me to take your coat?” the other said.
Just two months ago I would have laughed nervously and said no. I was a normal girl! But this time, I let them take it away while I browsed the store. I couldn’t buy anything—I only had the expense account at Bergdorf—but they didn’t know that, and I didn’t give anything away.
THAT EVENING I was slated to work at Madison Park Tavern. I had long abandoned my trusty Jil Sander and now had a rotation of luxe but unflashy suits. Today I wore an Armani with a moonstone brooch in the shape of a star.
“Hottie alert!” Chad whistled when I got to the restaurant. He circled around me, stroking his chin.
Angel yelled at him from across the dining room, “Let the girl go!”
Chad grinned goofily and punched me in the shoulder. “You know I’m fucking with you, right? You look good. Different.”
Angel came over and looked me up and down. I had worn this suit to work before—had even worn other, nicer suits—and they never said anything. My hair was also pulled back and gelled, so they wouldn’t have been able to see my new hairdo, either.
“You do look good. Not like a schlumpy grad student anymore.”
I had to chuckle to myself. I was glad they had finally noticed something was different. I wanted to be better in all parts of my life, not just with Pascal and Michael Saltz.
Carey spotted us and gave me a hug. “Here, try this.” We walked away from the rest of the team and she handed me a cube that looked like a marshmallow covered in sawdust.
“What is it?”
“It’s Chef Darling’s ‘Fuck You, Michael Saltz’ dish.”
“That’s what’s written on the menu?” I gagged.
“Ha! You’re too funny. It’s in the subtext.” Carey smiled. “He’s been perfecting an alternate menu since the review, and is now rolling out his new creations. People have been going crazy over this one.”
I popped it into my mouth. The outside was soft like a marshmallow, but it got progressively harder toward the core. It had the vision of Chef Darling’s best dishes—of vegetables and sun and tilling the fields. But I couldn’t quite place the flavor. It was part artichoke, part bitter green, part creamy something or other.
“What is this?” I asked.
Carey raised her eyebrows. “Have you been reading the Wiki?”
“Yes!” I laughed. How many nights had I spent on that site, clicking on links to ingredients, to other restaurants, to NYC lore? It was the best resource out there.
“Well, this is a throwback to Chef Darling’s work at Vrai,” Carey offered.
“Okay, okay, don’t tell me,” I said. I rolled the wood-chip-like elements in my mouth. They had the taste of hazelnuts, but the ephemerality of chocolate flakes.
“Hazelnut. Artichoke. And mustard green?”
“Fava bean, actually.” Carey beamed.
“Nice! I remember reading about this now.”
Carey went straight and solemn, a sudden shift in tone that unnerved me. I stopped smiling. “You should,” she said. “Maybe that review was a good thing. Matthew is cooking the best food of his life now. It should be recognized.”
“I’m sure he will be,” I said. “This is really good.”
Carey shook her head, like I wasn’t understanding.
“This is incredible, Tia. I know you know that.” She handed me a piece of paper with a URL and password written on it. “That’s admin access to the Wiki. I know you have your eyes and ears open just as much as I do. So, I’m putting you on data duty. You can now post on the site.” She gave a long, meaningful pause, and all I could do was gulp and hope she’d change the subject.
“But anyway,” Carey said finally, her tone ramping up to her usual level of intellect and intensity. “We missed you at the tasting!”
“There was a tasting?” I asked. “I guess I’m not included anymore.” After Gary Oscars had put me on probation, I had been invited to fewer events. Some days I’d get to coat check, do my thing, and leave without speaking to anyone on staff. I’d also called in sick a couple of nights when I had to eat out with Michael Saltz or I was in a rush to get him my notes.
“Oh,” Carey said. “Sorry . . . I mean . . .” Chad and Angel walked up to us and she looked at them as if to say, Can one of you guys help me here?
“No, it’s okay,” I said, but inside I felt that familiar pinch, of missing out on something good. “I was wondering when I’d stop being invited to everything altogether.”
“Gary Oscars is a bastard who’d hold a grudge against his asshole,” Chad said.
Angel would never say anything so crass in the restaurant, but I could tell he agreed. “Don’t sweat it, Tia. One day, you’ll get what you deserve.”
He was trying to be nice but a chill came over me. I’d get what I deserved? I wasn’t sure what that would be.
Chapter 22
THE NEXT NIGHT, MELINDA AND I WENT FOR DRINKS AT A rooftop bar warmed by heaters every couple of feet. The evening felt fresh and unadulterated, like breathing the sky itself rather than the thick, angsty air below. Melinda and I didn’t even need to talk. The drinks were enough. Solitude under the stars was enough.
Melinda and I walked back to the apartment and saw Emerald reading a magazine in the living room.
“Hey, guys,” she said. “Do you know where Elliott is tonight? I’m supposed to go to the Botanical Gardens tomorrow, but the Bedford Park Boulevard station is closed.”
Blood rushed to my face and my breath got jerky. I tried to remind myself that we had been on a break for a month. I was no longer entitled to feel possessive, and this relationship between Emerald and Elliott was all in my head. But then again . . . why was she going to Elliott’s work? And why was she asking me how to get there—to mess with my head?
Luckily, Melinda jumped in while I worked on calming down. “Jesus, Em.
You have a phone. Why don’t you call him yourself?” I wasn’t sure if she was being bitchy to protect me, or if she just despised Emerald and was a little drunk. Either way, I liked that she’d said it.
“Ooookay,” Emerald said, rolling her eyes. “I’m taking off anyway. See you guys later.”
She picked up one of her men’s coats and a fedora and left. Melinda and I went to my room and I collapsed on my bed while Melinda sat in my desk chair, swiveling. Emerald’s question about Elliott had rattled me.
Maybe it was time to reassess. We were just on a break, not a breakup. Things had somewhat stabilized in my life. Though that was mainly because without Elliot, I didn’t have to lie anymore. No one looked out for me or worried about me. My life alternated between freedom and loneliness. I had survived without him, but that didn’t mean I didn’t miss him.
I’d think of Elliott suddenly and randomly, like when I caught myself twirling my pen just like he did—three swings and a pause, three swings and a pause. Or when I passed volunteers at a community garden, jamming to a live guitarist and eating chicken skewers. He came to mind every time I looked at my NYU books, because he had been so supportive throughout the application process.
But despite all those fond memories, I still wasn’t ready to talk about what was next for us. I didn’t know if I could make our relationship work. And even if we could, was that what I wanted?
I groaned and covered my face with my hands.
“Hey, dude,” Melinda said, handing me a glass of wine. “Let it go. Seriously. This is New York City. You’re looking hotter than ever. I don’t know what’s happening with you, and you don’t have to tell me. But take my advice: the best way to get over something—or someone—is to start over.”
She barely knew Elliott and I’d barely spoken to her about him. But she was trying, in her vague way, and I had to appreciate her effort.
