Food Whore

by Jessica Tom

  But the cheating part? I could convince myself that at least I’d actually loved Elliott and that Melinda had probably never given this guy a true chance . . . but what did I know? All I knew was that I had betrayed Elliott’s trust and friendship. I had lied to my best friend. Yeah, maybe we weren’t meant to be together, but I didn’t have to take the low road. Cheating. Lying. Avoiding hard conversation for some cheap thrill. Melinda lived her life on the surface, never getting in too deep with friendships or commitments or passions. At one time, I had liked her shape-­shifting nature. But now I could see that you couldn’t live life that way. ­People got hurt. Promises got broken.

  Shape-­shift enough, and you lose what shape you were in the first place.

  I picked up my purse. “I’m gonna go work on a paper now.”

  “Oh, okay. Let me know if you want me to take a look at it or something.” I could tell she was trying. But I didn’t want her help. Not now.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “Okay . . . well, thanks for coming with me today. You’re one of the five ­people in the world who’ve seen me cry.”

  I’d barely seen a tear from her, but I wasn’t going to point that out. Who was I to lecture her, anyway? Melinda’s lies paled in comparison to mine.

  “Hey, how much do I owe you?” Melinda asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  Melinda cracked open her sketchbook. She placed her hand on the pages as if pledging an oath. She didn’t look back at me.

  “I’m not a bad person, just confused. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know you will.” I really hoped she would. I really hoped I would, too.

  WHEN I GOT back to my room, all I thought about was starting over. No more lies. No more cheating.

  And the first person I needed to talk to was Michael Saltz.

  I picked up the phone.

  “Tia! Well, well, well. You’ve come out of the woodwork,” Michael Saltz said, surprisingly not angry, and suspiciously cheery. “I’m glad you got a break. Are you okay now?”

  His kindness caught me off guard. “Yeah . . .” I said. “I’m okay. But I wanted to ask you about the rest of the year. It’ll be spring semester in a month and you haven’t told me when I’ll be transitioning to Helen.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. First, I want you to know I wholly appreciate what you’re doing, Tia. I suppose I don’t tell you that enough. The Bakushan review went over so well. Everyone loves a new four-­star. I do hope you realize how grateful I am.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said, glossing over the review I was trying to forget. “And . . . Helen?” I wanted him to address my concern, not stroke my ego.

  Michael Saltz laughed uncertainly. “Yes, yes, my dear, I’ve already spoken to Helen on your behalf and . . . uh . . . she’s very excited about working with you next year.”

  But what was that in his voice? Just a ­couple of months ago, he had said those words with such confidence. But now . . . was it hesitation? Or maybe that was just me. Maybe his tone hadn’t changed—­maybe my outlook had.

  “So, do I start with her right after your surgery?”

  “Yes, after the surgery. In the interim, she wants you to read up on different kinds of flours and ancient grains.” I heard nothing on his end of the line, not him fidgeting with some jar, no sounds of feet on kitchen tile, no refrigerator opening. Not even breathing.

  I tried to steady myself. The grains homework fit with what I’d gleaned from peeking in Kyle’s grocery bag. Everything seemed plausible and legitimate. This was good. Something stable I could look forward to.

  “Just four or five months,” he said.

  “No way,” I shot back. “Four or five months? It’ll be December in a ­couple days. You said it would start in the spring semester. I.e., in a little over a month.” Of course. Nothing was ever straightforward with this man.

  “Patience!” Michael Saltz said, and this time his voice was much stronger. “You know that Helen’s time is valuable. You’re a student, for god’s sake!”

  “Why are you talking about this in terms of school? I thought this was outside of that. Remember, grad school is for amateurs? You wanted me to quit Madison Park Tavern so I could embark on this very special, very elite program of yours?”

  Michael Saltz didn’t hesitate now. “I’m not talking about grad school. I’m talking about working within the confines of your life, my life, and Helen’s life. I’m asking her to carve out special time for you, and that simply won’t happen until the summer. That’s when she does all of her best work, anyway, and she’s even said that if you’re as good as I’ve insisted you are, she will consider keeping you on indefinitely. This is your chance, Tia, and I want to give it to you. Except I need you in the short term. The FDA has approved the surgery and my doctors have given me the go-­ahead. My surgery is scheduled for February fifteenth, and as I’ve told you, it’s a complex recovery. I’ll require a cushion of several months before I can return to work in full force. I’d like you to do this for me out of compassion and charity. My professional standing—­my life—­is at stake here.”

  I saw his point. Sometimes these things took time. But could I do this longer? More clothes, more dinners, more lies? Could I survive another Pascal? Would I even see the warning signs if someone like him came up to me and said the same things, touched me in the same way?

  Call it desperation, inertia, or willful ignorance, but I decided I’d do it. I’d last.

  There was a light at the end of the tunnel. A far-­off flicker, for sure, but I couldn’t bear to let it go. I had lost my boyfriend and been used by a celebrity chef. I had missed the little parts of graduate life and my internship that I could never, ever regain. But something in me told me to keep going.

  I hadn’t learned that much from my college econ class, but I remembered what sunk costs were. All that was in the past. As long as the future with Michael Saltz stayed relatively bright, then I should keep on going.

  If restaurateurs knew who I was, then I’d apply more makeup and wear different clothes. If I wanted my words in the paper and later my name on the cover of Helen’s book, then I’d have to write more. If I wanted Helen, then I’d have to bear through this.

  As for my broken heart, there wasn’t much I could do about that besides file it away as another casualty.

  “Okay,” I said finally. “I’ll work with you until the summer.”

  “Wonderful,” he replied. “I’ll be in touch after the holiday.”

  I made some vague sound of agreement, but I didn’t feel good at all. At least I had Thanksgiving to clear my head.

  Chapter 30

  I WALKED HOME FROM THE TRAIN STATION WITH ONE SMALL duffel bag filled with normal clothes that I’d had to dig out. Bergdorf clothes were most definitely not an option.

  Mom answered the door. “Tia! Happy Thanksgiving!” She wore an apron, sweatpants, and just a T-­shirt, even though it was freezing that day. “Gotta go, I’ve got some lotus root that’s almost done frying!”

  I walked in and almost broke down in tears. Everything was as I had left it. I hadn’t been home since the summer, but now that I was back, I realized how much I was missing, how much of me I was pushing away.

  There were the Chinese embroidered silks, Grandpa’s Senegalese statues, and Mom’s curious multimedia artwork. But the smells did me in. On top, notes of brightness—­scallions, lemongrass, ginger. Underneath, a blend of musty flavors—­dried mushrooms and smoked peppers. Then, something that came from Mom’s frying pan, that caramelized sweet meatiness, and the character of whatever was in Dad’s broth on the stovetop, chicken and carrots and roots and sticks and pods.

  Most ­people do the turkey and mashed potatoes thing for Thanksgiving, but why bother when you can have something so much better?

  Gra
ndma sat at the dining room table peeling knobby Jerusalem artichokes. They were so fresh and crisp, I heard the brown hairy outside separating from the flesh, a sound like paper ripping. Mom stirred her wok while Dad walked around the kitchen, opening cabinets to see what other weird things he could throw into his pot. He loved being the unexpected, underestimated white guy.

  I’d always been impressed with Mom’s kitchen choreography. She never used cookbooks, yet moved with purpose. If she was sick and I replicated her meals, it always took me twice as long and the dishes had none of Mom’s depth.

  Mom was an O.R. nurse who had long, hard days with sometimes no thanks. So at home, Dad treated her like a queen. If she wanted to cook, he played sous chef. If she preferred to make art, he’d get her the necessary supplies, and then some. If she needed a pick-­me-­up, he’d cook lavish, adoring meals that were indeed better than any restaurant around.

  Being an only child, I’d sometimes felt oppressed by their love, but now I could see it for what it was: rare and real. I could do a lot worse than look to them as a model.

  Dad nudged me on the shoulder. “Come on, are you going to help?” I jumped into the action with no further instruction.

  We started eating while the turkey finished resting, so the juices that had rushed to the inside could seep their way back out. First came a foie gras chunk with the clear layer of fat still on top. Mom usually took the fat off and saved it for frying other things, but she had left it on this time because it was a special occasion. We also had cold salmon, which Dad had cured in sugar, salt, and caraway seeds.

  Mom was looking older than usual. Her eyes, usually sparkling and curious, were now a little more downcast. Her shiny loose ringlets had gone frizzy and dry and she spoke with 90 percent of her regular energy. Dad of course tried to compensate, booming about certain ingredients and some of the happenings around Yonkers. But he, too, looked older. He had stopped shaving his head and now you could see the deep retreat of his gray hairline.

  I tried to avoid talk of NYU, and thankfully they didn’t seem to notice. I didn’t want to stress them out.

  After we finished our appetizers, Mom came out with the turkey, and our version of stuffing: saffron-­scented rice, dried fish, pickled radish, toasted peanuts, scallions, and a poached egg on top for good measure. Grandma butchered the bird tableside with a huge meat cleaver that had been around for as long as I’d been alive. Dad scooped some roasted yucca mash onto his plate. I served myself steamed skate with ginger and soy.

  They were pulling out all the stops for me. I had come home for Thanksgiving during college, but always arrived at the last minute and left as early as possible. After Grandpa died and my column picked up, I’d felt like I had to be around for the paper and school and Elliott.

  But none of that had gotten me anywhere. I should have come home more often.

  By the time dessert came around, I was fuller than I had been in a long time, even considering all those multicourse dinners with Michael Saltz. But this food was clean and familiar, and I couldn’t get enough.

  DAD KNOCKED ON the door as I was getting ready for bed.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said from underneath the covers. “I’m so full. I missed home cooking.”

  “Well, I’ve told you a million times that there’s plenty of food for you here,” Dad said, coming in and settling on the chair next to my bed. “We’re just a short train ride away.”

  I groaned good-­naturedly and cuddled even deeper inside the blankets.

  “But that’s not what I want to chat about.”

  “Oh?” I asked, too stuffed to question his motives.

  “I wanted to check in about school. How’s it going for you?”

  “Oh, it’s okay,” I said, trying to emulate the hundreds of times I had said that before.

  “Well . . .” he replied. “I want to say that I’m proud of you.” He looked up at a framed newspaper clipping on the wall, my Dacquoise Drops on the front page of the New York Times Food section. “But I’m surprised you haven’t told us more about it. Are you happy?”

  He had no idea that I was on the verge of losing my scholarship and that my chance to work with Helen—­my guiding star—­was now buried under some nasty complications.

  Outside it had just started snowing, a pristine suburban snow that didn’t turn black the second it hit the ground.

  “Okay, I’ll let you rest,” he said when I didn’t answer.

  I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. Based on the way he was talking to me, I knew he couldn’t have known anything. Dad would’ve wanted to rescue me from Michael Saltz and his shifty talk. He’d want to separate me from Melinda and kill Pascal. He didn’t know the ­people or the facts, but he was my dad. And the longer I lay there and looked out the window, the more I could tell he was looking into my heart, the same way he had for the past twenty-­two years.

  In my mind, I told him. I had my heart broken. I’m confused. I feel trapped. I thought I was gaining power, but now I feel powerless.

  We sighed in sync, and as if he had heard every word, Dad leaned down and broke the spell. “Mom and I love you no matter what.”

  “I just . . . don’t want to mess up anymore,” I said, apropos of nothing that had been said and everything that wasn’t.

  “There are no mess-­ups. Only opportunities to do better.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, holding back my tears.

  “Of course, Tia,” he said. “I love you.”

  THE NEXT MORNING over breakfast, I asked Mom a question that had never even popped into my head until last night. Mom’s cases were in pediatrics—­which was definitely different from taste-­correcting brain surgery—­but, who knew, maybe she’d have something to say about this new suspicion.

  “Hey, Mom? How long does the FDA take to approve surgeries?”

  She looked up from her newspaper. “Surgery? FDA stands for Food and Drug Administration. They regulate medication, not approve surgeries.” Then she took a sip of coffee.

  And I lost it.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  Chapter 31

  THE SECOND I GOT BACK TO NEW YORK, I CALLED MICHAEL Saltz and told him I needed to see him. He suggested we meet up on Saturday at Bay Derby, which I assumed was up for review. He even gave me the whole pre-­review spiel: the chef was Zinc Varley, he had five other restaurants in San Francisco, this was his only place in New York City. I asked to move the dinner to Tuesday, when I knew the restaurant would be quieter.

  I would play along for the time being, but my days of doing his work were over.

  It all made awful sense. Maybe a ­couple of months ago I would have made excuses for him. Perhaps he’d misheard a doctor, or the FDA had some covert surgery division. But I wasn’t that naïve anymore. All those sleepless nights spent researching restaurants, not once had I ever thought to google taste-­correcting surgery. It had taken two seconds to see that New York–Presbyterian had stopped their experimental trials a year ago. Apparently the early patients suffered a drastically increased risk of schizophrenia. I also learned that taste-­correcting surgery was widely considered to be bad science, likened to crude and cruel lobotomies.

  Then I emailed Kyle Lorimer.

  Hey—­good to see you the other night! I totally forgot to ask you at Kel Jabone, but do you know when Helen will take on new interns?

  Kyle got back to me right away.

  Hey there, dancing machine. No interns for the rest of the year. We’re wrapping up some things before Christmas, and then she’s off to Paris for the spring and summer. That’s where she’s doing more cookbook research and testing.

  Helen had never been a possibility, spring or summer. The surgery was never in the cards. I half expected the clothes in my closet to disintegrate into ash.

  My anger burned up so much that my whole body shook. I knew Michael S
altz was unreliable, but I had never suspected anything on this scale. Though if there was one thing I had learned from him, it was the capacity to lie when the situation demanded it. My ignorance would end here. Starting with this dinner.

  ON TUESDAY, ONCE again, I transformed myself.

  I knew my picture had been circulating, but it was of me at Panh Ho, wearing my first designer dress and stumbling in my new heels.

  I put on a white knit Chanel dress, black knee-­high boots, and the New York woman’s armor—­a black leather jacket. I crowned the whole thing with a flawless chin-­length wig and a pair of German eyeglasses that looked like tortoiseshell but were made of a metal reserved for spacecraft. I had erased myself.

  When I arrived at the restaurant, Michael Saltz was already seated, munching on something fried. The waitstaff snapped their heads toward me. Did they already know who I was? I immediately regretted coming and yet the sight of Michael Saltz smugly chomping away revved me up again.

  “There you are!” he said, mid-­munch. “The evasive Tia Monroe shows her face.”

  “Shh!” I said, not wanting anyone to hear my name. I pushed my wig in front of my eyes. Even though I cared little about Michael Saltz’s anonymity anymore, I still needed to stay discreet for the next phase of my plan.

  I put my phone on the table and eased in. Busboys squeezed behind me; the kitchen’s steam and smoke filled my lungs. A table of frat-­boys-­cum-­bankers toasted with tall glasses of beer. I ordered a Cabernet from our handsome waiter and forced myself to look Michael Saltz in the eyes.

  “Here,” he said. “Try one of these.” He handed me a wrinkled deep-­fried clam.

  “Bivalves? Remember?” I said.

  “Oh, yes. Sorry.” He could hardly keep his hand out of the red plastic bowl, the type you get at roadside New England fry houses.

  “These clam strips,” he said between chomps. “You’re missing out.” I had never seen him eat with so much enthusiasm. “The batter is perfection. It’s a panko beer crumb with a double pancake batter! Do you know how I know that?”