Delicious!

by Ruth Reichl

  Nowhere

  Dear Genie,

  I love this city so much. Some weekends I just get on the subway and get off in random neighborhoods, walking the streets, going in and out of bakeries and butcher shops. One day I went out to Jackson Heights and almost convinced myself I was in Delhi or Mumbai: The streets smell as if they’ve been curried, there are sweets shops everywhere, and men on the street sell paan, which turns your teeth bright red. I went into a supermarket where there were whole aisles of spices I’ve never seen before—kokum and black salt and mango powder. Getting out like that helps with the loneliness, but I find myself looking wistfully at all the paired-up people, wondering if I’ll ever be like that again. The weekends can get long.

  Weekdays are another matter—no time to think. Jake never leaves till after nine, and I can’t leave before he does. Last week, when we closed the issue, we were there till almost two in the morning. Jake ordered dinner in for us, but most nights I pick up takeout from Ming’s, the little place on the corner, climb the stairs, turn on the TV, and fall asleep with the chopsticks in my hand.

  Being the new girl at work makes me kind of edgy; they’ve all known one another forever, and it’s hard to find a way in. But I think I’m starting to make a friend. Diana’s one of the cooks, and she’s been stopping by my desk to ask if I want to go to lunch or to suggest a quick drink after work. At first I thought she was being kind, but now I think it has something to do with the Sal Test. He told everyone about my palate, and she’s intrigued; she keeps kind of testing me, which I find very funny. But I like her: She has a terrific sense of humor, and she doesn’t seem to give a damn what anybody thinks. All the other cooks come to work in old clothes and sensible shoes, but she’s always showing up in vintage clothes, very high heels, and lots of makeup. Would you think she was silly? You might.

  Tonight she’s taking me to friends-and-family night at some new restaurant a friend of hers is opening in Alphabet City. I guess her boyfriend didn’t want to go. The place is called Nowhere. Stupid name, right? Like Who’s on First? Hope it’s fun.

  I thought I should bring something as a thank-you for the dinner, and this afternoon I was passing a thrift store and saw a velvet beret in the window. I thought she might like it, but now I’m not so sure. What was I thinking? Me buying clothes for someone?

  Dad and Aunt Melba seem to be doing okay without us. But Aunt Melba’s driving me crazy; she keeps reminding me to call Dad, as if he couldn’t pick up the phone if he wanted to talk to me.

  Miss you. Miss you. Miss you.

  xxb

  Nowhere was aptly named, which was a relief; when you’re by yourself, it’s a lot less embarrassing to walk into a small nondescript restaurant than a big glitzy one. I perched on a stool at the minuscule counter in the front, put the gift-wrapped beret down next to me, and hoped Diana wouldn’t be too long.

  I tried pretending I was a restaurant critic, swiveling on my stool to scope out the small storefront. The owners hadn’t done much besides cram in some booths they must’ve found in an old fifties diner. I got the feeling they’d begrudged the white paint on the pressed-tin ceiling and the sander for the soft wood floors. I ordered a glass of white wine and picked up the menu.

  Fried pig’s ears. Braised duck hearts with snails. Pork-snout terrine with pickles and toast. Grilled rabbit livers with bacon. Whole grilled mackerel. Lamb burgers. Breaded pig’s tails … “As you can see,” said a voice behind me, “my friend Tom’s a nose-to-tail guy.”

  Diana was wearing a short plaid skirt with a tight black sweater and high black boots. I gestured apologetically at my worn khakis and frayed oatmeal sweater.

  “You look fine. I’m overdressed.”

  “I love your skirt.” I handed her the package before I lost my nerve. “This might go with it.” Giving people presents is such an intimate act; you’re basically telling them who you think they are, and if you’re wrong, it’s over.

  But when Diana unwrapped the package, she went straight back to the ladies’ room. And when she returned, she was wearing the little velvet hat and a huge smile.

  “God, it looks great on you,” I said.

  “I know! How could you tell?”

  “I don’t know. It just kind of reminded me of you.”

  I’d surprised her—in a positive way, which is what happens when you get a gift right. It was going to be a good night. I picked up the menu and began to read it out loud. “Will people really order this stuff?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “In this neighborhood? Sure—the weirder the better.”

  “Nobody in Santa Barbara would eat pig’s tails or duck hearts—” I was starting to say when the chef came out carrying a platter, and my words spluttered to an apologetic halt.

  Tom was short and wide, with tattoos everywhere, even across the back of his shaved head. “Try my pig’s ears.” He set the platter on the counter. I picked up one of the crisp disks and found it was as crunchy as a potato chip, with a wonderful chew. We munched our way through the entire pile while the bartender kept our glasses filled with the cool, easy-to-drink wine. I began to reconsider the decor; it was rather cozy.

  “Bet you can’t guess the secret ingredient in my lamb burgers.” Tom handed us each a slider.

  Diana took a bite. “Miso?” she guessed. Tom shook his head.

  I bit in. “Fish sauce!” It was definitely fish sauce.

  Tom looked at Diana. He rubbed his bald head. “Your friend’s a big improvement on your usual date.”

  Diana swatted him. “Tom thinks my boyfriend’s a pill.”

  “I don’t think Ned’s a pill,” Tom objected. “Ned is a pill.”

  “Is he?” I asked when Tom had retreated to the kitchen.

  “Nah.” Diana twisted the ring on her finger. “Ned’s an engineer, and you know how they are; they live on burgers and pizza. None of my food friends get what I’m doing with a guy who’s not into food. But I don’t see the point in being with someone who’s just like you.” She took a sip of her wine. “You seeing anyone?”

  “Seriously? The only people I know here are the people at work. And you might have noticed that they’re all old, gay, or female.”

  “Or Richard.”

  “Or Richard. Who is definitely out of my league.”

  She didn’t contradict me.

  “Besides,” I continued, “with my hours, where would I find the time? You kitchen people work nine to five, but down in editorial we sometimes stay all night.”

  “Crazy hours,” she admitted. “But I don’t understand why you don’t do a little something with yourself. You wear the dreariest clothes. And you could get cooler glasses—” She stopped and put her hand over her mouth, horrified. “I can’t believe I said that. Too much wine. Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. You’re only saying what you think.”

  “No. It was definitely not okay. But there are things I don’t get. You don’t seem conceited, but maybe you don’t care what people think of you?”

  “That’s funny,” I told her. “I just wrote my sister that you don’t seem to care what people think of you. I envy that. With me it’s different. Genie’s so beautiful that nobody ever looked at me, and it never seemed worth trying. Now I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “Older sister?” I nodded, and Diana gave me a look that was filled with sympathetic understanding. “I guess I got lucky. Four older brothers. They always made me feel like I was the most wonderful creature in all of New Jersey, like they were privileged to have me in the house. My parents had a fit when I said I wanted to go to culinary school instead of college, and my brothers all stood up for me. My oldest brother, Michael, even offered to pay for it; he knew it was all I’d ever wanted to do.” She hesitated a moment and then said quickly, as if she was afraid she’d lose the courage, “So can I ask another rude question? How come someone with a palate like yours doesn’t cook?”

  “I can cook.” The words came out in a whis
per. “In fact, my sister and I had a bakery.”

  “You had a bakery? No shit.”

  “Yeah, Cake Sisters. We started it when we were really young.”

  “You sold that gingerbread!” She was triumphant, like someone who’d just slid the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle neatly into place. “That’s where the recipe came from! You said you did it when you were ten.”

  I nodded. “That’s how it all started. We made the gingerbread cake for my dad’s birthday, and people began asking if they could buy one. The next thing we knew, we had a business. My sister decided we should branch out, and she invented the Giant Hostess Cupcake Cake. Then Aunt Melba had the idea of selling them in pairs, one a little smashed, like they always are in the supermarket.”

  Diana rubbed her forehead. “Cake Sisters. Cake Sisters. Could I have read about this?”

  I shrugged. “It’s possible. We got a lot of press: Bon Appétit, the L.A. Times, The New York Times. They liked taking pictures of my sister. She designed the cakes and I worked out the recipes. The first year we each created a signature cake. Genie’s was called the Goddess: really tall, all white on the outside, wrapped in mountains of coconut and whipped cream, with a passion-fruit heart.”

  “And yours was called the Shrinking Violet. Unassuming on the outside but pretty special once you worked your way in.” She reached over and squeezed my wrist.

  “Wish I’d thought of that. You’d understand if you knew my sister.” By now I was a little drunk. “One year Genie came up with Melting Cakes. You know, like flourless chocolate, the kind that are melted in the middle? They were gorgeous neon colors, and I made the flavors intense—blood orange, blueberry, lime, hibiscus, and caramel. But it was our wedding cakes that really made us famous. All different, and nothing like anything else out there.”

  “But you don’t have the bakery anymore. What happened? You sell it? Or did you poison someone and have to flee the state?”

  “We started Cake Sisters when we were so young. And then …” I shrugged. “We grew up.”

  “You should tell Maggie. Bet she’d lighten up.”

  “No!” The word came out louder than I’d intended. “You can’t tell anyone. Promise me that.”

  Diana looked at me strangely. She had to be wondering.… Maybe she’d Google us. Would that be so bad? “Okay, Gingerbread Girl”—she swiped her index finger across her heart—“your secret’s safe with me.” Just then Tom plunked down a plate of roasted pineapple, asking if he’d used too much rum.

  We stayed late, drinking endless glasses of wine. We talked about the people at the magazine and about her boyfriend. She asked if I was sorry I’d dropped out of school. That was an easy answer.

  “I’ve always liked to write, and I figured I should just do it. Get on-the-job training. Now all I have to do is figure out how I can get Jake to give me an assignment.”

  Diana waved her hand. “No worries; make it through the trial period and he’ll start shoving assignments at you till you scream. He likes having his assistants write for the book.”

  “I’d heard that; it’s why I took the job. Then I saw that the last one—Sarah?—never had a byline, and I began to worry that it wasn’t true.”

  “Sarah was a disappointment; none of us liked her very much. Particularly Jake. But you’re different. Sal was right: You’re one of us.”

  “Thanks.” I had another glass of wine, feeling more hopeful than I had in quite a while.

  “I should get you drunk more often,” she said as we walked out the door. “This was so much fun. Let’s do it again, soon.”

  I went to bed that night feeling like I’d finally made a friend in New York. Or at least a start.

  But in the morning I felt awful. My head was pounding, my mouth was dry, and I was still wearing the clothes I’d worn the night before. The day yawned emptily before me.

  I drifted out the door and clumped down the stairs. The weather was gray, the streets filled with that Sunday morning silence that makes you feel like everybody else is home with people that they love. I thought about Diana, home with Ned. I wondered what Dad and Aunt Melba were doing and if they were doing it together. Passing a newsstand, I glanced at the headlines. The papers were still talking about the rescue of the Chilean miners earlier in the week, and the feel-good stories were all about them being reunited with their families after sixty-nine days underground. Somehow that made me feel even more alone. I went into the bookstore on Prince Street, but my heart wasn’t in it, and I left with empty hands. I kept moving, surprised when I found myself in front of Fontanari’s. My feet had known all along where they were going, but my head had just caught on.

  I tried to go inside, but it was after noon and the little shop was so crowded that the door would open only a crack. Even from out here I could smell the pungent, nose-prickling aroma of salami and the rich, milky perfume of cheese, and it was so enticing that I gave the door a hard push and edged inside. There was yet another scent now teasing my nose, and when I looked up I saw the strings of bright-red chilies dangling from the rafters.

  It was as clamorous and cozy as a cocktail party, everybody deep in conversation. I stretched up on my toes, trying to see over the heads to the counter in the front of the store, just as Sal looked up from the customer he was serving. His face relaxed into a delighted grin. Putting his knife down, he pushed his way through the crowd.

  “Folks”—he sounded so happy—“we got lucky. Help has arrived.” He propelled me through the throng and whisked me behind the counter. His sister, Theresa, gave a little nod, as if she’d been expecting me.

  “But what do I do?” I was utterly bewildered.

  “First”—he was matter-of-fact, as if the question was idiotic—“you go into the back kitchen and wash your hands.” He held up a plain white apron. “Then you put this on. Then you ask the next customer what he wants. And finally you give it to him.”

  “But I don’t know how to slice salami or cut cheese!”

  He took my hand. “It’s not exactly rocket science. Just do what I do; you’ll be fine. Rosie.” He towed me into the back, where a pretty woman in her late forties with silver-streaked black hair stood making mozzarella. “This is that girl I told you about from Delicious! Billie, my wife, Rosalie.”

  Rosalie was a compact woman, with big breasts, comfortable hips, and a tiny waist. Her smooth hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, and she was wearing an apron of impeccable whiteness. She was the cleanest person I’d ever seen.

  “I’m very happy to meet you.” She had come over to the sink where I was washing my hands. “Sal can’t stop talking about the day you spent together.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell him I told you, but he’d have been so disappointed if you hadn’t come back. Let me see that apron.”

  I looked down, embarrassed, at my rumpled clothes, but she took no notice. She twitched the apron down, straightened it, and retied it so snugly that I felt neat, covered, contained. “That’s better.” She clicked her teeth in satisfaction. “Is your name really Billie?”

  “My real name’s Wilhelmina.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Much better! A name for a queen. That is what we will call you. Sal says he’s offered you a job. I hope you’ll say yes. And from what I know of Mr. Pickwick, I imagine you could use the money.” She tucked my hand into the crook of her arm, escorted me to the counter, and pointed at a stocky woman with short gray hair in the front of the line. “Jane”—she gave me a little push—“this is Wilhelmina’s first day, so be nice.” In a stage whisper she added, “Jane was the great love of Sal’s life.”

  Jane’s eyes danced with amusement. “You should know that this great love affair ended before we reached the first grade.” She looked me frankly up and down. “Sal’s letting her work?”

  “He trusts her palate.” Rosalie said it with finality, as if no other explanation could possibly be needed.

  “Then I’m impressed.” Jane gave me a small salut
e, and I realized that what I had taken as Rosalie just being nice was more than that: Sal really did want me to be here.

  Rosalie patted my arm. “Jane’s a fussy customer, but don’t let that trouble you. She’ll want you to show her every single ball of mozzarella before she makes her choice—”

  “I will not!”

  “And she’ll watch like a hawk when you slice her prosciutto,” Rosalie continued. “Not to mention demanding tastes of so much cheese she won’t need lunch.” Jane huffed slightly at that. “But”—Rosalie gave my arm another pat—“you take your time and you’ll be fine.”

  That seemed to be the Fontanari mantra; as the day progressed and the crush of customers grew more intense, Sal refused to rush. When he spied a small, slight man with pure white hair and skin so translucent you could see the tracery of blue veins beneath it, he cried, “Gennaro!” Sal rushed from behind the counter to kiss the man on both cheeks. “How’s your mama? Better?” He gestured to his sister, who was slicing mortadella. “Theresa, can’t you see this man is starving? Give him something to eat before he faints on us.”

  He moved among his customers, handing out chunks of pecorino, asking after family, telling stories. It was the perfect place for me, where being quiet was an asset. But I noticed that Sal kept glancing expectantly toward the door and then away, slightly disappointed. I wondered whom he was waiting for.

  At around two o’clock a bearded man came through the door, and I had the answer to my question. All the lines on Sal’s face moved upward, and his look of expectation changed to one of pure pleasure. He struggled to control his expression, overjoyed to see the man but reluctant to show it. He pointed across the counter.

  “We all call him Mr. Complainer,” he said in a low voice. “Guy comes in every Sunday. Never stops complaining. According to him, we do nothing right. And still he keeps coming.”

  Mr. Complainer was tall and broad, probably in his early thirties, with lively brown eyes that reflected amusement, thick curly brown hair, and a scruffy beard. He was carelessly handsome, dressed in softly faded denims and a wrinkled linen shirt. Every eye in the shop was on him, and he seemed comfortable with that. “Who’re you?” he said to me.