Delicious!

by Ruth Reichl

  “Just curious,” I started to say as Richard simultaneously blurted out, “Billie’s found—” before my glare stopped him cold.

  “Found what?” Maggie was looking at me intently.

  “The amazing card file in the library,” I tried.

  Maggie’s smile softened her face, and I saw how lovely she must have once been. I thought about the butterfly tattoo on her shoulder. “I’d almost forgotten about that.” She had a dreamy look. “I used to love going in there to leaf through those cards. All those colors!”

  “Which one is Bertie?” I asked. “Do you know?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? The blue one, of course.”

  “Perfect!” There was laughter in Richard’s voice. “Of course. That color used to be called peacock blue, until the Sheaffer ink people stupidly renamed it turquoise.”

  “How do you know that?” Maggie was staring at him skeptically.

  “I’ll have you know I’m a proud member of the fountainpennetwork.com,” he said.

  “Art directors!” she scoffed.

  I cleared my throat. “Could we get back to Bertie? How old was she when she worked there? Was she married? Was she a certified librarian?”

  Maggie waved her hand. “Haven’t a clue. For all I know Bertie was a dancing horse who ran away from the circus. I don’t know a thing—except that during Bertie’s last days at Delicious!, she was sneaking in and out at midnight. Whenever the library was mentioned, Mrs. V. would smile knowingly and say that one day the whole world would be grateful to Bertie.”

  “Do you have any idea why?” asked Richard, but Maggie had had enough. “I’m tired of this.” Her voice was cross. “Damn Delicious!, damn Bertie, and damn Pickwick Publications. They fired us, and as far as I’m concerned they can go to hell—and take their legends with them.” She picked up her wineglass and took a long drink. When she put it down, her face was as blank as if a shutter had been lowered. She was closed for the night.

  Feast of the Seven Fishes

  Hi, Genie.

  Not going to complain. Things are definitely better since we found the Lulu letters. I can’t think back to the time before New York—not yet. But this time last year I was fretting about the Fontanari story, terrified about what Sal’s reaction would be when it was finally printed. And that turned out okay.

  So what if I have a ridiculous job and no clue about my future?

  So what if Sammy’s disappeared and nobody knows where he is?

  So what if the one good friend I’ve made has left the state, never to return? (Although she wasn’t lying when she said she’d write every day.)

  Even Mr. Complainer seems to have vanished; he hasn’t been to Fontanari’s for the last two Sundays, and I admit that I miss him. Leave it to me to miss the chance when I had it. If I had it.

  Did I say I wasn’t going to complain? Sorry.

  It’s Christmas. I’m working at Fontanari’s every day, and the place is packed. I’m spending New Year’s Eve at Rosalie and Sal’s. My resolution is to get contact lenses, if only to shut Rosalie up. Things could be worse.

  At this rate, next year will be even better, right?

  I love you.

  xxb

  Tina Fey had told some New York Times reporter that she was gifting Fontanari olive oil to all her friends, and the line that greeted me when I got to the shop stretched down the block. Sal was convinced that was why Mr. Complainer had abandoned us: He’d finally moved on to a more efficient shop. “You want a store filled with cops and complainers,” he said morosely. “Now we’ve lost Mr. Complainer. Who’s next?”

  “He wouldn’t go somewhere else,” I said, somehow knowing it was true. Then I remembered the blonde he’d been with the last time, and I wondered if he was embarrassed. Had he caught Sal’s look of disappointment? I hoped not; Sundays seemed longer without him.

  New Year’s Eve was always the busiest day of the year, and when we closed the door at seven, customers were still trying to push in, desperate for one last item that would make their party perfect. Sal was such an easy touch, until Rosalie finally put her foot down.

  “This is our night,” she said, firmly locking the door. “We’ve got resolutions to make! Coming, Theresa?” She herded us all up the stairs.

  Sal and Rosalie were the only people I’d met in New York who occupied a real house. The shop was on the ground floor, the bedrooms on the top, but in between was one enormous room. Part kitchen, part living room, part dining room, it was filled with sisters, aunts, grandchildren, and cousins, all talking, gesticulating, kissing. More people kept arriving, trying to find room on the long table to set yet another platter.

  Sal tipped his wineglass toward the table. “We do the traditional seven fishes on New Year’s instead of Christmas.” He handed me a glass of wine. “What does your family do for New Year’s Eve?”

  “Nothing much.” Dad, Aunt Melba, and I always tried to stay up to watch the ball drop in Times Square, but I don’t remember ever making it. Genie always had a date.

  Sal frowned. “But what about the resolutions?” He took me around the room, introducing me to a bewildering number of relatives until his daughter, Toni, came to my rescue.

  “Dad! Stop! Billie doesn’t need to know how every one of these people is related to us.” Grabbing my hand, she pulled me to a sofa. “You think this is bad?” She sat down next to me. “Imagine what it was like when I brought boyfriends home. I married the only date I ever had who could talk my father to a standstill.”

  I nodded, which was all she expected from me; in this maelstrom of words, silence was acceptable, and I was content to watch and listen. Sal clinked a spoon against a glass, and Toni pulled me to the table and sat down next to me. When Sal sat on my other side, my night was made; sitting between them, I felt anchored, safe.

  Rosalie stayed on her feet, setting down platter after platter of food. The meal began with pickled squid, oyster shooters, marinated anchovies, and scungilli salad. Then Rosalie set an enormous bowl of pasta con le vongole in front of Sal, who ladled it out, talking the entire time. The pasta was followed by huge platters of scampi, which we passed around. It was almost eleven when Rosalie set three enormous stuffed turbots on the table, and it was near midnight when she appeared with a plate of warm sugar-dusted sfinge.

  “So our first taste of the New Year will be sweet,” Sal whispered in my ear. He grabbed my left hand and Toni grabbed my right, and we were linked around the table, joined together, all of us, facing whatever the coming year might bring. Sal leaned over to whisper, “Italian families always welcome the New Year like this.” He gave my hand a squeeze and shouted, “Ten!”

  I thought about Richard and wondered if he was with his family, holding hands and counting down the seconds to the future. Sal shouted, “Nine!,” and I joined in, shouting, “Eight! Seven! Six!” along with them.

  As the seconds ticked away, I looked around the table. It was comforting to think of them sitting here, year in, year out, playing out this ritual. I thought again of Richard. Was he with his grandmother, the one who was still so bitter about the war? There was another thought, right behind that, nagging at me.

  “Five!” we shouted. “Four!”

  If Richard’s nonna was alive, then why not Lulu?

  “Three!”

  How old would she be? I began to do the calculations. She was twelve in 194? …

  “Two!”

  … so she was born in 1930. That would make her …

  “Happy New Year!”

  Next to me, Toni blew her party horn. Lulu would be only eighty-one. She might still be alive.

  LIKE A SONG you can’t forget, the words “enemy food” repeated themselves over and over in my head. They even took on a rhythm, that old song “Mother-in-Law,” so that before long I was humming them. I could hardly wait to get back to the library and find out if that was the next clue.

  January second fell on Monday, so I didn’t have long to wait. When I got to the mansion
, the mail was filled with tales of holiday disasters: dry turkeys, exploded hams, melting icing. I flicked quickly through the emails and letters. Calamity could wait.

  In the library, I found a single card titled “Enemy Food,” wedged between “Egyptian Cuisine” and “Escargots.” I picked it up and peered at the peacock-blue ink. “During the Second World War, there was such a deep prejudice against all things Italian that, in some parts of the United States, spaghetti, lasagna, and all forms of pasta were considered ‘enemy food.’ There are some very interesting letters on the subject filed under ‘Italian Recipes,’ 1943.”

  Pleased that my intuition had been correct, I went into the secret room, pulled down “Italian Recipes,” sat with my back against the wall, and opened the file.

  OCTOBER 14, 1943

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  I picked my ripe pumpkins this morning, and after school Tommy helped me carry them to Mrs. Cappuzzelli. She’s been promising to show me how she makes her special ravioli. We were just starting to take the seeds out when Marco came in, saw the ravioli dough, and started waving his arms around, shouting, “American food, Mama! American food! Mussolini eats pasta, and I won’t eat what he eats.” I’d like to introduce him to Miss Dickson.

  Mrs. C. never said a word, but when Marco finally left, slamming the kitchen door behind him, she looked so worried. I don’t think it has anything to do with food; she’s afraid he’s going to try to prove that he’s a “real American” by lying about his age and joining the army.

  I tried to think of something to cheer her up, but you’ll never guess what did the trick: I asked if she had ever eaten pumpkin leaves. She thought that was just about the funniest thing she’d ever heard and laughed so hard she began to cry. “Not for people, only for pigs,” she kept saying as she wiped her eyes.

  I don’t see what’s so funny. We eat beet greens, don’t we, and turnip leaves? Why not pumpkin leaves? Mrs. C. said she would never eat a pumpkin leaf, but she’s going to show me how to cook the blossoms. Don’t you just love the idea of cooking flowers? I imagine them bursting into bloom, right in the pan. But I’m not about to give up on pumpkin leaves; I bet you can eat them too.

  Your friend, always,

  Lulu

  P.S. It’s been so warm here it seems like summer might go on forever. Father loved Indian summer, and I like to think the sun is shining down on him, wherever he may be. Mother says we’ll get a presumed-dead letter soon, but she’s always expecting the worst, and where does that get you?

  I tried to imagine what Lulu would look like as an old woman, but in my head she remained stubbornly thirteen. How did you locate someone when you didn’t know her married name, where she lived, or what she had been doing for the past seventy years?

  Maybe she had married Tommy. That might be a place to start. I could search for her father’s army records. Maybe I could even find an old Akron phone book.

  NOVEMBER 2, 1943

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  Thank you for asking, but, I’m sorry to say, things are no better. Miss Dickson just hates me—and I cannot find it in my heart to turn the other cheek. When she starts in on me, I always lose my temper, and I expect that I am going to get to know Principal Jones very well this year.

  Yesterday she put up a poster that says, “Remember Pearl Harbor. Purl harder.” Then she made us all go down to the woodworking shop to make knitting needles. We are knitting scarves for the soldiers. If you ask me, they’re not going to want these lumpy, itchy old things, but I wouldn’t dare say so. When Tommy said that knitting was for girls, she sent him to the principal’s office. I don’t know if he got the paddle, but he came back with a red face and started knitting like crazy. He’s very good at it. I am not; Miss Dickson held my scarf up so everyone could see it. “Pity the poor soldier who gets this one,” she said, and for once we were in agreement.

  Thank you for the pumpkin-leaf recipe. I knew you would have one! I did exactly what you said, took all the strings out of the leaves, washed them really well, and cut them into skinny strips. Then I cooked them with a little bit of onion until they were very soft. I added a cut-up tomato too.

  Mother made an awful face, but when I told her they didn’t cost one penny and were very nutritious (I made that part up, but I’m sure it must be true), she ate them up. She packed them into her lunch pail this morning, and when I looked surprised she said the women in her Corsair group have started a thrift contest. The one who makes the best lunches using the least ration points this winter will win a whole ham for Easter.

  Mother’s sure to win, because I’m going to help. Tomorrow we’re making her a raw pumpkin salad. We’ll grate some pumpkin and squeeze lemon juice over it, then mix in some onions, tomatoes, and herbs. Mother suggests that we drizzle a little bit of my honey on top. Not one ration point—and think how pretty it will be. Isn’t it nice that Mother’s taking an interest in food again?

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  The Goodyear Aircraft Corporation! There might be some record of Mrs. Swan’s employment at the Airdock.

  DECEMBER 4, 1943

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  Last night we listened to Mr. Murrow on the radio. Did you hear his broadcast? He went along on a bombing raid to Berlin, and some of the planes that went with him didn’t make it back. It was an awful thing to hear. I looked over at Mother and her face was white. Then I remembered that she might have built the very airplanes they were flying. Did you know that the Corsair has the biggest, most powerful engine and the largest propeller of any fighter in history?

  Afterward I tried to cheer Mother up by telling her a story I read in the newspaper. The pilots make ice cream by putting the ingredients in a can and putting the can in the back of the plane, where there’s no heat. The vibrations churn the cream, and the cold temperatures freeze it. I think it’s so clever, but all Mother would say was that she doubted they’d do anything so frivolous when they are fighting the enemy.

  Sometimes I think she doesn’t remember Father at all, which is very sad, because that is just the sort of thing he would do. I can see him stepping out of the airplane with his can of ice cream under his arm, saying, “Cheated death again. Grab a spoon; we’re going to celebrate!”

  I hope we have something to celebrate soon.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  A Terrible Symphony

  I FOUND THE MURROW BROADCAST ONLINE. IT WAS CALLED “ORCHESTRATED HELL,” and after I had listened to it twice, I went to the computer and ordered five books on World War II. Imagining a still-living Lulu changed everything; what had once been ancient history had come charging into the present.

  The end of 1943 was terrible. The British were bombing Berlin, but the cost was enormous. The war was spreading across the globe, and no matter where you landed, something dreadful was going on. In the Pacific, the Americans were slogging through the Gilbert Islands and raiding Rangoon. The British were having awful adventures in Italy, and the Americans were on their way to join them. Just after Christmas, Eisenhower took on Operation Overlord, which would become the Normandy invasion.

  How could they bear it? Soldiers left for years, some without ever coming home. No Internet, no Skype, and the letters were all censored. When someone died, it could be months before the family even found out. It seemed like another world, like the dark ages, as if the people who lived in it were a different, tougher race.

  That night I dreamed of bodies falling from the sky. Even in my sleep I recognized the images from 9/11—that man with his leg bent, boots out before him, as he plunged from the glass tower. It made everything seem more immediate. Lulu’s war had become my own.

  But the next morning I realized there was something more. It was not only Lulu who worried me. I pictured the glass building and saw that it wasn’t the World Trade Center; it was where Sammy lived. Where was he? If he’d been off doing holiday research, he should be back by now. I kept calling his apartment, but there was still no answer
. It had been five weeks since anyone had heard from him.

  I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash the dream away. When I got to the mansion, I sat down at my desk and dialed Sammy’s number. No answer. This wasn’t right; he’d been gone too long. I was starting to feel truly alarmed when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Cloverly, at her most querulous.

  “I made that red salad that was on the cover some time back, thinking it would be perfect for Christmas. Well, it was no such thing! It was vile, absolutely vile!”

  “Happy New Year to you too, Mrs. Cloverly,” I replied.

  “Oh.” She seemed surprised by her own rudeness. “I hope your holidays were very pleasant, dear.” And then, as if she had been sitting by the phone for weeks, clutching this complaint to her chest, she rushed on. “My holiday was ruined by that despicable salad!”

  I was starting to apologize when Richard texted that he was on his way up. “What a coincidence, Mrs. Cloverly. The man who invented that particular dish will be here any minute. Perhaps you’d like to discuss the recipe with him?”

  “Oh, no, dear,” she said quickly. “A man? I couldn’t do that! In fact, I must be on my way.”

  “So odd,” I said to Richard when he appeared. “The idea of talking to a man seemed to terrify her. I wonder why.”

  “Probably been a long time since her husband died, and she hasn’t talked to one of us in years.”

  “She must be so lonely! I imagine her as a very old lady who’s outlived all her friends.” As I spoke, I suddenly remembered Lulu. “I need to thank you.” I waved him into the chair.

  Richard sat down as I told him about the Fontanaris and how sharing the traditional dinner with that big Italian family had made me think of his grandmother.

  “You’re right.” He was looking past me, seeing something on the wall behind me that I could not. “If my nonna’s still alive, there’s no reason why Lulu couldn’t be. But I have no idea how you could possibly find her. Do you?”