Delicious!

by Ruth Reichl

  “—‘his wife of forty-six years,’ ” Dad continued, “ ‘three children, James Swan Taber of Cleveland, Joanna Taber of Manhattan, and Francesca Taber Cappuzzelli of Los Angeles, and eight grandchildren. The family asks that, in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the Food Bank.’ ”

  “It’s Lulu.” I felt dazed. “She didn’t marry Tommy. And she had three children!”

  “Dr. Taber sounds like quite a guy.” Dad was still reading. “He was a general practitioner, a published poet, and an authority on birds.”

  “We found her.” I could not quite believe it. “We actually found her. She named her son for her father. And one of her daughters married a Cappuzzelli! I wonder which son? Oh, please, let her still be alive.”

  “There’s no obit.” Dad superstitiously touched the top of the wooden desk, banishing bad luck. “Let’s see if the phone book can tell us anything.”

  LULU TABER WASN’T LISTED. “Well, she wouldn’t be.” Dad was still tapping the computer. “Widows rarely take the trouble to change the name on their utility bills. She probably left the phone in his name. And …” He clicked a few more times. “Here he is! Dr. Peter Taber. Damn!”

  I looked over his shoulder. “What?”

  “Address and phone number both unlisted.” Dad tapped some more, then let out a sigh of satisfaction. “There we go: the son, James S. Taber—address, phone number, the whole nine yards.”

  I sat down heavily in a chair. I felt slightly dizzy. It had taken Sammy and me months to locate Lulu’s letters, and after our long, crazy chase, this seemed so fast. Dad and I had been in the library less than an hour. “We found her,” I kept saying, over and over like a mantra. “We actually found her.”

  “Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun?” Dad was watching me, worry in his eyes. “We haven’t really found her. We don’t even know that she’s alive.”

  “But now we know how to find out. She’s not a ghost anymore.” I shivered as I said this; I’d unconsciously used Mitch’s word. “We know her name; we know what she did with her life; we know where to find her children. It’s all happened so fast!”

  “You sound disappointed.” Dad took his fingers off the keyboard and sat back in the chair.

  I didn’t know what I felt. Excited and let down, both at the same time.

  “I wonder how long it would have taken if you hadn’t seen that box of Mrs. Cloverly’s?” He was thinking out loud, but Dad had made his point. If I hadn’t seen that old box at Babe’s, we might have spent weeks looking for Lulu; it had been a fortunate shortcut. “What now, Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Call James, I guess.”

  The library was no place to have a conversation, so we went outside and stood on the steps. It was a bright morning, and the light bouncing off the marble columns was dazzling. Somewhere, an answering machine clicked on. “The Tabers aren’t home now, but you can leave a message for Clara, Jim, Pete, or Sophie, and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  I didn’t leave a message. “It would be good to know if Lulu’s alive before we start throwing questions at her son. Let’s go over to that market and see if we can find someone who knew her.”

  We crossed the street and walked through the Arcade, an ornate glass-covered Victorian building that had been transformed into an indoor mall. But half the shops were out of business, and our footsteps echoed mournfully through the beautiful empty space. Dad pointed to one of the boarded-up shops. “I imagine the market will be a lot like this. We’ll be lucky if we even find anyone to ask about Lulu.”

  “I won’t get my hopes up.” I was remembering the shabby old public markets of New York, only recently making a comeback after years of neglect. We left the Arcade, walking north toward the market. “It’ll be a miracle if anybody’s there.” As we walked down sparsely populated blocks, I was thinking about James Taber, wondering what I should say when we called. Would he even know about his mother’s correspondence with James Beard? Deep in thought, I barely noticed that the streets were beginning to fill with people carrying bags of produce, and it was a shock to turn a corner and see the clock tower over the West Side Market and the streams of people pouring out its doors. From a block away you could feel the vibrant energy of the place, and by the time we walked into the huge, brightly lighted building, we were thrumming with anticipation.

  Even so, the West Side Market, with its tiled and vaulted ceiling, came as a surprise. It was a beautiful old building, so filled with people munching, exchanging money, and exclaiming as they went from one well-stocked stand to another that we had to shout at each other to be heard. There seemed to be hundreds of purveyors, selling every imaginable edible from every corner of the world.

  Dad squared his shoulders and began to walk purposefully through the market, a man on a mission, eyes taking in the various vendors. He looked at butchers, cheesemongers, fish men. Finally he strode toward a stall displaying a tangle of pink and brown sausages with strange, unpronounceable names. “Csabai kolbász.” He struggled with the syllables. “Kielbas.” He pointed to a weathered white-haired man in the adjoining stall. “Over there,” he said. “We’ll ask if he knows Lulu. He looks like someone who might.” Above the man’s head, a sign proclaimed, OUR FAMILY HAS BEEN SELLING SMOKED MEATS HERE SINCE 1912.

  We approached the stall, and the old gentleman’s faded blue eyes warily inspected us as he considered Dad’s question. Then he picked up a pale-pink loaf, carved off a couple of thin slices, and handed them across the counter with gnarled fingers. “It’s our secret family recipe. Lulu likes this; she never comes to the market without picking up some leberkäse.”

  Dad squeezed my shoulder so hard it hurt; the man had used the present tense! I took a bite, and the flavor filled my mouth—pungent, slightly spicy, with the tang of onions and just a hint of … “What was it? Marjoram! The taste was strong, primal, comforting.

  “Never misses a week.” The man handed me another slice. “She was here yesterday. She’s loyal, is Lulu. It was a shame about her shop, but she had a good run. She doesn’t complain.” He looked across the counter, his pale eyes still penetrating.

  It was the right moment; I could feel that. “Do you,” I asked carefully, “know how we can find Lulu?”

  Dad touched my arm softly, a suggestion of restraint.

  But the old man was unfazed. “I must have her number here somewhere.” He began riffling through little strips of paper on the counter behind the meat case. “Let me look. She doesn’t live far, still in that place she and the doc bought years ago when they first came to Cleveland. Her kids keep trying to get her to move someplace more convenient—all those stairs!—but Lulu won’t budge. What I say is, good for her.”

  He rummaged about, muttering to himself and shaking his head. “It’s no use.” He sounded apologetic. “Can’t seem to find it. Never call, myself; just stop in now and then on my way home.”

  “Then perhaps you could give us her address?” I hated the way my voice trembled.

  “No trouble.” Taking a flat stub of pencil from behind his ear, he turned one of the bits of paper over and wrote an address on the back. “Just over there on Bridge Avenue.” He pointed out the door. “You tell her hello from Wally.”

  My hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t close my fingers around the strip of paper he held out to me. Wally looked at me strangely. Then Dad’s hand reached across my shoulder. “Good thing I’m here,” he said drily.

  Strudel

  LULU LIVED IN A LARGE COLONIAL THAT SPRAWLED COMFORTABLY across a corner lot, its faded bricks soaking up the sun. The house was surrounded by ancient trees, their branches spread across the roof; in summer it would be sheltered by a canopy of leaves. A crooked wrought-iron fence meandered casually around the house, protecting a large garden. The windows looking down on it were framed by black shutters, flung open so that we could see a big orange cat curled in a patch of sunlight on the second floor.

  “I like the angle of that roof.” D
ad looked up at the single window just below the eaves. “I bet the kids fought over who got that room.”

  We strolled around to the side of the house and found a gate opening onto a little porch. “I wonder if the doctor had his office here?” There was a separate entrance. “It’s certainly big enough. Patients could have come and gone without disturbing the family.”

  We walked around the corner, then back again, secretly hoping Lulu would open the door, let out the cat, take out the trash. But after a few minutes of this, Dad said, “The neighbors are going to think we’re casing the joint.”

  The doorbell was a set of chimes, and a voice called out, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” The footsteps coming toward the door were far too rapid for an old lady. I had a moment of doubt. Was this the right house?

  But it was too late. The door was open, and a small, vigorous-looking woman in old blue jeans and a plaid shirt stood before us.

  “Hello. Do I know you?”

  It was Lulu. Almost exactly as I’d imagined her.

  “You’re Lulu Swan,” I blurted out.

  “I am.” She stood calmly at the door, unperturbed by strangers. “Or at least I used to be. I’ve been Lulu Taber for a while now.” She looked us over and said again, “Do I know you?”

  I just kept staring, not quite believing we’d found her. Her face was quite round and still pretty, and she had a forthright air. She wore no makeup, but her face was almost unwrinkled and her back was very straight. The gray eyes were lively and intelligent, and her hair was thick, white, and cut off below the ears, as if she’d simply sheared it with a scissors. In her simple clothes, she looked almost boyish.

  Words deserted me.

  Dad stepped into the silence. “You don’t know us.” He held out his hand. “At least not yet. I’m Robert Breslin, and this is my daughter Billie. She’s been trying to find you for quite some time.”

  She stood in the middle of the doorway for half a second and then stepped aside. “Come on in, then.” She opened the door wider. “I’m in the middle of baking and I can’t stop now.”

  Dad put out a hand to stop her. “You’re going to let a pair of strangers walk into your house? Don’t you even want to know why we’re here?”

  She turned to him. “Young man.” I looked sideways to see how Dad was taking that. He seemed pleased. “As I see it, I have three choices. I can slam the door in your face, which would be rude. I can stand here and ask for credentials, but while you’re giving them to me, my dough will dry out. Or I can trust my instincts. You don’t strike me as serial killers. So, if you don’t mind, we’ll go into the house now and I can get back to my baking. Strudel won’t wait!”

  Walking briskly, she led us down a hall. I took in Early American furniture, old glass lamps with gleaming brass fixtures, hooked rugs. We entered a dining room dominated by a painting of a pumpkin patch. “I don’t usually bake in here”—she reached for the rolling pin on the wooden table in the middle of the room—“but strudel requires a great deal of space. And this is the only round table in the house.” She began to circle the table, rolling out the dough, stretching it thinner as she walked. “You have to keep rolling until you can read right through it.” She was working with quick, efficient strokes. “I can talk while I work, though. Please sit yourselves down”—she gestured with the rolling pin—“and tell me again who you are.”

  Her eyes moved from the dough to me as we repeated our names. “And now I guess you’d better tell me why you’re here.” She was matter-of-fact, as if having strangers turn up at her door was an everyday occurrence.

  “I’ve been working at Delicious!”

  “Yes?” She looked down at the dough, continuing to roll. “I thought they closed the magazine.”

  “They did. But they kept me on to honor the Delicious! Guarantee. And one day …” I looked over at Dad, who smiled and nodded his head, urging me on. I took a breath and started again. “And one day I went up to the library and found a secret room.”

  Lulu kept walking around the table, rolling out the dough. “Yes?” Her voice was polite. Distant.

  “It was filled with files and letters.”

  Lulu’s feet came to an abrupt halt. She carefully set the rolling pin down on the table. “Letters?” she asked softly.

  “Yes,” I said. “And I found the ones you wrote to Mr. Beard during the war.”

  “Oh, my.” She sat down suddenly, as if her feet had just come out from under her. “All of them?”

  “I don’t know if it’s all of them. That’s one of the things I wanted to ask. But there are quite a lot.”

  Lulu pushed her chair back and stood up decisively, rubbing the flour off her hands. “This is not going to be the best strudel ever made. But it will have to do; the dough’s thin enough.” With a few deft motions, she brushed the dough with melted butter, spread it with chunky poppy-seed paste, and rolled it up. Curling it into a ring, she set the cake on a baking sheet and disappeared into the kitchen. The entire operation had taken less than a minute.

  When she reappeared, her face had undergone a subtle change, and the easygoing woman who met us at the door had become distant, wary. “How did you find me?” It was more accusation than question.

  “It was Billie.” Dad did not seem to have noticed Lulu’s changed demeanor. “She’s turned into quite the sleuth. But it was Wally who gave us your address.” At that, her face relaxed, just a little.

  “Oh. Wally.” She hesitated for a moment, then made up her mind. “I’ll put the kettle on.” She went back into the kitchen.

  When she returned, she had arranged her face into a tight, polite smile. She was carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, and a high-domed golden bread. “Is that Mrs. Cappuzzelli’s panettone?” I was fishing, trying to lure back the Lulu who’d written all those letters. “The one you made when Marco died?”

  Lulu started, and I noticed her hands shaking as she set the tray down. “Yes.” She said it curtly. “I suppose you want the recipe.” She cut three slices and shoved a plate at each of us. Her hands had steadied. I took a bite; the bread was sweet and airy, rich with eggs and laced with lemon and dried fruit. “ ‘We still have his memory.’ ” I was remembering the letter. “That’s what Mrs. Cappuzzelli told you. And that you had each other.”

  Lulu’s smile slipped; she appeared to be having a hard time controlling her face.

  “I read that your daughter married one of the Cappuzzellis,” I ventured, again trying to make contact with the Lulu I thought I’d known. “Whose son was it?”

  “Massimo’s son Lucas,” she said stiffly.

  “That must make you happy.”

  She gave me a cold stare. “Why would that make me happy?” She seemed to be hoarding her words.

  “What I meant”—I was struggling now—“was that during the war you were like a member of the family. And knowing that you really had become part of her family would have pleased Mrs. C.”

  “We have no way of knowing how she would have felt.” Lulu’s words were cool and clipped. “Both the Cappuzzellis had passed on by the time Frankie and Lucas married.”

  Why was she making this so hard? With each passing minute, the Lulu I had known retreated a little further into the background, leaving this cool stranger in her place. I began to wonder if it would have been better if we had never found her. Maybe the Lulu of the letters no longer existed.

  Desperate to bring her back, I pushed my luck. “Did you ever find out what happened to your father?”

  The air in the room changed. Dad ran his fingers anxiously through his hair, looking horrified. Lulu dropped her fork, and in the silent room it clattered loudly onto the porcelain plate. “I’m sorry”—she was glaring at me now—“but I’m going to ask you to leave.”

  “Oh, no, please … I’ve come so far, I’ve been looking so long, and I have so many questions.”

  She watched the fork still vibrating on the plate, and I could feel her gathering her thoughts. Then she met
my eyes. “I want you to go. Now. This is terribly upsetting. I don’t know you, but you seem to think you know me. And for some reason you believe I owe you something.” She hesitated for a minute, then balled her fists. “Who do you think you are, coming in here like this?” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes flashed, and, despite her hostility, her spirit made me think of the young girl I knew. “Try to imagine how you’d feel! One fine day, without any warning, someone knocks on your door and starts asking questions, churning up a past you’d just as soon forget.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Dad did. Moving smoothly into lawyer mode, he put his teacup down on the table and stood up. “Please forgive us, Mrs. Taber.” His voice was filled with remorse. “You’re quite right, we’ve been extremely thoughtless. We’ll leave at once. But I wonder”—he stopped, glancing at me, as if asking my permission—“if we might take you to dinner? Not tonight, of course, but later, when you’ve had some time to get accustomed to the idea.”

  It was the perfect thing to say. Lulu looked up at him, seeming almost apologetic. “It’s been quite a shock. You might have given me some warning. Called before coming.”

  “Of course we should have,” soothed Dad. “Anyone would feel that way.” He eyed me, silently urging me to chime in.

  “I’m so sorry,” I managed, trying to put myself in her place. We had come barging in. I looked straight at her, trying to mask my disappointment. I’d expected too much. “It was inconsiderate, coming in like this, throwing questions at you. It’s just that …” I couldn’t help myself. “You see, I’ve been reading your letters for months now, admiring your courage, feeling that you’d become my friend. And I do feel that I know you. Or”—I gave her a rueful smile—“I did.”

  Her face relaxed. A little. Now that we’d agreed to leave, she seemed more comfortable. “I wonder if any of us ever really knows another person?” she replied, sounding wistful. In that moment I heard the voice of the Lulu of the letters. Then her voice hardened again. “I never imagined that Mr. Beard would save those letters.”