ETIENNE WAS UNHAPPY with me, as he is periodically, because periodically I get these urges and go off on a food mission that doesn’t involve him, make executive decisions, change a supplier. And that morning I’d put Pasta Pazzo on the night’s menu before he got in, sent the proof by email to the printer (a local craft-letterpress subsidized by the Tenke Thorvald Foundation, almost free to us, but always a little like writing the evening’s menu in stone). We had a good supply of green tomatoes for beautiful fries, I’d checked on that. And then I’d gotten busy making wild-mushroom sausages from the exquisite load of king oysters and black trumpets and chanterelles and odd picks that Ferkie had dropped the afternoon before.
RuAngela rushed into the restaurant clacking in her heels on the old floorboards, a flood of cheer and confidence, gigantic hug to overmatch my obvious dolor. Etienne moonwalked in behind her, earphones from his Walkman loud enough for all the world to hear—Salt-N-Pepa—and the two of them danced a little, fell into an embrace, the most affectionate long-term couple I have ever known. While E.T. got dressed for the kitchen, I pulled Ru-Ru aside and told her about the menu change. She would conduct the information to Etienne, a bad-news system we’d developed over years, and I’d give him twenty minutes to calm down. I trotted out of the shop with seconds to spare, crossed the street and over into the deep-autumn garden, started pulling green hog-heart tomatoes—there were hundreds of the fat, dense things. Seconds later E.T. was behind me: I hadn’t got my twenty minutes. I hadn’t got two. I held a huge hog-heart up to him, scent of the plant, fantastic.
“Ha!” he shouted. “Green tomato fries? That’s a no-go, mo-fo! We don’t have those herbs, you kidding?” The man was genuinely scary when angry—something about that extra set of eyes, all the jewelry dangling off everything, but more than that, just the rare window on a deep fund of rage.
“We’ve got VIPs coming,” I said gently.
“Oh, Mr. Enormous, this better be good.”
“It’s Sylphide,” I said. “With those gentlemen from before.”
“Sylphide,” he said, theatrical gasp. He flung himself down beside me, started picking hog-hearts, placing them lovingly in our old olive-oil buckets one by one.
“You shouldn’t call me mo-fo,” I said.
“I’m sorry for that,” he said.
“And the Mr. Enormous. I don’t like that.”
YOU WANT EVERYTHING to be normal on a big night. You want things to be normal all day. I waited till nearly two to call the staff meeting, and that was when I announced that my dancer would be coming. Back to work we went, the kitchen and dining room suddenly in performance mode, beautiful. I left, just as always, around two-thirty. Drove peacefully north, too vigilant in any case for the usual nap. I parked at a certain barn. And walked past nickering horses to a certain pasture, to a certain shaded corner Ferkie had shown me once offhand and that I’d been checking daily for a week: sure enough, the mushrooms had been there, every day more young ones pushing up through the duff, a kind of confirmation of Sylphide’s and my plan, a growing galaxy of hundreds of pretty little specimens: either Amanita phalloides or Amanita ocreata. Death cap or destroying angel, didn’t matter which, but very likely ocreata, given the time of year (said the budding mycologist). I picked upwards of five pounds of the youngest ones, glowing white caps still attached to veils, placed specimen after juicy specimen lovingly into one of Ferkie’s large collection bags, delicious-looking knobs and stems, phallic certainly, the dick in the word phalloides, little flecks of leaf and dirt, faint bruises.
Back in the kitchen, I only had a couple of hours to work. Etienne and RuAngela had left, just two of our cleaning people in the dining room, the daily hiatus, vacuum running, only Colodo Doncorlo, our pasta chef, at work in the kitchen. She was irritable, having had the Pazzo sprung on her. I shrugged—wasn’t I back early, too? And got to work, lovingly washing the death caps or destroying angels myself, lovingly drying them, one by one. Such robust, handsome mushrooms, compact and shapely. I chopped, one of the great pleasures of the kitchen, wielding my Masamoto, a big blade sharp as broken glass. For the sausage we kept and used the mushroom stems if not too woody; this added texture. I took the tiniest taste of the stem in my hand—it had a good bite, kind of thready, easily torn with the teeth, perfect. I swallowed it, not thinking, but not much worrying either: it had only been the most minuscule amount. Mushrooms cook down, of course, shrink terrifically, and Amanitas p. and o. are no exception, shrinking in the wine and butter and olive oil, darkening nicely, forming a beautiful stock to reduce. Each sausage might contain as much as a quarter pound of the original weight of the mushrooms, with just two ounces uncooked weight guaranteed deadly. Two ounces!
I lingered over the cooking, rubbed out some sage leaves, rolled a little fresh thyme, taking too much of the other kind of time, two trips to the garden, inefficient pleasure, dry-panning the herbs with just a little more Thai fire-pepper than I thought I should (because that’s always the amount that’s right in the end), attending to every detail. So much of the art of the professional kitchen comes in consistency. I chopped another round of mushrooms, adding raw to the mix for tooth, as always, but in this case for potency, potency. I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t full of doubt. And I wasn’t afraid. I licked my knives constantly, kissed my fingers, added herbs, ground chilis, plenty salt, subtle spices, ate tiny morsels of the finished mixture, exquisite. But there was more to those sausages than that: they had the most subtle, lovely, rooty, earthy mushroom flavor I’d ever experienced, hints of fresh rain. I resisted eating spoonfuls of the mixture, but nibbled a little more, and then a little more again. Yes, yes, it was the single best food I’d ever tasted. The flavor would hold up a few hours, from what I’d read in the mushroom books, and I had read plenty.
Sylphide’s reservation was early, six-thirty. She and her guests had one of the Tenke Thorvald Foundation’s private jets reserved and waiting: overnight flight to Bombay, as the city was still called.
KATE AND JACK arrived just at five, per planning. The Firfisle staff already knew my sister from frequent visits. They knew the drill, too—she was here to serve Sylphide and her guests; the others were to leave them alone. E.T. patted my sister’s still golden hair, kissed her bright cheeks: oddballs attract. Of course Brady would know her, and of course he would know she knew him: how naïve we’d seem, what pawns.
Only Sylphide and I knew the full plan. Kate and Jack and E.T. and Ru thought we were all engaged in an undercover DNA collection, something we’d all agreed we had to do although no one at the current D.A.’s office (Jack’s discreet inquiry) was even slightly interested in the cold old case. The Firfisle staff was not to touch or see or know anything: no one but the core of us should be implicated in any legal issues that might arise. And we’d all expressed a lot of confidence in things going right: DNA collected, positive analysis proving connection of both men to their crimes, D.A. interested once again, case reopened, a couple of old murderers convicted. The dancer’s role was simply to bring in our quarry. Even Kate had seen the wisdom of that, though none of my explanations had convinced her of Sylphide’s innocence.
Neurotic celebrity, we told the staff. Special requirements. My sister was to be treated by everyone on duty just as any other waitperson, someone you were used to, no special hugs or hellos. In the wait-station she put her hair up, immediately found one of our signature green jackets to fit tight. RuAngela put her on napkin-folding duty, no special treatment and a good idea to keep Kate’s hands busy, keep her nerves down: surely if there were a weak link, Kate was it. She was very, very excited that her plan had prevailed. She was very, very unhappy that Sylphide would take part, and had said so repeatedly, heatedly. It took Etienne to settle her down—look at the role the dancer was playing, bringing the marks to table!—and later Jack to keep her calm and focused. “DNA,” he kept repeating, “DNA.”
Jack stuck around long enough to make sure things were going to be okay, then to his car and to
the Remarkable Bookshop downtown, kill an hour or so—his own reservation was for 6:15—get himself something to read over a solo dinner. Kate would be his waitress, too, so she wouldn’t just be serving the one table or compromising service for actual customers by serving anyone other than Jack. And, of course, Sylphide and the killers.
RuAngela was to help Kate collect utensils, drinking glasses, napkins, anything and everything that might yield usable DNA samples, just the hostess’s usual job of tidying. Kate had looked into “best practices,” as the FBI manual called them, and the private lab we would use had provided ridiculous little vials and glassine envelopes and swabs and even an evidence log. RuAngela would also coat-check our PPX table, take jackets, capes, sweaters, whatever the killers were wearing, comb them betimes for hairs, flakes of skin. I had quit protesting the technicalities—all that, I hoped, would be moot.
At five-thirty Firfisle’s first diners appeared, elderly regulars, Tuesday clockwork. Prep was still in progress when their orders came in, and the kitchen underwent its seamless transition to service, the daily infusion of energy. The Firfisle gang all lived for that pressure, the exhilaration of running ahead of an avalanche for a few hours every night. For me, just the usual nerves, nothing extraordinary. It was the big game, and game day had finally come. I closed my eyes and pictured a successful outcome over and over: the plates going out, the plates coming back empty. That’s all I had to achieve.
There was a small fridge under each station in the kitchen, and I padlocked mine after a long look at the perfection of my sausages. They were keeping their color nicely. I tried a microscopic pinch of the filling—still in perfect taste, that exquisite, harrowing flavor. Sylphide, playing dupe to the Blood Banks of India scam and fussy diva all at once, would enforce the ordering. So there should be no surprises.
By six the dining room was full, one of those nights that won’t unfold gradually but explodes.
“Rumble,” E.T. called out.
“Rock ’n’ roll,” we all answered.
It was a great kitchen on a particularly good night, everyone’s timing flawless, the call-and-response game spontaneous, and we all laughed easily, staying connected to one another and to the food.
Kate popped in the kitchen, marched straight to the salad table. “God damn,” she said. There just wasn’t enough for her to do. I could see she was crawling out of her skin, the inner Kate beginning to emerge. In our trim jacket she seemed a very beautiful matador dropped down from some unknown dimension, flushed and vibrant, much older than she looked, much younger than anyone there, a nine-year-old playing restaurant. She was close to ignition. She’d have to settle down. If anything could set her off it would be the sight for the first time in nearly twenty years of Tenke Thorvald. But what other tactic did I have?
“Just calm,” I said, touching her back.
The kitchen was sizzling and popping. Zone-hot, as we used to say on the Miami Dolphins.
“Blue jeans,” E.T. sang out. Kate was his ‘Venus in Blue Jeans,’ he meant. She’d heard it before, visibly relaxed, thumped out to the dining room, thumped back, nowhere to go, nothing to do but wait. “DNA,” I said.
“DNA,” she repeated. She gathered up the napkins she’d folded, pushed out into the dining room. She was my Crazy May, and might do anything. She didn’t come back, five minutes, ten. I’d got salads pretty well caught up, so chanced a peek out there. Judicious Jack was in his place, probably early—I wore no watch—seated over by the coatroom. Kate was looming over him. She looked nothing like a waitperson, not even a matador. She looked how the president of the United States would look in a movie for ambitious girls. She pointed at the menu emphatically, tense as a mousetrap. Jack flirted as if they’d just met. They’d better pull it in, I thought. Jack saw me watching, got the message, said something to Kate, something I could read on his lips: DNA. She made a circuit of the dining room with the water pitcher, nice. The men’s eyes followed her fanny. Jack would order the Pasta Pazzo, of course, and that would set things ticking.
I went to my station, waited, waited interminably, polished the stainless steel of my counter. Finally Kate appeared with Jack’s order, and after an appropriate wait I plated the tamer wild-mushroom sausages I’d moved from E.T.’s fridge to mine, top shelf, darker in color than the deadly group on the bottom shelf, quick minuscule pinch—still flavorful. Heated bowl exact timing from Colodo at the pasta station, double ladle of her morning’s beautiful pasta dressed with leek cream. Dash of salt in the sauté pan, splash of Umbrian E.V.O.O., strips of pepper red and green, three or four leaves peeled off a fat new brussels sprout, short heat, peak of flavor, make a little crown atop the piping fettuccine, sausages laid like thick petals, pretty.
Kate was back too soon, snapping and dancing like a power line down in a storm, you could feel it. Yet very smoothly she folded a napkin over her hand, took the bowl, turned to E.T. for the green tomato fries on their separate plate, Pasta Pazzo complete. Jack was going to be thrilled: free meal.
I helped the dessert table get a gooey mango cake plated cleanly, made some adjustments at the grill, wiped my station again, triply sterilizing everything that had come in contact with the other sausages during prep, bursting with the tension till Kate tumbled in again. “They’ve arrived,” she announced to the kitchen.
The pace picked up a beat.
E.T. looked her up and down, just as he would any waitperson under stress. “Calm,” he said, deep voice.
Kate breathed for him, came to me at my station.
Quietly, I said, “Remember, you’re a plain-old waitress. You’ve seen it all. So what, she’s famous.”
“No, no. It’s him,” she said. “It’s fucking Brady.”
“Doesn’t matter, Katydid. Okay? Just like we said, exactly. He’ll pretend he doesn’t recognize you. He knows whose restaurant this is. Of course you work at my restaurant, just like we said. You’ll pretend you don’t know him, too. It’s a game. We’ll get what we’re after. They think we’re scared. Just as we planned—you don’t care about a couple of middle-aged gays. Let Brady guess whether you recognize him, why you’re dissing him. We play their hubris. They think we’re stupid, still kids. They think the only plan is theirs. And okay to greet Sylphide. A little rueful, like we said.”
“Like we said.”
“Stay focused,” I said. “Think DNA.”
Kate took a breath, tugged down at the tight matador jacket. She said, “RuAngela’s taking their coats!”
“Just as planned,” I said. “Maybe help Picky Ricky.” And she did, helped our headwaiter carry out a large order, table twelve over in the corner. I couldn’t help it, looked out after her. In the front window, sunset in progress, every possible layer of light, Perdhomme and Kaiser just getting settled in their seats, RuAngela helping them, Sylphide already alight on hers, pleasant smiles all around.
The owner of Restaurant Firfisle should greet the famous dancer, Sylphide and I had agreed. That would be just normal behavior. Greet the dancer, acknowledge her guests, play the recognition game, we had called it—everyone pretending—act scared, in fact, someone taken by surprise and trying to keep his cool (nerves would take the place of any acting: I was scared, all right), lull them, stroke them, take my revenge face to face. I was always greeting guests. It came naturally enough. So out of the kitchen, straight to their table.
“Sylphide,” I said. “Delightful.”
“Ah, the famous owner,” she said extending her hand.
I kissed it.
Perdhomme didn’t look at me, made a point of staring out the window. I gazed at him a beat too long.
Kaiser put his hand out. “Brady,” he said. “Brady Rattner.”
I shook the limpish hand, braved a long look in his eye—he was one of those people who doesn’t back down from a gaze.
“Thierry,” Mr. Perdhomme said quickly. He didn’t offer his hand, gave me the briefest look. Exquisitely awkward. He knew exactly who I was, and he knew I
knew him. There was definitely something planned for me, planned for later, for after they’d taken Sylphide down.
I kept my face blank, said what I always say: “We’re pleased to have you.”
Little blunt sentences, tough Newcastle accent, Brady said, “We do love the restaurant. We’re not meat people. How’s your capitalization? We’d love to invest. We’ll stop in when we’re back. Yes, we’ll stop in. And we’ll bring some associates of ours. If you’re still here. The restaurant, I mean. It’s a volatile business. We have skilled associates. It may be you’re gone by the time we’re back, but if you’re still here.”
“We’ll be here, all right.”
“We’re off to Bombay tonight,” Sylphide sang, preternatural ease.
“India,” I said impressed.
“She insists on the trains,” Perdhomme said as if miserably, everyone acting.
“It’s authentic,” Brady said as if placating a reluctant partner. He had hundreds of millions of dollars in his eyes, or maybe a billion, now that Tancredi was on his way out.
“There’s an endless outdoor market by the station,” Sylphide said. “They fill you an enormous basket, beautiful things.”
“Not an inch given to jetlag,” said Brady. Brady Rattner, Dabney’s rotten brother, I couldn’t get over it: Kaiser.
“But first, Restaurant Firfisle,” said the dancer, and we all laughed as if it were the wittiest thing we’d ever heard.
RuAngela returned with the wine list. You’re lingering, her look said. Don’t be stupid, it said. Perdhomme snatched the thick book, buried his face in it.
“I’d better get back in the kitchen,” I said, tipping an imaginary hat. I backed away from their table, Brady’s gaze upon me frigid. I looked to Sylphide, but she was touching Perdhomme’s sleeve, saying something bright.
Quick hello to an older couple, regulars I was fond of, then a detour to the coat room, where I found the dancer’s pea coat. I sniffed it to be sure—jasmine—then slipped our smooth little stone heart into the right side pocket, the pocket you always put your hand in first, imagined her fingers finding it, my only chance to say farewell before her trip. Fleeting thought: maybe Emily wasn’t the bride that fate had in store for me.
Life Among Giants Page 34
