“I wonder if there are any chefs today who don’t want to be television stars. Seems like none of them want to stay in the kitchen and just cook,” I said. “You know, today he’s curing his own salmon. Tomorrow he’s touring the country and ordering packages of cured and sliced salmon from a food distributor.”
Mae said, “That’s not true of all chefs. Lots of them can do both—be on television and run a great restaurant.”
“Do you think this chef is more interested in stardom than his restaurant?” Sally asked me.
“Oh, I don’t know. He certainly is egotistical and arrogant enough to want to be a real big deal. He does spend a lot of time all over the city doing demonstrations for Irish products. And just look at this crowd. He sure spent a lot of money to impress the press.” I reached for another piece of salmon.
“Aren’t you biting the hand that’s feeding you home-cured salmon—avec garni?” Mary can be so annoyingly frank.
“Hey, I’m not criticizing. Large egos usually go hand in hand with success. I’m just stating a fact.”
Someone came up behind me and spoke directly in my ear in a low, sexy voice. “Hello, darlin’. Having fun yet?”
“Sully! What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see you, my darlings.” Sally Sullivan owned a highly successful public relations agency in Boston and possessed the three most coveted qualities in the PR business: connections, connections, connections. She knew just about everyone, and if she didn’t know someone, she knew who knew them. On top of that, she had an outgoing personality and a droll wit that made her great company. If her approach to PR was hard sell, you’d never know it. We knew her because she pitched a number of her clients to Morning in America and usually came to the studio when they appeared on air. I introduced her to Sally and Mary.
Sully shook hands with Mary while telling her she’d obviously gotten the looks in the family, then shook hands with Sally. “Great name,” she said to her.
“You too. Are you Sarah or Sally?”
“Sally. And Sally-May-Jane when I’m wooing a southern client, or good old gal Sal when I’m pitching anyone over sixty. Unfortunately, since a long childhood bout with tomboy behavior, born simply from wanting to play touch football with the boys next door, my friends have always called me Sully.”
“Did you come to New York just for this party?” Sonya asked.
Before Sully could answer, I knew. The A-list of people, the Mintinis, the green man. “Is this your doing?” I asked.
“If you’re having a great time, it is. If not, then blame it on that party crasher from the Johnson PR agency over by the bar.”
“It’s, like, the best,” said Mae.
“I thought the leprechaun was a bit much,” I said, raising my eyebrows.
“Careful, Casey. Those are my people.”
“How do you know Danny?” Sonya asked.
“I didn’t before I got involved in this event. One of Danny’s chefs, Brian Reardon, came here from a Boston restaurant I represent. Danny wanted to have a party to celebrate still being around after a year, but he was going to invite a bunch of friends and spend all his money to drown them in Guinness. Brian convinced him to call me and see if I could make a press event out of it. Danny was a bit hesitant, at first. He’s not much of a star fucker, pardon my English. Besides, he didn’t know any of the movers and shakers in the business. With all due respect, Sally, he’d never even heard of you.”
I got “So there” looks from everyone except Mae, who said, “So there!”
“Okay. Okay. Okay. So, he’s not a user. I still think he’s egotistical, arrogant, and, don’t forget, a major womanizer.”
“In my business, most people are egotistical and arrogant, but what makes you think Danny’s a womanizer?” Sully asked.
“Just the way he looked at me when I met him.”
“You were naked,” Mae reminded me. “So he copped a look. Who wouldn’t?”
“Half naked! It’s not the same thing,” I said, but I wasn’t sure of the distinction.
“Which half?” asked Sally.
“Does it matter?” asked Sonya.
“Someone tell me what’s going on or did go on,” Sully said.
Mae filled her in, adding, “Just for the record, I thought he was perfectly charming.”
“He is charming. And gorgeous. I certainly wouldn’t mind him looking me over,” Sully said.
“I’m dying to meet him,” Mary said.
“So am I,” said Sally, “but I think he’s still very busy in the kitchen.”
Sully cringed. “Ouch. A PR nightmare. A chef who’d rather cook than circulate. I can’t get him to stay out here. I’m going to go fetch him. Meanwhile, be sure and taste the potato wedges. They have Irish cheese and Irish bacon on them and are out of this world.” Sully headed for the kitchen.
“See if he has any crow on a cracker for Casey to eat,” Mae called after her.
A waiter came by to check on drinks, friends and fans continued to stop by to socialize, and we kept on drinking and eating. My seat was facing the entrance, so I was the first to notice Kim speaking to the gruesome twosome: George Davis and Carol Hanger. In spite of what appeared to be an attempt at dressing the part of party animals, they looked woefully out of place. George was wearing his usual ill-fitting pants but, for some God-only-knows reason, had on a red smoking jacket and an ascot. Noël Coward in a smoking jacket and ascot was classy and elegant. George Davis looked like an ass. Maybe he knew it and had put on the large sunglasses to disguise himself. When Mr. Hollywood stepped aside, Carol came into full view. She had squeezed her thick, round figure in some sort of pink jersey pantsuit, and its stretch ability was being tested to the limit. She should have brought a change of shoes, because the psychedelic green sneakers she wore for walking did not go with the suit. Then again, I’m not sure anything would go with that suit. Her short, straight haircut (which always reminded me of what Mary’s had looked like when she was eight and I had put a bowl on her head to cut her hair) was dyed a new color. The label on the box of the do-it-yourself dye kit had probably said something involving the word “red,” but it had turned her mop into an unreal rose color that came close to matching her suit. I wondered if they thought this was a costume party. Kim started them on a path to our table, and I caught Sonya’s eye and nodded in their direction.
“Anyone have to go to the ladies’ room?” she asked without missing a beat. Mae saw what was coming and left with Sonya. I had to hang around to see Mary’s reaction when she got a load of these fashion statements. She didn’t disappoint me. When George and Carol got to the table, she choked on her champagne, sending a thin spray of bubbles into her napkin, which she brought to her mouth just in time.
“Excuse me. The champagne went down the wrong way,” she said.
“That can happen when you drink too many glasses of it. How many of those have you had?” That was Carol. All tact.
“Carol, George. This is my cousin Mary Alfano. Mary, George Davis and Carol Hanger.”
George and Carol nodded at Mary without smiling and turned away so quickly that they left Mary with her hand outstretched. They said hello to Sally and sat down in the seats vacated by Sonya and Mae. Sally said hello to both of them; no kisses, no “honey.”
“Is this what they’re serving?” George asked, looking over the drinks on the table. He had a very high-pitched, effeminate voice and an affected accent, the origin of which was difficult to trace other than, perhaps to a constant hair across his ass. Before anyone could answer him, he raised his arm above his head and snapped his fingers at a waiter, who came right over. In an exaggerated gesture, he removed his sunglasses and said, “I’ll have a Seven and Seven in a tall glass without too much ice. Carol?”
“I want a Diet Coke in a large glass with a glass of ice on the side.”
I was so hoping the waiter would say, “Give me a break,” but he said, “Right away, sir,” and departed for the bar.
George turned to Sally. “Did you get my fax?”
“I did.”
“Good. I’ll meet you there then.” He turned to me and gave me a look that I could read only as “Up yours.” I turned away to talk to Mary. She was trying to make conversation with Carol, who was piling food on a napkin, but it was obvious that Carol had dismissed Mary as a lush. I turned back to talk to Sally, but now George was leaning close to her ear and talking in a one-on-one tone that implied, “Don’t interrupt.” She looked so uncomfortable that I had the urge to put my hand on hers and ask her if she wanted to leave.
Mercifully, Sully returned to the table with Danny by her side. He had on a clean white chef’s coat with the shamrock logo and just his name stitched on it—no “Executive Chef” or “Head Honcho.” His hair was neatly combed, but there were a few stray strands on his forehead just above those startlingly blue eyes, which were smiling and twinkling right at me. “Hi, Casey,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. My stomach did a complete flip-flop. It must have been too much salmon and the raw onion I ate with it. Then again, I seem to have a thing about men in white professional coats. I was crazy about seeing Richard in his dentist’s jacket, and when I was nine, I’d had a major crush on the vet who treated my cat, Meatball.
“Hey, Danny. This is a terrific party,” I said, looking around at the happy party people. “And the food is incredible.”
“Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”
Sully put her hand on Danny’s arm and said, “Danny, this is Sally Woods and Casey’s cousin Mary.” She waited for them to shake hands and then added, “And George and Carol.” I was hoping Danny would not think that they were friends. Danny shook hands all around; although George actually shook his hand, he didn’t stand, and his wrist looked like a limp rag in Danny’s firm grasp.
“Can you sit with us for a while?” Sally asked.
“It’s a bit mad in the kitchen, and—” Danny began.
“Sit,” said Sully as she pushed him into the chair next to me. She pulled an empty chair from the next table and squeezed it in between Danny and Carol. Danny scooted closer to me to make room; Carol didn’t budge.
“Your food is just delicious, Chef,” Sally said with obvious enthusiasm.
“Thank you. I have a great group of chefs to rely on.”
“What part of Ireland are you from?” Mary asked.
“Cashel, in county Tipperary.”
“That’s a long, long way,” I said.
“She has her father to blame for comments like that,” Mary said.
Danny smiled and laughed. A good, honest laugh. “I’ve heard it before. Often.”
“Where did you train, Danny?” Sally asked, reaching for a potato gaufrette.
“I studied hotel management at Shannon College. By the time I graduated, I’d realized that I didn’t want to run a hotel, I wanted to be in the kitchen. So I went to culinary school at Ballymaloe, in county Cork.”
“Oh, yes. I know it well. They do such a fine job. And the facilities are remarkable.”
“I was very lucky to go there. I couldn’t afford it, but the Irish government gave me a scholarship, no strings attached. It’s why I do so many demonstrations for Irish products. To pay back, you know.” Oh, Lord. The man’s a saint.
Carol took a business card out of her purse and stretched her arm across Sully to hand it to him. “I do prep for the more experienced chefs who give demos. I freelance, so I can be available any time of the day. Of course, I need some notice since I am very much in demand.” She then gave me a smug look.
Oh please! Professional competition from Carol doesn’t concern me in the least, but fashion competition was approaching our table. “It’s good to see you out of the kitchen, Danny,” chirped Kim the greeter.
“Thanks, love.” He slipped his arm around her waist. “Have you met everyone?”
She looked at Sally. “Yes, I have, thank you.”
“How’s it been going out here?” Danny asked.
“Totally amazing. Everyone seems to be having a blast. Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked, and I swear to God she bent over. And there it was: China.
“Thanks, no, love.”
The minute Kim left, Mary put her arm on the back of my chair and tugged on my shawl so that it slipped off my shoulders. I tried to kick her under the table, but she had anticipated it and moved her legs well out of my way. Danny, however, moved his toward mine. “Great dress. I think I’ll pray for rain.”
“I brought an umbrella,” I said. He laughed and gave my now bare shoulder a little squeeze. I did not take it personally, because in the course of the next fifteen or so minutes a number of scantily clad women approached the table to say hello to him, and they all got squeezes on one part of their anatomy or another. I would have bet anyone that a lot more happened in the kitchen walk-in than food storage.
Sally asked Danny about the Irish products, and he really lit up as he talked about the small farmhouse cheeses and the special feed for the pigs that gave up their lives for the bacon. He talked about the salmon fishing, a passion of Sally’s, and they compared fishing stories. When there was a moment’s break in the animated conversation, Mary said, “Danny, the Chihuly glass up front is totally amazing. Did you find it in New York?”
“For truth, it was a gift from the artist.”
“Wow! Do you know him?” Mary was noticeably impressed.
“A bit. I met him in Ireland. He and my uncle used to hang out there together. The glass was a gift for the restaurant opening. He’s a real generous guy.” Danny turned his head to both sides, looking for someone. “He’s here someplace.”
“Are you serious? Where?” Mary sat up tall and looked around the room.
“I’m not sure, but he’ll be easy to spot with that curly hair. Would you like me to introduce you?”
“Absolutely!”
“Okay. We’ll find him.” Danny stood up and walked around the table to Sally and shook her hand. “It’s great to meet you, Sally. The kitchen is beside themselves that you’re here. If it’s not a bother, before you go, could you pop out and say hello to them?”
“I’d love to.”
He said good-bye to Carol and George and then walked over to Mary. “You ready to look for Chihuly?”
“I’m right behind you,” Mary said as she stood.
Danny put his hand on my back. “You coming, Casey?”
“No thanks.” I might have gone, but I knew it would make George happy, so I stayed. Fortunately, Sully stayed as well and did her best to engage George and Carol in conversation. Carol was still making food piles. I was pretty sure she was slipping some of them into her purse.
“What do you do, George?” Sully asked.
“I’m an agent,” he answered without looking at her.
“Literary or otherwise?”
George put his arm on the back of Sally’s chair and gave Sully that smug look that just grates on me. “I represent Sally.”
It was probably imperceptible unless you knew her well, but Sully began to throw her head back to laugh and then must have realized it was not a joke; she coughed instead. She looked at me as if to say, “He can’t be serious,” then turned to George and said, “Great gig. Do you handle other clients as well?”
“Not now.”
“Oh. But you did before? Who were some of your clients?”
“I prefer to keep my client list confidential.” Even I knew that was bullshit. Agents build their businesses by dropping names.
Sully kept plugging. I didn’t know if she was really interested or just trying to make conversation, but I was dying to hear the details of George Davis. “A friend of mine has an agency here in New York. I’m sure you know of him—Marc Friedman?”
“I have only been working out of New York for a while, so I haven’t had time to socialize.”
“Where were you before?”
George’s smug demeanor was gradually slipping, and a loo
k of discomfort was replacing it. I thought I saw sweat running down the side of his face. Without responding to Sully’s question, he looked across the room and said, “Oh there’s . . .” I forget the name he used, because I’d never heard it. Sully had to turn around, but I was facing the direction he was looking so I saw his hand deliberately swipe a Mintini, sending it flying toward Sully. She jumped up quickly, but the green drink was already running down the front of her dress. George said, “Sorry,” but that damnable smug look said otherwise.
“Let’s get that washed off right away, Sully,” I said. “I’ll get some club soda and meet you in the ladies’ room.” I gave George a nasty stare as I stood, but he wasn’t looking at me.
In the ladies’ room, as I was less than successfully trying to remove the green from her dress, Sully said, “Who is that George character besides the guy on the far end of the evolutionary chart? He’s all bullshit, Casey.”
I was kneeling, so I looked under the two stall doors to make sure we were alone before responding. “I know. Nothing about him makes any sense. I’m pretty sure he knocked that drink over on purpose.”
“Of course he did. He was obviously uncomfortable with my questions. It’s not my business, but it’s hard to believe that someone like Sally would let a sleaze like him represent her.”
“I know. He’s definitely not of her class.”
“Class? He’s not even her species. Is Carol his sister?”
I looked up at her, surprised by her question. No one had ever mentioned their being related. “Why do you ask?”
“Didn’t you notice how much they look alike? Same shaped face. Same Slavic features. The same unfriendly, beady eyes that never look directly at you.”
“Come to think of it, they do look alike.”
“Mary to the rescue!” my cousin announced, marching in holding up a small vial of extra-strength spot remover. “When I got back to the table, Sally said you might need this. Let me do that, Casey. You should never travel without spot remover. How’d this happen? Did Carol throw a drink at you?”
Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance Page 9
