by Peter King
“Known as the Grains of Paradise,” I contributed. “Nobody expects to hear of either of them cropping up today, though.”
“Nice choice of a verb,” commented Don.
“Sorry—it was accidental. But how did somebody find it? And who was it? Was he looking for it? How did he know it was there?”
The wine waiter arrived and introduced himself. This is a practice which is creeping into the London restaurant scene but hasn’t made significant headway yet. Under some circumstances, I respond with “I’m the Gourmet Detective and I’ll be your customer tonight” but my head was spinning with questions and anyway Don was the host.
If America is a melting pot, then New York is a cooking pot. Surely no city in the world has so many eating places and such an enormous variety of ethnic cultures on which they are based. There cannot be any cuisine in the world which is not represented in New York.
We were in the Mondragon, one of Manhattan’s newer eating establishments. The canopied entrance was in soft French blue with gold lettering. Inside, the stained-glass ceiling panels, the elegant mahogany-railed curving staircase leading to the upper dining level and the luxurious leaf-patterned carpet made a sumptuous background. Don caught me looking around.
“Don’t worry—the food’s as good as the decor.”
He ordered a bottle of champagne by way of celebration—it was the Dom Ruinart Brut Blanc de Blancs.
“Well, that tells me one thing about the buyer of the Ko Feng—he’s paying well for this job,” I said, knowing that the price tag would be close to $100 for the bottle.
Don nodded. “You were asking about him. Name’s Alexander Marvell. He was in the restaurant business for many years, then went into the food importing field here in New York. When I first opened the Spice Warehouse, he bought some turmeric from me. It was from Alleppey in India—the very best kind as you know. I’ve sold him a couple of other shipments since then but that’s all. I was surprised when he picked me for this assignment.”
“Willard recommended you, that’s why Marvell picked you,” said Peggy.
“Willard Cartwright is Marvell’s right-hand man,” Don explained.
“Nobody better qualified than you, surely,” I said. “The Spice Warehouse must have put you in the forefront of spice experts.”
“It’ll work the other way too,” Peggy added. “There’s a lot of prestige involved here—should boost business in the warehouse by a few percent.”
The wine waiter brought the champagne and opened it expertly, enough of a pop to satisfy but not enough to make heads turn. It bubbled perfectly into the glasses and we drank and studied the menus.
Don and I both decided on the Oysters Rockefeller while Peggy chose the crab meat with avocado and lemon grass with a red pepper coulis. For the main course, Peggy and Don had the rack of lamb while I ordered the Jarret de Veau à l’Italienne—a refined French version of osso buco, one of my favorite dishes.
We finished the champagne and Don ordered a Diamond Creek Cabernet Sauvignon. The appetizers were excellent and so were the main courses. Don and Peggy’s rack of lamb was rosy red and oozing with taste, they told me. My slowly cooked veal shank had been sprinkled with gremolata, that wonderful blend of garlic, parsley and lemon zest, and it was slightly dry rather than being drenched in braising juices, a common fault with this dish. The imaginative accompaniment was a purée of white beans.
The waiters were prompt and attentive, and Don and I compared service in New York restaurants with their counterparts in London.
“Many’s the time I’ve had to wait thirty minutes for a check in London,” Don said, “even in the West End. Some restaurants seem to have a positive aversion to bringing it.”
“English middle-class disdain for any dealings with money,” said Peggy. “Anyway, waiting for the check never bothered you—you’d just order another bottle of wine.”
“Isn’t that out of character for a nation of shopkeepers?” I asked.
“We never were,” Peggy said. “That was just Napoleon’s way of showing his contempt.”
“Or his ignorance,” added Don.
We sipped the wine. “Meanwhile,” I said, “back at the Spice Ranch with the Ko Feng …”
Don laughed. “The way it was found, you mean? Alexander Marvell was in Saigon negotiating a contract for rice—that’s one of his biggest commodities. One of the men he was talking to mentioned a cinnamon plantation that he thought Marvell ought to take a look at. Marvell doesn’t handle that many spices so he was reluctant, but he couldn’t get a flight out right away so he went.
Well, the way Marvell tells it, they were driving along and from the jeep, Marvell looked down into a valley where he saw a strange-looking crop. He said it glowed in the setting sun and he asked what it was. The answer was ‘Just weeds.’”
The waiter brought dessert menus and I reluctantly tore myself away from Don’s fascinating story. The specialty was a mascarpone sorbet with wild strawberries and all three of us ordered it. Don continued.
“Marvell said he couldn’t get the image of that peculiar crop out of his mind. He felt there was something about it that was far out of the ordinary. He went back again the next day and took a sample and went into Saigon to the university.”
“I have to chip in here,” Peggy said. “If Alexander Marvell didn’t have an import business, he might be running a religion. He’s an extraordinary man—I can just picture him standing there, looking down into that purple valley and having an unshakable conviction that there was something magical about it.”
Don nodded in agreement. “It’s true, that’s how he is. Anyway, the people at Saigon University were puzzled. It was no weed they recognized—or plant, for that matter. So Marvell changed his flight plan back to New York. Instead of going via Bombay and London, he booked in the opposite direction so as to stop off in San Francisco”—he broke off and looked at me—“I’m sure you can guess why San Francisco …”
“Probably because that’s where the Mecklenburg Botanical Institute is. They’re number one in that kind of study.”
“Right. He even stayed in a nearby hotel and pressured them into going to work on the investigation right away. Once they had started, they got really interested and—to cut a long story short—they eventually concluded that it must be Ko Feng.”
“Which presumably didn’t mean much to Marvell at that point. I mean, not being a spice specialist, there would be no reason for him to even know the name—”
“He didn’t. Once he read up on it, though, he became really excited.”
“I hate to ask such a crass commercial question,” I said, “but how much do you suppose Ko Feng is worth on today’s market?”
Don grinned. “It’s okay to ask the question. You’re in the U.S. of A. now—commercialism comes with the territory. This wouldn’t be the country it is without commerce. Money lubricates the wheels of progress.”
“We still want to know how much,” Peggy said, tapping a spoon on the table for emphasis. “I was asking you this question the other day and I never did get an answer.”
Don spread his hands. “It’s so hard to say. How can you value something like this? It’s worth whatever someone wants to pay.”
“Sort of like the Mona Lisa?” Peggy asked.
“In a way, yes.”
“Or that Van Gogh that a Japanese bought for thirty million dollars?”
“They’ll do as examples. What’s the Van Gogh worth? Wood, paint and canvas—total twenty dollars. The Mona Lisa? Maybe less, the materials are older.”
“There is a difference, though,” I pointed out. “When a million visitors to the Louvre have looked at the Mona Lisa, another million can come and look at it. When this spice has all been eaten up—then what?”
“The scarcity makes it all the more valuable,” Don said.
Peggy looked at Don. “Hasn’t Marvell said anything about value?”
“I haven’t been able to get any clue from him as to wh
at he’s going to sell it for.”
“Will we get some?” Peggy wanted to know.
“Doubt it. I told him I’d like some, though.”
“What does saffron sell for now?” I asked. “It’s the most valuable spice there is today.”
“At the point of retail sale—about $200 an ounce,” Don replied.
“Ko Feng must be worth far more than that. Like ten times more?” I pressed.
“More, probably.”
“And the shipment is—what did you say, Don—about forty kilograms?”
“About that.”
Peggy was doing quick sums on the tablecloth with a fork.
“That’s two to three million dollars,” she said softly.
We sat silent for a moment, all of us awestruck at the thought of such wealth in such a simple form. The dessert arrived to end our reverie.
It was superb. The piquancy of the wild strawberries contrasted perfectly with the smoothness of the mascarpone, which is one of the newer arrivals on the dessert scene though long a popular cheese in Italy.
Peggy ordered tea, Don and I coffee. Before it came, I had already asked the big question.
“About tomorrow. How do we go about authenticating a spice that has been unknown for centuries?”
We sat over coffee discussing it until the waiter came by for the second time to ask if we wanted more coffee or anything further.
“Big day tomorrow,” Don said, examining the check. “Pick you up about eight o’clock. There’ll be some formalities to go through before the flight gets in at ten forty-five.”
“I can hardly wait,” I said, and I really meant it.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT WAS COLD WITH a blustery wind and there was the threat of rain from a gray sky. The yawning expanse of the cargo area at JFK added to the bleak aspect of the morning but I was tingling with anticipation. It was a rare occasion and I was going to enjoy every minute of it.
At the entrance, we had shown our identification and signed in. The security man assigned to the hangar we were heading for was waiting and he joined us. He was a rugged-looking young man with a determined no-nonsense air about him. His name was Karl Eberhard and he had a slight but unmistakable German accent.
Don followed his directions and we pulled up in front of a large hangar with BLS 12 painted on the side in red letters. A cargo tow truck stood near it with a flatbed trailer. We walked into the hangar. It was cold and the bare concrete floor made it even colder. Voices echoed several times before becoming lost in the cavernous ceiling.
Along the length of one wall of the hangar, several bays were separated by partitions. Each bay had desks, chairs, benches, tables. In the first one, half a dozen men sat playing cards. The second had several men and benches and tables that were littered with equipment. Karl Eberhard led us toward this second bay and I noticed that the third bay was empty except for a big black car. Three or four men were talking in the fourth bay and two more bays were empty. A closed pickup truck sat in front of the first bay, a gray van was at the entrance to our bay, and there was a shiny new rental van by the fourth bay.
Don held out his hand toward one of the men in the bay we entered.
“Hello, Willard, didn’t expect to see you here. Where’s the boss?”
“Something vital came up. He can’t make it. He asked me to take care of it. It’s just formalities here anyway.”
Don took my arm and introduced me. Then to me, he said, “This is Willard Cartwright, Alexander Marvell’s assistant.”
We shook hands. He was lean and spare, light on his feet and lively in his movements. His face was older than his body, creased and worn, but the faded blue eyes were quick and intelligent. He introduced Don and me to the others.
Arthur Appleton of FarEast Air Freightlines was balding and shivering in a lightweight suit. “Coldest building in the airport,” he said. “Good for your spice, I guess, but it’s not very friendly to humans.”
Sam Rong was a Cambodian representing the sellers, who had a series of Asian names which I promptly forgot. He was short and had one of those smooth and unlined faces which was probably twenty years younger than his birth certificate.
Coming from the first bay was Michael Simpson, who introduced himself as Customs and Excise. He was heavily built, getting close to retirement age. He wheezed as he spoke. “Hear you’re from London. Spent three weeks over there last year—loved it—hope we can go back next year.”
Cartwright explained that two other high security shipments were coming in on the same flight as the Ko Feng and all would be processed in this hangar. The men playing cards in the first bay were bringing in some experimental computer circuit boards from their parent, Sushimoto Electronics. The fourth bay was handling a crate of ivory carvings destined for the Chicago Museum of Oriental Art.
“I hear the other people canceled out,” said Eberhard, nodding toward the empty third bay.
“Yes,” said Appleton. “We didn’t know until the aircraft had taken off from Bangkok.”
All of them were to handle the formalities for all three shipments but there would be no delays, Appleton assured us. He excused himself to answer a call on his belt phone, which seemed to concern a flight arriving in the afternoon from Taiwan.
Karl Eberhard went for a stroll and seemed to be surveying the bare walls. I couldn’t see anything to look at but maybe that was the way security people did it. Simpson wandered off to talk to the Chicago Museum people and I took the opportunity to study the bay we were in.
Briefcases, papers, folders, a metal file box and a phone were on the desks, but it was the benches on either side of the stainless steel sink and drainboard that caught my attention. All kinds of laboratory equipment were on them and I looked at Don.
“Did you arrange for all this?”
“Yes. I told Cartwright what we wanted and he rented it for a couple of days. We checked it all out yesterday.”
Appleton’s phone buzzed again.
“That’s flight 227,” he said, snapping the instrument back into place. “Airport radar has picked it up. It’s being cleared for landing.”
“Flight 227 is ours,” Willard Cartwright said. He looked tense enough to start chewing his fingernails.
Appleton walked to the next bay to give them the news and it effectively broke up the card game. Voices were raised over who owed how much. Eberhard came back, then walked off again. I moved to Sam Rong’s side. It was a good chance to find out more about the Celestial Spice.
“I’m curious about the Ko Feng crop,” I said.
He smiled, apparently pleased at my curiosity. “Ah, yes.”
“I wondered how much of the crop you harvested?”
“Almost all,” said Rong, still smiling.
“Will there be another crop next year?” His smile broadened. “Must wait and see next year.”
“You mean there may not be another crop?” I said, surprised.
“Don’t think so. Must remember we know nothing of this crop. We think it is weeds.”
“How long has it been growing? After all, it was supposed to be extinct centuries ago.”
“Maybe grow a long time. We think it is weeds, pay no attention.”
“Hadn’t you noticed the haze?”
For the first time, his smile ebbed. “Please?”
“Marvell saw a glow over the field …”
“Ah, yes—glow. No one else sees this.”
“But you did when Marvell pointed it out.”
Sam Rong shook his head firmly. “No. No one else sees it.”
“What processing have you carried out so far?”
“We follow Mr. Marvell’s instructions. Pull stamens out of flowers.” He paused and repeated the word, proud of knowing it. “Stamen—is like a stalk. End produces pollen. This work can be done only in early morning when flower opens to greet new day.” His wide grin came back.
“Very poetic,” I complimented, then wondered if he understood me.
&n
bsp; “Poetic,” he said. “Poetic, yes.” I still wasn’t sure.
“Need thirty thousand stamens—make one ounce Ko Feng,” Sam Rong went on. “Foundation in San Francisco say so.”
Don came back from talking to Arthur Appleton, and Willard Cartwright asked Sam Rong something about documents.
“Learning all about Ko Feng?” Don asked me.
“I learned that it takes thirty thousand stamens to yield an ounce of it,” I said. “I hate to ask how long it takes to collect them.”
“Now you know why it’s already the most expensive spice in the world,” Don said. “How about a cup of coffee?”
Two large vacuum jugs stood on the table and as we sipped, I noticed that Karl Eberhard was still patrolling. Michael Simpson returned from the Chicago Museum bay and went to talk briefly with the Sushimoto Electronics people. All was in order apparently and he came back to us and struck up a conversation with Don and me about London.
A phone buzzed again. Arthur Appleton unhooked his and answered. When he put it back, he came over to us.
“Two-twenty-seven’s been cleared for landing. Want to watch her come in? She’ll be on runway 31.”
He walked off to give the same information to the men in the other two bays. We all went outside. An Air India freighter was just lifting off the ground and the shattering noise drowned any conversation. The sky was still gray but cloud cover was high enough that we could see the lights twinkling on a distant aircraft. On an adjacent runway, a four-engine plane with a high tail was taxiing for takeoff. I couldn’t make out what it was but Arthur Appleton waited until the Air India freighter was dwindling out of sight and said, “Tupolev—Russian—we call it the Vodka Express.”
A breeze blew across the field, augmented by jet engine slipstreams and dust and papers billowed. The lights on the incoming aircraft grew stronger and we stood in scattered groups, watching.
The 747 came in trailing streamers of vapor. The motors thumped rhythmically in the humid air. The plane loomed larger, then it was touching down with spurts of burning rubber. The thrust reversers cut in and the motors snarled mutinously. The plane came rolling down the runway, slower and slower until it turned off and came toward us, stopping about fifty yards away.
