Spiced to Death

by Peter King

  “I like this place,” she said. Her voice was as enticing as it had been over the phone though a tone lighter.

  “Vienna is a good model to use for a decor of intrigue. All that’s needed are curtains that can be drawn.”

  She smiled, a placid smile—or so it seemed at first. Then, and without changing, there was a hint of delicious wickedness in it.

  “Look behind you,” she said.

  I had thought that the walls were covered with drapes, mostly black and some purple, but now I saw that the purple ones were in fact curtains and that they had cords.

  “Not only attention to detail but realism,” I commented.

  She ordered the same house cocktail. It was champagne with some fruit juice in it—I thought a blend of guava and mango.

  We sipped. I waited for her to open the conversation.

  She said nothing. Her composure was extraordinary.

  To break the silence I said, “I’m glad they haven’t thought to add more atmosphere by playing The Third Man theme on a zither.”

  “Ernst-Erich is half Swiss, half Austrian. He’s too subtle for that.”

  Another short silence followed. It must be her technique, I thought, her way of throwing me off balance. Then she started to speak and I decided I had been wrong. She spoke when she had something to say and didn’t feel the need to bridge gaps of silence.

  “Let me tell you about Paramount Pharmaceuticals first of all. We are the seventh largest pharmaceutical company in the Western world. Our total sales last year were twenty-three billion dollars. Our operating profit was a record high at eight hundred percent and our net income was five hundred million dollars …” She broke off to smile apologetically. “Numbers get so boring, don’t they? Especially when millions and billions get thrown around so readily. We have one hundred and four subsidiary companies all over the globe and our long-term earnings are growing at nineteen percent per share. Last year was a record year in every respect—for the fifth year in a row.”

  She paused to assess what effect she was having on me.

  “A remarkable achievement,” I said. “Especially in these tough times.”

  “My responsibility is new products. Developing new products isn’t easy. Few chemical products are really new. Most are simply improvements on the old. Occasionally, we succeed in synthesizing one of nature’s original products but that is expensive to do and manufacturing them is even more expensive. So you can see why we become excited when we hear of a genuinely new natural product.”

  We were getting there at last. I nodded encouragement and waited for her to continue.

  “I decided to establish a new group a few months ago. A new group to develop and market a new category of pharmaceutical products. Products that have never been marketed before.”

  I frowned.

  She smiled, her red lips perfectly shaped with a tantalizing crinkle at the corners. “Does that surprise you?”

  “It certainly does. It must be very rare for a product group that new to be developed.”

  “Rare indeed,” she agreed. “The group I’m talking about are aphrodisiacs.”

  That got my full and undivided attention.

  It also brought a silence down on the table that must have been noticed by the waiter for he deemed the moment appropriate for bringing menus and he was promptly followed by the maître d’, who appeared to be accustomed to giving Ms. Branson the personal treatment.

  She introduced me as a visitor from London.

  “He has a reputation as a gourmet,” she told the maître d’, “so you had better give him your finest recommendations.”

  “I’m looking forward to hearing them,” I told him. “Viennese cooking has a unique pedigree—drawn from a dozen cultures.”

  He gave a slight bow of agreement.

  “In the days of the Emperor Franz Josef, sixteen languages were spoken freely in Vienna and there were even more national cuisines,” he said. His slight accent was smoothly and definitely Austrian. “Many contributions were made—from herdsmen of the Hungarian plains, Czech peasants, Serbian mountaineers, Alpine guides, Turkish pashas, Polish noblemen, Italian seamen, Levantine traders. The best was taken from each, for the Viennese were choosy. They also blended a little of this cooking with a little of that and evolved new dishes.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that everyone in Vienna ate well except the emperor?” asked Gloria.

  The maître d’ smiled. “Yes, indeed. He wanted only boiled beef every day.”

  “Tafelspitz,” I commented. “I enjoy it when I can find it, but once or twice a year is enough.”

  “So what do you recommend for twentieth-century capitalists?” Gloria asked.

  “Hapsburg Soup would be very suitable …”

  We both smiled.

  “It’s very good,” conceded Gloria, “but too creamy.”

  “Dumplings are, of course, very much a Viennese specialty …”

  “I’ve had them several times,” she said. “I’m beginning to look like a dumpling.”

  The maître d’ and I responded simultaneously with protests that nothing could be further from the truth. Gloria smiled, having achieved her desired result.

  She decided on the Russian Eggs and I ordered the Barley Soup. Discussion continued on the next course. Gloria favored the Hot Oysters and I chose the Eel in Dill Sauce. For the main course, she went for the (a true Viennese specialty, the maître d’ assured us) and I eventually selected the Fricasseed Goose, as goose is unfortunately becoming increasingly harder to find.

  The wine waiter came and confided that he had a few bottles of Austrian wines in the cellar.

  “They are drier and more alcoholic than the German wine varieties drunk most often in this country,” he added. We accepted his recommendation of a Klosterkeller Steigendorf, a full-bodied but dry Riesling.

  When he had gone, Gloria returned to her theme.

  “Apicius, the Roman cookbook writer, had recipes for increasing sexual desire. Homer, Ovid and Pliny all described sexual stimulants in their writings,” she said.

  “Both garlic and onions were considered as such stimulants, weren’t they?” I asked.

  “And still are. In fact, there was a period in India when they were banned because they were considered to be too stimulative. And in Europe for centuries, both of them were forbidden food in nunneries and monasteries. Nero ate huge quantities of leeks—which, of course, are the same family.”

  “I remember reading that the workers on the pyramids in Egypt went on strike when their garlic ration was cut.”

  She nodded. “But the Middle Ages were the times when the search for love potions was at a peak—every wizard, every sorcerer and every alchemist was brewing up a newer and better one. Repressive governments and ignorant populations made an ideal environment for even the most outlandish concoctions. Yet some of these contained ingredients which we have since come to find very useful.”

  “Presumably they hit on them by sheer chance,” I suggested.

  “Trial and error too. Even without any scientific method, centuries and centuries of trial and error produced a small body of knowledge.”

  The first course arrived. My barley soup tasted authentic and had asparagus tips in it.

  “Another heavily favored aphrodisiac,” commented Gloria when I remarked on them.

  She was studying her Russian Eggs but evidently didn’t miss a trick. She continued to expand on the theme.

  “Many vegetables with what was considered to be a phallic shape had that reputation—even carrots and parsnips.”

  I asked about the eggs when she had tasted them. The layer of black caviar was generous and she indicated approval.

  “Yet another stimulant,” I pointed out.

  “An inaccurate belief,” she said. I was quickly learning that she was a lady of strong opinions. “Based on cost and scarcity—false bases, both of them.”

  “And then there was Casanova, who believed in oysters. They too ha
ve been scarce and expensive at certain periods in history.”

  I said it fully aware that she had ordered oysters for her second course.

  “Casanova ate fifty a day,” she agreed. “When it was later found that oysters are very rich in zinc, a search began for other zinc-rich foods.”

  “And now it’s a search for any product which will act as a sexual stimulant.”

  She nodded. “Flowers have always been very popular for the purpose. Henry VIII ate primroses and violets at meals while jasmine, lotus, saw palmetto, fuchsia and verbena are just some of the others that many people swear by.”

  “Isn’t it surprising that flowers are not used more in modern cooking?” I asked.

  “Very surprising. I think we are due for a resurgence of interest in them. At PP”—I looked askance and she explained—“Paramount Pharmaceuticals, we are analyzing and testing numerous flower groups to determine what chemical compounds of value may be in them.”

  The second course had arrived by now. Gloria’s oysters were in a milk-and-butter mixture only, the chef presumably not wanting any other flavors to obtrude. I considered asking Gloria if she preferred that no spices interfered with their stimulating purpose but did not, concentrating on my eel. There was a fraction too much vinegar in the dill sauce, which prevented the full flavor from coming through, but it was acceptable. I knew from personal experience that no chef can please all tastes.

  The wall drapes had a sound-deadening effect which made the restaurant very quiet. It lived up to its name as even the most secretive intriguer couldn’t be heard in the next booth. This was just as well as our conversation would have proved fascinating to the average eavesdropper.

  Gloria continued. “The discovery of hormones brought a new approach. The male hormone was identified as testosterone and the female as estrogen. Products which contain these or initiate their production by the body are the target of investigations on which millions of dollars are being spent.”

  The wine waiter poured us the last of the Riesling. It is always a problem when a dish contains vinegar as mine did, because vinegar affects the taste of the wine. Salads are equally difficult from the wine drinker’s point of view, as most dressings are acidic. We asked the wine waiter for his suggestion on a wine to go with the main course and, after lamenting that he had no suitable Austrian wines in the cellar, he proposed a German Spätburgunder, adding that they had a case in the cellar from Assmannshausen, universally considered to be the best. We ordered a half bottle.

  One thing I liked about Gloria—well, there were a number of things but one of them was that she paid full attention to her food and when the main course arrived, I was still admiring her for that reason as well.

  Her sweetbreads looked appetizing and she nodded approval upon tasting them. It had been a long time since I had eaten goose but the chef had lived up to the reputation that Gloria told me had accompanied him from Salzburg.

  We were almost through when she resumed our conversation.

  “As it was my idea that we should form a new group to produce and market aphrodisiacs, my job is on the line. If the group isn’t profitable, I’ll be looking for another job.”

  “I’m sure you would have no trouble getting one.”

  “That’s not the point.” She put down her fork to concentrate on her words. “This was my suggestion, my idea. If it doesn’t succeed, I’ve failed. That is important to me.”

  “I can understand that. Still, you can’t have much to worry about—it seems like an infallible notion from a marketing viewpoint. Aphrodisiacs will surely sell like—well, I don’t suppose ‘hot cakes’ is exactly the right metaphor …”

  She smiled and took a hearty swallow of wine. “The concept is right, that’s true. Even if our marketing forecasts are off by fifty percent, we should still do very well.”

  “Isn’t it odd that no one has thought of this before?” I asked.

  “A number of products are on the market but the FDA doesn’t permit describing them as aphrodisiacs, and we can’t advertise them as such. Yohimbine, avena sativa, and gotu kola are all herbs which have some effect as sexual stimulants. Some claims are made for ginseng while others swear by gingko biloba. Then among the chemical stimulants are bromocriptine and acetylcholine.”

  She stopped eating and drinking temporarily and I knew she must have something important to say. “With Ko Feng, it’s different. Ko Feng offers us our first clear chance of marketing a substance that can be accurately described as an aphrodisiac.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Robert Barker’s book The History of Spices, published in 1911, John Arthur Evans’s earlier work, Sexual Stimulants and Erika Farber’s The Venus Factor deal with the subject in general and make numerous references to Ko Feng. Rabd-Al-Manah’s books in Arabic contain extensive mentions of natural products effective as aphrodisiacs and Ko Feng is described as the most powerful of all. A lot of other titles have accumulated in our library since I began this project and Ko Feng is mentioned frequently.”

  We finished our meal. We drank another glass of wine.

  “The FDA will hardly accept the authority of deceased writers, will they?”

  “We will, of course, have to do a considerable amount of research,” Gloria said carefully. Her lovely eyes were on me, calm and yet inviting.

  “Rats, guinea pigs, fruit flies, you mean?”

  “No matter how much laboratory work of that type is done, it will still be essential to make tests with humans.”

  “Do you have a staff for this or—?”

  “We sometimes use volunteers.”

  “I suppose with any work this vital, you have to participate yourself?”

  “Of course,” she murmured demurely. She sipped more Spätburgunder and the dark red wine left drops on her lips. She dabbed at them delicately. “I could hardly ask my staff to undertake any research work that I am not prepared to risk myself.”

  “Management has its responsibilities,” I agreed.

  “Tell me who else is interested in recovering the Ko Feng,” she said softly.

  It took me a few seconds to switch subjects. I had been immersed in her plans for testing the Ko Feng and was still at the stage where I was speculating on exactly how results would be judged …

  “Other potential buyers are on the scene, of course,” I said, being as noncommittal as I knew how.

  “Competitors?”

  “No, not competitors of yours. Different areas of business. I don’t know that there are any others working in your, er—more sensitive area.”

  I wasn’t absolutely certain that was true. There might be a shading of overlap, although putting aphrodisiacs into breakfast cereals did strike me as being too innovative to be likely.

  “Are you making any progress in recovering the Ko Feng?” she asked me anxiously.

  “Several promising leads have shown up,” I said. “They are all being pursued.”

  “Do you have any idea of when you expect to get it back?”

  “We operate on the basis that we have to succeed in ten days,” I said, quoting Lieutenant Gaines but not crediting him for it.

  “That means only about another week left.” She looked concerned and I looked noncommittal. It was easy to do.

  “I could use your help on this,” I said.

  She looked at me, inquiring but cautious.

  “Let me know immediately if you’re approached by anyone offering to sell.”

  “Do you think I will be?”

  “It’s possible.”

  When we left, she simply gave a nod to the maître d. It was an impressive way to pay the bill but out of a twenty-three-billion-dollar turnover, I suppose she had a generous expense account.

  After such a delightful lunch, I had a lot to contemplate. An investigator’s life is tough and a food investigator is no exception. But I was prepared to do what an investigator has to do and when I got back to the Framingham Hotel, I decided to walk over to nearby Central Par
k and get some fresh air to stimulate my thinking processes. It was a pleasant afternoon with a light breeze and if I stayed with the crowds, I should be safe.

  The nuts and the kooks were out in strength. A young man with a propeller on his hat was being pulled along on a skateboard, the power being provided by eight cats, all on strings like huskies pulling a sled. A group of monks in yellow robes were ringing bells and chanting. All had begging cups and a poster carried by one stated that the proceeds would go to building a temple on Staten Island. Bicycle messengers were using the park as a shortcut across town, and life and limb were being threatened in order to deliver office memos ten minutes sooner.

  Two women went by, talking. “Know why the animals in the zoo are behind bars?” one asked her companion. “It’s for their safety.” The other sniffed as they passed an overflowing garbage can with a particularly offensive odor. “I wish this city would collect its garbage as often as it does taxes.”

  On the way back to the hotel, I stopped and bought a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, some limes and a bottle of ginger ale. Some bourbon purists throw up their hands in horror at such a mixture but I find it a delicious combination—so delicious it deserves a name. At the Fairway Market near Seventy-fourth Street, the day’s specials were chalked up and I made a few purchases.

  While enjoying the first drink, I watched television, still with an air of disbelief. On one channel, an uptight, egotistical, bombastic white male was the anchorman on a fictitious television news station while a gruff producer with a heart of gold was avoiding complimenting a competent white female assistant. On another channel, a gruff talk-show producer was avoiding complimenting his assistant, an unappreciated white female and trying not to fire his bombastic, fatuous, uptight white male sidekick. A third channel seemed to have the same characters but now they were in a newspaper office. A fourth channel had the same characters only now they were all black.