Food Whore (7 page)

“Here's place one, two, three, four,” Henri said pointedly. “Two and four are the same. Don't get them mixed up.”

I loved the food at my fingertips and the smells in my nostrils. I loved being inside the meticulous clockwork, and for the first time since I had arrived in New York, I hit my stride.

During a short lull in ser­vice, Jake gave me and a ­couple other waiters and backservers a quick run-­down of the PXs, most of whom I hadn't recognized at coat check. “It's a perfect storm. A third of these ­people used fake names and another third dropped in after the
New Yorker
Festival. They weren't on the books and we had to open up the private dining room.”

Saveur
magazine editors doing a tasting at table 7. There, at table 3, a kindhearted food science expert. Tucked in the corner, a chef with a ten-­restaurant empire in Chicago, eating with his family. Then, at table 12, a celebrity news anchor and her famous director husband. I had noticed her at coat check, but not her date. At table 1, a disgusting lecher of a man with a prostitute dressed in red lace. No one wanted to sit next to him, but he always spent more than $5,000 on dinner for two, making him the most important—­and therefore most pampered—­guest that night. Barring few exceptions, money put the
extraordinaire
in
personne extraordinaire.

A ­couple of diplomats, some restaurant investors, wine importers. They all needed varying degrees of special treatment. For some, the whole meal was comped; for others, just a glass of champagne.

I moved around the room, picking up bread baskets, refilling water. My suit had an obvious air of quality to it. Guests respected my space and my actions, though at the end of the day, I was the one serving them. I mimicked the other backservers and soon I got into their rhythm. The dining room was my dance floor and I was enjoying myself.

“You're doing great,” Angel said in passing. He rushed away before I could say anything back.

I enjoyed Angel's approval and knew that Jake had been watching me all night. If I played my cards right, maybe he'd promote me and I'd be in the dining room after all.

Then Henri nodded his head and I followed him to a table in the private dining room, where the mystery man from the coat check sat.

Strangely, Jake hadn't mentioned him. He sat tucked in a dark corner of the room, which was too small to have a “view,” only a narrow line of sight into the main dining room. His three dining companions looked mild-­mannered and a little serious. I couldn't get a good look at his face.

I lowered their midmeal palate cleansers to the table as Henri walked away.

“Excuse me? Can you tell me what this is?” asked one man, not the mystery guy.

Instead of pointing, I gestured with my whole hand as Jake had taught me. “This is a grapefruit terrine with pickled borage flower.” I felt the mystery man studying me as I tried to keep my voice steady.

“Thank you,” a woman said. “Looks delicious.”

Was he from Yonkers? Someone I had seen around NYU? I rotated to the other side of the table to make sure the silverware was ready for their next course. And then my eyes met his. Eyeliner rimmed his eyes and I think he was wearing some sort of dark foundation. But I recognized him.

Of course, he looked nothing like his pictures in the restaurant, big-­cheeked and round-­gutted. This man was thin, frail, the same man who had touched his cold nose to my wrist. Here he was—­the
New York Times
restaurant critic,
Michael Saltz
—­eating out in makeup. He was keeping me on my toes—­but who was that note meant for? Surely not me.

But what if it was?

And yet it seemed preposterous that he was there reviewing the restaurant. Jake knew all the PXs in the house—­their names, occupations, favorite wines, and even some random story he'd casually drop, a hint to say,
I see you, I know you, you're in good hands.

But even I knew that he couldn't know everything. He hadn't known that the restaurant would be slammed with PXs tonight, or that we'd have to open the private dining room.

After the table ordered more wine, Henri returned to the kitchen but I stayed behind in the doorway between the private and main dining rooms, figuring out how I could tell someone.

Angel and Henri had been instructing me with grunts and urgent commands, unable to chat for any length of time. Carey was sorting out silverware at the other end of the restaurant. The hostess was away from her post, working her charm on an elderly ­couple lugging their heavy and unsightly bags, not content with their prime table by the window. No one knew.

Then I remembered his note and looked at it again. Even though it seemed farfetched that he'd come to the restaurant to see me and give me that note, part of me thrilled at the thought. What would he want to do with me, anyway?

I looked up and saw him staring at me. He winked and brought his finger to his lips. To anyone else, it might have looked like he was wiping his mouth, but to me, the message was very different.

Keep quiet.

So I did. The dining room went on without me. The world didn't end. I focused on my job and avoided eye contact with Jake, Angel, and the rest of them. They couldn't see the guilt in my eyes. I had to see what Michael Saltz had in store for me.

Once the crowd had died down around eleven, Jake told me I could take a break, then return to the coatroom to finish out the night. I took one last look at the private dining room, to absorb my first day working in a restaurant. And then Michael Saltz's eyes met mine again and he put down his napkin.

He was ready to talk.

I brainstormed for a place to hide, then decided on the basement, knowing full well he would follow me. We had to be fast since the staff could figure out Michael Saltz's presence at any time. But then again, the last of the PX tables were still keeping them busy. They didn't realize their number one target was already dining among them.

“Hello, Tia. Good to see you again,” he said when he arrived in the basement, as if we'd bumped into each other on the street. The hallway was dark and severe, white concrete walls and red doors leading to the boiler room and storage. You never would have known we were in a fine-­dining restaurant.

“Good to see you, too, sir.” I thought for a brief second that nothing good would come out of this basement conversation, that I should get out now. But then he spoke, and his riptide pulled me in.

“Well, I'm very happy to see you again. And I wanted to ask your opinion. Seeing as you're the college cooking prodigy and all. Did you serve a good meal tonight?” he asked, his voice slinking up like a snake in the grass.

The college cooking prodigy . . . At the time, it had seemed like such a big deal, but now it was just an old title, a trophy losing its luster. Though I still liked the sound of it.

“I think your amuse-­bouche . . .” I started slowly. Sure, I had opinions about it, but when it came to Michael Saltz, I couldn't say much. I bit my nails and stared off into the hallway, imagining Jake catching on. Surely he must have suspected something?

“Yes, my amuse-­bouche what?”

I finally met his eyes and saw he was genuinely interested. I could tell him a little bit. Talking about food was the thing that made me
me
. What made me shine.

“The edamame puree with clementines and endives is genius. It's bright and bitter, soulful and singing. It's a summer dish with autumn actors.”

“Oh, yes? That's a lovely turn of phrase. Tell me more.”

I felt only vaguely aware of who I was talking to. If I really thought about it, I'd have stopped. He was too important and I couldn't imagine his motives. But I was also flattered. Shocked, really. Michael Saltz remembered
me
. Sure, it had been an oddly indelible first encounter, but I was just a grad student and he was the
New York Times
restaurant critic. He shouldn't have given me a second thought. But he was. More than a thought. He was listening to me.

“I've read that when he was a line cook at Vrai, Chef Darling would cook the most amazing staff meals—­daring, audacious flavor combinations. This amuse-­bouche is more reckless than anything else on the menu, and is probably a taste of his cuisine before he took on leadership positions.” I was basically paraphrasing Helen's article, but there was power in her words coming from my lips.

“I see. You seem to know a lot about Chef Darling. And his food. What else did you like?” Michael Saltz asked, arching his brows.

The words rushed out of me. I feared someone would find us, but maybe more than that I feared that this moment would end and I'd lose this audience. And then I'd be back to square one. That wasn't the end of the world, but it wasn't the NBT.

“Well, the opposite of the amuse-­bouche is the short rib with kale and black-­eyed peas. From the most fundamental taste perspective, I find it . . . flawed. The black-­eyed peas have a funk to them that clashes with the short ribs. Short ribs are soft, smooth, fatty—­like vanilla. And black-­eyed peas . . . they taste like dirt, and not in a good way. The two don't harmonize. I think Chef has been phoning these plates in. Short ribs are the restaurant's signatures, but I don't think Chef Darling wants to step into someone else's shoes. He's having adjustment issues and it's obvious.”

I hadn't admitted this to myself during the staff tasting, but now in the basement, the thought sprang forward. Things I was afraid to think or say or do surfaced in the dark. Was I going against the restaurant? Yes. But it felt so good to just talk. My roommate was a mystery. Things had been feeling funky with Elliott. Michael Saltz may have been a stranger—­a very sketchy stranger—­but having him listen satisfied some deep, aching part of me. A part that must have been starving for a while, because I leaped into his attention like my life depended on it.

“And the chicken? What's your opinion on that?”

“I think the chicken is very good,” I said, my voice steadying and my volume growing. “It comes from a local farm where we also get our eggs. If you taste carefully, you can detect a slight herbaciousness in the meat. Matthew doesn't add that, that's in the product. It's very subtle, but I'm sure you—­”

“Yes, yes, that's right . . .” He took out a tall, skinny pad of paper and furiously wrote something in mangled handwriting. “And the cassoulet?”

“The cassoulet is one of my favorites,” I said, gaining steam. “We use fresh, not dried, white beans, and homemade rabbit sausage. It's only stewed for an hour or two, so it retains lovely freshness.”

“Yes, yes, freshness,” he said. “Now tell me about the seafood paella.”

“Well, I'm allergic to some types of shellfish, so I didn't try the paella at our menu meeting.”

He looked up from his pad abruptly. “Allergic?” He looked mad for a moment, then suddenly, he let out a giant grin that seemed to unhinge his jaw. “That's not ideal. But I have a rather complicated relationship to certain shellfish dishes, so I'll take that as a sign.” He looked down at his pad again, excited. “What did you think of the pork loin? Enlighten me!”

Here he was, Michael Saltz, writing down
my
thoughts about food. It was unreal. Insane. A dream I didn't know I wanted, come true.

“You got the pork with the ras el hanout?” I asked. There were two pork preparations that night—­one homier preparation with carrots, corn, and okra on the regular menu, and a pork loin with Middle Eastern spices, butternut squash, and radicchio on the specials menu.

“Yes . . . yes, that's the one. What do you think of it?”

“The one with the roasted butternut squash and caramelized radicchio, right? Not the one with the carrots and corn? They sound similar, but they're very different.”

“The ras el hanout. The first one you described.”

“Okay.” I filled my lungs and let it all out. I was onstage, just me, performing for Michael Saltz. This was the climax.

“I think it's awful. The pork is overdone and the dry spice rub accents that. Ras el hanout has a beautiful bouquet of tastes, but when overcooked the spices wick all the moisture out of your mouth. Then the radicchio furthers the dryness. The butternut squash adds a dose of heart and lusciousness, but there's not enough of it to save the dish.”

I knew I was betraying the restaurant, but I tried to shed that self-­doubt. I wanted to forget about the meek girl who never believed in her voice and thoughts. In that dark basement, with the
EX
I
T
light flickering, I made myself heard.

He wrote for several more seconds before looking up at me. “Thank you. You're impressing me a great deal.”

“Is that what you thought of it?”

“Absolutely. The ras el hanout was too strong. I can still taste it.” His dry lips split as he talked. “And the desserts?”

The meal we were reviewing was coming to a close and I was feeling as if I'd said too much. But I continued anyway.

Call it inertia. My words didn't want to stop.

Or call it hunger. I craved the recognition.

Or call it searching for the NBT. The New York way. Would Emerald or the ice pop girl have done any differently?

“Desserts . . . did you have the sweet potato cassava pie with the hazelnut praline crunch?” I asked.

“Yes, I had the cassava pie.”

“What did you think of it?”

He closed his eyes and swayed into the wall. “Tell me what
you
thought of it.”

I heard footsteps above us. “We should get going. Maybe you can email me? Can this wait?”

“Why?” he asked. “You've held nothing back so far. Tell me what's on your mind.” He smiled. Though he'd been smiling up a storm, the expression looked unnatural and pasted on.