Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance (13 page)

“I thought that Danny was awfully cute?” It wasn’t a statement; it was a question requiring a comment from me.

“I think Danny is
very
cute, Sally. But I still think, as you so
accurately put it, that he just needs to sow his wild oats and the last thing I need right now is an itinerant farmer.”

That brought a glint to her eyes. “Who knows? Might be fun.”

“Sally Woods! Shame on you!”

By the time we got down to sharing the last pancake, our conversation had moved from men to the cookbooks she was going to feature on next week’s show. Sally does a cookbook spot on the show once a year. She and Sonya both receive just about every one that is published—over three hundred a year. Sonya gives hers to me to look over, Sally goes over the ones sent to her, and then she and I compare notes and select ten to feature. “I look at the recipes for chicken first. If you can’t cook a chicken so it’s not dried out, you have no business writing a cookery book,” she had told me, using the quaint British term for cookbooks. “As soon as I see directions to cook a boneless chicken breast for one hour, the book is out the window. A good index is necessary as well.”

“I think you have a great group of books this year,” I told her now.

“I do too. It’s amazing how many come out every year, and people still buy them. Thank God!” she said. “Maybe next year we should consider including some cooking CDs. I’ve been receiving a lot of them lately.”

“Sonya has also. I honestly haven’t had a chance to look at any of them. Are they any good?”

“Some are. I don’t think they’ll ever replace real books, but the ones that show actual techniques, like boning chicken breasts, can be quite helpful to the beginning cook.” She looked at her watch. “Gosh, I’d better go.”

“I’ll walk out with you.”

A car was waiting for her at the curb. We hugged each other, holding it a little longer than usual.

“Now, you put that Richard situation behind you, Casey. He didn’t deserve you.” She got into the car.

“Thanks, Sally. I’ll give you a call over the weekend.” I was hoping she might share more about her situation over the phone.

“I’ll be away for the weekend, but I’ll see you next Wednesday. We’ll have a nice lunch after the show. You pick the place. Why don’t you ask Mary to come along? She’s such fun.”

“Great. I’m on it.” I wondered if she wanted someone else there to avoid talking about troubling issues, but I let it pass. “Love you. Mean it,” I said as I closed the car door.

“Love you back.” And she was gone, along with any immediate answers to the George dilemma.

I
HAD A HALF
hour to spare, so I walked to Sonya’s office. She was on the phone when I walked in, and she did not look happy. She had her forehead resting in her hand, and her voice was a monotone of mutterings: “I know. I will. I did.” She glanced up when she saw me and shook her head back and forth in a woeful manner. When she hung up, she let out a long, discouraged sigh.

“Well, that did not go well.”

“What’s up?”

“The meeting with George and the VPs on Wednesday was a disaster. He asked for triple the amount we pay Sally now or, he said, she’ll walk. The VPs didn’t come right out and say it, but they sounded a lot like they’re wondering what I’d done to make her ready to leave the show or at least why I couldn’t keep her here.”

“Wow. Will Sally tell them it’s not your doing?

“Sally won’t have anything to do with any of the negotiations. She has authorized George to do all the talking for her, and quite honestly, it’s pissing me off.”

I wished I could tell her that George was a temporary problem, but I figured if Sally wanted her to know she would have said something already. “Will they pay the raise in salary?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Right now, they’re really steaming at being pushed like that. They feel like they’re being threatened. You know, these guys have pretty big egos. They don’t take well to being pushed around.”

“But wouldn’t the revenues from sponsors more than cover the salary increase?”

“That’s another issue.” She picked up a small Post-it pad and tossed it across the desk. It was just a gesture; I’m sure she wanted to throw something bigger and harder at our friend George. “God, it’s been a hell of a morning, and it’s not even nine-thirty. It seems that some of the commercials that Sally has been doing present a conflict of interest to our sponsors. Some sponsors are threatening to sue if she doesn’t stop. They’re going over the fine print of her contract to see if she isn’t in violation.”

“I can’t believe Sally’s lawyer didn’t check that out.”

“Sally’s
lawyer
didn’t deal with it.
George
did. Things like this were never an issue before he started directing her career. All these years, she’s avoided doing anything that makes her look unprofessional or like a charlatan, and now it’s as though she’s going to allow that imbecile to plunge her career into ruin and not even say a word to stop him.”

I had never seen Sonya so worked up. I knew she really cared about what happened to Sally; but just as scarily, she was fighting for her own career. And then the scariest part of the conversation came up.

“Casey, I wanted you to know how things look, because you should be prepared if, if, well, if things don’t turn out the way
we hope. Why don’t you start to check around to see if other stations are looking for help? You’re very good at TV work. There’s also the strong possibility that if Sally does jump ship, she’ll take you with her. She loves working with you.”

“Oh, Sonya, I . . .” I knew I looked as though I was going to cry. I loved working with Sally, but I hated the thought of not doing it with Sonya.

“I’m not letting you go. I just want you to have some fall-back plans, should it come to that. I’m fairly sure that if Sally walks, a lot of heads will roll.”

“I understand. It’s not your fault. I know that.” I wondered exactly how soon George would be out of Sally’s life. I was afraid that it wasn’t going to be soon enough to save my job. We went over Sal Vito’s recipe and worked on the cookbook scripts, and then I walked out into what had become a very gray day. Richard might have been responsible for my heartache, but George was causing me a major headache.

When I got home later, my parents were already asleep so I went into the den and booted up the computer. I decided to Google George up and see what I could find out about him. There were hundreds of George Davises listed, all variations and combinations of agents, representatives, celebrities, and the like, but after a long exhaustive search, none fit the description of the migraine in my life. He certainly kept a low profile for someone professing to be a “celebrity agent.” There
were
two other possible matches, but neither was identified as an agent. One promised a good time and a photo for a mere two dollars; the other listed his address as San Quentin State Prison, and was looking for a potential wife: “must own heavy digging equipment.” I finally went to bed and fell asleep crying to the radio playing Emmylou Harris’s pathetically sad “My Baby’s Gone.” My baby was gone, and my job wasn’t looking so good either.

Down to my last teardrop.
—Tanya Tucker

S
aturday morning, I forced myself out of bed early. I was emotionally exhausted and wanted nothing more than to pull the covers over my head and rescript yesterday, but I knew I’d need a lot of time to camouflage my swollen red eyes before going to Oran Mor. I dug my beach bag out of the closet and rummaged through until I found the waterproof mascara I use for swimming. I prayed it would withstand the deluge it might have to face. Ten-foot ocean waves were nothing compared to what it would have to hold back if I got going again.

I threw on a scoop-neck white T-shirt, faded jeans, and grabbed a baseball cap. I didn’t know how strictly Danny held to the health regulations about covering your hair in the kitchen, but I wasn’t about to compound my already challenged looks with a hideous hairnet.

The front door of the restaurant was locked, so I knocked and a tall gangly boy of about seventeen opened the door. He had a short, unruly mop of red hair and his face held its own deluge—of freckles. Or perhaps it was the other way around; space between the freckles revealed a sweet face.

“Mornin’ to you,” he said with an unmistakable Irish lilt. “You’d be Casey. Chef’s expecting you. I’m Cian.” He gave me a big smile and held out his hand.

“Casey Costello. Nice to meet you, Cian. You look like—”

“Erin. I know. She’s my big sister. She’s helping me to learn the restaurant business. I’m just a busboy now, but I’m workin’ my way up. Some day I’ll have my own place, just like Danny.” He looked so proud and was so cute that he made me smile for the first time that morning.

“Come on. I’ll take you to the kitchen.”

Danny was already at the stove, dressed almost exactly as I was. He looked a lot better in his outfit. When he turned around I could see his hat had
THE CHIEFTAINS
written across the front; mine said
TEXAS ROADHOUSE
and was signed by Willie Nelson. Oran Mor means “big song,” and I thought it was appropriate that we were thematically outfitted.

“Hey, Casey,” he said coming over and putting his arm around my shoulders. “I think you met the staff the other night?” I said hi to his sous-chef, Brian, then to Erin, then to two line chefs, recruited from excellent New York restaurants, and to Sweetie, the pastry chef, a cute, skinny girl from Ireland.

Danny clapped his hands together. “Okay. Where do we begin?” He seemed so enthusiastic about our project that I was sorry I wasn’t in a more upbeat frame of mind. Usually, I find a restaurant kitchen more stimulating than a Broadway musical, but since I had spent yesterday in the middle of a Shakespearean tragedy, facing madness and eventual execution, I was having trouble finding my tap shoes. I tried not to show it.

“Well, let me look at tonight’s menu, and watch you all work for a while. Then I should see copies of any recipes you do have for the dishes that I think will work.”

“If you don’t find something from today’s menu, I can show you others.”

“Great.” With lively Irish music blasting into the kitchen, Danny and his staff moved through their preparations like seasoned dancers. It was pure art. Sweetie was rhythmically kneading brown bread to the Irish beat and Erin was cutting perfect sheer slices of cured salmon with a long, flexible-bladed knife. With his foot tapping, Bryan was dicing exquisite pieces of ahi tuna. I was impressed that they were all working by hand, not relying on machines. To me, that’s a sign of a chef in love with his product.

Danny had several racks of lamb in front of him that needed to be trimmed so that all the fat and bits of meat were cleaned from the ends of the bones—or “Frenched,” in culinary terms. His hands were strong and skilled, and he trimmed the bones quickly, with obvious expertise. When all the racks were trimmed, he browned some of the meat trimmings in a large sauté pan, then deglazed it with Madeira. He added whole shallots that he had cooked gently in butter in a separate pan, then poured in three different types of stock and let them reduce to a deep, rich sauce before stirring in duxelles and setting the pan aside. Watching him work and direct his staff in an easy, sure manner, I could see why his restaurant was so successful. I could also see that his staff loved him. It was a very touchy-feely place.

After about an hour, he asked me if I saw anything I liked. I had already jotted down numerous notes and dipped a spoon into everything that was finished. “Oh gosh, yes. Saw, smelled, tasted. The lamb sauce is delicious, and I tasted the cured salmon and tuna tartare. They are incredible.”

“The tuna is strictly sushi grade, and we serve the tartare in baked sesame wonton cups. It’s a good presentation. The salmon
is from Ireland. Irish salmon is the best in the world, and we cure it ourselves. We also smoke our own salmon.” He turned to Erin. “Love, bring out some of the smoked salmon for Casey to taste.” I didn’t mention that I had tasted more than my share at the party.

I decided on the tuna tartare, the cured salmon, and the lamb. Danny got me what he had in the way of recipes and we sat down in the dining room to go over them. As I spread the recipes out in front of us, he moved his chair so he was close enough to me for our arms to touch. Remembering his overactive libido from our first meeting, I shifted on my chair to put more distance between us. “The food is delicious,” I began, “but its preparation, naturally, is designed for the restaurant, so it doesn’t exactly work for the home cook. Sometimes you call for
too
many ingredients, and then there are ingredients that aren’t readily available. We need substitutes, if possible. And we need to work out the measurements so they serve six to eight people rather than eighty.

“Also, the rack of lamb is great and I think you should show a little of how to trim the bones, but let people know they can buy racks that are already trimmed. We’ll have one partially trimmed so you only have to clean one rib. How do you cook the racks?”

“I brown them quickly on both sides on top of the stove and finish them off in a hot oven.”

“Great. That will work on the show, and it’s a good thing for people to know about cooking red meat. The sauce presents a few problems. You use veal, beef, and chicken stock. Most people don’t have all three on hand and wouldn’t make them just to use a small amount for a sauce. Can you make the sauce with just one?”

“Sure. Not a problem.”

“Good. The duxelles is another problem. It’s delicious in the sauce, but most people don’t know what it is.”

“It’s a combination of minced shallots, finely chopped mushrooms, Madeira—”

“
I
know what it is. I meant our audience might not know.”

“I didn’t know if you actually cooked or worked for the telly and got assigned to the kitchen.”

Because I was feeling particularly sensitive that morning, I sat straight up and looked directly at him with all the superiority I could muster. “I graduated from the Culinary Institute of America. Second in my class.”