Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of America

by Nan Lyons

  TAMMY (VO)

  (singing)

  Stand by your man . . .

  CAMERA features Dog lying near Scarecrow -- gnawing on a huge bone.

  Chapter 4

  WHILE MOST OF THE OTHER RUNNERS circling the reservoir in Central Park at six-thirty in the morning listened to personal stereos, Alec listened only to himself. Nothing was more important or more reassuring than statistics. At his current weight of 150 pounds, a ten-minute mile consumed 94 calories, and running five miles burned off 470 calories per day. As the week progressed and he passed the twenty-mile mark cited in the Pfaffenbarger study, he had the added bonus of providing himself with maximum protection from heart disease.

  Repeating the numbers over and over had been a crucial part of his training ever since he began running the small path surrounding Enstein’s clinic. Mathematics kept his mind from wandering, from losing control. During those crucial early years, the math had blocked out the angry voice inside, the voice he was so impatient to silence forever. “Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow,’ ” Enstein would say, quoting in German from Das Tragödie auf Romeo und Juliet.

  Alec smiled, wondering what Enstein would say if he knew about his working for Natasha. Too swift? Too slow? Tragedy or comedy? None of the above. Alec was determined that it would become a love story.

  Sex was the one passion he had not shared with Natasha. In the old days, they had argued vehemently about money, menus, and magazines. They had tasted everything from aioli to zuppa inglese, but never each other. Making love to Natasha was something Achille hadn’t dared to think about. But Alec thought of little else. Alec was still a virgin.

  He ran and he ran and he ran, confident that every lap would bring him closer to his beloved Natasha.

  BY SEVEN-THIRTY, he was bounding up the four flights of the East Nineties brownstone, unlocking the door to his apartment. While he could have afforded a more luxurious address, he couldn’t risk living above his “supposed” means or subjecting himself to the scrutiny of a co-op board. Most of all, he didn’t want his mail examined by the prying eyes of building personnel, and so his first prerequisite for an apartment had been a lobby mailbox to which only he and the postman had keys.

  He saw no problem, however, in spending a great deal of money redecorating. Alec could always claim that it had been left to him by some eccentric. Who would argue the point? Anyone would have to be crazy to spend nearly a quarter of a million dollars to bring in new electrical lines for central air conditioning and new plumbing to turn the bathroom into a fully equipped spa, and to replace the kitchen with a professional gym. But Alec was not crazy. To protect his investment, he had bought the building.

  Upon returning to the apartment, he headed for the shower, watching himself in the mirror as he undressed. The hair on his chest and stomach had been shaped and thinned out by months of painful electrolysis. He ran the palm of his hand down his perfectly sculpted torso. Half a lifetime, he thought. Half a lifetime trapped in Achille’s grotesque body.

  Alec turned on the water and picked up the soap, almost reluctant to lose the rewarding scent of sweat for which he had worked so hard. He lathered himself under the steamy spray, taking muscle-by-muscle solace from the hardness of his new form. By the time he reached his groin, he was erect. He sat back on the slatted teak ledge, rubbing what his mother had called his private parts. He lathered them gently, then, leaning his head against the marble wall, tightened his grip and began to groan, allowing himself the full pleasure of what were more accurately his only original parts.

  More than two dozen hand-tailored suits hung in his closet, and twice as many shirts. His briefs had been custom-made to ensure a perfect fit. He selected his clothes carefully, then brewed a pot of herbal tea. For the sake of appearance, he had installed a small kitchenette. But the only things he consumed on the premises were tea and soda water. He made certain there was nothing to eat.

  By the time Alec walked downstairs, Stamos, the Greek cabbie he had hired to pick him up each morning, was there. He waved at Alec. “Don’t worry. I didn’t forget.”

  Alec opened the cab door, stepped inside, and sat down. “Forget what?”

  Stamos held up a brown paper bag. “The dozen French crullers and the chocolate malted.”

  Alec was stunned. “What are you talking about?” He refused to take the bag that Stamos was offering.

  “Hey, you gonna tell me you didn’t call at four o’clock in the morning?”

  “I most certainly did not!”

  Stamos stared into the rearview mirror. “You said, ‘This is Mr. Gordon. Bring me a dozen French crullers and a chocolate malted.’ Actually, you said a ‘chocolate frosted,’ but I figured you must have been over the edge to call me in the middle of the night.”

  “It couldn’t have been me. I was asleep at four o’clock!”

  By the time they reached the Flatiron building, Stamos had finished three crullers and was draining the last of the malted. He burped loudly and smiled. “Maybe it wasn’t you. Maybe it was a dream.”

  Alec got out quickly. “I didn’t call.”

  “So maybe I called myself,” Stamos said, laughing. “What does it matter?”

  “It does matter,” Alec said, leaning down and speaking intently. “If you eat those things you’ll get fat!”

  “Not me!” Stamos made a fist and began punching the air. “After the phone rang, me and my old lady got in a little exercise.”

  AS ALEC HEADED for Natasha’s office, Pushkin looked up from the IN basket and growled. Ester turned quickly from her computer and said, “Halt! Who goes there?”

  Alec stopped. He was in no mood to play games. “Good morning. Is she in?”

  “For the right people.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means, let me see your nails.” Ester took his hands and nodded. “You can tell a lot about a man from his hands.” She looked up and smiled. “You have very sexy moons.”

  Alec pulled away. “I want to see Natasha.”

  “Do you bring good news or bad?”

  “None of your business.”

  Ester picked up her nail file as though it were a weapon. “Listen, cossack, everything is my business. Don’t let this gorgeous exterior fool you. You can take the girl out of the KGB, but you can’t — ”

  “I have good news. The eagle has landed.”

  “You may pass.” Ester buzzed Natasha’s office. “Mr. Executive Editor is reporting for duty.”

  Natasha sat behind her desk. She looked up and smiled, but Alec could see that her eyes were empty. She had just returned from Parker’s funeral in Dallas.

  “It must have been very difficult,” he said, wanting to take her in his arms and comfort her. He was the only person in the world who knew just what she was thinking and feeling.

  The news of Parker’s death — or more specifically, how Parker had been killed — had thrown Alec into a panic. His first thought was to call Enstein. But no, he had to deal with it on his own. Life was filled with meaningless, bizarre coincidences. Twists of fate. Irrelevant echoes from an obscure past. Nevertheless, he had to take a pill in order to sleep. That was why he knew he couldn’t possibly have called Stamos.

  Natasha pointed to Arnold’s new layout. “Isn’t this great?”

  “It’s beautiful,” he said, never taking his eyes from her. He was really saying, “You’re beautiful.”

  “Check it through for me. I’m . . .” Natasha got lost. She began turning the pages on her calendar backward. “Five days ago he was alive. I was right here. Sitting at this desk while . . .” She looked up at Alec. “It was the first time I’d met Parker’s family, people he always joked about, people I never expected to see.”

  “Why don’t you go home? You’re exhausted.”

  “There they all were. Aunt Goosie, who made green chili possum stew, and his sister, Sister, who made deep-fried pecan bread, and his mother, Lady, who bottled her own jalapeño bourbon.” Natasha
looked up, fighting back the tears. “You know what really pisses me off? With all the food they had, I didn’t come home with one goddamn recipe.”

  He felt as though she were accusing him. But why? Parker had been killed before he was hired.

  “I spent most of my time reassuring his mother that he wasn’t ‘queer’ just because he liked to cook. I felt honor-bound to bear witness to his virility, and she wore me like a badge.” Natasha smiled. “I think Parker would have liked my telling her that he was an incredible lover.”

  Alec was perplexed by the ease with which Natasha spoke to him about Parker. He’d been there only a week, yet she was already confiding in him as if he were an old friend. “What about having dinner tonight?”

  “With whom?” she asked quickly.

  “Me.”

  “And spend the entire evening obsessing over my troubles?”

  “No. I have to talk to you about something.”

  “What?”

  I’m in love with you, he thought. Instead, he answered, “The piece on Mom Cuisine.”

  Natasha began fidgeting with her calendar. “What about tomorrow? First thing?”

  “What about tonight?”

  She hesitated. “Thanks for not taking no the first time. But I don’t pay you enough to baby-sit me through this.”

  “You don’t pay me enough for anything I do.”

  She began to laugh. “You’d have liked Parker. He was a fitness nut, just the way you are.”

  Another threat. “How do you know?”

  Natasha spoke in her best Garbo. “Is not for nothing, comrade, that I have the Queen of the KGB outside my door.” Then, admiringly, “Besides, all anyone has to do is look at you.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d noticed.”

  “What do you think. Alec? I hired you for your typing?”

  ACTUALLY, she could have hired him for his typing. One of the things he had done at the clinic, in order to stay in touch with the outside world, was to become computer-literate. He learned to touch-type and then joined electronic bulletin boards to “converse” with people devoted to food, fitness, and psychology. He contacted young chefs throughout the world, identifying himself as a retired restaurateur. The name he used was Mort Canard.

  But most often he sat staring at the screen like a voyeur while others chatted back and forth about the great meals they’d just had or the new recipes they had created. He logged onto international information services and scanned the food pages of major papers throughout the world for news of the only people about whom he cared: Natasha and Millie.

  He had met Natasha while she was still in her teens, the adopted daughter of Louis Kohner, chef at the Savoy Hotel. A shame about Louis. Attracted to Natasha even then, Achille had focused his paternal instincts on Millie, who became the child he had never had. Achille had guided his career from the moment he arrived in London, confident that Millie would open the world’s greatest restaurant. But then Millie had betrayed him. Not only had he fallen in love with Natasha, but he had taken a job with American Good Foods. Worse than sleeping with the enemy, he had decided to eat with them.

  Alec sat down at his computer and turned it on. His mind was still with Natasha as he called up the editorial she had asked him to check: “Taming the Wild Sommelier.” As her text appeared on the monitor, he began switching sentences and changing a few words.

  Suddenly he pulled his fingers away from the keyboard as though he had just touched a hot stove. His eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at the last paragraph.

  The only unbreakable rule in town: don’t take the sommelier’s advice if he suggests a wine from the most expensive half of the list. Unlessxnnnncncbvncncn unless you get me something to eat, I will tear out your mind!!!

  Alec jumped as the bell sounded for the eleven-thirty tasting. He cleared the screen and exited from the document. He did not save it.

  * * *

  GRACE DANIEL groaned as Alec entered the test kitchen. “Uh-oh. It’s Mr. Mouth. Bermuda, you’re in for it.”

  Bermuda Schwartz, a former Vogue model who had been fired for being too thin, raised an eyebrow without disturbing one additional muscle in her consummately anorexic body. She was the Recipes Editor.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Alec said, taking his seat. “I’m afraid Natasha won’t be joining us.”

  “Oh, swell,” Bermuda said in a deep, raspy voice more suited to a Damon Runyon character. “No Natasha. Now I really am dead. Another turd in the cat pan of life.”

  Christine, the Articles Editor, hurried in, still talking on her cellular phone. She waved hello at everyone and put her hand over the receiver as she sat down. “It’s that fucking fact checker we just hired. The one who used to work at Le New Yorker.” She winked at the others as she released the hold button. “Listen, Rajid, loosen up. You can’t change the name of the magazine. I don’t care what you’ve uncovered in the notes of A. J. Liebling, the word cuisine has been Anglicized. Totally assimilated into the vocab. A shortcut for ‘style of cooking.’ Get a life, kid!” She hung up the phone and started barking like a dog. “I’m starving!” she said, picking up the copy of the recipe near her plate. “Oh, great!” she said sarcastically. Then she glanced quickly at Bermuda. “Not that I don’t adore chocolate pudding.”

  “Well, we can’t live on the Pacific Rim forever, cookie.”

  Grace, who had taught home economics at the Georgia State Correctional Facility for Women before being hired to run the test kitchen, smiled as she walked around the table showing off her tray of balloon-shaped wine goblets heaped with chocolate pudding. “Now Alec, doesn’t this look good enough for a centerfold?”

  Alec had been staring at the huge crystal bowl in the middle of the table. It was filled with whipped cream. He cleared his throat and nodded quickly.

  Bermuda leaned over toward Christine. “For the record, thunder thighs, it wasn’t my idea.”

  “Who ever accused you of having an idea?” Christine asked.

  “Let’s not riot, ladies,” Grace ordered, slipping into her prison-matron tone.

  Alec felt his pulse quicken as Grace served them each a goblet of chocolate pudding. By force of habit, she put one at Natasha’s place. Right next to him. “The idea was Natasha’s. A highly creative response to the trend toward introspective dining.”

  “Some whipped cream, Alec?” Grace picked up the bowl. “You only live once.”

  He pushed away his glass. But she interpreted his action as a yes and spooned on a mound of cream. He watched her every move and broke into a cold sweat. As though someone else were guiding his hand, he reached out for the goblet.

  Christine sighed theatrically as she picked up her spoon. “Whatever happened to good old chocolate mousse?”

  “Backlash,” Alec sputtered, realizing that his mouth was full of pudding.

  Bermuda pointed a long skeletal finger at him. “Baby, you just hit the snail right on the head! All those itsy-bitsy portions used to drive me nuts. I’d leave the factory and meet the gang for dinner at Café Outrageous-Expensive, where the blue-plate special was one omega-three fish ravioli in clear clam broth with a few stale snips of chive that had been organically grown in some aging hippie’s window box.” A translucent layer of tight skin stretched across the sharp contours of her face as she laughed without making a sound.

  “I don’t know why we need eggs in here,” Christine said, reading the recipe. “I never heard of using an egg.”

  “Mon Dieu!” Bermuda snarled. “Now I know how Lautrec felt! Fix her chin, Toulouse, and you’ll have a masterpiece. Well, I’m sorry. I’d sooner you cut out my heart than the egg!”

  “Up to you,” Christine said. “Alec, what do you think?”

  He looked up, trapped. He was holding Natasha’s empty goblet. “About cutting out her heart?”

  Christine smiled. “I’m sure it could be done on an outpatient basis.”

  “Ladies!” Grace waved her copy of the recipe for emphasis. “I for on
e would like to congratulate Bermuda for not falling into the Callebaut or Valrhona chocolate trap. I think it took real guts to use Hershey’s.”

  “You didn’t!” Christine shrieked, slamming down her spoon.

  Bermuda slouched back in her chair. “So call the pudding police.”

  “Oh, my God!” Alec stood up and ran out of the room. He remembered. He heard Enstein’s voice saying over and over, “The proof of the pudding.” Heading toward the bathroom, he raced into a stall. As he leaned over to throw up, his head began to pound. He felt a sharp, searing pain. As though someone were tearing out his mind.

  COPY / TAMING THE WILD SOMMELIER / O’BRIEN

  (Note to Alec: Let’s see if we can run with this in the issue with the feature on Lydia Shire at Biba, Alice Waters at Chez Panisse, and Anne Rosenzweig at Arcadia -- perhaps you can get Barbara Ensrud, David Rosengarten, or Andy Dias Blue. In a pinch, Frank Prial. I want a big fat box with recommendations for American wines only to go with regional dishes from their restaurants. Speak to Arnold: I’d rather run some wine labels than the obvious glasses of white and red ~ not that you’d do anything obvious. For the teaser, use THE ONLY PERSON TO IMPRESS IS YOURSELF. It wouldn’t be bad in larger type than my deathless title.)

  Taming the Wild Sommelier

  The sommelier (wine steward) makes our previous villains, the maitre d’ and the waiter, look like Saint Francis and Albert Schweitzer. While maitre d’s and waiters have grown accustomed to people’s being savvy about what they eat, most sommeliers still won’t admit that we can also drink with discrimination. All you have to remember is three simple things before you can confidently tell them where to put their corks.

  One: Never order the cheapest bottle on the list. Not because you’re trying to impress anyone, but because every restaurant has a minimum price for wine. Therefore the lowest-priced bottle, like most “house” wine, generally has the biggest markup or is often the least distinguished choice. Your best value is a wine that costs a few dollars more.