Fleur and Tom are still together, by the way, and actually I think they are a pretty amazing pair. She stands up to him in a way I never could because she knows so much about herself in the first place, who she is and what she will or won’t put up with, whereas I was too reliant on him for my identity to fight for it. They’re well matched. He’s full of bullshit and she won’t take any. Of course, I’ve never told her about Tom coming to Shelter Island that night, and I won’t. I don’t talk about it with him, either, and I know it makes him mad that I’m with Luca now but not as mad as it made him when I was with Ty, the dandy who incredibly lured me away to a well-heeled life sautéed in nonsense and peppered with pretension. But on that subject, rather unbelievably Ty and I have become good friends. I told you he was pleasant enough, I just never wanted to marry him and frankly, post-pretzel, I don’t think he wanted to marry me either. I suspect one day he will get over himself and fly off to far-flung parts with Paris or an off-Broadway chorus boy but in the meantime we meet quite regularly at the Fairway Café for brioche — sometimes, speaking of unbelievable, with Emmet.
Turns out the heated hand-towel investment was not a euphemism for a crack deal. Emmet indeed swindled the $20,000 out of Ty but then went on to make a small fortune, has paid him back with interest and is pretty much on the pig’s back himself. He still lives at home, of course, why wouldn’t he? But his drug use is positively recreational and in fact, he spends a bit of time with us at Shelter Island where we eat burgers and play gin rummy and drink beer and laugh at each other and ourselves. In fact, he’s coming to Venice with us next fall. Luca is taking us to Mazzorbo in the duck-shooting season so we can have wild duck soup followed by wild duck tagliatelle followed by roasted wild duck at Trattoria Maddalena, his favourite.
I’d like to tell you that Marco, sorry, Marc was coming too and that we were all one big happy family. But for a start that would be creepy and for a finish, he’s still a giant pain in the ass. He’s scandalised by his father’s relationship with a much younger woman whose brain he patched up but frankly he should walk a mile in my shoes. I’m the one dating the guy whose son I once imagined I had done many disgusting things with, after all. Actually, that has been the subject of quite some angst on my part but I am getting over it with the aid of a neuropsychologist called Harvey who has helped me stand back from the close-up and see the big picture. He’s not only helping me pick my way through the minefield of head trauma recovery, but we’re doing time on Estelle recovery too. I suppose you could say I am a work in progress.
I haven’t reclaimed those two years and nine months, and I may never, but their importance is fading anyway. I’m concentrating more now on who I want to be rather than who I was and it’s weird how little the missing time matters. I wonder about that day I keep remembering, the one where I’m walking by the Magnolia Bakery after the butter fight, talking on the phone, deciding not to go to Venice. I wonder about that a lot. Harvey says it is probably significant in some way, it’s the major punctuation mark in my memory loss, after all. But he says there may not be one single magic key that unlocks the mystery, that there often isn’t, that it could be something as simple as the moment I realised that I’d had enough of Tom’s temper, that my life with him was over, that Ty could help me start another one. Actually, we had high hopes on the pretzel front for a while there, Harvey and I. He said it was possible that if I did suffer from post-traumatic stress syndrome then pretzels could possibly trigger some sort of reaction that might fill a few gaps in my recent past. But after visiting the 20th pushcart where nothing was triggered except fleeting thoughts of Woody and my old friend hunger, we gave up on that. In fact, Harvey said he was developing a mild aversion to pretzels and couldn’t believe that I never got sick of them (which was not a psychological issue but interested him nonetheless).
Oh, and by the way, I’m not thin and blonde any more. I guess that had to happen. The real me is truly neither of those things. I’m back at just under 140 pounds with a traditional bikini wax, a wrinkly forehead and brunette hair that is heading towards being shoulder length once again and is the subject of much gentle mirth between Luca and I, and you’ll laugh when I tell you why.
Luca’s certainty was something I admired in him from the start, before I even knew I had met him. But when I bit into that tomato and saw him smiling at me, I realised that it was not a generic certainty, that he was absolutely sure of me, of the future, of us. But how could that be?
‘How did you know?’ I asked him, later that night. ‘About me.’
‘Cenando con gli angeli,’ he answered slowly. ‘Nonnina. I was one of her angels, I told you that.’
I nodded.
‘She said I had an angel too, in her dream.’ He laughed then, a shy almost embarrassed laugh. ‘La ragazza dei capelli viola — the girl with the purple hair. Never gave it much thought, never made much sense until you came back from Ginger’s with that head full of lilac.’
I remembered the look on his face when he’d seen me with my horrible dye job, the feeling I’d had that he was seeing me for the first time.
‘You weren’t sure before then?’ I asked, my heart fluttering.
‘I had my suspicions from the moment I first laid eyes on you,’ he answered, ‘but show me a guy who doesn’t need a little help from the angels every now and then.’
Can you see now why I thank heaven. Soon-Yi didn’t bake cookies that day? The truth is, that pretzel didn’t ruin my life, it saved my life. Without it, I don’t know who I’d be but it wouldn’t be me. And I’d be minus a man who not only believes in angels and gives great peppermint foot rubs, but whose idea of a perfect meal is anything as long as I’m eating it with him.
It’s a matter of taste.
Acknowledgements
Without wanting to sound like Halle Berry at the Oscars, this book would never have happened without the enormous warmth and extraordinary generosity of a whole host of wonderful people. I’m lucky to have the friends and family I have and to meet the people I do along the way, I know that. Seriously, it makes all the difference! And as usual I want first and foremost to thank my husband Mark Robins, who not only cooks and cleans from daylight till dusk but also has enough faith in me for the both of us.
Sally Spector’s book Venice And Food (Arsenale) led me first to her door in the Cannaregio and then to the doors of many a fine Venetian eating establishment that I would otherwise never have discovered. Without them, the first few chapters of this book would be nowhere near as delicious. And the memory of lunch on her friend Luisa de Perini’s sun-drenched terrace near the Rialto is something that can still cheer me up on a wet grey day.
Big huge sloppy kisses and all my love always to my Rome-based cousin Frances Kennedy, who came to Venice to translate for me and without whom I would never have found real-life gondolier Davide Scarpa and gondola-maker Gianfranco Vianello nor would I have had so many laughs. (We’ll always have ‘half a date’, missus!)
In, New York, well, where do I start? By thanking Bridget Freer who not only entertains me year after year when I descend upon her adopted city but who personally put in loads of spadework on the research front, including clinching a meeting with Ruth Reichl and getting my foot in the door of the James Beard Foundation. What a hero! And thanks too to her husband Ed, who lets me drag Bridget away and keep her out at night and then lets me come to their apartment and drink all their champagne. And welcome to the world Stella Needham!
Thanks to foodies John Mariani, Ed Levine, Adam Rappaport, Arthur Schwartz, Gael Greene, Marian Burros, and Erica Marcus, to name but a few — I still can’t believe they took time out to talk to me. And without the help of the book Dining Out by Andrew Dornenburg and Karen Page (John Wiley & Sons, Inc) and the encouragement of Caroline Stuart and Arlyn Blake at the James Beard Foundation, they might not have.
Thanks, too, to chef/owners David Waltuck at Chanterelle and the lovely John Villa at Dominic, for giving me their side of the story; and to Da
niel Boulud, not for the crappy table but for coming to talk to me when he saw me taking notes. Good result.
As for former New York Times reviewer and Gourmet magazine editor-in-chief Ruth Reichl, well, what can I say? She not only put on the Gourmet Institute — what a happy coincidence — at which I did a year’s research in the space of one weekend, but she took time out of her hectic schedule to meet with me. She probably is the only person who should ever have written her food memoirs (Tender At The Bone, Broadway Books, and Comfort Me With Apples, Random House). More importantly, she truly believes that inviting people into your house for dinner beats the heck out of a restaurant — and ain’t that the way it should be?
To Amy Rosmarin, thanks for the insight into tastelessness, so to speak. Joan Baren, you saved me that day on Shelter Island and I treasure the memory. And Richard Ruben: for the Greenmarket, the Red Cat, that African place in Brooklyn, every minute of your company and for reading my manuscript, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
On the medical front, much appreciation to Gill Hood at Auckland ICU for her time and patience and emails, and to clinical neuropsychologist James Cunningham for his insight and humour and introducing me to raisin toast at Savour and Devour.
To all the usual suspects at Random House New Zealand, my deepest gratitude, as always. And I count myself very lucky to have Ann Clifford on my side come editing time. Missus, it’s always a pleasure.
As for Gwenny, you and Helen are going to read all my books before I let go of them now and same-same Rachy-rach, but differently, okay?
To my friends whose mothers can’t cook, thanks for sharing your disgusting stories and sorry if it gets you in trouble come the next family roast (charred with lumpy gravy). It seems many an ace cook has a mother of the ‘Estelle’s Surprise’ variety. My own was not one of them, by the way, let’s make that clear: our family roasts are not ones you want to miss out on!
Finally, to Anna, Ken, Angus, and Hugo, here’s to the future.
And to Kaywyn McKenzie, a real-life angel: you’re for ever remembered with wings and a halo.
All my love.
SK
Eating Out Guide
It seems silly for me to have done all the vital ‘research’ and keep it to myself so here are my picks of the best places to eat in two of my favourite cities, Venice and New York.
Venice
Al Covo
Campiello della Pescaria 3968
Vaporetto Arsenale
Ph 522 3812
Definitely on the tourist route and expensive for what it is but good all the same and in quaint surroundings.
Alla Madonna
Calle della Madonna 594
Vaporetto Rialto
Ph 522 3824
The Grand Canal’s just a stone’s throw away but it’s mostly locals feasting on fresh seafood in here. Busy, no frills, no bookings.
Bentigodi
Calleselle 1423
Vaporetto San Marcuola
Ph 716 269
Venetian food with a modern twist: the ‘pregnant sardines’ in this white-walled osteria are to die for.
Do’ Mori
Calle do Mori 429
Vaporetto Rialto
Ph 522 5401
The most wonderful no-frills wine bar — when you eventually find it — with delicious snacks and more atmosphere than you can poke a stick at. Perfect for elevenses after trawling the Rialto markets.
La Caravella
Calle Larga XXII, Marzo 2398
Vaporetto San Marco
Ph 520 8901
We stumbled on this place our first night in Venice and although it was pricey and a bit grown-up, the service was wonderful and I still dream about my fennel and lobster risotto.
Paolin
Campo San Stefano 2962A
Vaporetto Santa Maria del Giglio
There’s much debate about where to get the best gelato in Venice. This is apparently the oldest gelateria, a good spot for people watching, and I can vouch for the chocolate and liquorice flavours!
Trattoria Ca’ d’Oro (aka Alla Vedova)
Ramo Ca’ d’Oro 3912
Vaporetto Ca’ d’Oro
Ph 528 5324
Almost impossible to find but when you do, SO worth it. Try the cichetti at the bar or even better, ring and book a table and dine with the locals. Our favourite Venice find.
Trattoria Maddalena
Mazzorbo 7C
LN Vaporetto from Fondamenta Nuova
Ph 041 730 151
Wild duck is a specialty during the lagoon duck-shooting season at this untouched mom-and-pop backroom restaurant on an island 45 minutes from Venice. Have the duck tagliatelle followed by the roast duck.
New York
Artisanal
2 Park Ave at 32nd St
Subway: 6 to 33rd St
Ph 212 725 8585
I discovered this place researching my cheese-making story Blessed Are: most dishes on the menu include cheese and there is even a fromagerie in the restaurant. Exquisite. For the non-cheese version, try Picholine further uptown.
Caserta Vecchia
221 Smith St, between Baltic and Butler Sts,
Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn
Subway: F, G to Bergen St
Ph 718 624 7549
Delicious home-style pizzas and pastas on this up and coming boulevard of food.
Craft
43 East 19th St between Broadway and Park Ave South
Subway: N, R, W, 6 to 23rd St
Ph 212 780 0880
Leather walls and dim lighting make this the perfect spot for a woman of a certain vintage. Choose how you want your food cooked and share the sides. Delicious.
Daniel
60 East 65th St between Madison and Park Aves
Subway: F to Lexington Ave-63rd St; 6 to 68th St–Hunter College
Ph 212 288 0033
Very grown-up four-star restaurant with sublime food and fellow diners providing a feast for the eyes. Watch out for the one dud table! We rejected it but were made to wait nearly an hour for another one. Luckily, it was worth it.
Fanelli’s Café
94 Prince St at Mercer St
Subway: N, R, W to Prince St
Ph 212 226 9412
Great bar, excellent shoestring fries, club sandwiches, and blackboard specials. Corner bistro meets local pub.
Jean Georges
Trump International Hotel & Tower, 1 Central Park West at
Columbus Circle and West 60th Street
Subway: A, C, B, D, 1, 9 to 59th St-Columbus Circle
Ph 212 299 3900
Another four-star job and a truly memorable lunch. Worth it just for the theatre of watching a pineapple being undressed and having differently flavoured marshmallows chopped up in front of you.
Joe’s Pizza
7 Carmine St at Bleecker St
Subway: A, C, E; B, D, F, V at West 4th St
You’ll recognise it from many a movie … great for pizza by the slice, which is hard to come by these days. For the whole pie, apparently John’s Pizzeria down at 278 Bleecker St is pretty good.
Katz’s Delicatessen
205 E Houston St at Ludlow St
Subway: F, V to Lower East Side-Second Ave
Ph 212 254 2246
An institution and apparently the only deli where pastrami is still hand sliced. Can be a bunfight but if you don’t fancy joining the throng at the meat counter, there is table service along the left hand wall, which means you can have fries with your sandwich and hot dog.
Lupa
170 Thomson St between Bleecker and Houston Sts
Subway: A, C, E, F, V, Grand St S to W 4th St
Ph 212 982 5089
I’ve never been to its swanky big-brother restaurant Babbo but celebrity chef Mario Batali’s osteria Lupa suited me down to the ground, especially when it came to paying the bill. If you can’t get a booking, try just walking up and waiting for a table. Great service.
Mag
nolia Bakery
401 Bleecker St at 11th St
Subway: A, C, E; L at 14th St-Eighth Ave
Ph 212 462 2572
Step back in time at this tiny bakery famous for its cupcakes.
Matsuri
363 W 16th St (Maritime Hotel) at Ninth Ave
Subway: A, C, E to 14th St
Ph 212 243 6400
Modern Japanese food in an enormous stylish cavern beneath a funky hotel.
Mix in New York
68 W 58th between Fifth and Sixth Aves
Subway: F to 57th St; N, R, W to Fifth Ave-59th St
Ph 212 583 0300
The toast alone makes it worth a visit — and the loos are pretty good as well. My cod ‘à la vapeur’ was the best-cooked piece of fish I have ever had.
New York Noodle Town
Eating With the Angels Page 29