Food Whore

by Jessica Tom

  What had I done? Did I really say all that to Michael Saltz? The Michael Saltz, the guy the whole restaurant obsessed over?

  “Oh, hey,” she said to me. Then she looked at Michael Saltz. Then back at me.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize you were there, sir,” I said to Michael Saltz. Then, to Carey, “I had to pick something up from my locker, and I think this gentleman took a wrong turn looking for the restroom.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Michael Saltz silently gleam at my diversion tactic.

  Carey chuckled hesitantly. “Well . . .” she started. “Sir, can I show you back upstairs?”

  “You may,” he said. He didn’t look at me. To do so would suggest that we knew each other, and Carey was watching us closely. I followed Michael Saltz’s lead and walked away.

  From the end of the hallway, I heard Carey say to him, “I hope you had a good dinner?” Anxiety had crept into her voice.

  Part of me wanted to cry out, Don’t let him see you sweat!

  But there was another part that reveled in the thought—­He’s hiding from Carey. From everyone. But not me.

  Finally, the last thing I heard was Michael Saltz saying, “The dinner here was quite nice. I’m in town for a conference, and this was a lovely respite.”

  They went upstairs, then I followed up a ­couple of minutes afterward. I didn’t want ­people to suspect I’d been with Michael Saltz the whole time and I hoped Carey wouldn’t tell anyone she had seen me with him. It was bad enough I’d spotted him and told no one. What I’d said to him in the basement . . . that was treason.

  I went back to the coatroom and gathered my composure. Five minutes later, he arrived at the booth with his guests behind him, waiting. Jake had positioned himself at the top of the dining room stairs, looking down at me and Michael Saltz’s back.

  I handed him his coat with a smile and a slight nod.

  He took it and reached into his pants, as if retrieving a tip.

  “Tia,” he mumbled, the sound articulating inside his mouth but not on his lips. “You did a good job downstairs. I want to see you again. You’re qualified.”

  I repositioned myself so Jake wouldn’t be able to see me from the landing. Qualified for what? He handed me a piece of paper: his dinner receipt with his email address written on the back.

  “Thank you . . .” I said, as the reality of the last few minutes sank in. The New York Times restaurant critic wanted me to contact him. And not through a random throwaway email anymore, but his actual New York Times address. I had graduated somehow.

  “Shh . . .” he whispered, then he was out the door.

  I shoved the receipt in my suit jacket as Jake ran down.

  “Did Carey tell you who that was? What did he say? Did he say anything about the dinner?”

  “No,” I said. “He didn’t say a thing.”

  It was true—­he hadn’t said anything. Only I had.

  Chapter 6

  TWO DAYS LATER, I STILL DIDN’T KNOW WHAT I WANTED TO say to Michael Saltz. It all boiled down to: What do you want from me?

  Jake called an emergency all-­staff meeting at Madison Park Tavern. A photographer from the New York Times had called to shoot eight dishes between three thirty and four P.M. on Monday, when the restaurant was closed to the public. We gathered at five past four to debrief and strategize. When everyone arrived, Jake cleared this throat and began.

  “Listen, ­people. We’re in the crosshairs.” He gestured to the bar, where the eight dishes had been laid out for the photographer. “This is what unprepared looks like. We all failed on Saturday.” He stalked through the dining room, winding between tables and looking every staff member in the eye. “It’s a travesty we recognized Michael Saltz so late, but kudos to Carey for bringing him to our attention.” Some ­people gave Carey soft smiles. I did my best to follow their lead, even though I was the one who had first noticed him. Revealing him was another story.

  Jake quickened his gait, his face reddening. “What I don’t understand is how the most important critic in the world can walk into our restaurant and not be fucking ID’d. His ‘disguise’ was bogus, so that’s not an excuse. Believe me, I blame myself more than anyone. But no one in this room gets a pass. Why do we have multiple pictures of the guy in the dining room and in the kitchen? Hasn’t his image been seared into your minds by now? If we don’t notice Michael Saltz—­fat, skinny, bald, even if he’s got a fucking eye patch—­then I shudder to think who else we are missing. We’re clearly being reviewed now, and the four stars are ours to lose. We must treat him like a king. But it is us against him.”

  Jake sat down among us. He adjusted his tie clip and sighed. “The photographs are already done. That means the review can be printed as soon as this week. This restaurant and everyone in this room relies on that man’s words. You and I know that Madison Park Tavern is one of the best. But if we lose that focus, we will die.”

  Jake shook, as if possessed by something much stronger than him. He was a man who took offense when the fork was in the wrong place, suffered shame when a host or hostess didn’t say good-­bye to a guest. And his pain now? Practically visible from space.

  I bit my nails and let his words sink in. The four stars are ours to lose. I hoped that wouldn’t happen. I hoped that my conversation was a little side thing. We just happened upon each other.

  But I knew he’d had a plan to see me. The memory of that night burned so hot into my heart that I was sure my face gave me away. That, or a scarlet MS blazed on my chest.

  “Come on, let’s eat these dishes before they get too cold. Let’s get a sense of what Mr. Saltz experienced.”

  In sports, the coaches analyze the tapes, but we were going to experience the game in real time. We sampled all the dishes the photographer had requested. These would be the targets in Michael Saltz’s review.

  As I tasted the food and listened to everyone hypothesize how Michael Saltz could have perceived it, I reviewed my strange conversation with him. I carefully controlled my face in case someone could see that my focus lay elsewhere. I needed to make sense of our basement chat before I reached out to him. He’d started as a reporter, so maybe that was why he was questioning me. He was getting an outside opinion, right? ­People always ask their waiter or waitress about ingredients or recommendations. Looking at it that way, perhaps the whole thing wasn’t so bizarre.

  While ­people crowded around the bar, I stole a peek at Michael Saltz’s receipt to see what he’d decided not to photograph. And then I knew my theory was wrong.

  There on the marble counter was the pork with ras el hanout. But the receipt told a different story: Saltz had ordered the pork loin from the main menu. The other, homier one. One dish could never be mistaken for the other.

  Then why did Michael Saltz tell me and the photographer he got the ras el hanout one?

  After we ate everything, Jake adjourned the meeting, then walked toward my table.

  “Tia, I wanted to let you know that I’m glad it was you who backserved Michael Saltz for a short time on Saturday. This whole thing?” He waved his finger in a circular motion around the dining room, which was at the height of its grandeur in the dying afternoon light. “This is a big deal in this city. And you’re an important part of it. You’re doing an outstanding job.”

  I clasped my hands so tightly, both my arms trembled. It was a prayer, of sorts. I wished he couldn’t see my guilt. I wished what I’d done wouldn’t change anything. And as I squeezed harder and harder, I wished that I could keep this episode contained. No leaks, no betrayal. No messiness.

  He gave me one last look, a fond one even, then walked away. I felt so relieved that I collapsed onto the banquette and closed my eyes. I wanted to freeze time for a little while, to help my mind catch up with reality, to preserve Jake’s gratitude for the sliver of good I’d done, despite the sliver of transgression afterward. Though my sorry heart
knew it had been more than a sliver.

  Carey ran up to me and I tensed as she approached. “Wait, so what was the deal on Saturday?” Her stare was so intense, I had to avert my eyes.

  “I forgot something in my locker. Jake said that I could have a break before I went back to the coatroom.”

  That wasn’t too bad a fib. Anyone could have done the same.

  “Everyone thinks I saved the day, that I spotted him first,” Carey said, her eyes sharp and frighteningly alert. Carey was the queen of data capture, and I could tell that I was now under her microscope. “But I just stumbled on him. How long were you standing there? Why didn’t you recognize him?”

  “Recognize him?” My voice quivered, so I slowed it down, became conscious of my exhalations as I lied. “It was my first day on the job, and I’m not a restaurant person. I didn’t even know what he looked like.”

  Carey backed off, but not without a slow squint that stopped my breath, heart, and head.

  “Okay,” she said. “I believe you.”

  It occurred to me that I should have sounded baffled and out of my depth, but I worried I couldn’t get the tenor right. Better to keep quiet, let the moment pass, and let Carey come to her own conclusions with as little information from me as possible.

  We stayed there in silence for a ­couple more seconds, then she shook her head as if she had thought better of what she was about to do, and walked away.

  THAT NIGHT I emailed Michael Saltz. I needed to get everything out on the table so I could put this saga to rest: What did he want from me? What was he doing at the restaurant?

  Then I’d be done with it.

  Hi, Michael. Today the team at Madison Park Tavern met about your meal on Saturday. I shouldn’t be emailing you. But can you tell me why you were there and why you asked me so many questions? I’m confused as to why you wanted to talk.

  He replied immediately.

  Tia, don’t be afraid to shine. Things are about to get good.

  Chapter 7

  THE NEXT NIGHT, MADISON PARK TAVERN’S OWNER, GARY Oscars, was dining at the restaurant with a laptop. We never would have allowed guests to do that, but of course he was an exception. He owned six restaurants across the city and typically only tended to the new ones because they got the most press. But tonight, Madison Park Tavern had his full attention. Chef Darling and his cooks could hide in the kitchen, but Jake and the waitstaff had to bear the brunt of Gary’s manic energy.

  I poked into the dining room a ­couple of times and saw him calling for poor Jake, who had to run over while still looking calm in front of the guests. Angel, Chad, and Henri checked their phones compulsively. Chef Darling left the kitchen more often than usual, especially given that Gary was in the house. He kept checking in with the hostess, who would shake her head and tap her foot, sharing whatever anxiety he had. I saw Carey run up to Chef Darling, nod, then check her phone, too.

  “What’s going on? Why aren’t ­people at their stations?” I asked Carey.

  Carey shot me an incredulous look. “The New York Times review? It comes out tonight.”

  “But it’s Tuesday. Aren’t the reviews published on Wednesdays?”

  “Yeah, in the paper. But it’ll be posted online sometime tonight,” she said, eyeing Chef Darling through a small window in the kitchen door.

  We spent the night totally distracted. Everyone wore a look of worry, from the dishwashers to the line cooks to the hostess with her perma-­smile. I heard some guests mumble that the ser­vice had gone downhill. But if only they knew the Times review was upon us. Even Jake had turned his attention away from ser­vice and toward the final judgment. Everything was out of our hands.

  But I didn’t let on. To the extent that I could—­which wasn’t very much—­I tried to make up wherever the ser­vice was lacking. I grinned extra wide. I took the hands of ­people who wanted to be touched and demurred respectfully from the ones who preferred to be left alone. I did my small part so I didn’t have to see the restaurant slide so slipshod. But even I knew it was too little, too late.

  I left at eleven and walked slowly back to the apartment. It was the perfect fall night: air that refreshed, leaves that lullabied, weather in which everyone was comfortable. Except me. I didn’t know what the review would say, but I knew what I had done and said. I couldn’t take it back. All I could do was wait and see, just like everyone else.

  Emerald and Melinda weren’t home, to my relief. I opened my laptop and saw an email from Carey, subject line: SHIT.

  I clicked the link to nytimes.com and read.

  Famous Farmhouse Goes to Pasture

  by MICHAEL SALTZ

  If you are in possession of a coatrack, you might want to give it to Madison Park Tavern. The Flatiron mainstay is in need of a fresh concept and a place to hang its hat.

  When my predecessor reviewed this restaurant four years ago, the establishment had a dynamite idea. The brash young chef Anthony Tate had the groundbreaking insight to use fresh, local produce in his cooking. He wouldn’t veil these ingredients with words like “rustic” or “home-­style.” The menu put no qualifications around its products and made no apologies for serving them in a high-­end atmosphere. The idea spread through Manhattan like organic dandelion greens, and soon our fair city of asphalt and car exhaust turned a little bit country.

  But that was four years, and four stars, ago. The Madison Park Tavern of today has a new chef, Matthew Darling, formerly of Vrai, and the idea of “local ingredients” can no longer carry a restaurant. What was so revolutionary about Madison Park Tavern yesterday is a given today, if not a total cliché. There are a host of innovative restaurants—­Bakushan, Alltop Peaks, Yop Factory—­that use local, fresh ingredients, employing them with abandon and excitement, not reverent tiptoeing.

  Indeed, there are some lovely, delicious moments at Darling’s Madison Park Tavern. One night, I had a delightful amuse-­bouche of edamame puree, clementines, and endives. It took my breath away with its notes of bright and bitter, soulful and singing. This is daring food that transcends seasons, something that comes all too infrequently. Matthew Darling has a very popular, very seasonal restaurant to lose, so transgressions are relegated to one bite. Most dishes seem to beat you over the head with their capital-­C Concept. Even the dining room could double as a movie set for a “market-­to-­table restaurant,” so obvious, so caricature-­like is its premise.

  I liked the roast chicken with potatoes six ways, a clever way to dress up a classic. While the potato morphs in every which rich, fried, and gratinéed way, the chicken works its own special magic. Chew carefully and you will taste a slight herbaciousness in the meat. This is a chicken who has eaten well, and here the tranquility of the farm is spun into fireworks on the plate. The rabbit cassoulet approaches the tongue with unexpected freshness. It is not the familiar mush, but another toothsome thing.

  Yet much of the menu ranges from not-­so-­bad to what’s the point? The pork loin with ras el hanout, a special one night, was alarmingly off-­balance. The spices wicked the moisture out of my mouth, and imparted little of their beautiful bouquet of flavor.

  Yet the biggest slight of all is the short-rib dish. Short ribs have always been a standard at Madison Park Tavern, ever since the days of Anthony Tate. But Matthew Darling doesn’t seem interested in using them to articulate his own vision. In the days of Chef Tate, the short ribs spoke volumes about the transformative powers of well-­aimed and well-­executed technique, and Tate was like an athlete at the top of his game. Five years ago, I couldn’t get enough of his interpretations. There was the unctuous, exotic beauty that was the short ribs glazed with hoisin and beer and served atop a chervil-­leek puree. And another masterpiece: short ribs wrapped in savoy cabbage and paper-­thin disks of turnip and pancetta.

  The short ribs of today’s Madison Park Tavern feel like a halfhearted remake. The current kale and black-­
eyed pea preparation is flawed at the most fundamental level. The black-­eyed peas, darling little things that they are, add a discordant whiff of dirt. They are the mud to the short ribs’ soft and smooth vanilla, a combination that hits you in the gut in the worst possible way.

  Of the desserts, the sweet potato–cassava cake with praline crunch is a pleasant surprise. The sweet potato offers sweetness, while kabocha provides an unusual, almost souffléed dimension and structure. Yet the berry-­walnut strudel with thyme-­infused rice gelato suffered from too-­tart fruits and too-­sweet walnut brittle.

  The ser­vice is, like at all of Gary Oscars’s restaurants, impeccable. The dining room is a masterpiece of good-­looking staff conducting elaborate choreography.

  One danger of passing the torch is that the newest torch-­bearer is burdened with the agenda of his predecessor. Matthew Darling is a fine chef, but one who appears to be driving the restaurant down a road to irrelevance. Madison Park Tavern used to be a transcendent experience, one of the best. Now it’s just one of the good.

  TWO out of FOUR stars

  Once I finished, I started again. I lapped it up over and over. I couldn’t believe it. Two stars? That was one thing—­a shocking thing.

  But even more shocking—­Michael Saltz had used my exact words. Reading the article, I heard my own voice talking back.

  I thought for a second that this was a joke. Maybe someone had created a fake website to fool me. I clicked around and got to other New York Times articles. Tomorrow, these words would be distributed in printed papers all over the country. The whole world could reach this page. These words. These thoughts. Mine.

  But as much as I liked seeing my words in the paper, the truth was that he had stolen them right out of my mouth. There was no other way to look at it. He had lured me into the basement with that note, solicited my opinions, and pawned them off as his own. He had a lot of explaining to do, and I was ready to confront him when I saw a new email. From Michael Saltz. I opened it with trepidation, a cliffjumper’s look over the edge.