by Jessica Tom
His stare drilled into me. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said. “I understand completely, so you don’t have to threaten me.”
“Well, I’m just reminding you for your sake and mine. Not to mention the sake of your dear boyfriend. We’ll reconvene tomorrow to go over the review. Can you have some notes written by then?”
“Tomorrow?” I was supposed to meet up with Elliott later. It was Friday and I was going to use the weekend to write a paper for my Twentieth-Century Food Systems class, due on Monday.
“Sure, I guess.” What else could I say, especially after I had just pissed him off by talking to Pascal? I’d have to make the time.
Michael Saltz took out a fancy pen to sign the check under a fake name. I guessed the credit card bill went right to the Times. “Good.” He released his pen with a heavy thud.
Outside Tellicherry, I trailed behind Michael Saltz as we walked to the corner. He raised his hand to hail a cab.
“This was not a good first run. That Pascal Fox incident could have been disastrous. Remember that for me, okay?” Michael Saltz said, his voice like live wires at the edges, like he might zap me at any moment. He stood so close, the tips of our shoes touched. “You can order anything you want, you can buy anything you want, but you must be careful. Don’t trust anyone with our secret. Too much is at risk.”
His voice was soft, almost gentle. He seemed to be making up for his tone earlier, but I wasn’t too sure he had that apologetic streak in him.
“I understand,” I said, and I really did. I didn’t want to screw this up.
“Talk to you tomorrow,” he said. Then he put me in a cab, slammed the door, and I sped away.
I CALLED ELLIOTT and told him that I wasn’t going to be able to hang out that night.
“Work stuff,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
His end of the line went quiet. “Okay, whatever you say,” he said. Then he hung up.
Shit, I thought. Elliott had never once hung up on me. Was he busy at the lab? Was his boss around?
Or was he so annoyed that he had nothing to say?
I wrote the review but picked up my phone every couple of minutes, thinking that I’d text him hey or something.
But eventually, the writing carried me away and I forgot about Elliott. I was so worked up about the night’s food, seeing Pascal, and Michael’s warnings that I stayed up until four in the morning, hammering out an entire review. I started:
Tellicherry blossoms like an electric kiss, tempting you along the way with everything it can: truffles and caviar, yes, but also an old-fashioned, sweep-you-off-your-feet seduction. For hedonists, Tellicherry is a paradise, full of fragrance, boldness, and refined sensuality.
Spellbound, I wrote about the headiness of the food and its power to save you. Why bother with some other boring, less tasty fate?
The meal comes to a crescendo at dessert. The shaved ice with candied tropical fruits takes you on a sumptuous vacation, and the curry ice cream with mini brioche puffs will make you want to tear up the return tickets.
Tellicherry comes at you unexpectedly, with a new aroma at every corner. It’s a restaurant that foretells a new future, and should be closely watched and lavishly commended.
FOUR out of FOUR STARS
By the end, I’d written myself into conviction. I loved Tellicherry. I hoped Michael Saltz would read the certainty in my review and agree. As for the inherent dangers of flirting with Pascal, there was no getting Michael Saltz’s or Elliott’s agreement on that.
And yet.
The mere thought of Pascal sent electricity through my body. Pascal sitting across from me, his lips on my cheek, an inch away from my own. The adorable way he’d said shoop! The thoughts reverberated, each cycle becoming stronger, more defined, more calming.
I sent the review to Michael Saltz without reading it over, then went to sleep fantasizing about a world in which I could have turned my head ever so slightly to meet Pascal’s kiss.
Chapter 15
THE NEXT MORNING, I WOKE TO MY PHONE RINGING.
“Hello, Tia, are you up yet?” Michael Saltz said from the end of the line.
“Um, yeah? I am now.”
“I read your piece,” he said. “I asked for notes, not the whole damn thing.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be presumptuous. It just came out of me. Delete it if you want.”
“No, it’s fine, for the most part.”
I sank into the recesses of my bed, relieved. Had I really sent my words to Michael Saltz, thinking he’d be okay with that? But amazingly, he was.
“Great. I’m glad you liked it. I don’t think I captured everything, but I know you’ll put it in your own words. I was just trying to weave it all together.”
He went silent for a while, which I took to mean he was thinking. “Like I said, it’s fine. I’m going to make some adjustments to it but I’m more than able to write a column.”
“Okay . . .” I said, not expecting such defensiveness. I had figured he’d tweak the review. He was the mentor, and I was the protégée. How else would it be?
He kept breathing heavily, and in the background I heard the faint sounds of his mouse tapping and glassware pinging.
“Well . . . I should be going now,” I finally said.
“Wait!” he said, snapping to life. “I have another meal for us. Can you do lunch on Thursday? I’m visiting a place on the Upper East Side.”
“Next Thursday? Oh, I have my internship seminar then. I have to go or else Dean Chang might find out, and my scholarship—” I rambled.
“Eugh,” Michael Saltz grumbled. “Tia, tell me. Why are you still so insistent on this program when I’m offering you a far superior experience? I never should have told you I was ambivalent about your enrollment.”
“Oh . . .” I responded weakly. If you compared them side by side, Michael Saltz’s “internship” was obviously better—a wider reach, more restaurant exposure, more contact with a true leader in the field. But what was I supposed to do, abandon NYU for a whole other life—a secret life, no less?
“Have you heard of Le Brittane?” he asked.
Everyone had heard of Le Brittane. The restaurant was among the handful of New York four-stars, the elite group that Madison Park Tavern had once been in. Within that group, each had its special realm of distinction. Sakura was ascetic, even severe, but served the most heartbreakingly fresh sushi outside of Japan. Alici served luscious Italian food in a baroque, palatial setting. Le Brittane wasn’t so extreme. It specialized in seafood and was elegant and posh. If you were in a fifty-mile radius and wanted to propose, entertain a dignitary, or have some other experience smooth in every respect, you went to Le Brittane.
“I’m re-reviewing them. I’ve gone for dinner many times over the years and now I’d like to experience the lunch. You’ll get to be my polished Upper East Side niece. How does that sound?”
“That sounds . . .” I thought about it for a millisecond, a quick calculus of weighing the pros and cons, this life versus that. It was certainly worth missing a class or two. “Okay, I’ll go.”
“I sense hesitation. Is Le Brittane beneath you?”
“No, no, I meant . . . I mean, it’s great. Thank you.” I tried to sound grateful and be in-the-moment, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d fit this in my schedule. I was already on thin ice and I couldn’t disappoint Dean Chang, Jake, or Elliott any more.
“Your time will be rewarded, I promise. I hope you’ll see that this is worth more than some silly classes.”
“Mmhmm,” I said, as if to say, They’re stupid classes. But were they? Now I wasn’t so sure.
“How do you think I should dress?” I asked.
“Well, it will be midday and you’ll be my niece. Pick a career.”
“I want to be . . .” I thought for a second. “An actress.” That’d be the only way I could lead these multiple lives. I had to become someone else.
“Oh yes? Well, you’re already an actress when you’re out with me.” He laughed. “But I like where your head is. You’re getting into the spirit of disguise.”
“Ha. I guess I am,” I said, already fantasizing about what I’d wear, imagining how it’d make me feel. “Le Brittane on Thursday, then. When does the Tellicherry review come out?”
“This Wednesday.”
“This coming Wednesday? Like, in four days?”
“Yes, that’s what Wednesday means.”
“Sorry. I guess I’m surprised everything’s happening so fast.”
“The process of reviewing may be slow. Earlier in my career, I’d visit a restaurant at least three times. But once I send the review, it’s done. It’ll get fact-checked first thing on Monday, sent to the printer on Tuesday, published on Wednesday morning. It’s practically a done deal.”
“Oh, okay.” When I’d written the review the night before, I hadn’t thought my words would be published in a matter of hours. Now, I was second-guessing my monkfish judgment. Had I talked too much about the truffles? Not enough? And was it really a four-star? How did I even know what the best of the best was?
Michael Saltz had said he was going to tweak the review. But in what direction? I had written it was a four-star, but he had a lower opinion. At Madison Park Tavern, I had seen what a review could do to a restaurant. So many people worked so hard, just for a single person’s ruling.
We must treat him like a king, Jake had said. But it is us against him.
“You came through nicely, Tia Monroe,” Michael Saltz said in glowing tones. “Keep up the good work.”
“Thanks,” I replied, and all self-doubt dissipated. I accepted the comment for what it was. I was good at something . . . and I wasn’t going to apologize for it.
Chapter 16
MELINDA KICKED OPEN MY DOOR ON SUNDAY NIGHT. “Hey, you wanna take a little study break with me?” she asked. “I brought snacks.”
“Sure.” I had been studying up on clothes and restaurants and food—not working on my Twentieth-Century Food Systems paper.
Emerald was gone, so Melinda and I moved to the living room and plopped down on the floor with a box of Triscuits and a jar of mayonnaise.
“It’s tarragon . . .” She turned the jar to read the label. “Dijon garlic? I don’t know. It was an impulse buy at Food Emporium. Trashy and delicious,” Melinda said, before she threw a whole Triscuit in her mouth.
“Ha, come to think of it, I studied straight through dinner. I’m starving!” Sometimes I found reading about food could almost replace eating it.
“Seriously? You are working way too hard, then. Follow my lead and chill out.” She smiled. Melinda rarely smiled, but when she did, you got a sense of the girl underneath her too-cool-for-school exterior. She was kind of a goofball.
I opened a napkin, laid out some Triscuits, spread the mayo on top, then remembered I had a leftover salad in the fridge and added some lettuce for an extra dose of freshness.
Melinda told me about her haphazard job search; her mom, who was about to get remarried; the amazing and terrible acts at a comedy show she’d snuck into. She spoke fast and in a list-like way. Next, next, next.
“But anyway,” Melinda said, in her screen diva voice, “what’s happening in the world of Tia?”
“Well . . .” I started. Melinda was chomping away at the Triscuits. I thought I could let out a bit of tension. That wouldn’t be so bad. It might even help me live a more stable life. “The other day my dean put me on probation.” This I knew was okay to say and the words hissed out of me like air out of a tire.
“Probation? Isn’t that sort of a big deal?”
“Yeah. It is . . . but it isn’t,” I said. The Tellicherry review was coming out that week and I’d get that surge of exhilaration again. Even thinking about it, my energy picked up, my posture straightened. My words in the paper had an unmistakable effect on me.
Melinda went back to pondering the thatching on a Triscuit. It didn’t seem like she wanted to hear any more, but I went on anyway. “What if I told you that . . . I got a really great job that I can’t tell anyone else about. I just started, but it’s more than I ever could have imagined.”
Melinda leaned back. “Go on . . .” she said skeptically.
I stammered, already at an impasse. That was all I could say, and hearing it come from my mouth, I realized it wasn’t much and that it raised more questions than it answered.
Just then Emerald walked in, still on the phone. “Hey, Mom? I gotta go. Tia and Melinda are here,” she said, then hung up. “Hey.” She nodded to us before making her way toward her room.
Melinda and I didn’t even have time to say hey back before she closed the door.
“She’s the worst,” Melinda whispered. “So what have you found out about her life?”
“Uh . . . I did see something weird.” I knew the Bergdorf incident was fair game, though I hadn’t intended to make it a big deal. I guess I wanted to talk to someone about something real. I felt bad that it was gossip about Emerald, but I knew this was the type of thing Melinda would be interested in.
Melinda’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Well . . .” I lowered my voice, more lip-synching than sound. “I think there’s something up with her mom. About two weeks ago, I saw them at a store together, and Emerald’s mom was—”
“A store? What store?”
“Oh, I forget the name of it,” I lied. “It’s in Midtown.”
“Hm . . .” That explanation didn’t satisfy Melinda, so I hurried up with the meat.
“Her mother is . . . not all there . . . I don’t know why.”
“I thought you were gonna say something about her having a sugar daddy or something.” Melinda shrugged her shoulders, scanning the room, bored. “I’m getting sleepy anyway,” she said, picking up her things. “Let me know if Miss Big Boobs does something crazy. The mom thing isn’t doing anything for me.”
Her nastiness pained me, but I didn’t let on. “Yeah, for sure,” I said. “Good night.”
Why did I feel the need to talk shit about Emerald? She was by no means my best friend, but suddenly I felt shameful and dirty.
After Melinda went back to her room, I tried to resume my restaurant research, but the conversation bothered me. I didn’t want to be that “mean girl,” but it seemed Melinda and I only had two modes: gossiping or some half friendship of incomplete sentences and barely there stories.
The story about Emerald’s mom wasn’t nice, and I shouldn’t have been the one spreading it. But at least it was tangible and tellable, two things I had in short supply.
Chapter 17
AFTER CLASS ON TUESDAY I STOPPED INTO WHOLE FOODS TO escape and relax. I had made a habit of wandering around the city’s markets after class. I didn’t have to walk far. On one block, you’d have a Greek grocery store, stocked with salty triangles of feta peeking out of a barrel, every color of olive in every iteration—pitted, brined, and herbed. There was the Indian market with six shelves devoted to turmeric. And finally, Chinatown and its cacophonous cross section of humanity—the grandma bargaining for vegetables, the kid poking mischievously at the dried fish, the newlyweds piling their cart for their first home-cooked dinner with their parents.
Whole Foods wasn’t that exotic, but it was my Tuesday and Thursday spot. After my internship seminar, I went to the Lower East Side location, which I liked because it was roomier and less chaotic than the Union Square one. I walked through the aisles and unwound without tourists colliding into me.
I stopped in the produce aisle to look at their selection of exotic eggs. They had white eggs, brown eggs, large, extra-lar
ge, and jumbo. They also had tiny quail eggs, weighty duck eggs, and a giant forty-dollar ostrich egg.
I picked up the ostrich egg and felt the viscous insides slosh around. I flipped it over and over in my hands like a Magic 8 Ball.
First, I’d loved Helen Lansky. She was why I came to NYU.
I didn’t get the Helen internship. I got Madison Park Tavern.
But then Michael Saltz had given me the opportunity to work with him. He would ensure I’d be set up with Helen. Which brought me back to the beginning.
I had to keep sight of that. Lately, with everything happening, I’d started to forget why I’d agreed to this whole arrangement. The clothes, the fine dining, the hot waiters and chefs—they all threatened to cloud the real reason I was jeopardizing my personal relationships and my place in grad school.
You’re doing this for the right reasons, I told myself. Steady on.
Around and around the egg went, and now the insides had taken on their own momentum, whirlpooling around.
Then someone bumped me on the hip and the giant ostrich egg fell to the ground.
“Merde!” Pascal Fox said.
I didn’t have time to react to his presence. We just watched the egg. At first, it seemed like it’d be okay. But then a crack wiggled its way from the bottom to the top, and the insides took their cue, oozing out with a definitive blurp.
“My, my,” Pascal said.
We watched as the white spread fast and loose, while the bright orange yolk moved with purpose, like a paramecium.
“Kinda sexy, no?” he remarked, more to the egg than to me, but I blushed four thousand degrees anyway.
Oh. My. God.
A manager came rushing over.
“Oh! Chef! Good to see you. Don’t worry about this at all. We’ll take care of it right now.”