by Ruth Reichl
“Meet Wilhelmina,” said Sal.
“Don’t tell me you’ve finally hired help!”
“Your prayers have been answered.”
“No, no, no.” Mr. Complainer shook his head in a parody of woe. “It would take a lot more than one little woman to answer my prayers.” He turned to address the other customers. “It’s almost un-American, the way they run this place. Best damn cheese in the city, but you have to wait hours. So what does Sal Fontanari do?” He pointed at me. “He hires this unfortunate soul, who is obviously unaware what she’s gotten herself into.” Looking into my eyes, he added, “Take my advice and flee. Run as fast as you can. Go before it’s too late!”
I struggled to come up with some clever comeback, but Sal was already speaking. “You,” he said hotly, “have no soul. If it were up to you, Fontanari’s would be turned into a factory.”
The man was unrepentant. “Would it kill you to make the place a little more efficient?”
“As I keep telling you, my friend, plenty of other places would gladly sell you cheese.”
Mr. Complainer turned to me again, and I had one of those moments when I wished I looked at least a bit like Genie. But I’m not sure it would have mattered; I was just an extra in this ongoing drama, and Mr. Complainer was deep into his part. “As you can see, the man’s hopeless. But”—he gave a comically dramatic shrug—“you’re a start. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be able to do something with him.”
Everyone in the store had stopped to watch the show, which was obviously giving both men pleasure. I had a vision of them enacting this familiar ritual week after week, year after year. Did this happen every weekend? Sal reached for a salami and tilted his head, silently asking if he wanted the usual. Mr. Complainer nodded almost imperceptibly, and as Sal started to cut, the man’s mouth parted in a little sigh of satisfaction. Then Sal picked up a ball of mozzarella and the man shook his head violently. Sal smiled and put his hand into another bowl, coming up with a different ball. The man nodded.
“I just opened the summer Parmigiano.” Mr. Complainer held out his hand, and we all watched him put the golden shard into his mouth. He nodded, just once, and Sal cut him a substantial wedge.
They had not stopped talking, although I wondered if the words even mattered. This was obviously an old routine, a ritual. “Sure,” Sal was saying. “We could work faster, we could make more money. But would we have time for this conversation? We would not. What’s the point of making piles of money to enjoy when you’re not working? I’d much rather enjoy my work.”
Mr. Complainer laughed. “Oh, Sal, you never let me down.”
“My friend,” Sal replied, “I hope I never will.”
The man took his package and hesitated, his eyes running along the shelves, seeking something else to purchase, trying to delay the moment of departure. He apparently came up empty, because he gave a defeated little shrug and walked toward the door. People parted to let him through and out the door.
“Next!” said Sal. He picked up a small wheel of cheese and held it out. “Stelvio! It just came in. Very rare. They only make it in the summer, when the cows go up the mountain to their summer pasture. Let me give you a taste; it’s buttery but pungent. See?” His voice never stopped, a soothing ribbon of sound buoying us through the exhausting day. At six the crowd began to ebb, and by seven the last customer was walking out the door. Sal sat down on a stool and wiped his forehead.
“Saturdays are even busier,” he said. “You coming back next week?”
“I don’t know.” I picked up the last piece of Stelvio and stuck it in my mouth. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to be working a second job. Jake might not like it. I’m not even sure it’s allowed.”
“Allowed?” his voice rose indignantly. “Allowed? This is America. The question is—did you enjoy yourself?”
Every muscle in my body ached and my hands were sore. But Sal had shown me the secret of real aceto balsamico, making me taste again and again until I could discern the flavor of each barrel the vinegar had passed through, from the mellow oak, to cherry, chestnut, mulberry, and finally the astringent prickle of juniper. Theresa had plied me with tiny cups of espresso made from beans roasted over wood. And at the end of the day, just as we were closing, Rosalie sliced a melon and handed me a bright-orange triangle. “Wilhelmina,” she commanded, “taste!” I took a bite, stunned by the roar of cantaloupe juice inside my head.
“Yes,” I said. They had made me feel that I belonged there. “Yes, I did.”
“Then we’ll see you next Saturday.”
Seizing Opportunities
THE STEPS WERE NOW COVERED WITH LEAVES, BUT IN THE AUTUMN light the Timbers Mansion looked even lovelier than it had in the heat of summer. I loved Mondays, loved the feeling of the old house welcoming us back after a sleepy weekend. Walking into the lobby, I stopped to appreciate the smell of aged wood and furniture polish.
But when I got upstairs, I was startled to find a portly gentleman stretched across Jake’s battered leather sofa, orange socks perched on the armrests. He was dressed in tweeds so ancient they seemed a part of him. Jake wasn’t in yet, and I eyed the man warily, wondering how he’d wormed his way past security.
He just lay there, arms behind his head, openly studying me. He gestured to his jacket. “Peerless, is it not? I have been donning tweeds for eons. Each time my travels take me to London, I scurry off to the tailors of Savile Row. When you hit on something you like, cleave to it. That is my motto.” He got up, stretching languidly, and held out his hand. “The new Sarah, I presume?” I liked his cologne, spice edged with smoke. “Come help me unpack.”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Jake had arrived. “Sammy’s always trying to lure people into his lair, where they disappear for hours, doing his bidding. It’s like falling down the rabbit hole. Defend yourself now or it’ll be too late.” Sherman bounded in, jumped up, and licked the man’s face ecstatically. I felt like an idiot.
“You’re Sammy!” How could I not have known?
“At your service.” Sammy executed a funny little bow. He looked like an old-time professor, the generous face and oversize features framed by sparse sandy hair and punctuated by horn-rimmed glasses. It was impossible to tell how old he was, but older than Jake. I guessed sixty. Maybe.
“I have just journeyed back from a sojourn in Marrakech. Such a mysterious and sumptuous destination. Have you ever been?”
I shook my head.
“How unfortunate. It is the precise equivalent of clambering into a time machine and dialing back the clock.” Sammy leaned over and began to rummage through the battered paisley carpetbag at his feet. He emerged, triumphant, with a huge coil of sausage, which he wrapped jauntily around Jake’s neck. “A small token of my appreciation,” he said.
“How’d you get this merguez through customs?” Jake recoiled a bit. “Didn’t the dogs sniff you out?”
“Moi?” Sammy asked, as Sherman nuzzled his hand. “I will have you know that those canines are my boon companions. Someday you must come journeying with me; I might divulge a few cherished secrets.” He offered me a winning smile. “Help me unpack? You have my solemn word that you will not regret it.”
“Sucker!” Jake called, restraining Sherman as I followed Sammy down the hall.
“Jake thinks highly of you,” he confided as we walked toward his office. “He dispatched an email informing me of your triumph on the Sal Test. Highest marks. He feels that you are a most promising young lady.”
“Really?” He’d never given me the smallest cue that he thought that, and a little arrow of pleasure went rushing through me.
“Indeed. He has asked me to keep an eye on you. And I can see that we are going to be fast friends.” Sammy took my hand in his, drawing me into a cluttered office. I looked around at the jumble of objects stacked in precarious towers that threatened to topple at a touch. The rays of sunlight entering through the thick, bubbled glass had an ancient quality, as if they had come from some d
istant past. I remembered Sammy’s description of Marrakech.
Sammy affectionately patted his possessions as if they were long-lost relatives. “Are you aware that this office was once the domain of James Beard?”
“One of the crazier callers mentioned that he’d worked here, but I didn’t know it was true.”
“Indeed. It was at the very commencement of his illustrious career. Long before he was known as the father of American cuisine.” Sammy stopped to caress an antique metal object with a huge wheel on the top. “Is this your first encounter with a genuine duck press? The French Tourist Office sent it in gratitude for the Paris issue I produced in 2003.” His fingers moved on to explore the hilt of a richly jeweled sword. “This is from the Maharaja of Jaipur.” Sammy pointed to a photograph of a small turbaned man riding an elephant with elegant ears. “Rather extravagant thanks for an extremely small story. The jewels, sadly, are faux.” He tapped another picture—himself rafting on the Nile.
“What are those?” My attention had been captured by the large, showy white blossoms cascading down the far wall. “Don’t they have pots?”
“They live on air.” He petted the orchids as if they were small birds. “Exquisite, no?” He picked up a bottle and began to gently spray the flowers. “They require no soil, but they do appreciate a gentle mist. Richard kindly cares for them in my absence.”
Sammy made me feel as if I’d been reunited with a long-lost uncle, as if we’d always been connected. He led me to an ornately carved wooden chair (“I discovered this in Venice”) and handed me the carpetbag. “Remove every object,” he instructed, “and then we shall decide where to place them. But first we shall indulge in a cup of tea.”
He turned on a hot plate and brewed Darjeeling in a beautiful copper pot, while I rummaged through the carpetbag, pulling out dried figs, enormous pistachios in pale-blond shells, and little squares of dark chocolate.
“I make it a rule to return from each voyage with a trinity of new foods.” He handed me a fragile porcelain cup. “I learned that on my very first assignment. Sugar?” Picking up his own cup, he settled into a large leather club chair. “What a trip that was!” He took a sip, cleared his throat, and opened his mouth. But he apparently thought better of that story. “Perhaps later …”
He reached for the smallest bag I had extracted from his carpetbag. “Hold out your hand.” I cupped my palms and he filled them with a shower of orange blossoms. They tickled, delicate as butterflies, and a sweet, slightly citric fragrance filled the room. “Do you know what this is?”
I didn’t.
He held a blossom to his nose, inhaling gratefully. “This is osmanthus. It grows in southern China, where it is used in sweet-and-sour sauces and to concoct the most exquisite tea. It is impossible to procure in the United States, and it is my fondest hope that Maggie will be incapable of identifying it, thus unhinging her.” He threw that out, a challenge and a question, as he watched my face. “Ah.” He nodded with satisfaction. “I was certain that she was making your life wretched.”
“How’d you know?”
“Have you been informed about Maggie and Jake?” His expression and tone were difficult to read.
“I know they once had a restaurant together. Maja, wasn’t it?” I tried out tentatively.
“Yes, back in the dark ages, before you were born. They were a very odd couple. He was much as he is today—a smooth, handsome man to whom everything has always come too easily. But you would not have recognized Maggie. She was a splendid creature with a wild mane of black hair. She wore very short skirts and exaggerated makeup, and she was the first woman of my acquaintance who sported a tattoo.”
“Maggie’s got a tattoo?” I was mentally erasing the beatnik girl I’d imagined earlier.
“Three. One on her upper arm. One tiny one just above her ankle. And a very artful butterfly on her shoulder. This was long before every individual who toils behind the stove considered a tattoo de rigueur. But that was Maggie—tantalizing, provocative, rather flinty.” He watched me readjusting my impressions of Maggie before continuing. “Maja was a defining moment in American cuisine. They were among the first to insist upon local products. Jake’s friendship with Sal dates from that time. Maja’s signature dish was stuffed squash blossoms, which relied upon Fontanari’s fresh ricotta. I believe Jake was at least partially responsible for the current fame of Fontanari’s.”
“That explains a lot; I wondered how they’d become friends. So what happened to the restaurant?”
Sammy took a sip of tea. “Success.” His voice implied that this was obvious. “Jake authored his first cookbook and then became embroiled in one of those dreadful television shows. He commenced traveling, and young women trailed after him as if he were a rock star. Meanwhile, Maggie was left behind to tend the restaurant. She saw a picture of him with another woman.… The rest is rather trite; I am persuaded you will have little difficulty in imagining what happened next? She came to work at Delicious! and it was years before their next encounter.”
“When he became the editor?”
“Indeed. Maggie arrived here in the mid-eighties, and it was another dozen years before Jake made an appearance. Even then, she was so choleric that she maintained a rigid silence for two entire years.”
“God.”
“Our Maggie serves revenge very cold.”
“But she obviously got over it.”
His smile was rueful. “That is entirely due to her ingenious coping mechanism.”
“Yeah, she transfers her animosity to his assistants. Very convenient for him.”
Sammy patted my knee in a there-there gesture. “Should you desire advice, I can offer some assistance. The delightful Diana emailed me with the information that you have the ability to identify almost any ingredient in a dish. Is this true?”
“I try.”
“And that you nevertheless decline to participate in activities of the culinary persuasion.”
“True. I don’t cook.” I wasn’t sure I liked where this was going.
“Never learned?”
“I can cook. I just don’t.”
“A major miscalculation on your part.” His tone was neutral. “You must have a reason?”
“Not one I want to talk about.”
Sammy raised his eyebrows. “Goody. I adore a mystery.” He stood up. “You had best scurry off now. Jake is nice, but not nearly as nice as he thinks he is. I have no desire to get in his bad books on the first day of my return.”
“I should go, anyway.” I stood up too. “Jake’s taking me out for sushi, and I’ve got a lot to do before lunch.”
Sammy’s eyebrows went up. “Ah, the traditional two-month mark. Be prepared.”
“For what?”
Sammy gave me an enigmatic smile. “You shall see.” He held the door open.
JAKE’S FAVORITE RESTAURANT was a serenely spare space on 8th Street that seemed more like a spa than a dining room. The staff greeted him with deep bows and bustled about, taking our coats and leading us to the front table so everyone could see that Jake Newberry was gracing them with his presence.
A beautiful older woman brought steaming towels and rustic ceramic cups of green tea. “Sumiko, we are in your hands,” he told her, unwrapping his chopsticks and placing them on a smooth black stone. Then he looked at me. “Sal tells me you’ve been working at Fontanari’s.”
“Oh, only on weekends.” I could feel my heart begin to race; was this a fireable offense? But that was stupid; why would he take me to a fancy lunch to tell me it wasn’t working out? “Should I have asked?”
“What you do on your days off”—Jake seemed smoothly indifferent—“is entirely your own business. If you want to fill every waking hour with work, that’s your prerogative. But I’ve been wondering why Sal calls you Willie.”
“Rosalie disapproves of boys’ names for girls. She calls me by my real name, Wilhelmina; Sal shortened it.”
The waitress set a small glass bowl in fro
nt of each of us. Lacy little green fronds waved up through clear liquid; it reminded me of a forest stream in early spring, just after the ice has melted. I picked up a frond, and as I put it in my mouth, I experienced a moment of cool, pure freshness.
“What is it?” I asked Jake, enchanted.
“Mozuku, a special kind of seaweed from Okinawa. You don’t think it’s slimy?”
“Slippery, but I love the way it feels in my mouth.”
“I knew I was right to hire you!”
My earlier worries slipped away with the first few tastes of the mozuku, and before long I was telling him about my almost daily conversations with Mrs. Cloverly. “I’ve been writing down the ridiculous recipes she comes up with.” I spooned up more of the pliant seaweed. “They’re so incredibly comical.”
Sumiko returned with a slab of slate on which ten perfect pieces of sushi were artfully arranged. I watched Jake pick up a piece of nori-wrapped fluke, dip the fish into the soy sauce, and swallow, thinking how lucky he was to be able to afford sushi whenever he felt like it.
“You know, Sal Fontanari is very fond of you.” The change of subject was so abrupt that it startled me. “He called after you took the Sal Test and said that the two of you were on the same wavelength. Did you know you’re the first person outside the family he’s ever allowed to work there?”
“Really?” No wonder Jane had been so surprised to see me behind the counter.
Jake nodded. “Really. And that’s given me an idea.” He ate a piece of tuna sushi, and I saw him shudder at the impact of the wasabi. “I’ve always wanted to run a story about Sal, but you know what he thinks about publicity. Every time I bring it up, he gives me a lecture about the fickleness of fame. Then he changes the subject. But I bet you could get him to change his mind. Tell him you want to write about Fontanari’s.”