Delicious!

by Ruth Reichl

  JANUARY 26, 1944

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  Yesterday, when I went to the Cappuzzellis’, I could tell right away that something was wrong. Mrs. C. looked so distressed. “He’s gone,” she said.

  It was Marco. He didn’t even leave a note. She’s sure that he’s joined the army, even though Mr. C. went to all the recruiting stations and could find no trace of him. I said he probably changed his name. Mrs. C. said he would never, but I say if he can lie about his age, he can certainly lie about his name.

  She put her arm around me and said, “They have taken all four: Mario, Massimo, Mauro, and Marco. But at least I have a daughter here at home,” and I liked the feeling. “I’ll show you how to make my meatballs,” she said, getting out her meat grinder. She put them into what she calls “Sunday gravy,” and even packed some up for me to take home so I can make meatball sandwiches for Mother’s lunch.

  Maybe that will cheer her up when the men at the factory are mean. Mother says it’s because they believe a woman’s place is in the home, but if you want my opinion, I think they’re ashamed they’re not over there fighting for our freedom. And even though she never says so, I know that Mother worries that one day the Germans will attack the Airdock, and we’ll lose each other forever.

  And now for some good news: Mother is ahead of everyone except Estelle Dixon in the contest—and we still have two months to go!

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  “Tell me about this contest.”

  “I think you need to read all the letters, right from the beginning.” I got up and began to collect folders, pulling them from the shelf in chronological order. I handed him the pile and sat down, reading over his shoulder in the dim light.

  When he closed the final folder, Sammy said, “Lulu’s mother does not resemble the women with whom my mother was acquainted during the war.” He had the folders cradled in his lap, unconsciously stroking them as if a cat were curled up there. “She appears so much less sanguine. It is almost as if she herself had gone off to war, without ever leaving home.”

  “I think it’s because she was in Akron.” I’d been giving this some thought. “The whole city threw itself into the war effort. Before the war, sixty people worked at Goodyear Aircraft; by the time it ended, there were almost forty thousand employed. And that was just one of the war factories; Firestone was building machine guns, Goodrich was making rubber rafts and life preservers, and a local company called Sun Rubber went into the gas-mask business. I think all those people felt that they were part of the battle, that they were saving the country.”

  “I see you have been very fruitfully occupied.”

  “You’re the one who told me it would make a good article, or maybe even a book. I thought you might be right. But if you really want to know the truth, being here would have driven me completely crazy if not for Lulu.”

  “Ah.” Sammy looked at me, concern etched across his face. “I see that I have not been alone in my anguish. What a pity that we were unable to offer each other consolation. It is high time that changed.”

  I had no idea what he meant by that. Sammy got to his feet. “Let us go in search of supper. There is a thing I want to discuss with you. And I find I have a powerful desire for Yorkshire pudding.”

  YORKSHIRE PUDDING ISN’T EXACTLY the food trend of the moment, and we ended up in one of the last red-velvet restaurants in New York. I hadn’t been in a place like that since my sixth birthday, when Dad took Genie and me to the House of Prime Rib. This place was even older; it looked like a Victorian brothel, complete with “serving wenches.” Sammy settled comfortably into an outsize chair as the waitress brought huge hot popovers, cold butter, and great slabs of steak. By the second bottle of wine, we had abandoned ourselves to that ridiculous room, gnawing on bones and licking our fingers as if the war had just ended and we were making up for lost time. We finished with wonderfully old-fashioned chocolate éclairs.

  There was something strangely sensual about this moment, and even though I was sharing it with a man more than twice my age who preferred members of his own sex, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a seduction scene.

  When we were done, Sammy leaned back in his chair and said, “That was quite a drama your little group performed last night.”

  “The drunk-in-the-kitchen act?” I thought we’d gotten away with it. “That was my idea. I figured no cook could stand watching someone bumble around his kitchen, making a mess and ruining a meal. Thursday agreed; she said if you were too depressed to do anything about it, we were going to have to take drastic measures. She even bet Richard ten bucks you’d snatch the whisk out of her hand by the fourth egg.”

  “Did she prevail?”

  “You barely lasted to three.”

  “How foolish of Richard to wager against Thursday!” Sammy took the last sip of wine. “Her most treasured belief is that any problem can be solved with the right recipe. It is what one finds so particularly attractive about her: She will not rest until she has located it.”

  He cocked his head then, searching my face. “May I speak frankly?”

  I was suddenly wary. People only ask that when they’re about to tell you something you’d rather not hear. When I didn’t answer, he jumped right in. “Have you always been so slovenly?”

  It was the last thing I’d expected, and the question caught me so off guard that I forgot to act offended. “Um, probably. When I was little, everybody was so busy staring at my sister that it never seemed to matter how I looked. She was born beautiful, just like our mom. I take after my father’s side. Nobody ever looked twice at me.”

  “Your sister?” Sammy leaned forward. “How is it that you never speak of her? Have you quarreled?”

  “Of course not!” I spoke with more vehemence than I’d intended. “It would be hard to fight with Genie; she’s kind of a perfect person, nothing at all like me. She’s good at everything: In high school she was senior-class president, on the debate team, junior tennis champion of Santa Barbara, and she always got straight A’s. She’s an artist too; she can draw anything. She should have been the world’s most horrible big sister, but she was even good at that.”

  Was that pity I saw on Sammy’s face? “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  His face went slack, as if he’d drawn a curtain across his emotions. “I am going to hazard a guess”—he was speaking cautiously—“that this paragon of a sister you have kept hidden from your friends has something to do with the extremely unattractive façade that you present to the outside world. But, dear girl, it is time that this nonsense stopped.”

  “You think I try to look bad?” To my horror, my voice cracked. “You think I do it on purpose? I’ve spent my whole life wishing I looked like my sister! But I don’t!”

  At my outburst, Sammy’s face came alive. “You are welcome to tell yourself anything you like.” He took a deep breath. “That is your prerogative. As it is mine to disbelieve you.” He leaned across the table and took my hand. In his glasses I could see my own reflection, and for a moment I hated the drab hair, thick eyeglasses, and tattered gray sweater with its constellation of small holes.

  “It seems to me,” he continued, “that this façade is a barrier you have erected to keep the world at bay. Of course, it is none of my business.”

  “You’re right.” I said it as coldly as I could. “It is none of your business.”

  He raised a sandy eyebrow. “And yet you considered it your business to come barging into my house in the middle of the night.… ”

  He did have a point.

  “I was appreciative of your efforts,” he continued, “as you should be of mine. What are friends for? Last night you forced me to face the facts.”

  “And just what are those facts?” I glared across the table.

  He looked unblinkingly back as he raised a closed fist and slowly unfurled his thumb. “One. Delicious! was an extraordinary voyage, but it has come to its conclusion. Two”—he rais
ed his index finger—“nobody is going to employ me; I have grown too long in the tooth. And three”—the middle finger joined the others—“I have achieved financial security, but unless I resolve the question of my future, I am very likely to achieve my own end. Last night, after your group departed, I gathered my wits and conceived a grand plan. And it involves you.”

  “Me?”

  “I have come to a crossroads, and I am at a loss to know which way to turn. At the moment, I require a project, and you would be doing me a great favor if you would allow me to assist you.” He offered me a tentative smile; I realized this was costing him something. “It will not be forever. The pundits are predicting that the market will change with the weather. And the instant the economy recovers, Young Arthur is sure to summon his realtors. This being January, that gives us three paltry months, which is precious little time to locate the entirety of Lulu’s letters.”

  Was he kidding? I’d be thrilled to have company in that dreary old mansion. Who was helping whom here? But Sammy wasn’t finished. “We”—he reached for my hand and held on, prepared to ward off any protests—“are going to make a mutual improvement pact.”

  “We are?” I thought he was joking.

  “Loneliness is pernicious, and your diet sounds absurd; from what I have been told, you have been surviving on cheap Chinese takeout. We will commence by dining together on a regular basis.” He was serious! “A nourishing diet will do wonders for your disposition. And a bit of company will improve mine.”

  “Have you forgotten that I don’t cook?”

  “Nonsense!” He batted this away like an inconsequential fly. “This pose you affect of refusing to cook has become as tiresome as your aggressively unkempt appearance. Both verge on the offensive. You are an eminently capable young woman. But, in the meantime, it will be my pleasure to become your personal chef.”

  “And what do I have to do in exchange?”

  “Given a few nugatory changes, you might be rendered quite appealing.” He stared thoughtfully at my hair. “I have been thinking that you might lighten your locks. A bit of color would have a salubrious effect.”

  “You’re the only person in the world who uses the words ‘nugatory’ and ‘salubrious.’ ”

  “Thank you.” He inclined his head and then pointed to my eyes. “Contact lenses, perhaps? And an improved wardrobe might have a salutary effect on your morale.”

  It was ridiculous. He seemed to see himself as my fairy godfather, and I saw no point in arguing. His increasingly archaic vocabulary was a sure sign that he was getting drunk, and I crossed my fingers beneath the table and agreed to everything, convinced that by morning he would have forgotten the whole thing.

  Anzio

  Dear Genie,

  My heart goes out to Sammy; I can’t imagine how it must feel to be as old as he is, and as lost. When they closed Delicious! I lost a job, but for him it was like walking off a cliff. He was going along, enjoying his life, thinking things would never change, and then—boom! He found himself hurtling through thin air, unable to find anything to hold on to.

  Now he’s found me, but I’m afraid I’m going to be another disappointment. He seems to have before-and-after fantasies, where Billie the nerd ends up as some kind of goddess. What’s he going to do when that doesn’t happen? My only hope is that we can find enough of Lulu’s letters to write a book. It would make him so happy.

  And I’ll admit that having him at the mansion has changed everything. Reading the letters with him is like discovering a strange new planet where the men are all gone and the women make do. Their lives were changing every day. Now I wake up every morning, eager to get to work.

  I’m glad I told him about you too. I hardly ever do that—I think Diana’s the only other one—but if we’re going to be true friends, he needs to know you’re out there. Always were, always will be.

  xxb

  Now that Sammy was at the mansion, looking for Lulu’s letters was fun. It wasn’t easy; the clues seemed to have become more elusive. I was convinced the next one would be “meatballs,” and when that didn’t work we spent a week researching dozens of variations—“polpette,” “kofte,” “frikadeller,” “albondigas,” “bouletten,” “bola bola”—before giving up. Next we tried “contests.” There are a stunning number of food competitions in America, but after researching everything from old-fashioned pie eating to Rocky Mountain oyster tournaments and cow-pie flipping trials, we reluctantly accepted that we were getting nowhere. Then I tried “gravy”; one card sent us searching pointlessly through Italian cookbooks, another directed us to eighteenth-century French recipes, and a third had us reading about the history of the tomato, before we finally admitted defeat. I couldn’t help feeling that Bertie was deliberately sending us off on wild-goose chases; two weeks later, we were back to square one.

  We reread the letters. “Perhaps we should investigate that institution where Beard was working,” Sammy suggested.

  “The ‘National Seamen’s Service’?” I went to the card file. “Nothing.”

  “Try ‘Seamen,’ ” he said. “Or ‘Service’?”

  I kept flipping disconsolately through the cards. “Nothing.”

  “ ‘United States Seamen’s Service’?” he suggested.

  My fingers stopped moving, and I pulled up a card. “Not ‘United States.’ ‘United Seamen’s.’ ” I handed it to Sammy.

  “ ‘Although merchant seamen came under constant attack, they were not considered servicemen. But the government found these traveling sailors to be a vital source of information and created an international string of clubs to provide them with food, drink, and a decent place to stay. Anyone with an interest in the Second World War will find the letters on the subject of this unique department of the War Shipping Administration fascinating; they can be found in the 1944 files.’ ”

  I was through the door the minute he’d finished reading the last sentence.

  MARCH 16, 1944

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  Father has been found! He says he’s a cat, he survived a crash, and he’s got eight lives to go. He can’t tell us the details, but we know that he’s in the hospital in Sicily, and he says he will be flying again very soon. He writes almost every day now, as if he’s trying to make up for lost time. Mother seems different too; yesterday I heard her singing “Paper Doll” in the shower.

  The Cappuzzellis have had a letter too. Marco did lie about his age, and now he’s headed overseas. Mr. C. wants to wire his commander, but Mrs. C. just moans and says, What’s the point? By the time he got home he’d be almost eighteen, and he’d join up again.

  A few days ago I asked Mrs. C. what they eat in the springtime in Sicily. She told me about the wild vegetables they gather on the hillsides. That reminded me about the milkweed shoots last spring, so yesterday I went back to forage for them. I had forgotten how delicious they are.

  I made Mother a nice little milkweed salad for her lunch. That should show up Estelle Dixon! She’s still ahead of us, but there are a few more weeks until Easter, and I’m not giving up. I will be sorry when the contest is over; making these thrifty lunches with Mother has been such fun.

  About the onions: You were absolutely right. I sliced two very thin, sprinkled them with salt and pepper, and covered them with vinegar. Then I left them to sit in the refrigerator for a few hours; Mother said they make her sandwiches taste so much better.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  “Why are you looking so glum?” Sammy was jubilant. “Father is in fine fettle. Mother is warbling in the shower. And our Lulu is out in the countryside, collecting milkweed shoots. What misfortune are you anticipating?”

  “Look at the date.” I pointed to the top of the letter.

  “March 1944. Where is the difficulty?”

  “You know those books I’ve been reading? If he’s in Sicily, he’s going to be part of the Anzio campaign; the landing was called Operation Shingle. It started badly and got worse. The Allies
dropped more bombs there than anywhere else on the continent. And it didn’t help much. The Germans had set up antiaircraft guns, and, despite the air support, the soldiers were just sitting ducks. By March they’d been bogged down there for two months. The generals were fighting among themselves—reading about it makes you so mad!—and sending men off on crazy sorties, where they got separated from the army. It was terrible.”

  Sammy shuddered. “I believe there was a film called Anzio. Dreadfully realistic. As I recall, I had nightmares for weeks. But by late March, D-Day was just around the corner. I would conjecture that all the pilots were sent to Normandy to cover the landing.”

  “They weren’t.” I’d been doing my homework. “Eisenhower wanted to create a diversion in Italy, and he kept them there.”

  “Anything must have been better than Normandy,” Sammy murmured. “Now, where do you suppose we will encounter her next letter?”

  “Who sang ‘Paper Doll’?”

  Sammy thought for a minute and then began to laugh. “What a perspicacious young woman you are! It was the Mills Brothers. An ideal clue.”

  We raced to the card catalog, and when there was not a single blue card for “mill,” “miller,” or “millstone,” we were both incredulous. “It seemed so perfect!” I fumed as we retreated to the secret room.

  We spent the rest of the day following clues that led nowhere. “Cat,” “onion,” “vinegar”—all useless.

  “I believe that will do for today,” said Sammy. “I find that I am being bombarded by images of Anzio.” He did look very pale. “I simply cannot erase it from my mind. Tomorrow is another day.”

  He turned to go, and we were already at the library door when I realized I’d forgotten my purse.

  “I left it in the secret room.” I went back to retrieve it.

  “The brave young soldier,” Sammy called after me, “risks life and limb to rescue a fallen comrade at Anzio.”

  “I think you’ve just christened the secret room,” I said when I re-emerged.