Delicious!

by Ruth Reichl

  “Nope. Even today, with genetically engineered corn, they still do some detasseling by hand.”

  “I am impressed.” He pulled out a chair for me. “I expect that this knowledge will one day serve you well.”

  “And I expect it’s the next clue.” It was not lost on me that Sammy had made my favorite dinner, the shrimp curled, translucent as pearls, inside their fragile shells. He’d used the good china too. Something was up, but as he refused to say what, I told him about Mr. Complainer appearing at the mansion.

  “Am I remembering correctly that he not was due to return for another month or so?” asked Sammy.

  “Apparently he was substituting for a colleague who returned early.” Joan-Mary had mentioned that. “But I wish I’d known he had such an interesting profession. He never seemed to consider the cost when he came to Fontanari’s, and when he told me he’d spent a couple weeks taking cooking classes in Italy, I just pegged him as a rich guy.”

  “I too”—Sammy stood up—“was struck by a bolt from the blue.” He paused dramatically. “I found Bertie.”

  “Shut up!” I dropped the last shrimp, splashing soy sauce, vinegar, chilies, and ginger onto the lace cuffs.

  “Indeed.” Sammy looked triumphant. “I will admit that it was utterly serendipitous. The librarian I succeeded in unearthing at NYU was very pretty but positively useless. I was turning away, dejected, when she said, ‘Maybe Bonnie Slotnick could help you.’ ”

  “Bonnie who?”

  “Bonnie Slotnick is the proprietress of a vintage cookbook store in the Village. As it was only a few blocks distant, I could not see that I had much to lose, so I wandered her way.”

  “Bertie’s real name is Bonnie?” I was confused.

  “Billie!” Sammy frowned at me. “Surely you did not expect it to be that easy?”

  “But you said you found her.”

  “Bonnie is a lovely woman with an impressive knowledge of cookbooks, but she is definitely not Bertie.”

  “But she knows her?”

  “No, she does not. She listened very politely to what I had to say and then spent some time delivering a diatribe against Pickwick Publications and their iniquity in murdering her favorite magazine. I was beginning to consider this a lost cause when she came sputtering to a conclusion, saying that she had an idea. She dialed a number and conversed for quite some time. When she finally hung up, she said, ‘Anne Milton is on her way over.’ ”

  First Bonnie, now Anne. “What about Bertie?”

  “I shall arrive there in due time.” I banged the table with the palm of my hand in frustration. The silverware jumped. Sammy lifted an eyebrow. “Twenty minutes later, a rather grand dame strolled into Bonnie’s emporium. Remarkable-looking: quite tall, with sapphire eyes, and a thick head of absolutely superb white hair. I must add that she was wearing the most exquisitely tailored suit it has ever been my privilege to behold, in an extraordinary shade of blue.”

  “That’s exactly how I imagined Bertie!”

  “It was not Bertie! Anne is a retired professor of literature. And her closest friend was a librarian at—”

  “Delicious! Was she Bertie?”

  “Well …” Sammy obviously wanted to draw the story out. “Yes and no. Her friend was indeed Bertie. And Bertie was employed at Delicious! But it was not our Bertie.”

  “What do you mean, not our Bertie?”

  “Her friend was Bertram Arnold Joseph Ancram.”

  “Bertie’s a man?”

  “Indeed. Of the masculine persuasion. I could not have been more astounded.”

  “Do you think Maggie knew?”

  “Oh, Maggie.” He waved a hand. “Always up to mischief. But to bestow the benefit of the doubt, it is eminently possible that she had no more knowledge of this fact than did I myself. Bertie departed before either of us made an appearance at Delicious! We were merely acquainted with the myth of Bertie.”

  “I bet she knew,” I said darkly.

  “It is of no moment. What does matter is that Miss Milton was entirely cognizant of the secret room.”

  “She knew about Anzio? Did Bertie build it?”

  “I felt that it would be unsportsmanlike to allow her to narrate her tale in your absence. She will join us for dinner tomorrow evening, when all will be revealed.”

  He let her get away? “I’m not sure I can bear the suspense. It’s a long time till tomorrow night.”

  “The time will fly; there is so much to do. I must vacate my office before morning. And I intend to make a midnight raid on Anzio. Anne had some very good suggestions.”

  “She knew about Lulu?”

  “She seems to know everything. She asked if we had noted Bertie’s fondness for puzzles and puns. When I related how long it had taken us to unravel the mystery of the ugly duckling, she regarded me with what I can only describe as pity. Then she inquired if we had fiddled with the letters in the other names.”

  “We should have thought of that!”

  “I gave it a whirl. ‘Lulu,’ with its paucity of letters, offers rather poor possibilities, but when I began diverting myself with ‘Swan,’ I was absolutely enraged. How could I have overlooked this? There is an absolutely obvious word. Bertie would have been powerless to resist it.”

  “What?”

  “As far as I can tell, there is only one anagram for Swan. But it is a doozy.”

  “A doozy?”

  “Awns, for your information, are those rather beautiful arrow-like spikes on top of wheat plants. They are the bristles on all cereals—barley, rye—a myriad of possibilities. They are …” He stopped himself. “Oh, my word!”

  “They’re tassels!”

  THE MOON WAS NEARLY FULL, and in the milky darkness the library seemed even more enchanted than usual. I looked around, already nostalgic, knowing our days here were numbered.

  Sammy reached for my hand, and we moved slowly, breathing together, to the card file. The “Awn” card referred us to the various cereals, and we went through the cereal cards one by one, carefully reading Bertie’s notes. At “Wild Wheat,” we hit pay dirt.

  As I read, “The awns of wild-wheat spikelets are self-cultivating,” I could imagine Bertie writing the card, delighted by his own cleverness. “During World War II, many young people were forced to be equally self-sufficient. There is no better proof of their resourcefulness than a letter filed under ‘Wheat,’ 1944.”

  The file, when we found it, was distressingly thin, and I opened it with a sense of foreboding.

  OCTOBER 1, 1944

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  The telegram came yesterday. “The secretary of war desires me to express his deepest regret that your husband, James Swan, has been reported missing in action since September 14, in France. If further details or other information is received, you will be promptly notified.”

  Oh, Mr. Beard, we did not even know that Father had been deployed to France! Since Paris is liberated, he must be somewhere in the south. But I know, in my heart, that he’s not dead; if he were, the world would feel emptier. But it feels the same way it did yesterday, and the day before, and I am absolutely sure that he is out there somewhere, still alive. I just pray that he’s not badly wounded. I’m consoled by the fact that the weather there is pleasant now. I hope he’s in a lovely little village where they grow their own food and keep their own bees, being protected by good people.

  Mr. Beard, Mother and I will be very grateful if you will add your prayers to ours.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  “I knew it wasn’t going to be good!” I’d been reading up on the end of the war; late in the summer of ’44, over the objections of Churchill, Eisenhower began to move troops from Italy to the south of France. “The operation was called Dragoon,” I told Sammy. “It was like another D-Day, although it never received much attention. The English thought the resources would be better used in Italy or the Balkans, but Eisenhower was insistent. He wanted to open the ports of Marseille and Toulon.”


  “Was it successful?”

  “Yes, but also expensive: Seventeen thousand Allied troops were killed or wounded.”

  “And Father was among them,” Sammy mused, “for the second time. He does appear to get himself shot down with remarkable frequency.” Sammy said it slowly, as if an idea was coming to him as he spoke. “Perhaps he was doing it on purpose, so he could collect information behind enemy lines? Did it ever occur to you that he might have been a spy?”

  “Oh, please.” This seemed like a stretch. “What occurs to me is that Bertie always leaves us hanging. Where is Father? Will he be rescued? Tune in next time to find out. I wish he’d known we’d be racing the clock; he might have made this easier. What now?”

  “Rather obvious, don’t you think?” Sammy was beginning to get up from the floor, and I could see how tired he was. “You must surely have noted the frequency with which Lulu employed Beard’s name in this letter. Now would be the moment to investigate anagrams for ‘Beard.’ ”

  “Not tonight,” I said. “We’ve got to get all your stuff out of your office.”

  It was very late by the time we had boxed everything up and lugged it back to his apartment. Too exhausted to go home, I collapsed onto his sofa, pulled a cashmere throw over myself, and fell into a restless sleep. I think I was having a dream about the Timbers Mansion when I suddenly woke up, looked around for a sheet of paper, and began writing anagrams of “James Beard.”

  “Mad bee jars.” “Be dear jams.” “Jade’s Amber.” “Rad bee jams.” As I stared at the words, the clue became obvious. I went back to the sofa and slept without dreaming.

  I woke again to the smell of coffee and the scent of oranges. I went into the kitchen and Sammy handed me a cup of coffee. “Honey!” I said, feeling very clever.

  “You know I loathe the stuff,” he replied. “So I assume that you are not requesting a bit of sweetener for your coffee. I take your meaning; you are not the only one who devoted the night to anagrams.”

  I felt the pride slip off my face.

  Sammy patted my arm. “Never mind. It is merely great minds thinking alike. Honey is definitely the clue. Drink your coffee quickly; if you are to have the opportunity to investigate this theory, you must depart with alacrity.”

  “I should change.” I looked down at the wrinkled blouse I’d slept in, the cuffs spattered with soy sauce. “Where did you put my new clothes?”

  Sammy looked at me with obvious impatience. “This is no time to fret over fashion!” But he went and got the package. “I am beginning to regret your metamorphosis. Hurry! You must arrive at the mansion ahead of that fellow.”

  I went into the bathroom and took the quickest shower of my life. I put on the red skirt with the pink T-shirt and orange leggings, glanced at myself in the mirror, and hurried out. “Don’t worry.” I kissed Sammy on the cheek. “I’ll take a cab.”

  IT WAS ONE OF THOSE hopeful early-April mornings, and after I got out of the cab I had to stand for a moment, taking in the fresh air and watching cloud reflections drift across the windows.

  “I’m going to tell on you.” I jumped sky-high. Mr. Complainer’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere. I hadn’t noticed him sitting on the top step.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to tell Sal you take a taxi to work. You know he won’t approve; he thinks taxis are strictly for tourists.” He put a hand up to shade his eyes. “Interesting outfit.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “And interesting reaction.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How long have you been working at Fontanari’s? A year and a half? And this is the first time you’ve ever given me a straightforward response to something that’s not about Sal or salami.”

  “Really?” That couldn’t be right.

  Mr. Complainer kept talking, and I saw this was something he’d thought about. “Remember that time I came and found you on Allen Street?” I did remember, although I’d had no idea he’d been looking for me.

  “You mean when I was eating dumplings?”

  “Yeah. I sat down and we talked about the shop. Then I ventured something more personal and you immediately jumped up and said, ‘Gotta go.’ You made it very clear that our relationship was strictly confined to cheese.”

  “Oh.” Brilliant response, but it was all I could think of.

  “And”—he stood up, brushing off the seat of his pants—“now that I know you’re the one who wrote that article, I get it. You made what you think of me pretty clear.”

  His face didn’t match his words; it was open, almost hopeful, and it gave me confidence. I took a step up so I was looking directly at him and said, before I could change my mind, “That was a long time ago. Wanna start over?”

  He took a step backward; had I said too much? Then he held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Mitch Hammond.”

  “Billie Breslin.” I took it. “And what I want to know is, what are you doing, sitting on my steps at eight-thirty in the morning?”

  “Listening to the building. I told Joan-Mary I’d meet her here at ten, but I came early, thinking I’d sit outside and kind of get a feel for the place.”

  “Listening to the building?”

  “Yes. Buildings will talk to you—if you let them. There’s something very odd about the Timbers Mansion; I’ve been trying to research it and I keep coming up blank. That’s never happened before. There’s always something. Tell me if I’m out of line here, but I was hoping you’d let me take a crack at the library door before Joan-Mary gets here. I’d like to get started. You think you could take me up?”

  “Why not?”

  I unlocked the door and we went inside. As I led him up the stairs, I was conscious of his eyes on me as we climbed. But when I turned back, I saw that he wasn’t watching me. “They told me the Timbers Mansion was a jewel,” he said, looking around appreciatively, “but I had no idea it would be like this.” He ran a hand lovingly along the banister. “This is superb work. And it’s never been painted. This must have been a real suburban palace.”

  “Suburban?”

  “Manhattan started as a little colony down at the very tip of the island. When rich people wanted to give their children healthy country air, they moved uptown.”

  “This was uptown?”

  “It was when this house was built. God, I hope it doesn’t go to some rich asshole with no respect for history. It ought to be properly restored.”

  I began to understand why Joan-Mary had hired him. His passion for the building was palpable, and he kept pointing out details I’d missed. “Look up at the ceiling.… ” Following his finger, I saw the band of tooth-like moldings where it met the wall. “It’s a classic Federal feature. I noticed it outside; it’s echoed at the roofline.”

  When we reached the fourth floor he winced, as if the pain he felt was physical. He went over to the dormer windows and ran his hands across the glass, as if he could heal them with a touch. “What they’ve done here …” He shook his head. “As I said yesterday, they’ve ripped down the walls. It’s so wrong. Originally this would have been a number of small unheated rooms for the servants.”

  “Cold in the winter.”

  “Very. If it turns out that the library is original to the building, it’s going to be very strange. Why would someone put a library up here?”

  He was scowling as I led him to the door, and for a moment he stood taking it in. Then he knelt down in front of the lock, prodding it gently with the tips of his fingers. The lock was coated with thick black paint and seemed quite ordinary. He laid down a cloth and began to take things out of his tool kit. “Tell me what you know about this room.”

  “Not much. It was locked when I got here, and they told me it had been that way for years.”

  I wondered if he could tell, from the condition of the lock, how recently the door had been opened. He turned back to the lock and resumed moving his fingers softly across the surface. “I’m trying to figure out how many co
ats of paint are on this thing. I’ll take out the lock and remove the paint, but I want to get as much information as I can before I begin. It never pays to move too quickly.” He glanced up at me as he said this, and I wondered if I was about to get the lecture.

  “Little details tell you a lot, but when people don’t know what they’re looking for, they usually destroy them. Maybe we’ll find something hiding underneath this paint.” He picked up a small brush, dipped it into some kind of solvent, and swept it across the heads of the screws before gently fitting a screwdriver into the slot and very slowly starting to turn. He seemed to have a delicate touch, and the screws released with a little sigh, wriggling in his hands as he carefully examined each one.

  “Bronze.” He sounded triumphant. “The screws are solid bronze. And I bet when I get this doorplate off, it will be too.”

  He worked silently for a few minutes, and I leaned against the wall, watching the muscles move beneath his shirt as he carefully removed the plate. Absorbed in his work, he obviously forgot I was there, and I thought how different he seemed here than at Fontanari’s. There he was a visitor, a sponge eager to learn what he could, and eager to please. Here he was totally in charge. His motions were crisp, efficient, assured. He knew exactly what he was doing, and I discovered that there is nothing more attractive than competence in action.

  He examined the back of the plate, nodding as if it had confirmed his thoughts, then set it down on a cloth and began to coax the lock out of the ancient wood. “Aren’t you a beauty,” he breathed as it slid into his hands. “Solid bronze. Here, feel.” He tossed me the lock.

  “It’s heavy!” I nearly dropped it. The outside was shrouded in paint, but the secret parts, the ones that had been hidden inside the door, gave off a dull metallic gleam.

  He nodded. “I’ll tell you this: That lock was not here when the house was built.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “See this?” He was pointing to some initials stamped into the side.

  “ ‘BLW,’ ” I read.