Delicious!

by Ruth Reichl

  I knew exactly what was bothering him. “He was afraid that nobody would ever find the letters!”

  Anne nodded. “He’d gone to all that trouble, and he suddenly saw what an enormous chance he was taking.” She looked across the table and gave me a radiant smile. “What a great pity that he can’t be here. You are, quite literally, his dream come true.”

  I Love to Eat

  Dear Genie,

  I know that when I hit the “Send” button, all these words go to an inbox that hasn’t been opened in one year, nine months, and thirty days. But I miss you so much, and somehow writing helps.

  The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about Anne and Bertie and their strange, sad love story. And you’re the one I want to talk it over with. It seems like such a waste, all that passion just sitting there, no use to anyone. She threw herself into her work; he amused himself by creating an elaborate treasure hunt.

  In some funny way it reminds me of Maggie and Jake: They were no good together, but neither of them has found anyone else. They must be pretty lonely. Then I wonder about Dad and Aunt Melba … and I don’t even know where to go with that. Remember all those family trips we took, how careful they always were about having separate rooms? But they’re together all the time, she finishes his sentences, and yet I’ve never even seen them holding hands. Have you? Were they sneaking around behind our backs? Or are they just good friends? Do they even know what they are anymore?

  And then there’s my Mr. Complainer. I find myself listening for his feet on the stairs, find myself wishing he’d come in. Am I crazy? When he’s not there, I wish he were. And when he is, I wish he’d touch me. How did this happen? Is he right—did I really put him off all that time at Fontanari’s? Looking back, it seems I did change the subject every time he asked something personal. Maybe I’m the one who’s changed?

  But then I remember the horrible blonde he brought into the shop, and I wonder: Are they still together? Even if they’re not, I can’t be his type. Am I making an ass of myself?

  Oh, Genie, couldn’t you be alive, just for a day? You always had all the answers. I know I need to let you go. But not quite yet. Not yet. Please.

  xxb

  P.S. I’ve decided to get my hair cut. New contacts, new clothes … why not a new ’do? I’ll probably choose someplace awful and come out looking like a freak. That would be just like me.

  I punched “Send” and watched the words vanish. Then I defiantly surveyed my new wardrobe; there wasn’t one thing here Genie would approve of. Today, I thought, was the day for the red suede jacket. I kept everything else simple: black pants, a black T-shirt, plain black flats. I stared at myself in the mirror, realizing I needed something else, just a tiny punctuation. I pulled on a pair of thin red socks, gave myself one last look, and headed to the mansion.

  All morning I listened for Mitch, but when the doorbell finally rang it was Joan-Mary, with two young, handsome, skinny men in tow. Their voices were squeaky with admiration for the Timbers Mansion. “I know exactly what to do here,” said the blond one, who seemed to be in charge. “By the time we’re done, people will kill to get this place. You’ll have ten offers the first day.”

  “You promise?” Joan-Mary looked pleased. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” She turned her attention to me. “Eric and Alex will just reconnoiter today, but I’m sorry to say that tomorrow will be different. They’ll be bumping furniture up and down the stairs. I’m afraid it’s going to be rather disruptive, and, if I were you, I’d stay out of their way.”

  “But shouldn’t somebody be here?”

  “You’ll have to let them in. And lock up when they leave. But there’s absolutely no reason for you to stay while they’re working. You won’t get a single thing done.”

  “So I can tell HR you’re giving me tomorrow off?”

  “Do.” I’d been joking, but she didn’t catch the humor. She took her leave, and I immediately called Sammy.

  “I’m alone here with a couple of decorators. They’re going to stage the mansion. But now that Mitch has unlocked the library, I guess I can walk right in. Where do you think I should look? I was wondering if ‘pumpkins’ might be the next clue.”

  He considered that in silence while I climbed the stairs. “Insufficiently subtle,” he finally decided.

  “What about ‘Liberation Cake’?”

  “Not impossible. But we are nearing the end of the game, and Bertram seems to have increased the complexity. I am persuaded that the temptation to meddle with ‘bread’ would have proved overwhelming. Such a tempting anagram for ‘Beard.’ ”

  “Maybe French bread?” I suggested. “Since he was in France? Should I try ‘pain’?”

  “Far too simplistic. ‘Baguette,’ perhaps?”

  “I’ll try,” I said skeptically, going to the card catalog and opening the “B” drawer. “Oh, my God, are you channeling Bertie now?” I asked. “Here it is! This is what he wrote: ‘During World War Two, American soldiers in the European Theater of Operations had their first taste of true French bread. There are some interesting letters on the subject in the “Boulangerie” file of 1945.’ ”

  I imagined Sammy’s pleased expression. “Elementary, my dear. I suggest that you hastily locate the letters and repair to your office with the file. It would be foolish to attract untoward attention to the library.”

  “Right.” I ended the call, found the file, and took it down to my office, waving cheerily at Eric and Alex as I passed them on the stairs.

  MARCH 26, 1945

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  Please be very, very careful; the thought of you being in Europe frightens me very much. Even though I know that you are excited about going there, about being back in Paris once the city is liberated, it just seems so scary. I know that you have important work to do, but I was happier when I thought about you being in South America.

  When I get very frightened, I think about you walking into one of those little French bakeries, and then walking down the street with one of those long, crisp loaves of bread under your arm, and it makes me feel happier.

  Please take very good care of yourself, Mr. Beard. I will be thinking about you.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  APRIL 12, 1945

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  I gave Mrs. C. the recipes you sent from Naples, and she said after the war is over we will make mozzarella in carrozza together. Everybody is always talking about what we’re going to do after the war is over.

  Have you been reading about the concentration camps? Now that I know about places like Auschwitz, I can’t stop worrying that Father ended up a prisoner of war. The newspaper said they were forced to dig trenches and break up rocks on a starvation diet, and when they grew too weak to work they were sent to a gas chamber and asphyxiated. I’m afraid that if he was taken prisoner, we might never know the truth about what happened to him. Mother and I do not discuss this, but we don’t have to. I know she’s thinking exactly the same thing.

  Please send me some cheerful news.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  APRIL 13, 1945

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  President Roosevelt is gone. It is such a shock. He’s the only president I can remember, and I just can’t imagine somebody else in the White House. I’m sure President Truman is a good man, but even the words feel peculiar in my mouth. A world without President Roosevelt seems like a strange and scary place.

  Mr. Jones was at the house when we got the news, and he put his arms around Mother and me and we all just stood there, trying to comfort one another. Isn’t it sad that the president died before the war was over? Everyone says the end won’t be long now.

  In class Mrs. Bridgeman read the telegram Mrs. Roosevelt sent to her boys. “The president slept away this afternoon. He did his job to the end as he would want to do. Bless you all and all our love.” Slept away—isn’t that a lovely way to put it?

  And so we will all do our jobs and wait for the wa
r to be over and life to return to the way it used to be. It’s been such a long time; I can hardly remember what that was like.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  I was staring at the letter, thinking how sad it was that Roosevelt died before the war ended; three weeks later, it was over in Europe. When I looked up, I saw that Eric was standing in my door.

  “We’re done for today,” he said. “We’d like to come back tomorrow at nine-thirty. That okay with you?”

  “Fine. See you tomorrow.”

  I waited until he left, then picked up the next letter in the file. The phone rang before I could read it. Sammy. “I find that I have an uncontrollable craving for Thursday’s gnocchi. Would you be good enough to join me at The Pig?”

  “Now? I haven’t read all the letters!”

  “Bundle them up and fetch them along. We can peruse them after dinner. It will be something to anticipate. Hurry, now; I find that I am extremely peckish.” Giving me no chance to argue, he abruptly hung up.

  THE PIG WAS so crowded that I was halfway across the dining room before I realized that Sammy was not alone. Richard, Jake, and Maggie were all sitting around the table, while Thursday stood near Richard, her hand on his shoulder. As I approached, they all, embarrassingly, turned to watch.

  Was it a surprise party? Why were they all here?

  Jake stood up. “Look at you!” He pulled out a chair. “I wish you’d gotten the fashion bug sooner. This is quite an improvement on those dreary clothes you used to wear.”

  “Great jacket.” Richard reached out and ran a finger down the soft suede.

  I was feeling pretty good until Maggie said. “Were you the victim of one of those magazine makeovers? If you ask me, everybody always looks better before.”

  “Give it a rest,” chided Thursday. She looked me up and down. “The contact lenses are an improvement. But if you’re going to dress like that, you really ought to do something about your hair.”

  Her frankness always disarmed me. “I know. I know. But I don’t have a clue where to go.”

  “To Eva, of course.” Thursday pointed to a woman with brightly hennaed hair, sitting at the bar. “She’s the best.”

  “Can we please eat now?” Maggie held up her empty plate. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m finding this a major bore.”

  “Uh-oh.” Thursday moved toward the kitchen. “Better feed the beast.”

  Maggie watched as Thursday walked across the restaurant, eyes narrowing when she stopped to talk to Eva. “Can we move on, please, to the reason for this gathering? We’re here to welcome the prodigal editor home. Remind me, Jake, how long you’ve been gone?”

  “It’s been three months since the great Sammy intervention.” Jake clinked his glass against Sammy’s. “I left the next day.”

  “And you have only just returned?” said Sammy. “That was quite the voyage.”

  “True.” Jake raised his arms, gathering us all in. “What a racket! I had no idea. I went halfway around the world, and it didn’t cost me a penny; the entire thing was paid for by the tourist offices of the countries that I visited. After Sherman died—”

  “Sherman died?” I was horrified. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Jake reached both hands across the table to take mine in his. “Billie, I’m so sorry. I should have said something, but I couldn’t talk about it. It felt like I was losing everything I cared about at once. First the magazine and then Sherman.”

  I thought back to the conversation we’d had when I offered to take care of Sherman. “Is that why you were so strange? Sherman was already dead, wasn’t he?”

  “I’d just come back from the vet,” he said. “I knew if I talked about it, I’d start crying. I’m sorry. I know you loved him too.”

  I raised my glass. “Here’s to Sherman: I hope there are smoothies in heaven.”

  “With him gone, there was nothing holding me here. I’ve always wanted to go to Madrid Fusion, and that was pretty amazing; all the molecular guys were there. Ferran made a soup that started cold and became increasingly hot as you swallowed it. Then he turned carrots into pure air. This Japanese guy was cooking straw.”

  “Straw?” Sammy sounded incredulous.

  “Yeah, he smoked it. It tasted terrific. While I was there, I got an invitation to the Hokitika Wildfoods Festival in New Zealand. It really was wild. They were featuring live huhu grubs, worm truffles, and possum pie. One of Redzepi’s cooks was there from Noma, doing demos, and he did a recipe that used all 159 kinds of horseradish they have in Denmark.”

  The waiter set a platter of oysters onto the table. “New Zealand has the most amazing oysters—big, with that coppery taste of belons—but also kind of crisp. Taiwan was next, and then Singapore.”

  “What made you deign to return?” Maggie, of course.

  He grinned at her. “The other day I got a call asking if I wanted to do a stint on Top Chef Masters, and I thought it might be fun.”

  “Must be nice to be Jake Newberry.” You couldn’t blame Maggie for being bitter. “I can cook circles around you, but nobody’s invited me on any swell jaunts. You think it’s got anything to do with the fact that I’m a woman?”

  “You think it’s got anything to do with your wicked tongue?” A shadow crossed Jake’s face, and he held up his hands. “Sorry, that was mean. I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “No,” said Maggie. “You shouldn’t have.” She took an oyster, squeezed a lemon, tilted back her head, and swallowed.

  We ate oysters in an embarrassed silence until Sammy turned to Richard. “And you, sir, have you unearthed any new disasters to capture with your camera?”

  Richard picked up an oyster, jockeying for time. “Actually, I have. The guys at the firehouse on Great Jones Street have been letting me go with them. I don’t shoot them working, but I take pictures after the fires are out. I like what’s left, the drama at the end. I’m calling the series ‘Material Memory,’ and I think it’s going to be my next show.”

  Endings, I thought. Destruction. He could even find beauty in that. I wished again that I could see the world through his eyes, if only for a moment.

  Thursday arrived with the gnocchi, and we drank more wine. By the time she brought out a suckling piglet, peace had been restored, and the voices wove themselves around me, comforting as a cocoon. I looked around the table, thinking how lucky I was to have these people in my life.

  At ten-thirty, Sammy stood up and made a great show of yawning. “I must toddle off now.” He gave me a significant look.

  I obediently got to my feet. “Me too,” I said. “I’ve got an early appointment.”

  “And a later one too.” Thursday slipped a piece of paper into my hand. “Here’s Eva’s address. I figured you could go on your lunch hour, so I told her to expect you at noon.”

  WE TOOK THE LETTERS back to Sammy’s and settled on the sofa, where we could read them together.

  AUGUST 23, 1945

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  V-J Day was so exciting! We were all so happy that the war was finally over! I can hardly believe that everything went so wrong so fast.

  I’d been working with the Crop Corps, but when we heard the news, everybody put down their tools and headed into town, as if we’d made some secret plan. There were people standing on every rooftop, and toilet paper was strung everywhere, like a crazy Christmas in August. It felt like a party. When it started to get dark, we all headed home, but there were huge traffic jams and it took forever. Horns were honking and people were dancing, and the crowded bus felt like another party. Still, I wished it would move faster; I was afraid Mother would be home worrying about me. But when I got there, she was sitting in the kitchen, crying in the dark.

  At first I thought that the telegram man had been there, but it wasn’t that. Mother said that when the announcement came, everyone in the factory shouted with joy. But then the public-announcement system went on again, and the voice said, “Take everything with you.
We’re locking the doors.” None of the women understood.

  Mother asked the supervisor, who reminded her that they’d all signed pledges promising to give up their jobs when the boys came back. “But they aren’t back!” I said. Mother said it doesn’t matter—they’ve built too many airplanes, and now that the war’s over they’re no longer needed. The government’s canceling all the contracts and the company’s laying all the women off. When there are jobs again, they’ll go to returning soldiers.

  Mr. Beard, I’m so confused. I know it’s right for the brave men who’ve served our country to get their jobs back. But what about the women? Don’t they deserve a chance too? Women like Mother kept everything running; don’t they count now that the war’s over? Mother lost Father, and now she’s losing her job. It doesn’t seem fair.

  I know that if Father were coming home, he’d expect to go back to the bank. If that were the case, and if I were being honest, I guess I wouldn’t be thinking about the woman who’s been doing his job for the past few years. But now I do wonder about her and what she’s going to do. Maybe her husband isn’t coming home either; maybe she needs the job.

  Mother tells me not to worry; she says we have enough money to see us through, at least for a while. But if Mother doesn’t find work soon, I think we’ll have to sell our house. I don’t mind so much, but it seems hard on Mother, losing everything all at once.

  I thought that when the war was over times would be better. Father is still only presumed dead, but I’m sorry to say I’ve given up hope. I feel as if there’s a huge gulf separating me from all the lucky people in the world; they have so much to look forward to.