Delicious!

by Ruth Reichl

  Babe laughed again, delighted. “Surprised?”

  I blushed and nodded.

  “Well, dear”—she held up the plate again, and I took another madeleine—“until Elton passed on, I’d never known a moment of loneliness. I’d never even slept alone, not one night in my entire life. When I was growing up, my sister Susie and I shared a bed, and after I was married, Elton and I were never apart. But that wasn’t the worst. The morning after he died, I woke up and didn’t know what to do with myself. I was at a complete loss. Elton loved to eat, you see, and I’d filled my days with cooking.”

  “So you can cook?”

  “Oh, yes.” Babe displayed not a trace of embarrassment. “I’m quite good.” She stopped, staring across the table, and I knew she was not really looking at me. “It was what I could do for Elton, and I always did my best.”

  The voice was the same, but I couldn’t reconcile Babe with the dithering Mrs. Cloverly I had known on the phone. It was oddly disconcerting, listening to her voice and seeing this person. “Can I ask you something?”

  She inclined her head, a queen granting a favor.

  “Did you actually cook any of those recipes you called about?”

  “Of course I did!” Babe was indignant. “Let me just go get those English muffins.” She returned carrying a plate covered with small rocklike lumps. The words that floated into my mind were “horrid little hockey pucks.”

  “Take one,” she urged. “I know a bad recipe when I see one.” She picked up one of the rocks and turned it in her palm. “And now that Elton’s gone, this is how I amuse myself. I have no one to cook for.”

  “No friends?”

  “Gone.” She waved a ring-covered hand, indicating a host of departed friends standing somewhere offstage. “All of them. We had no children, so there are no grandchildren either. I go to yoga every day and to the occasional concert. I attend lectures at the library. But let me tell you, longevity’s not all it’s cracked up to be, even when you have your health. Life’s not much fun when you’re the last one standing. I suppose I shouldn’t have bothered you people at Delicious!, but it seemed harmless.” She allowed a small moment to pass and then added, “The truth is, I could never believe that you took me seriously.”

  “How did it start?” I reached for another madeleine.

  She looked pleased. “Oh, it was innocent enough.” She patted an errant curl back into place. “One day, about a week after Elton died, I was feeling very low, and I decided to bake a cake just to cheer myself up. I didn’t have much in the way of ingredients, and I was too upset to go to the store. But I found a recipe that called for powdered milk and margarine, which I always have on hand for an emergency. I wasn’t expecting much, but the results were extremely disappointing, so I called to complain. Talking to that young woman—her name was Victoria—cheered me right up. So the next week, when I got lonely, I deliberately looked for a bad recipe and called again. After a year or so I ran out of the truly vile recipes; that’s when I began to make substitutions. It was my little game, talking to the young women at Delicious! It gave me something to look forward to.”

  “But you’re nothing like that batty old woman who calls the magazine!”

  “Thank you.” She rubbed her lips together. “Thank you very much, dear. But, don’t you see, that was the fun of it! The recipes got sillier and sillier, but you never questioned them. If you want to know what I think, it’s that young people have such contempt for the old that you’ll believe any foolish thing we do. In some sense, you might say that you made me up. I was exactly what you were expecting.”

  My face got red as I remembered Jake saying he’d be eating out on that story for weeks. I don’t know what Babe saw on my face, but something made her stand up abruptly on her tiny feet. “Come with me.” She held out a hand. “I want to show you something.”

  She was leading me toward the kitchen, and I had a horrible moment of thinking she was going to ask me to cook with her. I hung back, making up excuses, but she stopped before we got to the kitchen door. “This used to be a hotel”—she gestured toward the kitchen—“and the kitchens weren’t intended for serious cooks. I can’t begin to fit all my equipment in there.” She flung open a door and switched on a light, revealing a large, square pantry stuffed with pots, pans, and utensils.

  “You should open a store!”

  What looked like dozens of cake tins were stacked in neat rows of diminishing size. There were dozens of pie plates and muffin molds galore. Fish poachers in three sizes lounged along one shelf, while another held tagines, beautiful ceramic Japanese rice cookers, and at least ten woks.

  “When I told you”—she was reaching for a box—“that people were always giving me cooking equipment, I was telling the truth.” She extracted a stringed instrument that resembled a medieval lute. “I bet you’ve never seen one of these.”

  “Actually, I have.” I took it from her. “It’s a chitarra for handmade pasta. We sell them at Fontanari’s. Do you ever use it?”

  “Of course.” She was pulling down another box. “There’s nothing here I haven’t used. But I prefer my good old pasta machine.” She pulled a battered object with a well-worn handle out of the box. “Elton did love his pasta.… Why, whatever is the matter?” She was following my eyes. “What are you looking at?”

  “It’s nothing.” But my strangled voice gave me away. I was staring at the label on the box. In bright red script, it said, The Cleveland Cookshop. And underneath, in smaller letters, Lulu Taber, Proprietor.

  Babe looked at the box. “I told you that people were always giving me presents, didn’t I, dear? A bit irritating, if you want to know the truth; how much equipment can one person use? I was constantly returning duplicate pots and utensils. When the shop closed—oh, ten years or so ago—I still had a large outstanding credit.” She shook her head, annoyed. “I guess it was my own fault; some of those credits went back years. It was such a shame, their closing like that.… ” She stopped, clearly puzzled. “Whatever have I said? You’re giving me the queerest look.”

  “It’s the proprietor’s name.” I couldn’t stop staring at it. “The reason I’m visiting Akron is that I’m looking for a Lulu.”

  “Lulu’s a common name around here,” she said. “Or it was in my time. Every Lucy, Lucille, and Louise was shortened to Lulu. I must know”—she stopped to correct herself—“I must have known at least five Lulus.”

  “But the Lulu I’m searching for was very interested in cooking.” I could imagine that Lulu might have opened a cookware shop. “It’s probably not the one I’m looking for, but it can’t hurt to check.” I handed the box back, but not before I’d copied the address into my cell. “How long will it take me to get to Market Avenue?”

  “The shop’s gone,” she protested, “I told you. There’s no point in going over there.” It was the querulous voice I knew so well, a reminder that Babe had invented that silly old lady for a reason. She was lonely, and she was loath to let me slip away.

  “It’s time I was leaving in any case.” I turned toward the living room. “I need to check in to my hotel; tomorrow’s going to be a long day. But I think I’ll drive by Market Avenue if it’s not too much out of the way. You never know; somebody might know something about the Cookshop. Or Lulu. It’s worth a try.”

  “You’ll stay in touch, won’t you?” Her voice was anxious.

  “Don’t worry, Babe.” I bent to kiss her. “I may no longer be at Delicious!, but you won’t get rid of me so easily.”

  “Take a madeleine for the road.” She wrapped one in a napkin and thrust it into my hand. “To remember me by.”

  A Whole Lot of Medicine

  THE GIRL WORKING THE COUNTER AT THE FLYING MANGO HAD NEVER heard of the Cleveland Cookshop. “Maybe you should ask over at the West Side Market?” She handed my coffee across the counter. “It’s one of the oldest markets in America, and I’ve heard that some of the stalls have been in the same family for a hundred years.” She
looked at her watch. “They close soon. But it’s only a couple blocks away.”

  I sat down at one of the small tables, remembering how the end of the day felt at Fontanari’s, how eager we always were to get the last customers out the door. It could wait until morning. Babe was probably right: Even if I found someone who remembered the Cleveland Cookshop, chances were slim that it would have anything to do with my Lulu.

  I pictured Babe, alone once more in her fussy little palace. She was nothing like the dithering old lady I’d been expecting, but the loneliness was real. It was pathetic—she’d had to make up an entirely different person just to reach out and make friends. The last line of that Randy Newman song Genie used to like kept running through my head: “You know I just can’t stand myself; It takes a whole lot of medicine, for me to pretend that I’m somebody else.”

  The lyric was caught in my head now, and it stayed there like a stuck record, playing over and over as I thought about Babe. What if Lulu turned out to be like Babe? If that was the case, I’d rather not find her.

  I finished my coffee, got back into the Camry, and headed toward the hotel. I was glad I’d decided to spend the night in Cleveland, but when I got to the Hyatt Regency I discovered an added bonus. As the valet took my car, I looked up and saw Cleveland’s huge marble library right across the street. I’d go over first thing in the morning to see what I could find out about the Cleveland Cookshop.

  I picked up my traveling bag and walked into the lobby, only to find a distressingly long line at the registration desk. I wanted a bath, a room-service burger, a huge pile of fries, and a mind-numbing television show. I didn’t want to think. Somewhere in the back of my mind, Mitch and everything he’d said were waiting for me. I’d deal with it, I would, but not tonight. The song kept repeating in my head, and all I could think was how glad I was to be alone for the moment, among strangers.

  I stood in line, so wrapped in this invisible cloak of solitude that I didn’t register the voice saying, “Billie? Billie?” Nobody knew me here. Even when I turned and saw the attractive silver-haired man standing right behind me, it took a few seconds.

  “Dad?” There was my father, still trim at fifty-something, wearing a conservative navy suit. I looked at his plaid tie, realizing it was the rather garish one I’d given him for his forty-third birthday. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, Billie!” He seemed so stricken that I wished I’d been more welcoming. But what was he doing in my hotel? And why was he staring at me with that strange expression? “I’d forgotten”—his voice was so thick he could barely speak—“how beautiful you are.”

  He didn’t even seem to register the haircut or the fact that I wasn’t wearing glasses anymore. To him, I think, I’d always looked like this. “Me?” I said.

  He reached out to touch the wisps of hair around my face. “Don’t you ever look in a mirror?”

  I could feel the words engraving themselves on my heart, and for one moment I pitied Genie. They could never have meant to her what they meant to me; she had been too accustomed to them.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I grabbed his hand. “But what’re you doing here?”

  Dad looked down. Eyes on his shoes, he said, almost shyly, “I had a deposition in Chicago. And Cleveland’s a short hop. Melba said you were here alone, and she thought you might welcome a little help.” He offered an embarrassed half smile. “Did I do the wrong thing? It’s been a while since you and I spent any time together.”

  Suddenly I was flooded with happiness. “Thanks, Dad.” I leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Really?” He let out his breath.

  “Really.” I was thinking about Mitch now—I couldn’t help it—and what he’d said about his parents. When Dad reached to put his arms around me, tentatively, as if he was afraid I’d push him away, I pulled him close. “You’re making me think that we might actually find her.” My voice was muffled in his jacket.

  I could feel his muscles losing their tension. “That’s why I came.” Behind us, a man coughed impatiently; the line had moved forward. It was our turn.

  Dad handed over his credit card. “I’m paying.” When I protested, he said, “You’re unemployed now, remember?” We took our keys and walked to the elevator. “You hungry?” Dad punched the button for the eighth floor. “There are supposed to be some good restaurants nearby.”

  “It’s been a long day. I was planning to hole up with room service and a juicy television drama. Want to join me?”

  Dad looked at me, shoulders slumped with relief. “I was on a five forty-five flight to Chicago this morning, which means I’ve been up since three. Room service sounds like heaven.”

  We ate in Dad’s room, each on our own full bed, passing a bottle of Merlot back and forth as we watched a rerun of The Sopranos. “Just like old times,” Dad said, leaning back against the pillows. For a brief moment a shadow fell across the room, because of course it wasn’t.

  Dad fell asleep halfway through the show. I stayed awake until the end, then slid both our trays outside the door, removed his shoes, turned off the light, and left him sleeping in his clothes.

  —

  IN THE MORNING, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, Dad looked ten years younger. “I was so tired last night, I never even asked whether you’d turned up anything useful.” Dad poured milk into his cup of coffee.

  “I might have.” I dipped a slice of toast into my poached egg and took him through my day, ending with Mrs. Cloverly’s box. “It’s probably not the right Lulu—Babe says the name’s very common around here—but still …”

  “We begin with the box!” Dad sounded excited, and it hit me that he wasn’t doing this only to be supportive; he was relishing the chase. Aunt Melba must have known that when she encouraged him to come.

  “And if that turns out to be a dead end, we’ll go back to Akron. But the box sounds very promising. What time does the library open?”

  THE MAIN BRANCH of the Cleveland Public Library, a distinguished temple to literacy, opened at ten. As we walked up the steps, past the imposing marble columns, I felt hopeful; the solid building was reassuring. The woman at the information desk was knitting a long green scarf, but she put her needles down and asked how she could help.

  “I can certainly tell you about the Cleveland Cookshop. Any Clevelander could—it was a local institution. I learned to cook there; they used to give these classes for kids that were great fun. We all took them.”

  “You mean like cake decorating?” I said. Dad shot me a worried look. I patted his arm.

  “No!” The librarian seemed almost offended. “None of that cutesy stuff. Mrs. Taber—she ran the Cookshop—didn’t believe in that. She taught us how to make real food. After my first class, I went home and cooked dinner for my parents; I think I was ten or eleven, and I was very proud of myself. But she was mostly known for her foraging. She’d take us to parks or for walks along the lake, and we’d come back with enough food for dinner. It wasn’t the usual mushrooms and watercress; it was weird stuff.”

  “Weird stuff?” Dad asked. “Like what?”

  “Knotweed. Lamb’s lettuce. Milkweed.”

  “Milkweed?” I hadn’t meant to exclaim so loudly.

  The librarian shot me a sympathetic glance. “I know it sounds odd, but it’s really quite delicious. To this day I go out and collect the floss in the autumn. It’s the oddest thing; if you didn’t know different, you’d swear it was cheese.”

  I squeezed Dad’s arm, and he patted it in a don’t-get-too-excited gesture. “Why did the shop close?”

  The librarian looked down at the green scarf she was knitting. “I don’t remember,” she said slowly. “But I think it was something dramatic. Did the owner pass?”

  “No!” Dad and I said it in unison, and the librarian’s head jerked up. “Were you related to Mrs. Taber?”

  “No.” Again we said the word together. Dad added, “But we were hoping to meet her.”

 
She took a pair of glasses out of a case. “I could be wrong.” She put them on. “I remember that something happened, but I can’t recall exactly what. Let me see what I can find.” She stood up. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  She returned empty-handed. “I was wrong.” She sounded more cheerful. “There was a fire some years ago. The entire shop went up in flames, but as far as I can tell, no one was hurt. And I did find something that may be of interest to you: before the fire, Mrs. Taber made a donation to the library. Documents of some sort—they have yet to be cataloged, but we could call them in if you like. They’re stored in our remote facility, so it will take a day or two. I’ve brought a request form, should you want to do that. But in the meantime, why not look up the fire in The Plain Dealer? It was eleven or twelve years ago, and I’m sure the paper ran a story. As I said, the shop was a Cleveland institution.”

  “In that case,” I was thinking out loud, “there’d be an obituary if Mrs. Taber has passed away. Wouldn’t there?”

  “Without a doubt. The computers are over there. Good luck.” She looked beyond us to the next person in line. “Can I help you?”

  THERE WAS NO OBITUARY for Lulu Taber.

  “But that doesn’t mean she’s alive.” Dad was still typing, still scanning the screen. “She might have moved away. Wait”—his fingers stopped—“I think I’ve found something. Look at this. It’s an obituary for a Peter Taber. Fourteen years ago. Maybe he’s related.”

  Dad clicked a few times, and an elegant older man, quite thin, with white hair and a kind face, was staring out at us. I liked him immediately. “ ‘Doctor Peter Taber,’ ” read Dad, “ ‘is survived by Lulu Swan Taber’—”

  “Lulu Swan Taber!” I shouted. Heads all over the library swiveled toward us, frowning.