Garlic and Sapphires

by Ruth Reichl

  Even us. At our table John is going out of his way to make me feel appreciated. He never mentions the Bryan thing, but he’s very sweet and personal, clearly trying to make me feel I’m part of the Times family. As he forks up slices of veal—rosy, tender—and spaghetti squash mixed with zucchini—nice, but what’s it doing here?—he even tells me that he dreamt about Michael last night. The two of them were riding around on giant bumblebees shooting at their enemies with machine guns. “Rat-a-tat-tat, boom!” he says, aiming straight at the Chanel gardenia woman. She jumps. He couldn’t possibly have made that up. Or could he? The implications are so obvious.

  Outside John asks, “Do you think they knew you?” And I say that I think they might have, and that Brenda is going to have to take over from here. He says, very wistfully, that he’d love to come along sometime when I’m in disguise. I say sure. I’m lying; there’s no way he’s ever going to meet Brenda.

  As I finished writing the notes Page Six called again, saying that Mimi Sheraton wanted no part of Bryan’s fight. Did I want to comment about that. I was tempted. But I remembered what Carol had said. As soon as I put the phone down it rang again. I picked it up and shouted, “I told you I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “You haven’t told me anything,” said a whiny male voice. “We’ve never spoken before.”

  “Who is this?” I asked.

  “David Shapiro,” said the whiner, “and you belong to me.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “You’re mine,” he said. He laughed loudly, a big horsey ha ha, to show that he was joking. “Last night I outbid everyone else at the hospital fund-raiser and won dinner with the restaurant critic of the New York Times.”

  “I see you didn’t lose any time in making your claim,” I said. It was usually months before I heard from the people who bought dinner with me; often I never heard from them at all.

  “Why wait?” he replied, “I’d like to make some plans with you.”

  I suggested dinner at Ici. He said he’d never heard of it.

  “It’s good,” I assured him. “I’ve been three times. The name’s a play on the initials of Eric Clapton, who’s one of the owners. They’ve got a talented young French chef, and I’ve been impressed with his cooking.”

  “I paid an awful lot for this dinner,” he said morosely. When I did not answer, he continued, “I intend to get my money’s worth.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “The terms of this deal,” he said, “were that the dinner was to be in a restaurant that was mutually agreeable. And to that I don’t agree.”

  “How about Candela?” I suggested.

  “Never heard of that either,” he said.

  “Of course you haven’t,” I replied. “It’s new.”

  “I paid thousands,” he said. “I think I deserve a restaurant I’ve heard of. Maybe Daniel?”

  “I’m not working on Daniel,” I said.

  In the next five minutes he listed the most expensive restaurants in New York in descending order. Disappointed that none of them had a place on my agenda, he suddenly recalled an appointment. I would, he said, be hearing from him again. Of that I had no doubt.

  In less than twenty-four hours Mr. Shapiro was back on the line. I groaned inwardly when I heard his voice; I hadn’t even met the man and already he irked me beyond all sensibility. I wondered if I had the same effect on him? From his tone it seemed likely. In an aggrieved voice he told me that he had now done due diligence and was prepared to offer me a list of restaurants that he considered acceptable.

  “Look,” I said, exasperated, “you did not buy a night on the town at the restaurant of your choice. You bought a research dinner with the New York Times. Most people are happy to go anywhere I choose.”

  “Most people,” said Mr. Shapiro, “don’t know much about food and wine. I, however, am a food warrior. I have spent years studying gastronomy. And oenology; my cellar is excellent. I’d bet it’s better than yours.”

  I refrained from telling him how easily he would win that bet.

  “And,” he continued, “I’ll want to drink some very good wines. After all, I paid plenty for this dinner.”

  “Oh please!” I cried. “You didn’t pay a penny! You’re going to claim it as a gift to charity and get a big fat tax deduction. The hospital gets your money. And what do I get out of this deal? Dinner with you.” I put my hand to my mouth, terrified that the words had actually escaped from my mouth. But all Mr. Shapiro heard was, “I think you’ve mentioned that before.”

  If I had an ounce of sense I would take Mr. Shapiro to Daniel or Lespinasse or Le Cirque and get the dinner behind me. But if I was doomed to loathe every minute of this meal, I was damned if the food warrior was going to enjoy it.

  So we spent weeks in negotiations. He suggested Les Célébrités, I countered with Circa. He suggested Chanterelle, I offered Solera. When he brought up La Caravelle, I was happy to tell him he was too late: the review would appear the following day.

  “Would you like to go to Michael’s?” I asked, thinking that might please him.

  “No,” he replied, “I would not.”

  “Well, how about Windows on the World?” Brenda had been there five times, sliding in and out utterly undetected, but I needed to make one last visit. According to my notes the whole foie gras, served for three, was too sweet, too rich, and came with leaden potato pancakes. I had tried the squab cooked in salt (“in the manner of Barcelona”) and found it salty, and the duck with kumquats was tough and lacking in flavor. I wanted to give them each another chance, and on this last visit it wouldn’t matter if I went as myself. To my surprise Mr. Shapiro said yes. “I didn’t think Windows on the World would be up to your standards,” I said.

  “It’s not,” he replied, “but they have an excellent wine list.”

  This is going to be the most miserable evening we’ve ever spent in a restaurant,” I told Michael as our taxi barreled down the West Side Highway toward the World Trade Center. “That jerk is going to spend the entire meal trying to prove that he knows more than I do. And please, do me a favor: don’t mention Yigal Amir, okay?”

  “I won’t talk at all,” said Michael. “Will that make you happy?”

  “No,” I said. “Just try to be bland.”

  “Kiddo,” he said, “I think you married the wrong guy.”

  “Try,” I said. “Please. Because Mr. Shapiro’s going to hate Windows. It used to have a certain dignity, but the new design makes it feel like an airport lounge. You’ll see; when you get off the elevator you’re facing a tacky beaded curtain, and when you get past that you find a shop selling teddy bears. The plates are shaped like the stars and the moon, and the waiters wear light green suits. You keep expecting to look up and find Bill Mur ray breaking into song. Poor Mr. Shapiro.”

  “I bet he’ll want to leave early,” said Michael.

  “I’m counting on it,” I replied.

  How badly we had misjudged him.

  The lobby at One World Trade Center was bright and cold, and after we had walked through the double doors, a uniformed man directed us to a desk where we were told, politely but firmly, to leave our coats.

  “They want to make sure we aren’t carrying explosives,” said Michael, shrugging out of his coat. “After the bombing, they’re taking no chances.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “It’s a lot less offensive than frisking you,” he said. “Watch. I bet they won’t let anyone carry a briefcase onto the elevator.”

  He was right. The ride up, always a shock, seemed even longer than usual, and as usual, somewhere around the eightieth floor, my ears popped, leaving me slightly deaf. Then the doors slid open.

  “Uh-oh,” said Michael in a low, flat voice. I stepped out and looked around. Standing in front of the elevator were two small people who, even in the dim light of the hallway, reminded me of angry ferrets.

  “Mr. Shapiro?” I asked, holding out my hand.

  He ig
nored it and looked pointedly at his Rolex. “Six and a half minutes past seven,” he said. He tugged at the little woman, then pushed her toward me. Her blond pageboy did not waver. “Meet Sherry,” he said, “my wife.” With that he spun around and marched toward the dining room. The acrid, slightly sweet hotel smell of Sterno, of burning alcohol and too many meals being cooked at the same time, grew stronger as we approached our goal.

  At the end of the corridor, just before you reached the dining room, a full-length window opened up to the view. In the dozens of visits I made to Windows on the World over the years, I never grew accustomed to that particular vantage point, and I always found myself standing for a few seconds, pressed against the window, staring down. Higher than a sky-scraper, lower than an airplane, it made New York seem unreal, an imaginary city spread at your feet.

  Mr. Shapiro was unimpressed. He marched on, eager for the eating portion of the evening to begin. I’d asked him to make the reservation in his own name, and he intoned “Shapiro, party of four,” in a masterful voice. But as the maître d’ led us west, toward the Hudson River, still shining in the fading light, Mr. Shapiro began shaking his head. He pointed across the dining room. “There,” he said, “is where we want to sit.” The maître d’ obligingly executed an about-face and began leading us in the other direction. The East River came into view, but Mr. Shapiro was not satisfied. He shook his head again. “Window seat,” he said, thumping one fist against the other. “We must have a seat at the window. We want to be smack up against the view.”

  “Let me see what I can do,” said the maître d’, escaping to his desk. “Tables,” Mr. Shapiro explained as we waited, “are like hotel rooms; never take the first one that they offer. They always try to find some dummy willing to accept the worst seat. Someone’s got to sit at the bad tables, and I don’t care who it is so long as it’s not me. It’s very important to demand the best from the outset.”

  The rest of us were silent.

  “But of course you knew that,” he added.

  I did not bother to point out that in my continuing effort to avoid detection I always took the first table I was offered. We were led from table to table and Mr. Shapiro rejected them all. When he was finally satisfied, he gave a cursory glance out the window, grunted, “Restaurants with views are never very good,” and disappeared into the wine list. He fumbled in his pocket and extracted a small calculator.

  “My wine computer,” he said proudly. “I never travel without it. I find it indispensable for sniffing out the best bargains.”

  “Sounds time-consuming,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said breezily, “we’re in no hurry. I make it my practice to always be the last person to leave a restaurant.”

  “But that could be hours!” I protested, looking at my watch.

  “No problem,” he said complacently. “At least not for me.” And then he dove back into the wine list.

  The waiter arrived wearing a small, worried frown; he had obviously been warned about us. “Is this a special occasion?” he asked cheerily. His deep Georgia accent drew out the word “special,” twisting and turning it until it sounded like a sentence all its own. “Can we sing to you? Happy birthday, happy anniversary, anything?”

  Mr. Shapiro did not lower the wine list. But through it he growled, “No songs!” And then, “Sommelier!”

  “Pardon me?” said the waiter.

  “Sommelier,” said Mr. Shapiro. “The sommelier. The wine man. I’d like you to get him.”

  “First,” said the waiter, standing his ground, “you’ll want to hear our specials.” Once again the word did pirouettes. He began a recitation of the restaurant’s proudest dishes: the entire foie gras, served for two (did I sense Mr. Shapiro’s ears pricking up behind that list?), scallops speared with sugarcane, a lobster salad that was really special (the word again). He recommended the “elegant and sumptuous seafood fiesta.” Mr. Shapiro remained submerged in the world of wine. When the waiter finally wound down, he surfaced and repeated “Sommelier!” in urgent tones.

  I looked up at the waiter. “Why don’t you give us a chance to think about the menu?” I suggested. “We’ll have to coordinate the wine with the food.”

  “Yes ma’am. Thank you, ma’am,” he said gratefully. “I’ll just go get your ahmusey while you decide.”

  “That would be our amuse,” intoned Mr. Shapiro, from inside the list. “Short for amusebouche, which means to entertain the mouth.” He did not lower the wine list, so he had no way of knowing that our waiter was no longer there to be edified by this information.

  “Do you like wine too?” Michael asked Mrs. Shapiro in what seemed like a kindly manner. She had yet to utter anything other than hello.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I just drink what Davey tells me to.”

  “Do you eat on command too?” he asked. I kicked him under the table.

  “To be honest,” she said, “I’m almost always on a diet, so I just taste. It’s the boys who take after Davey.”

  “Boys?” asked Michael. “You have children?”

  “Two,” said Mr. Shapiro, finally lowering the list. “When they turn eighteen I give them a three-star tour of France. A whole month, just the two of us, eating in at least one three-star restaurant every day. Bobby and I went this summer.”

  “What a treat that must have been for him!” said Michael. I kicked him again under the table, struggling to keep my face straight, wondering if there was an eighteen-year-old on earth who could enjoy being cooped up with his father for a month of fancy meals.

  “Bobby said it was the best trip he’d ever taken!” Mrs. Shapiro assured us solemnly. She sounded sincere. “We feel it’s an excellent education.”

  “I want my boys to be cultivated,” said Mr. Shapiro, taking over. “I want to pass on my knowledge. It’s taken me years to become a true food warrior.”

  Beneath the table Michael’s leg connected with mine and I understood that this was a plea not to ask Mr. Shapiro to elucidate the wisdom of the food warrior. But it was too tempting, and I was about to risk it when Mr. Shapiro’s happy voice cried, “Here’s the sommelier!” And then, in a less joyful tone, “And he’s so young!”

  And, I thought, so cute. He could not have been more than twenty-five, with a shock of shiny black hair falling into his eyes, very red lips, and very long lashes. His face was full of fun and his lanky body seemed to be half rubber. A taste-vin hung around his neck.

  “Have you seen something that interests you?” he asked, fingering the chain.

  “I was thinking of starting with this Stony Hill Chardonnay,” said Mr. Shapiro.

  “Ah, a connoisseur,” said the sommelier. “You zeroed right in on one of our treasures. So few people know those great Stony Hills.”

  “I’m a bit worried about its age,” said Mr. Shapiro. “An ’85 seems rather old for an American Chardonnay.”

  “Those Stony Hills don’t begin to come into their own for at least ten years,” murmured the sommelier. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.” It was not lost on me that Mr. Shapiro had zeroed right in on one of the list’s pricier whites. “And after that?” queried the sommelier.

  “A Burgundy, I think. Which ones do you favor at the moment?”

  The favored wine, it seemed, was the ’89 Clos de Vougeot. This was fine with Mr. Shapiro, who began quizzing the sommelier about the vineyard, clearly trying to trip him up. Failing to do this, he began holding forth about his own recent visit to the Clos and some of the astute purchases he had made on that occasion. The sommelier put on a face as admiring as that of a southern belle charming a man on their first date.

  They progressed to Bordeaux. When they had agreed on an ’82 Léoville Poyferré, Mr. Shapiro asked, “Will you decant it?”

  “Of course,” said the sommelier reverently. “The ’82s are magnificent, but still a little young.”

  “I’m glad you don’t buy the argument that wines get all the air they need in the glass.”
r />   “Ridiculous notion!” said the sommelier. I looked up, caught his eye, and realized that if Mr. Shapiro had fallen into the do-not-decant school of wine, our young man would have agreed with equal alacrity.

  By now they were discussing sweet wines, and Michael’s leg was jiggling beneath the table with furious impatience. Unfortunately, as soon as the sommelier moved off the waiter moved in, and the food warrior leaped into the next negotiation. By the time the ordering was over, we had been at the table for more than an hour. No bread had arrived, but we had been served the ahmusey: rillettes of pork on a little piece of toast, with bell pepper oil on top. Mr. Shapiro took one bite and instantly set it aside.

  “Delicious,” said Michael, demolishing the tidbit.

  Mrs. Shapiro eyed her rillettes longingly. The toast began moving toward her mouth. Across the table Mr. Shapiro vigorously began shaking his head and did not stop until his wife’s hand stopped in midair and then reversed its motion. She replaced the toast on her plate and held it out to Michael. “Want mine?” she asked sadly.

  Michael picked it up. “Thanks,” he said. Mrs. Shapiro’s eyes never left his mouth as he swallowed the tidbit in a single gulp. An awkward silence fell over the table.

  “So,” said Michael cheerfully, doing his part, “David, what business are you in?”

  “Education,” Mr. Shapiro said shortly.