by Susan Wiggs
“I applaud your candor, if not your taste,” he had said, looking up at her from the pit of the lecture hall. “You’re a hopeless romantic who loves food, and believes in striving, and who doesn’t listen closely enough to the one voice that matters.”
“What voice is that?” she’d asked. “Yours?”
“Very funny,” he said. “Yours.”
That exchange had garnered chuckles from the gallery and ignited a blush in her cheeks. Ever since that moment, Professor Rosen had been her mentor. He was cranky, for sure, but under his guidance, she brought out work so good she surprised even herself.
Today, however, the magic wasn’t happening. She kept trying to figure out what she wanted to say with her senior project. Too often she couldn’t hear her own voice. Maybe she should go home, have a chat with Gran. Like Professor Rosen, Gran brought out the best in Annie, only she was a lot nicer about it.
Going home was problematic, though, because visiting Switchback meant seeing Fletcher. Three years after the breakup, she still thought about him when she was lonely. Or when she was with her friends—those who were so earnest all the time. Or so intimidatingly brilliant. Or so boring in their obsession with partying. She thought of Fletcher when she was out with a guy whose kisses failed to set her on fire, or when she grew homesick for mountains and forests and fresh streams and open roads.
She and Fletcher were done, the two of them. He had devoted himself to running his father’s shop and carrying on with his legal claim. The settlement negotiations had been going on for three years. There was always another petition to be filed, another motion, another conference with lawyers. There seemed to be no end to the process.
Leaving Fletcher behind did have a hidden benefit. She pursued her studies like a girl possessed. Not just at school, but at Glow, the Michelin-starred restaurant where she worked on the weekends, absorbing knowledge like a sponge, practicing her knife skills and sauté techniques, shadowing the fascinating Claire Saint Michael, a rising star in the culinary world. If Annie had had a boyfriend, she would have been too distracted to focus on work and studying.
She was supposed to be finding inspiration for her project, but Annie caught herself thinking of the past and of Fletcher as she walked through the park that day. What was he doing? Was he happy? Did he think of her, or had he moved on?
She shook off the questions and pulled her mind back to the present. Her best ideas seemed to happen when she looked outward at the world. And she loved the world she’d inhabited during her college years. She loved letting her mind wander and speculate about all the disparate lives that intersected here in this park, a vibrant green place amid the bustling city.
Washington Square Park had a figured concrete arch, a couple of statues, and a central fountain. The shaded walkways, lined with park benches, were a haven for workers on their lunch break, nannies pushing strollers, tourists snapping pictures. There were people eating takeout at picnic tables and students lying in the sun, shading their faces with open textbooks. The playground and dog runs were busy with kids and dogs. Retirees sat thoughtfully over their games in the chess- and Scrabble-playing area.
She thought about approaching the two old men at their chess game, possibly asking to interview them on camera. And then a distinctive aroma wafted past her—an amazing smell that stopped Annie in her tracks. She lifted her nose like a hound on the scent, turning in the direction of the wind. In one corner of the park was a collection of food carts surrounded by milling pedestrians. Most had the standard offerings—hot dogs, falafel, soft pretzels, meatball subs.
There was one cart, manned by a lone cook hard at work over a flat grill, that emitted the most glorious aroma she’d ever smelled. It was a perfect mixture of caramelized onions and crisp-skinned meat, mingling with the yeasty sweetness of fresh, eggy bread. Brioche, perhaps. She had mastered the creation of brioche in the interdisciplinary class she had done while studying in Provence. Following her nose, she jostled her way to the cart.
It was marked by a hand-lettered tent sign on the ground that said simply Martin M. Harlow, Chef Proprietor, along with a Web address and a phone number.
Annie craned her neck to see over the group of people lining up for his wares. And what she saw there was even more compelling than the delicious aromas. Martin was amazing to behold. He wore jeans that were faded in all the right places. His shoulders and arms were gorgeously sculpted, gleaming in the afternoon sun. His blond, wavy hair was caught back in a casual ponytail, and his face had the perfect texture of a five o’clock shadow. He worked with intense focus and competence. He reminded Annie of Vulcan laboring over his forge, only instead of the forge, he worked at a perfectly seasoned grill set into the cart.
She skirted the edge of the crowd, studying him with rapt fascination. The simple menu was posted on a chalkboard affixed to the front of the cart. He offered duck confit with a choice of Stilton or smoked cheddar, served in a soft brioche on a bed of caramelized red onions, grilled goat cheese, crunchy duck scratchings, sweet rocket, Dijon, and truffle honey. A confit was a slow-roasting method, braising the meat slowly in fat until it was meltingly tender. It seemed sophisticated for a food cart, but judging by the crowd, the guy had a following.
“How’s the food here?” she asked the guy next to her. “Have you tried it yet?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’m a regular.”
“And?”
“It’s duck on a bun,” he said matter-of-factly. “What’s not to like?”
Annie smiled and waited her turn. The chef offered her a bright, open grin when she stepped up to the cart and placed her order. She watched him prepare the dish, his technique crisp and precise but not fussy. He was a dynamic figure, his movements swift and sure as he kept up a stream of banter with his hungry patrons. He had an easy, charming manner, and he was easy on the eye, too.
He served his creation wrapped in parchment, with a crumbling of coarse sea salt on the top of the bun. It tasted every bit as delicious as she’d anticipated, and she savored each bite slowly. His suggested beverage pairing was an ice-cold Orangina soda. Its tingly sweetness was perfect with the food.
Who was this guy, and how had he come up with the world’s best sandwich? She hung back and observed him through the lunch rush. Then, during a lull in the action, she waved her hand to get his attention.
“Hey, mind if I film you?” she asked.
It was the perfect thing to say. His face lit up like a scoreboard. The broad, engaging grin had an aw-shucks quality to it that made her smile, too. His eyes were the blue of a forget-me-not blossom.
“For you, anything,” he declared.
“I’m Annie,” she said, powering up the camera. “Just pretend I’m not here.”
“Nice to meet you, Annie. I’ll try to pretend, but I’m not in the habit of ignoring pretty girls.”
She liked the flirty gleam in his eye. “Ignore the camera, then,” she suggested.
A couple strolling hand in hand approached the cart. They were the kind of dreamy New York couple Annie often saw in the city’s parks and boulevards—unhurried, well dressed without being flashy, romantic in a subtle way. Annie used to think she and Fletcher would be like that one day. She captured their gestures and expressions as they scanned the menu and placed their order.
Martin adjusted the flame under the grill and started on their order. A few more customers stepped up, and he seemed to have no problem tracking each request. He was like an orchestra conductor as he single-handedly filled the orders. He stayed in constant motion, a one-man show as he grilled the red onions on the perfectly seasoned surface and assembled the sandwiches. The simple presentation, with an Orangina in its frosted bulb-shaped glass bottle, made Annie’s mouth water all over again.
While he worked, he chatted up the customers as if he were giving a cooking demo. Annie kept the camera steady. He gestured at the buns steaming under a glass cloche to one side of the grill. “I get the brioche from the master bake
r at Le Rossignol, a guy I know from culinary school.”
“Where’d you go to culinary school?” a woman asked.
“Texas,” he said. “It’s got a fancy name—Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts.” His French pronunciation was more than respectable.
“Is that where you learned this dish?”
He grinned. “No, ma’am. I came up with it on my own in my apartment a couple of blocks from here. I confit the duck in my kitchen and then crisp it up on my grill here.”
“So what’s your secret? Is there, like, a special ingredient?” asked another woman. She was probably a student, and she looked as if she was half in love with him.
“There’s no secret. I just use the best ingredients I can get my hands on. Favorite source is a farm up the Hudson Valley a ways.”
Annie was in heaven. She’d found the perfect subject—a photogenic guy, using local ingredients and creativity, totally in his element. He didn’t seem at all awkward, and the backdrop was great. She captured the scene from the widest of shots, panning around the children’s play area, the dog run, and the shady walkways, then homed in on the smallest of details—the chef’s strong hands, the gleam of the sun through a strand of truffle honey, a customer’s shuffling feet on the pavement. Eventually, the crowd dwindled. Martin covered his tent sign with a See You Tomorrow message.
“Shutting down is only the start of my day,” he said.
Annie kept the camera rolling. “What’s your favorite part of the day?”
“How about when a girl offers to take my picture?” He grinned. “Okay, seriously? Favorite part of my day is when the cart is all set. My ingredients are ready, and I’m firing up the grill, and folks are just circling through the park, thinking about grabbing a bite to eat. Getting started. It’s kind of a high for me. Is that weird?”
“Not at all. And thanks for letting me film. I’m a student at NYU, and I’m supposed to be working on my senior project.”
“Tisch Film School?”
“That’s right.” She was impressed that he knew it.
“So what’s your topic?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t have one yet.”
He took off the apron, giving her a glimpse of rippled abs and cut chest. Then he put on a Keep Austin Weird T-shirt.
“But I think I know what I’d like the topic to be,” she added.
“Yeah?” He was breaking down his booth, putting ingredients away and cleaning the equipment. “I’d make an awesome topic.”
No false modesty there. But he was right. Annie described the project and what it would entail. “You’d have to get used to me being your shadow,” she said.
“You make an extremely attractive shadow. I’d love to do it,” he added. “I’d be honored to be your senior thesis.”
“Really?”
“Hell yes. But I have a condition.”
Great. A condition. Since starting college, she had met her share of tools and douche bags. Please don’t be one of them, she thought. “What’s that?” she asked. “What’s your condition?”
“Let me make you dinner.”
She grinned. She was going to rock this assignment. “I think I can handle that.”
“It’s not a date,” Annie told Vivian, one of her suite mates, as she got ready to visit Martin Harlow on a breezy Saturday night. She had shown her roommates some of the raw footage from the other day. All three of them had practically fainted when they saw Martin.
“Are you going to sleep with him tonight?” asked Shauna.
“Yes, she is,” said Vivian.
“Am not,” Annie protested. “This is work. It’s—”
“Those are date undies,” Vivian pointed out, eyeing Annie’s lace-trimmed bikini. “Way too pretty for every day.”
“They are not date undies, and I won’t apologize for liking pretty ones. They are going to stay totally concealed.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to date him? Those pictures you just showed us are going to haunt my dreams for a long time.”
“I don’t even know him. I just think he’s going to be a great topic for my documentary.” She took a pair of dark wash jeans and a colorful A-line skirt from her crammed closet. “Thoughts?”
“The jeans. They’re super tight, and they look hot on you.”
“Fine, I’m wearing the skirt, then.”
“It looks like something you’d wear to the farmers’ market.”
“You have a good eye. I actually bought it at the Fulton Street Market a couple of weeks ago. It’s made from recycled saris.”
“It really isn’t a date after all,” Vivian conceded, her expression tragic.
“Told you so.” She paired the skirt with a tank top and a cropped sweater, and resisted the urge to put on makeup. Maybe just some lip gloss.
But despite her protests, she felt as though she was going on a date. Dinner with a guy who wanted to cook for her. That seemed . . . datelike. Except she had an ulterior motive, and a heavy backpack crammed with photography gear. She wanted him to be the subject of her documentary, nothing more. Getting personal could ruin everything, and this was too good to ruin. The very first time she filmed him, she had felt it—the hum of a tuning fork deep in her core, resonating through her. That was her voice, speaking to her clearly. Sure, he was eye candy. But there was something more to this man. He had a passion for his craft, and he had a kind of driven, sexy energy that translated beautifully on camera.
She walked to Martin’s place in Greenwich Village. It was a walk-up to a loft with brick walls, exposed beams, and high ceilings.
“My humble abode,” he said, offering a mock-formal bow and a sweep of his arm as he opened the door for her. He was casually dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, his feet bare and his hair slightly damp.
It wasn’t humble. It was incredible. How could a street vendor afford this? Family money?
“Thanks for having me,” she said. “And for doing this. You’re being a really good sport about it.”
“I’m a born performer.” He took her backpack from her, raising his eyebrows at the weight of it. “Want to start filming right away?”
Good Lord. The guy was a dream come true. “Sure. I just need a couple of minutes to set up.” While she worked she checked out his place. It was all one big, airy room, with a low sofa and one of those expensive new flat-screen TVs anchored to one wall, a desk area, and a big platform bed, neatly made up. The main feature was the kitchen. It had a commercial gas range with an industrial-quality stainless-steel vent hood, an array of knives and utensils that made her itch to work alongside him. Maybe that was his X-factor, that he invited collaboration. She’d studied it in her classes, the way a viewer got involved in a story by identifying with the subject and wanting to be part of it. Audience investment, it was called.
She set the tripod next to the bar-height counter and started rolling. He served her a handcrafted rye old-fashioned with a dense Luxardo cherry. She sipped the delicious, bittersweet drink, feeling absurdly sophisticated. The camera captured the action as he put together dinner.
“I took a chance that you don’t have any food allergies or aversions.”
“Good guess. I have an aversion to food that doesn’t taste good, but something tells me that isn’t likely to happen in your kitchen.”
“I’ve had my share of failures.” He cooked with supreme confidence, frying feathery hen-of-the-woods mushrooms in olive oil and serving them over hummus seasoned with coriander. Then he offered her a delicate tomato tart with caramelized onions and shavings of fennel, pouring a dry rosé. Dessert was a pear-and-apple compote drizzled in butterscotch sauce made with coconut milk.
She felt blissed out by the wonderful food. “I might never leave,” she said. “Can I move in tonight?”
He laughed. “Good food will do that to a person.”
“And yet you’re single. Why aren’t women hanging around here like stray cats?”
“Right now I’m giving everyth
ing to my cooking. I mean, I’d love to find someone, but this is taking all my focus.”
She leaned back in her chair with a sigh of contentment. “That meal was fantastic.”
“Thanks.”
“Every single dish was vegan, wasn’t it?” she said, smiling at him.
“Yep.” His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Some people don’t notice that at all.”
“Best meal I’ve had in ages.”
“I like to show my range,” he said. He wouldn’t let her help him wash up. Instead, she filmed him while he worked and told her about himself. He was born and raised in Texas. The Harlows were a longtime restaurant family who had three hugely popular barbecue places in Houston. After culinary school, he came to New York to make it on his own, doing something completely different with his food. He didn’t have the kind of backing he needed for a restaurant, so he’d launched the food cart.
He poured them each two fingers of grappa as a digestif. She adjusted the camera on the tripod as he carried the drinks to the seating area. “How did you come up with the perfect formula for your cart?”
“By trying—and failing. A lot,” he said with a self-deprecating grin. “I started out with Cuban sandwiches. Then I tried grilled cheese, Spanish tapas, even egg custards I learned to make in Macau.”
“You studied in China?”
“Spent a year in Asia. Loved every minute of it. But it was the year in France that gave me the winning formula—the confit method. I finally came up with a dish that sets me apart and keeps people coming to the stall.”
“Judging by the crowd I saw, it’s a big hit.”
“It wasn’t always. Business was slow at first, and then I had a lucky break. There was a write-up in Time Out New York by Guy Bellwether. He’s a foodie with a huge following, and he gave me raves. By the next week, my till had quadrupled.” Martin sipped his drink. He showed her a collection of tear sheets from various publications. She perused some of the headlines. A New Standard in Street Food. The Must-Have Sandwich. Martin Harlow’s Secret Sauce.