by Ruth Reichl
I tasted spring.
“They’re fraises des bois, from France!” He slipped another in my mouth.
“We have six hours,” I said, savoring the flavor, back in the fantasy of romance. “I have to be on the four forty-five plane to Oakland. If I miss it there’s no way I can explain what I’m doing in L.A.”
“Six hours,” Colman replied, “is almost forever.”
* * *
Sometimes he flew north and we drove to Napa in my beat-up Volvo. Once we went as far as Mendocino, trying to recapture the romance of Paris. But time and distance were taking their toll on this relationship as well, and I could feel Colman drifting away. A couple of months after we got back from Paris he came north to take me to a dinner in Sacramento, and when I picked him up at the airport I had the distinct feeling that he wished he were going alone.
Although he was edgy, he could not ruin my mood. I had told Doug that I was going to Sacramento with some colleagues, and it was such a relief not to be sneaking around that my mood was buoyant. If I got home late, it wouldn’t matter. I tried teasing Colman as we drove, but he seemed so distant that by the time we reached Sacramento I finally asked, “Did something happen this week?”
“No, why?” he said, directing me into a residential neighborhood filled with low ranch houses. “Turn right here.”
“I don’t see any restaurants,” I said.
“I never said we were going to a restaurant,” he snapped. Something had happened. “Here’s the house.” It looked like all the others on the street, but for one thing: the Alfa Romeo in the driveway. Its plates read oinos.
“Latin?” I asked.
“Greek,” he said, in a tone implying that any idiot would know that fact. “It means wine. It belongs to Darrell Corti, who knows more about food and wine than anyone else in America.”
“Even you?” I teased.
He didn’t even smile. “We call him the walking encyclopedia,” he said curtly, ringing the doorbell.
Without waiting for an answer Colman opened the door and walked into the living room. Moving through, I had a vague impression of overstuffed furniture, rugs, and paintings. It looks like one of my mother’s friends’ houses, I thought. And then we were in the kitchen, and that didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen. It was large and astonishingly well equipped. A smallish man wearing a V-neck cashmere sweater and a tie was leaning against an enormous refrigerator, holding a phone and gesticulating wildly as he carried on a conversation in Italian. Something simmered deliciously on a commercial stove, and a table held a heap of caviar, set on ice. The man’s voice got louder. He ran his hand, passionately, through his wavy black hair. Then he slammed down the phone.
“What was that about?” asked Colman.
“A recipe,” the man replied, pouring vodka into little iced glasses and handing them to us. The phone rang. He ignored it. He pointed to the caviar. “I’m Darrell,” he said. “Taste that. I made it myself.”
“You made caviar?” I asked.
“Certainly,” he replied. “Why not? There is a very interesting possibility that we might resurrect the caviar industry here in California.”
“I didn’t know you could make caviar,” I said, and immediately wished I had kept quiet. Colman shot me a furious look and then, as if to cover it, piled some caviar onto a mother-of-pearl spoon, tasted it thoughtfully, and shook his head.
“I know,” said Darrell ruefully, opening a jar of Russian beluga so we could compare the two. “We have some way to go.”
The phone continued to ring. Darrell finally relented, picked it up, and shouted, “Basta, Biba, ch’e amici!” before slamming it down once again. I watched this performance as I tasted the two caviars, willing myself to notice the difference between them. It was mainly a matter of texture; the homemade caviar had the slightly fruited saltiness of the beluga, but it was a little mushy. “It will be better next time,” muttered Darrell. “Don’t fill up on it.” He waved us into the dining room, where a linen-covered table was set with good china and heavy silver. Crystal wineglasses paraded down its middle.
We sat down and Darrell filled the smallest of the glasses with an amber liquid. Then he went into the kitchen and returned carrying bowls of soup; as he set one before me the steam wafted up, bathing my face in warm fragrance. I leaned into it, liking the feeling, and saw pale cubes of foie gras floating languidly in the broth. I fished one out. As my mouth closed over it a small explosion occurred: The foie gras had dissolved, leaving only its melted center. The richness flooded down my throat and I thought what an astonishing sensation it was, to see solid and sense liquid. Colman looked startled too, and Darrell watched us, a small smile playing on his face. He picked up his glass and tasted the wine. “Try it,” he urged. “It’s sherry from 1950.” The wine was complicated, so rich, nutty, and concentrated that each tiny sip sent little ripples of feeling down my back.
“Wow!” I said. Colman looked pained. Darrell merely collected the plates and went into the kitchen, and I wondered if he too thought me an idiot. When he returned he was carrying a regal duck lacquered to a glisten. “Canard à l’orange!” he announced.
My heart sank; I had expected more from this great food person. The restaurants I reviewed all served some variation on stringy gray duck in melted marmalade, and I hated the stuff. Disappointed, I took a bite. And then another.
My mouth was filled with a powerfully bittersweet impression. Separating the flavors, I picked out the mellow richness of the meat folded into the piquant sharpness of the oranges. There was nothing sweet or cloying about this dish. Darrell watched my face. “The secret is Seville oranges,” he said, pouring wine into our glasses. “They grow right here in Sacramento. I wanted to see how these Chiantis matched with duck.”
“This duck is . . . magnificent!” I blurted out. Colman shot me a worried look, and I knew that I had embarrassed him again. Trying to recover I said, “This ’52 Antinori is so soft and woody.”
Colman glared at me. “Soft” was obviously not the operative word. “It’s amazing,” he said, “that a wine this old has so much tannin.”
After that I decided to keep quiet. Colman noted that the ’62 had a lot more bite. And then Darrell weighed in on the ’69, which was very hearty. Taking a large swallow, he pronounced it perfect for duck.
He got up to get the next course and returned carrying a majolica dish piled high with asparagus. He passed the platter and as I took some of the bright green spears I realized that there was no cutlery on the table.
“Fingers are the best utensils for eating asparagus,” said Darrell, “but first dip them in this.”
He handed me a little dish filled with something resembling molasses. I didn’t know what it was but said nothing as I dipped a spear into the pruney brown liquid. It was thick enough to cling, and when I put it in my mouth I found the asparagus had acquired a sweet-sour, resiny taste.
“Mmmmm,” I sighed before I had the sense to stop. I peeked at Colman, who had a quizzical look on his face. He doesn’t know what it is either, I thought happily.
“Have you never had aceto balsamico?” asked Darrell. I kept still, but Colman shook his head. Darrell leaned back. “It is produced in only one town in Italy,” he said, “Modena. The process is similar to sherry: As the vinegar ages it is moved from one barrel to another. Each barrel is made of a different variety of wood, and each imparts a different flavor. For great balsamico, the process takes an entire lifetime, the vinegar becoming more concentrated as it progresses through subsequent barrels of red oak, chestnut, mulberry, and juniper. Every true Modenese family has barrels in the basement, and it is said that when the Americans arrived at the end of the war, each family fled with its barrel of finished balsamic. They simply could not imagine life without it.”
“No wonder,” I said, plunging another spear into the vinegar. “Where can I get some?”
“Oh, you can’t,” said Darrell. “It is not a commercial product. This was a gift
from a friend; his grandmother made it.”
“In that case,” I said, picking up another spear, “I’ll have to have some more.”
Darrell served a pale soufflé decorated with sugared violet petals for dessert. Then he handed out tiny glasses of a very sweet wine. “Eiswein,” he said, “made of Scheurebe grapes.”
“I love this,” I said before I had time to think. “It tastes like grapefruit.” Why couldn’t I keep my opinions to myself? But Darrell only nodded solemnly and said, “That’s exactly what I’ve always thought!” Looking at Colman he added, “This one you should keep. Such enthusiasm!”
Colman looked at me speculatively; I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. After a moment he said, “You don’t think enthusiasm clouds the critical faculties?”
“Not at all,” Darrell replied. “What’s the point of knowing a lot about food if all you get is disappointment?”
It was very late when we finally left, and neither of us knew our way around Sacramento. In the dark, somehow, we got lost, and the only map I had was something I had picked up at a thrift store. We followed it anyway, and got more lost. “The road on this map probably disappeared fifty years ago,” said Colman with genuine irritation. It was three in the morning; we were miles from home. “You’re so, so . . . Berkeley!” he cried and then lapsed into an aggrieved silence.
It’s over, I thought. The dream has died. By the time I dropped Colman at his hotel it was almost four, and the interior of the car was electric with his unspoken ire. He got out, taking the angry air with him, and stalked off. The car was comfortable again as I drove through the dark streets of Berkeley. Doug was asleep in our warm, cozy room. I sniffed; the air smelled familiar and welcoming. When I climbed into bed Doug put his arms around me, nuzzled my hair, and sighed. I was very happy to be home.
* * *
But that feeling didn’t last. Doug was so busy that he seemed oblivious of my mood, and I found myself mooning over Colman, diving hopefully for the phone each time it rang. But it was always just another gallery, museum, or architect eager to talk to the artist of the moment. Doug was particularly excited about the call from the Olympic Committee. “They want me to create a sound sculpture for the winter games at Lake Placid next year!” he exulted.
Only one person seemed to take notice of my misery. One morning Jules sat down at the kitchen table and said, “You’d better say something to him.”
“Who?” I asked, taking another sip of coffee.
“Doug,” he said. “He thinks that once he bought into the marriage program he would never have to work at the relationship again. But I’m sure he doesn’t want to lose you.”
“What do you suggest?” I asked.
Jules shook his head. I was tempted to tell him everything—about kids, about Colman, about Paris—but I couldn’t. It seemed so disloyal to Doug. So I picked up the paper and hid behind it.
As the days went on I became more and more morose. But Colman never called. And when he finally did, it was only to summon me to a staff luncheon in Los Angeles.
“Do you want me to spend the night?” I asked.
“It’s up to you,” he replied. After a small silence he added, in a carefully neutral tone, “You’re welcome to stay here.” Not even the world’s greatest optimist could consider that an invitation.
“I think I’ll just come for the day,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” he replied. I thought he sounded relieved. “The meeting will be at Ma Maison, and Wolfgang is cooking something very special. I’ve asked everyone to bring a bottle of wine.” With a sinking feeling I listened as he told me that he planned to bring a ’68 Heitz Martha’s Vineyard from his cellar and that Charlie Perry, one of the Los Angeles critics, was bringing two bottles of ’66 Ducru-Beaucaillou. Phil Reich had some rare Zinfandels from Joseph Swan.
“Are we being graded on this test?” I asked.
“You’re being absurd,” he said. But I knew better.
I didn’t want to carry wine on the plane, but I had plenty of time to buy something in Los Angeles. The lunch wasn’t until one, so I’d have the entire morning to dig up an impressive bottle.
But the plane was late, and the only Los Angeles wine store I knew turned out to be closed for renovations. I climbed into my Rent-A-Wreck and started searching. To my dismay, Los Angeles was not exactly rich in wine emporiums. At noon I was still empty-handed. There must be something, I thought, pounding the steering wheel in frustration.
I drove around in circles, looking for a wine store. Any wine store. I found nothing. At 12: 30 I lowered my standards and cruised desperately down Sunset Boulevard, twisting my head from side to side, looking for a wine store, a liquor store, anything. At 12: 45 I was still driving down Sunset. I passed La Cienega and kept going. At 12: 50, in a panic, I pulled into the parking lot of a dingy little deli and liquor store. I turned off the engine and weighed my options: I could say I had broken the bottle on the way over (I could not imagine Colman believing that) or I could walk into the store and pray.
I prayed. I ran in, inhaling the odor of age, cheap scotch, and gin and said, “What’s your most expensive wine?”
The old man at the counter turned and began peering at the dusty bottles behind him. He wiped off a few labels with his shirtsleeve. “This one’s fifteen dollars,” he said. He wiped a couple more bottles. “No, wait, this one’s eighteen.” He swept at a couple more with his arm and then said triumphantly, “Look at this! Been here a long time. It’s thirty bucks!”
“You got anything more expensive?” I asked.
He put his hand on one hip and spoke very slowly. “Ma’am,” he said, trying to explain this to a person of obviously limited intelligence, “we don’t have a lot of call for thirty-dollar wine here.”
“I’ll take it,” I said.
“You want to know what it is?” he asked.
“Oh no,” I said. “I like surprises.”
* * *
Wolfgang started with his famous oyster feuilleté with beurre blanc. With that we drank champagne. With the pâté de foie gras he offered us Sauternes, swaddling the rich meat in the plump, honeyed wine. Not until charred slices of very rare duck breast appeared did Colman begin to unwrap the bottles we had brought.
There were aahs when Charlie’s old Bordeaux were unveiled. Phil’s rare Swan was suitably impressive. Colman’s wine was vigorous and fine. Then it was time to unwrap my bottle. I closed my eyes and held my breath. There was a gasp of excitement. I opened my eyes and saw eager hands reaching for my bottle. I had, apparently, been lucky.
Afterward, we drank Château d’Yquem with the dacquoise, and then the guests began collecting their belongings and drifting away. Before long Colman, Phil, and I were the only ones left at the table. I started to rise, but Colman pulled me down. “Stay,” he said, “please stay.” He poured more wine into my glass.
Phil had said very little during lunch, but now he poked at what was left of the dacquoise and asked, “Aren’t you tired of all this French food?”
I was startled out of my reverie. “Are you?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “I think it’s time Americans started paying attention to what we have here. We’re making great wine; we should be cooking great food.” He said it with passion, as if there was more than food on his mind. “This probably isn’t the greatest time to tell you,” he suddenly blurted out, looking straight at Colman, “but I quit. I’m moving down here to help open a restaurant.”
“A restaurant?” I asked. “Why?”
“Because,” said Phil, his eyes shining, “I’ve met someone who is trying to do something new, and I want to be part of it.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
Phil leaned back, struggling for words. “He’s not like anyone you’ve ever met,” he said slowly. “He’s a guy with a vision. He has this idea that he can create an entirely new kind of restaurant using all local products. He’s lived in France, he’s cooked in France, he’s rich, and h
e loves food.”
“Sort of like James Beard or something?” I asked. Phil burst out laughing.
“Oh no,” he said. “He’s only twenty-four. And thin. But he has big plans. Art. And silver. Special plates he’s importing from France. But the main thing is that he’s going to find great products. He says if he can’t, he’ll grow them himself. You see, he’s not like the rest of us. He’s a rich kid, and he thinks he can do anything.”
“How much will you be making?” Colman asked.
Phil shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, as if it were the most banal question. “But Michael gave me twelve grand to buy wine.”
“He’s not paying you?”
“Well, he’s giving me a place to live.”
“Where?” I asked.
Phil looked sheepish. “His living room.”
“And what are you living on?”
Phil practically blushed. “I sold some of my wine cellar,” he mumbled. “But you don’t understand. Michael’s is going to be something entirely new and American. It’s history in the making. I just have to be a part of it!”
“If this restaurant is anything like it sounds, it will be a great story,” said Colman, giving me a significant look.
“The opening of a new kind of restaurant,” I agreed. “Sounds interesting.”
“Of course you’d have to come back to Los Angeles for a few weeks to work on it,” he said, his eyes still on mine. “I know a place where you can stay. Do you think you could do that?”
“Yes,” I said happily. “Oh yes, I can do that.” For the first time in weeks life seemed fine.
“Good,” Colman said. “That’s settled. We’re losing a wine writer and gaining a story.” Looking at me he added, “And speaking of wine . . . How on earth did you ever come up with a ’61 Cheval Blanc?”
“Oh,” I said airily, “just luck.”
* * *