Comfort Me with Apples

by Ruth Reichl

  “You have to go too!” said Colman, “You could build the whole story around the trip!”

  * * *

  Doug drove me to the station. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said, stroking my hand. “You’ve got color in your cheeks again. This trip sounds like it’s going to be fun.”

  “Why don’t you come along?” I asked. “You love garlic, you love Les Blank’s movies, and you love the mountains.”

  “I wish I could,” he said. I thought I detected a wistful note in his voice. “But I’ve got too much work to do here.”

  “It’s only a weekend,” I pleaded, but he shook his head.

  Les was at the station, standing next to the sausage maker, a huge man with a shaggy beard. Next to them was a small mountain of movie equipment.

  “I’ll hand the stuff up to you,” said Doug as the train came chugging into the station. We leapt on board while Doug stood on the platform handing lights, tripods, and cameras through the window. As the last camera came aboard, the train lurched off. I looked out, watching Doug become smaller and smaller in the distance.

  The seat suddenly sagged away from me and the sausage maker’s wild head was reflected on the landscape in the window, like a big buffalo obscuring the scenery. He heaved himself into the seat, and I turned to ask, “Why did you come on this trip?”

  “I’ve always wanted to visit La Vieille Maison,” he said. “Robert Charles is a pretty interesting guy. He was too weird to stay in France. Did you know he once had a restaurant in San Francisco that only served lamb?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I said.

  “No,” he said earnestly. “He really did. The funny thing is, he actually made a go of it; you couldn’t get into the place. Now he’s into garlic. I like the guy’s spirit—I want to see what he’s up to.”

  I pointed to the box of sausages next to his seat. “Is your interest professional?” I asked.

  He grinned, which made him look even more like a wild man. “Sort of,” he admitted. “I’ve been considering quitting my day job and selling sausages instead. I want to see what Robert thinks of my garlic sausage.”

  “What do you do now?” I asked and was surprised to learn that this large, furry man had a Ph.D. in biology. “But I’d really rather be in the food business,” he said. “It’s so much more fun. I want to see if I can make a living selling sausages. Do you think it could work?”

  I didn’t want to be discouraging, but it seemed like a long shot to me. So I mumbled something polite and suggested that we go to the dining car. How was I to know that Bruce Aidells would one day be the sausage king of America?

  * * *

  The day had faded into darkness when we finally pulled through the mountains into the Truckee station. The air was like crystal as we got off the train, and our breath became visible. For a group in search of the holy garlic grail, this seemed prophetic.

  It was instantly clear that we would have no trouble locating La Vieille Maison: We could smell the restaurant from the station. The scent became stronger as we walked down the main street of Truckee, past dilapidated wooden buildings that gave the entire town the air of a hokey Western movie set.

  The garlic trail ended in front of what would have been the saloon. “Charlie Chaplin stayed here when he was filming The Gold Rush,” said Les, seeming pleased. A man stood in the doorway; with his trim beard, black shirt, and pure silver hair he himself might have stepped out of a Chaplin film. Around his neck, on a heavy chain, was a silver head of garlic. “Robert Charles,” he said, bowing theatrically and waving us through the door.

  The dining room was lit only by candles, which sent shadows racing up the walls. A rustic bar occupied one wall of the room; the entire center was taken up by a long wooden table laden with bottles of wine and loaves of bread. We set the equipment down and gathered around the table as Robert poured the wine. Suddenly the garlic aroma increased, becoming so strong, so powerful that it was as if an enormous tangible creature had come crowding into the room. But it was only a woman wearing a small, tight shirt and carrying two big bowls. She set them on the table, swept her long black hair out of her eyes, and announced, “Aioli!”

  “My wife, Amora,” said Robert, sitting down.

  Amora brought long baguettes to dip into the garlic mayonnaise, which was soft, airy, rich, delicious. Eating that aioli was like biting into savory clouds. As we ate, Robert told stories of his native Provence, where women sit in the sun with mortars squeezed between their fat thighs, furiously pounding garlic into aioli. As I listened my eyes grew heavy and I began to sink into an odd, sleepy euphoria.

  “Ah,” said Robert, “she is feeling the garlic effect.” He patted my shoulder. “Now you know why we love garlic so much.”

  Wrapped in this haze of garlic we ate dinner: garlic soup and garlic tart and brains cooked in brown butter with garlic and sage. There was boursin, the garlic-laced cheese, for dessert. We had been eating for six hours—not counting the French toast we had consumed on the train—and somehow I was not full.

  “Yes, yes,” said Robert sagely, “this too is the garlic effect. You do not even feel uncomfortable after the meal, but full of energy, non?” He motioned to Les. “Monsieur Les, I think now is the time to begin the filming.”

  “You’re filming now?” I asked. It seemed very late.

  “It is never,” said Robert, “too late for the garlic massage.”

  “Garlic massage?” I asked. “What garlic massage?”

  “The one that we do in the south of France,” said Robert. “There is nothing like it.”

  I looked around to see who the intended recipient of this massage might be. “There is nothing better for the skin than aioli,” said Robert ingratiatingly. “The Arlesiennes massage it into their skin to repel insects and promote suntan. And what a heavenly smell they have—oh là là!” He kissed his fingers in my direction.

  I was just thinking that it might be fun to give my body up to olive oil, eggs, and garlic when he looked at Les and added, “Your film is too serious, Monsieur Les. Think how nice it will be for the film.”

  Monsieur Les looked wistful, and I came to my senses and emerged from the haze. Even a Berkeley girl has her limits. And being naked on film was beyond mine.

  “Not me,” I said firmly. “I am a reporter.” I picked up my notebook and held it like a shield. “I am here as an objective observer. My job is to keep notes about all of this. Why not massage Bruce?”

  Robert eyed the large man at my side. He shuddered visibly. “Monsieur Bruce?” he squeaked. “Non, non, c’est impossible!” Before I could say another word, he turned and surveyed the room. As he made his way toward a buxom blonde with very long hair, he was almost running.

  We watched him lean persuasively toward her. He gestured to Les, to the camera, to me sitting there with my notebook. She smiled, considered, licked her lips. And then she gave a small nod, strolled to the bar, and removed her clothes. She stretched herself languidly across the wood. Robert flexed his fingers. The cameras rolled. Working around the naked woman, Robert began to make the aioli.

  “You begin with four cloves of peeled garlic,” he said, smiling into the lights. “First you pound them in the mortar for half an hour.” He pounded assiduously and added, “It is not how much garlic you use that is important; it is how well you pound it. When you can turn the mortar upside down without anything falling out, then it is enough.” He turned the mortar over to demonstrate.

  “Then you add the yolk of an egg and a bit of salt. And then a soupspoon of good mustard. And now, slowly, slowly, you pour in a pint of olive oil. When it is a thick mayonnaise you add the juice of one lemon. Voilà!” Robert dipped some bread into his creation and ate. An ecstatic expression crossed his face; standing there, with the lights shining on his silver hair, he looked almost saintly.

  He turned to the woman draped across the bar and began to massage aioli into her shoulders. As he slowly worked his way down her body she bega
n to sigh. “Do they really do this in southern France?” she moaned as he started on her inner thighs. Robert, intent on the work of his fingers, assured her that they did. She fell silent, intent on finding her own ecstasy.

  * * *

  Les had gotten everything he needed, so we went home the next day. Was it my imagination, or did the train really empty out when we got on board? Were people fleeing into the next car, gasping for breath? They seemed to be. “And now we know another reason why garlic is good,” said Bruce. “Look at how we’ve cleared the car!” He stretched luxuriously across an entire seat. I stretched out too and, wrapped in fumes of garlic, slept most of the way home. I was eager to see Doug; for the first time in weeks I felt almost normal.

  * * *

  Doug was gone. “He said to tell you he went to Seattle,” Nick told me. “He said he’d be back in a few days.”

  “But he was too busy to even come to Truckee!” I exclaimed.

  Nick shook his head. “All I know is that some woman called to say there was a project up there he might be interested in.”

  “A woman?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Do you find anything suspicious in the suddenness of this trip?” I asked. Nick studied me silently for a minute. “Would you care if there was?” he asked at last.

  * * *

  The few days stretched to a week. The week turned into a second. “What are you doing?” I asked. He was studying the wind patterns for a wind harp; he had an idea for a rain piano, but he needed to test the wire; he might do something at the Space Needle. The answers were too specific, as if he had written them down before dialing. As the days went on, I found it increasingly difficult to persuade myself that his trip was strictly business. It served me right, I thought, and I asked no questions.

  But now that Colman was out of my life, I could not ignore what was happening with Doug. We had once spent every minute together, but we now led separate lives. I suddenly missed him very much. I wished he would call. I sat staring at the phone, willing it to ring. When it did I grabbed it, sure it would be him.

  “Hi, honey,” I said happily.

  The deep voice was not Doug’s. “It’s Les,” it said. “I want you to come for dinner.”

  Trying not to sound too disappointed I asked, “When?”

  “Now,” he said. “Right this minute. This guy I met at a film festival in upstate New York is preparing a banquet at my house. He’s an incredible Chinese cook. I think you’ll be amazed.”

  I had work to do. My article wasn’t finished. I was wearing overalls, and my hair wasn’t combed. I didn’t feel like seeing anyone.

  “Come,” urged Les. “This guy cooks food you’ve never tasted before. You won’t be sorry.” I hesitated some more, and I heard murmuring in the background. “Alice says to tell you that Chinese food requires a lot of garlic and I might have to film it.”

  “Is she going to be there?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said, as if it were impossible to imagine any food event in Berkeley that did not include Alice.

  * * *

  “Where’s the cook?” I asked when Les led me into the kitchen. He indicated the stove with his chin, and I saw a tall man with a mop of curly brown hair pouring oil into an enormous wok. “This is Bruce Cost,” he said.

  The man smiled wanly down at me, and I was disappointed to discover that he was not Chinese. He seemed harried and distracted, and I was sorry I had come. It hardly seemed worth missing a deadline to eat Chinese food cooked by some white guy from upstate New York. I was glad that I hadn’t bothered to change for the event.

  “Can’t you get any more heat out of this stove?” the cook asked. Les leaned over and peered at the burner. He fiddled with the dial. “You’ve got it all the way up,” he said. “It doesn’t go any higher.”

  “You need a bigger flame for Chinese food,” insisted the tall cook, looking miserably into the wok. “I don’t know if this is going to work . . .”

  Oh no, I thought, he’s already making excuses. I was trying to think of a graceful way to make my exit when the guy went to the refrigerator, pulled out a platter covered with light amber-colored squiggles, and handed it to me. I recoiled; whatever it was looked horribly like rubber noodles. “Why don’t you take that into the living room and pass it around,” he said. It was not a question.

  I glared at him, but I took the platter. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Jellyfish salad,” he said. “I was planning to serve it with shrimp toasts, but this puny flame is going to take a long time to get the oil hot enough for the shrimp. I think I’d better serve those people something now. Chop up some of that cilantro and put it on top before you take it in. It will look nicer. See if you can find some little plates, too.”

  I didn’t know how I had become the designated helper, but I was in no mood to fight. I opened the nearest cupboard and found some plates. “How many people are you feeding?”

  “I told Les to invite a dozen.”

  “Do you have chopsticks or something?”

  “In the bag over there,” he said, pointing to a table cluttered with groceries. “There’s a cleaver too.”

  The table was a mess—the whole kitchen was—and I found myself trying to clear a space large enough to chop on. As I did, it occurred to me that I had not even seen who else was at the party, and I put down the cleaver and wiped my hands. “I’ll just go say hello,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.”

  “No,” he said imperiously. “Get the cilantro chopped and those plates out there. I have to feed them something. There’s some journalist Les invited, someone he thought might help me find work. He said she didn’t want to come, and I don’t want her to go hungry. So just get the stuff out there and say hello while you pass the platter.”

  “Okay,” I said resentfully. Lost in my own thoughts, I barely listened to what he said, but I’d heard enough to understand that I was trapped. I chopped cilantro, liking the astringent scent of the delicate leaves, and sprinkled the cool greens over the squiggles. Then I picked up the tray and took it into the next room.

  Most of the guests were people I knew from the Pacific Film Archive, which was right next door to The Swallow. Bruce Aidells was there too, and I was glad to see him. Alice came up, gave me a quick squeeze, and lifted the platter from my arms. “I’ll pass this,” she said. “It’s jellyfish, isn’t it? Here, try some.”

  The salad was very fine, clean and vaguely crunchy, with a sesame tang. As I took a second bite Alice gave me a little push toward the kitchen. “I’ll take care of this,” she said. “Why don’t you go back and get to know Bruce.”

  “I’ve already had that pleasure,” I muttered, but I was on my way. I found him, looking more harried than before, dropping shrimp toast into the wok.

  “I loved that salad,” I said, trying to be nice. “It was really, really good.” He gave me a cool look and said, “Of course it was,” as he plunked another pale square into the hot oil. “These will be good too.” He watched impassively as the little raft submerged and then floated to the surface. He stared at the surface, waiting for the toast to turn golden before snatching it from the oil.

  “I see you got the fire hot enough,” I said.

  “Not really,” he said with a trace of bitterness. “Virginia Lee, who taught me to cook, would not approve. But we have to make do with what we have. Go find a plate or something to put these on.”

  When I returned with the plate he handed me the slotted spoon and said, “Take them out when they turn golden. Pass them while they’re still hot. I’m glad you’re here; I have so much to do.”

  “What else are we having?” I asked.

  He lifted the lid off a big wok, and an intoxicating aroma came drifting up to us. “Pork belly,” he said, displaying a rectangle of meat simmering in a dark liquid studded with ginger, scallions, and star anise. “I’ve stuffed it with a mixture of its own meat chopped with pine nuts, and I’m cooking it in soy an
d rock sugar. Then we’ll have a simple roast chicken. Steamed flounder with ginger and scallions. Baby bok choy with mushrooms. Nothing fancy. But the pork belly is so rich you can’t serve anything elaborate.”

  “It sounds great,” I said, wondering how much of this feast I was expected to cook.

  “I’ll show you what to do with the mushrooms when you’ve finished that,” he said. “I’m grateful for your help.”

  He obviously thought I had come to assist him, and it seemed rude to tell him I was only a guest. Besides, he needed the help. I decided to consider it an opportunity. “How did you become a Chinese cook?” I asked.

  “I read an article about Virginia Lee in The New York Times and decided to take a class with her. I was working for a big corporation, living in upstate New York, but something made me drive into the city that first time,” he said. “And then, I don’t know, it just felt right.”

  “Love at first sight?” I meant to be ironic, but he did not laugh.

  “Exactly! I felt that I had finally found what I was meant to do in life.” As he talked I could imagine his teacher’s regal presence and understand his growing obsession with the classes. “And so,” he finished up, “I began to do some catering. That’s how I met Les. I catered the food for a film festival in Rhinebeck, where I live.” He corrected himself. “I mean, where I used to live. I’ve just moved out here.”

  “You moved out here, just like that?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said simply. “I quit my job. It seemed to me that if there was anyplace in America for someone who wanted to devote himself to food, Berkeley would be it.”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “But it’s true!” he said. “Look at this. Les invited me over because he thought this journalist might somehow help me. And he introduced me to Alice Waters; he wants her to give me a job.”

  “Are you that good?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, as if it were a simple statement of fact, not boasting. A shrimp toast came bubbling to the surface and I turned it over, watching the oil foam around its edges.