Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance

by Nancy Verde Barr

  “Close.” Sully told her what had happened and then suggested she sit as far away from him as possible if she planned to ask him any questions.

  “He left. Carol did too. Sonya and Mae came back as soon as they did.” She stood up and admired her work on the dress. “There. Good as new.” Sully thanked her and said she’d better get back to the party. As she was walking out the door, she said, “Watch out for that guy. Seriously.”

  “What’s Sally doing with him, anyway?” Mary asked, handing me her lipstick and telling me I needed to put some on.

  “Good question.”

  “Maybe he makes her a lot more money than she was making before.”

  Even though I always told Mary everything, I also always kept Sally’s confidences. I was careful not to reveal the little Sally had told me about George. “Be real. Sally already has a lot of money. She gives tons of it away to charity. Besides, she doesn’t care about expensive jewelry or yachts, that kind of stuff, so I don’t see why the money would matter. I can tell you one thing though: there’s not enough money in the world to get me to work with him.” I shuddered just thinking about it. “By the way, did you meet Chihuly?”

  “Yes indeed. Talk about charming, and he is so talented! He took my name to put on the invite list for a private party before his next New York show.”

  “You are amazing, Mary. You want something, you make it happen.”

  “Speaking of making things happen. That Danny’s pretty hot.” She widened her eyes.

  “And he takes full advantage of it,” I noted. “Did you see the women hanging all over him? And he seemed pretty cozy with greeter Kim. Tell me he’s not a meadow vole?” Mary and I had read an article in the Sunday Times about the sexual habits of voles. Prairie voles were monogamous; meadow vole males mated with many females and then wandered off to be alone. My guess was that Danny O’Shea was a meadow vole.

  “Yeah, well remember: one little gene injection in the head was all it took to turn meadow voles into faithful prairie critters.”

  BEFORE WE LEFT ORAN Mor, Sally, Sonya, Mae, and I went out to the kitchen. It was always such a good feeling to watch Sally as she walked among the young chefs, asking them about themselves and telling them to keep up the good work. Most likely, many were chefs because of her, and you could see how thrilled they were to meet her.

  While Sally was signing the chefs’ battered cookbooks, splattered aprons, and sweaty hats, Sonya, Mae, and I were having a look at some of Danny’s menus.

  “We change the menu every day. Some items we keep because people keep asking for them.” He was standing behind me looking over my shoulder with his hand on my bare back. I wished I had brought my shawl, because his touch was making me uncomfortably tingly. Well, nicely tingly and uncomfortable that I felt so. I would have been perfectly comfortable with it if I hadn’t seen him fondling bare female backs all over the restaurant all night.

  “Which ones in particular?” Sonya asked.

  “There’s this great lamb dish we serve that people love.”

  “Do you have a recipe for it?” I asked, turning so that my back was away from his hand. Chefs don’t always have exact recipes as they appear in cookbooks. Their versions are often just sketchy guides.

  “Not for the lamb. We’ve all done it so often, we don’t need to write it down. But you could come and watch me do it, if you like. We don’t do lunch on Saturdays, so you could come in the morning and I’d have time to work with you.”

  “Can you do that, Casey?” Sonya never asked me to work on Saturdays, but we did need to get Danny’s shows finalized. And I knew she knew that I wouldn’t be hanging out with Richard.

  “Sure, that’s fine,” I told her, then turned to Danny. “How’s ten o’clock?”

  “Anytime you want, love.” He grinned at me, and I had the most insane feeling of wanting to stick my tongue out at him.

  He walked us to the kitchen door, put his hands on my arms from behind, and said, “See you Saturday. If you need anything beforehand just call.” He emphasized the “anything,” and if I could have balanced on one Jimmy Choo, I would have kicked him in the shin.

  Mary and Mae decided to stay at the party, but the rest of us left. Sonya shared a taxi with Sally and me back to the hotel, and we talked a bit about Italy.

  “You know, I really am getting excited,” I said, meaning it. “Are we flying over together? You two are going to put me in a center seat, aren’t you?” I was already sitting between them in the back seat of the taxi.

  “You and I are going together,” Sonya answered.

  “I’m going to go over a few days earlier to stop in London,” Sally said. Peter had given Sally a London flat near Harrods for her fiftieth birthday. She thought it was the best gift ever, and she went as often as she could.

  “Lucky you. Just for fun or do you have work there?”

  “I’m going over to speak to a real estate agent about selling the flat.”

  Sally loved that flat, loved London. I wondered if she was selling because it had been a gift from Peter and she wanted to erase whatever the unhappy memory was. I thought I should see if she wanted to talk more about that unhappy memory. I was pretty sure she didn’t want to discuss the “why” in front of Sonya, so I waited until we were alone at the hotel to bring it up again.

  “I need the money, Casey.”

  I tried not to look as stunned as I was. Selling London wasn’t about Peter; it was about money. How could she have financial problems? Maybe Mary was right about Sally needing George to help her make more money. “Is that why you’ve hired George? So he’ll bring in more money?”

  “Huh!” she said, throwing her head back. “He’s why I need the money.”

  “Sally, what the hell is going on?”

  “He has something I want, and I’m willing to pay for it.”

  “My God, Sally! What are you saying?” Of course, I knew what she was saying, but it was so unbelievable that I wanted it spelled out.

  “Just that. So now you know why such a repulsive person is in our lives.”

  “Wait a minute, Sally. I don’t really know. What does he have?”

  “I don’t want to tell you that now.”

  “You don’t by any chance have a crack baby, do you?”

  Sally laughed so hard it made me laugh, and neither of us could talk for a while. Then she said, “Let’s go to bed. We both have an early morning.”

  “But I need to know more about this George stuff. I’m worried about you.”

  She gave me a hug and said, “I know you are, but you don’t have to be. I know what I’m doing, and I know you’ll keep this just between the two of us. Sogni d’oro.”

  I wondered if she did know what she was doing. Right now it seemed as though the only gold in her wish of “golden dreams” was going to George.

  Chapter 8

  Wavin’ my heart goodbye.

  —The Flatlanders

  Friday morning, Sally and I sent for a room-service breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, assorted breakfast breads, one side of blueberry pancakes to share, and the New York Times. She gave me the crossword puzzle and took the first section of the paper for herself. Even though we had eaten an embarrassingly large number of delicious appetizers the night before, we had never really had dinner, so we were both hungry. I guess the kitchen couldn’t imagine two people eating all that food, because the waiter wheeled in the table and set out three place settings. I had a million George questions that had kept me awake most of the night, but as soon as I brought George up, Sally made it clear that she wouldn’t discuss it further. Then she looked at me over the top of her reading glasses and brought up a topic of her own.

  “I thought that Danny was awfully cute?” It wasn’t a statement; it was a question requiring a comment from me.

  “I think Danny is very cute, Sally. But I still think, as you so accurately put it, that he just needs to sow his wild oats and the last thing I need right now is an itinerant farmer.�
�

  That brought a glint to her eyes. “Who knows? Might be fun.”

  “Sally Woods! Shame on you!”

  By the time we got down to sharing the last pancake, our conversation had moved from men to the cookbooks she was going to feature on next week’s show. Sally does a cookbook spot on the show once a year. She and Sonya both receive just about every one that is published—over three hundred a year. Sonya gives hers to me to look over, Sally goes over the ones sent to her, and then she and I compare notes and select ten to feature. “I look at the recipes for chicken first. If you can’t cook a chicken so it’s not dried out, you have no business writing a cookery book,” she had told me, using the quaint British term for cookbooks. “As soon as I see directions to cook a boneless chicken breast for one hour, the book is out the window. A good index is necessary as well.”

  “I think you have a great group of books this year,” I told her now.

  “I do too. It’s amazing how many come out every year, and people still buy them. Thank God!” she said. “Maybe next year we should consider including some cooking CDs. I’ve been receiving a lot of them lately.”

  “Sonya has also. I honestly haven’t had a chance to look at any of them. Are they any good?”

  “Some are. I don’t think they’ll ever replace real books, but the ones that show actual techniques, like boning chicken breasts, can be quite helpful to the beginning cook.” She looked at her watch. “Gosh, I’d better go.”

  “I’ll walk out with you.”

  A car was waiting for her at the curb. We hugged each other, holding it a little longer than usual.

  “Now, you put that Richard situation behind you, Casey. He didn’t deserve you.” She got into the car.

  “Thanks, Sally. I’ll give you a call over the weekend.” I was hoping she might share more about her situation over the phone.

  “I’ll be away for the weekend, but I’ll see you next Wednesday. We’ll have a nice lunch after the show. You pick the place. Why don’t you ask Mary to come along? She’s such fun.”

  “Great. I’m on it.” I wondered if she wanted someone else there to avoid talking about troubling issues, but I let it pass. “Love you. Mean it,” I said as I closed the car door.

  “Love you back.” And she was gone, along with any immediate answers to the George dilemma.

  I HAD A HALF hour to spare, so I walked to Sonya’s office. She was on the phone when I walked in, and she did not look happy. She had her forehead resting in her hand, and her voice was a monotone of mutterings: “I know. I will. I did.” She glanced up when she saw me and shook her head back and forth in a woeful manner. When she hung up, she let out a long, discouraged sigh.

  “Well, that did not go well.”

  “What’s up?”

  “The meeting with George and the VPs on Wednesday was a disaster. He asked for triple the amount we pay Sally now or, he said, she’ll walk. The VPs didn’t come right out and say it, but they sounded a lot like they’re wondering what I’d done to make her ready to leave the show or at least why I couldn’t keep her here.”

  “Wow. Will Sally tell them it’s not your doing?

  “Sally won’t have anything to do with any of the negotiations. She has authorized George to do all the talking for her, and quite honestly, it’s pissing me off.”

  I wished I could tell her that George was a temporary problem, but I figured if Sally wanted her to know she would have said something already. “Will they pay the raise in salary?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Right now, they’re really steaming at being pushed like that. They feel like they’re being threatened. You know, these guys have pretty big egos. They don’t take well to being pushed around.”

  “But wouldn’t the revenues from sponsors more than cover the salary increase?”

  “That’s another issue.” She picked up a small Post-it pad and tossed it across the desk. It was just a gesture; I’m sure she wanted to throw something bigger and harder at our friend George. “God, it’s been a hell of a morning, and it’s not even nine-thirty. It seems that some of the commercials that Sally has been doing present a conflict of interest to our sponsors. Some sponsors are threatening to sue if she doesn’t stop. They’re going over the fine print of her contract to see if she isn’t in violation.”

  “I can’t believe Sally’s lawyer didn’t check that out.”

  “Sally’s lawyer didn’t deal with it. George did. Things like this were never an issue before he started directing her career. All these years, she’s avoided doing anything that makes her look unprofessional or like a charlatan, and now it’s as though she’s going to allow that imbecile to plunge her career into ruin and not even say a word to stop him.”

  I had never seen Sonya so worked up. I knew she really cared about what happened to Sally; but just as scarily, she was fighting for her own career. And then the scariest part of the conversation came up.

  “Casey, I wanted you to know how things look, because you should be prepared if, if, well, if things don’t turn out the way we hope. Why don’t you start to check around to see if other stations are looking for help? You’re very good at TV work. There’s also the strong possibility that if Sally does jump ship, she’ll take you with her. She loves working with you.”

  “Oh, Sonya, I . . .” I knew I looked as though I was going to cry. I loved working with Sally, but I hated the thought of not doing it with Sonya.

  “I’m not letting you go. I just want you to have some fall-back plans, should it come to that. I’m fairly sure that if Sally walks, a lot of heads will roll.”

  “I understand. It’s not your fault. I know that.” I wondered exactly how soon George would be out of Sally’s life. I was afraid that it wasn’t going to be soon enough to save my job. We went over Sal Vito’s recipe and worked on the cookbook scripts, and then I walked out into what had become a very gray day. Richard might have been responsible for my heartache, but George was causing me a major headache.

  When I got home later, my parents were already asleep so I went into the den and booted up the computer. I decided to Google George up and see what I could find out about him. There were hundreds of George Davises listed, all variations and combinations of agents, representatives, celebrities, and the like, but after a long exhaustive search, none fit the description of the migraine in my life. He certainly kept a low profile for someone professing to be a “celebrity agent.” There were two other possible matches, but neither was identified as an agent. One promised a good time and a photo for a mere two dollars; the other listed his address as San Quentin State Prison, and was looking for a potential wife: “must own heavy digging equipment.” I finally went to bed and fell asleep crying to the radio playing Emmylou Harris’s pathetically sad “My Baby’s Gone.” My baby was gone, and my job wasn’t looking so good either.

  Chapter 9

  Down to my last teardrop.

  —Tanya Tucker

  Saturday morning, I forced myself out of bed early. I was emotionally exhausted and wanted nothing more than to pull the covers over my head and rescript yesterday, but I knew I’d need a lot of time to camouflage my swollen red eyes before going to Oran Mor. I dug my beach bag out of the closet and rummaged through until I found the waterproof mascara I use for swimming. I prayed it would withstand the deluge it might have to face. Ten-foot ocean waves were nothing compared to what it would have to hold back if I got going again.

  I threw on a scoop-neck white T-shirt, faded jeans, and grabbed a baseball cap. I didn’t know how strictly Danny held to the health regulations about covering your hair in the kitchen, but I wasn’t about to compound my already challenged looks with a hideous hairnet.

  The front door of the restaurant was locked, so I knocked and a tall gangly boy of about seventeen opened the door. He had a short, unruly mop of red hair and his face held its own deluge—of freckles. Or perhaps it was the other way around; space between the freckles revealed a sweet face.

  �
�Mornin’ to you,” he said with an unmistakable Irish lilt. “You’d be Casey. Chef’s expecting you. I’m Cian.” He gave me a big smile and held out his hand.

  “Casey Costello. Nice to meet you, Cian. You look like—”

  “Erin. I know. She’s my big sister. She’s helping me to learn the restaurant business. I’m just a busboy now, but I’m workin’ my way up. Some day I’ll have my own place, just like Danny.” He looked so proud and was so cute that he made me smile for the first time that morning.

  “Come on. I’ll take you to the kitchen.”

  Danny was already at the stove, dressed almost exactly as I was. He looked a lot better in his outfit. When he turned around I could see his hat had THE CHIEFTAINS written across the front; mine said TEXAS ROADHOUSE and was signed by Willie Nelson. Oran Mor means “big song,” and I thought it was appropriate that we were thematically outfitted.

  “Hey, Casey,” he said coming over and putting his arm around my shoulders. “I think you met the staff the other night?” I said hi to his sous-chef, Brian, then to Erin, then to two line chefs, recruited from excellent New York restaurants, and to Sweetie, the pastry chef, a cute, skinny girl from Ireland.

  Danny clapped his hands together. “Okay. Where do we begin?” He seemed so enthusiastic about our project that I was sorry I wasn’t in a more upbeat frame of mind. Usually, I find a restaurant kitchen more stimulating than a Broadway musical, but since I had spent yesterday in the middle of a Shakespearean tragedy, facing madness and eventual execution, I was having trouble finding my tap shoes. I tried not to show it.

  “Well, let me look at tonight’s menu, and watch you all work for a while. Then I should see copies of any recipes you do have for the dishes that I think will work.”

  “If you don’t find something from today’s menu, I can show you others.”

  “Great.” With lively Irish music blasting into the kitchen, Danny and his staff moved through their preparations like seasoned dancers. It was pure art. Sweetie was rhythmically kneading brown bread to the Irish beat and Erin was cutting perfect sheer slices of cured salmon with a long, flexible-bladed knife. With his foot tapping, Bryan was dicing exquisite pieces of ahi tuna. I was impressed that they were all working by hand, not relying on machines. To me, that’s a sign of a chef in love with his product.