Spiced to Death

by Peter King

  FROM THE PHONE IN my room, I called the New York Times and asked to speak to their food editor.

  “If I wanted the best birds’ nest soup in New York, which restaurant would you recommend?” I asked.

  The busiest people are seldom too busy to talk on their specialty. This man chatted in friendly style, making distinctions like “best,” “best for the money,” “most authentic” and others, but he had no hesitation in giving me one name that stood out above all the others. It was the Shanghai Palace.

  Outside, gusty winds were blowing rain showers in unexpected directions and people on the street were struggling to raise umbrellas, cover their heads with newspapers or wave frantically for a cab.

  I waited in the doorway. It was not likely that I would be pursued or observed here but I wasn’t taking any chances. The rain stopped as quickly as it had started and I caught a cab in a few minutes.

  The Shanghai Palace was at the south end of Mulberry Street and just inside New York’s Chinatown. Winding alleys and narrow streets were packed with people—“nearly ten thousand” said the cab driver, “and more coming in from Hong Kong every day.” The exotic atmosphere of the East was dulled only by the Western clothing that most residents wore but the shop and store windows were no different from those in the rest of New York although I caught a glimpse of one shop offering thousand-year-old eggs.

  Restaurants abounded. Every third or fourth establishment was a restaurant and I saw more dragon motifs than a jeroboam of champagne has bubbles. They came in every color and I was wondering how the Shanghai Palace could compete with all of them when the cab stopped.

  The front of the place was spare but imposing. Long black windows in trim green woodwork and the name in block letters along the top with no attempt at a cute Chinese effect. Inside, a warren of handsome rooms went on and on into a limitless interior. The entrance and bar area were finished in high-gloss black lacquer and tile. The bar stools were black velveteen and the decor was accented with white monkey sculptures that were eerily effective. In the eating areas, tall booths encircled large central sections and high banquettes provided privacy. Bamboo furniture, hemp walls and red and green carpeted floors were cleverly combined with leafy green plants as dividers. Tables were set with pink table linen and black tableware.

  “The large numbers of new residents from Hong Kong and Taiwan are accustomed to Cantonese cooking,” explained T. R. Koo, the owner. “As a result of this, most Chinese restaurants in New York serve food Cantonese style. It is pleasant and healthful but it is not spicy.

  “We serve Cantonese dishes too,” he continued, “but I like to present the cuisines of Szechwan and Hunan with their lush and fiery sauces—resplendent with ginger, garlic and chiles.”

  I had been passed along to him through a chain consisting of a waiter, the headwaiter and the maître d’. He received me courteously and we sat at a table where he ordered tea and I apologized for the hour of my visit. It was between mealtimes so it was more convenient for him, I pointed out, but it robbed me of the enjoyment that I had no doubt I was missing by not being able to partake of his food. I noticed how I had slipped into an Asian mode in saying that, although I meant it.

  I had studied the menu while waiting for Mr. Koo to come from the kitchen and the food looked tempting. The cold appetizers included chopped chicken in a thick sesame sauce—a Szechwan specialty—and there was another, shrimp with mint and fresh coriander with crushed chiles. The julienne of jellyfish was not often seen on Western tables and the hot rice cake soup was uncommon too.

  Several sea scallop dishes were among the main courses. Hunan, being an island, is a major seafood producer and scallops are prominent. Some dishes were served with tofu cubes, others with a sauce of ginger, garlic and scallions. The chicken steamed in lotus leaves and the dry shredded crispy beef offered interesting variants from seafood and, naturally, several delicious-sounding duck dishes were present.

  Mr. Koo nodded his appreciation of my comments. He was of that indeterminate age that is a prerogative of Chinese men, who remain in an aging limbo between forty and seventy. He was slight and stooped, possibly from many years over cooking pots. His voice was wispy but his words demanded attention. He listened respectfully while I told him why I was there.

  During the taxi ride, I had prepared a thoroughly convincing story of being with a travel agency which wanted to put on a banquet for a large group. Birds’ nests soup of the finest quality had to be the first course … and I intended to wing it from there. When I talked to Mr. Koo, I abandoned the subterfuge. His manner was courtly but beneath it was a perceptiveness that would quickly see through me. I followed the sage advice I had been given early in my career: when in doubt, try the truth.

  “Yes, I remember the occasion well,” he said in his gentle voice. “The Pacific storms had been extremely severe and white birds’ nests were hard to find. The price was climbing rapidly. I had to agree to a very high price. It was a devastating blow when the shipment was stolen.”

  “Did you ever have any clues as to who had stolen it?”

  “Not I. Nor, I understand, did the police.”

  “What do you suppose happened to it?”

  Did I imagine it or did he glance away for a fraction of a second?

  “Other restaurants in New York serve birds’ nest soup. I suppose that one of them bought it.”

  “At a time of shortage, wasn’t it obvious which restaurants were still meeting the demand?”

  Mr. Koo shook his head slowly. “Oh, no. Unscrupulous chefs sometimes use the black birds’ nests—much cheaper—in place of the superior kind. Some even use other ingredients—not birds’ nests at all.” He smiled sadly at the idea of such perfidy on the part of his compatriot chefs.

  “How many customers do you have who can tell the difference?”

  He smiled. “You are thinking of tourists, perhaps not sophisticated in the appreciation of Chinese cuisine?”

  It was nicely put. That had been what I was thinking. I nodded.

  “We have many of those, of course. They are an important part of our clientele. But we have another very important part—the diplomats from Asian countries. Many of these eat here regularly and we also arrange banquets for embassy receptions and parties.”

  He waved a hand toward the interior. “We have facilities for several hundred people in there.”

  It was an extraordinary claim but I didn’t doubt it. Several New York restaurants seem to go on and on, level after level, down into the—well, bowels wasn’t appropriate but certainly into the earth.

  “So you have no idea who got the stolen shipment.”

  He shook his head gravely. “I do not know,” he said and I realized that it was not a precise answer to my question.

  “It would be a shame if visitors came to New York expecting the finest birds’ nest soup and were unable to get it here,” I said. “In such circumstances, where do you imagine they would have gone?”

  There wasn’t a crack in his imperturbable facade and he answered smoothly. “The Forbidden City would be the restaurant answering to that description.”

  “Presumably you were insured for your loss?” I asked.

  “Yes, but that is poor recompense for the damage to reputation. Imagine a restaurant like the Shanghai Palace unable to offer its customers birds’ nest soup!”

  I sympathized with his embarrassing position.

  “Can you tell me who you are insured with?”

  “There is nothing confidential about such information. The company is New England Assurance.”

  I thanked him. I had learned more than I had expected. Perhaps the truth was underrated, after all.

  “I sincerely hope that you recover the Ko Feng,” he said, pouring the last of the tea.

  “I was wondering if you’d ask me about that. Doesn’t the idea of using it appeal to you?”

  “It is a fascinating concept, employing a spice lost for centuries,” he admitted. “Perhaps age has d
rained me of ambition, however. The thought is seductive but the will to innovate has declined.”

  Midmeal diners were drifting in. New York is a nonstop city and time doesn’t govern all stomachs. I went out into the squally rain that had started again. Taxis were in great demand but I got one eventually.

  The Forbidden City was not far away. The exterior was modest in design but ornate with gilt, and inside, huge gilded pots stood everywhere, spraying out fronds of palm leaves. The ceiling was high and gilded, adorned with heads of mythical animals. Gilded chandeliers cast discreet pools of golden light in which the tables were crisp and white. Quite a few of these were occupied, so Mr. Singyang took me into the small office of his accountant.

  He was rotund and almost jovial in comparison with the slight and reserved T. R. Koo. I used the same truthful approach that had been so effective before but in a scant few minutes it became obvious that the truth was like lightning—it didn’t strike twice on the same topic.

  Mr. Singyang was polite but, though he never seemed to be evasive, he never answered the question.

  “Suitable birds’ nests have always been rare and expensive,” he agreed.

  “They must be even more expensive than they were five years ago.”

  “Five years ago …” he mused.

  “Yes. That was when a shipment of birds’ nests was hijacked at JFK. I’m sure you remember it.”

  “Very well.”

  “And I am sure you have heard of the theft of the Ko Feng?”

  “Very sad,” he murmured. “Most regrettable.”

  “The similarities in the two thefts must have come to your attention.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Mr. Singyang, I’m not concerned with the theft five years ago or what happened to the shipment. I came here to help authenticate the Ko Feng. A friend has been murdered because of that and I might be next.”

  He regarded me with a little more interest and when he said, with Oriental sincerity, that he hoped not, he might even have meant it. I came to the point in crude Occidental fashion.

  “Whoever stole the birds’ nests shipment also stole the Ko Feng. Can you tell me anything that might help me find the thief?”

  He continued urbane and amiable but he wasn’t helpful. He would ask around the neighborhood, he said but of course, after five years … He chatted about Ko Feng but I knew I was getting nowhere. I thanked him for his time and left, aware of him watching me all the way out.

  A message awaited me at the hotel. It was signed “Gabriella” and it said that she would pick me up the next morning at 9:30. It was the next sentence that really excited me. It stated simply, “We’re going to a sale.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  VARIETY MAY BE THE spice of life as one of the oldest of old clichés has it, but variety can also be the spice of food. That was why I walked about four blocks down Broadway to The Klatsch, proposed by many addicts as the perfect place for morning coffee.

  All chrome and glass and with a floor that looked like black glass and a ceiling of mirrors, it brought a bright, purposeful look to the new day that must bring a beaded sweat to the brow of many a reveler of the night before. If so, there were plenty of nonrevelers for the place was packed. It was certainly no place for those with a thick head and a problem with decisions—the glaringly brilliant sign offered so many choices of coffee that a dedicated ditherer could find himself at lunchtime before he had ordered.

  Regular, espresso, latte, cappuccino, decaf—small, medium, large and jumbo—those were merely the beginning. There was flake, grain, chip, filament and globule—and these could be grated, granulated, milled, ground, chopped, flocculated, pulverized or powdered. The devotees crowding the bar for their quick fix had their own serious preferences for the origin of the bean and I heard mention of Arabica, Jamaican, Colombian, Brazilian, Venezuelan, Hawaiian, Kenyan and a score of others. Some customers were even specifying roasting times and brewing times. The air was dense with fumes and shouted orders.

  Nutmeg, cinnamon, cardamom and mace were among the more popular toppings—some sprinkled on, some stirred in. The blending of aromas was heady and many a customer must stagger out, his hangover cured but a new intoxication mounting.

  To make judgment yet more shattering, bagels were on display in another multiplicity of choices—cracked wheat, rye, raisin, chocolate, cranberry, coconut, mango, onion, basil, garlic, tomato, poppy seed, papaya, sesame, chipped almond, pineapple, grated apple … I walked back to the hotel, presuming that New York had plenty of psychiatrists specializing in patients afflicted with “excess of choice” syndrome.

  I had only got as far as page two in the lobby copy of the New York Times when I heard a toot-toot from outside. I went to look but all I could see was a tan-colored Ford that hadn’t been washed since it was new and with a badly dented fender.

  The toot-toot came again before I had got back to the newspaper so I went back and took another look. A head of untamed blond hair poked out of the window and a voice that sounded familiar called, “Get in!”

  Even from a few feet away, I wouldn’t have recognized Gabriella. Sitting next to her, I still couldn’t.

  “Do you always get into a car when a strange blonde invites you?” she asked. “Thought I’d warned you to be careful.”

  “I don’t believe it!” I was dumbfounded. “What show are you auditioning for now? West Side Story or Grease?”

  She released the brake and pulled away from the curb. The engine sounded rough and there were several rattles. The interior of the car was as disreputable as the outside.

  “Don’t mind the car,” she said. “Part of the image.”

  “Very convincing. It certainly fooled me—and so did you. Are you sure you don’t want to go back on the stage?”

  “I get plenty of acting opportunities still—like today, for instance.”

  “Did you dye your hair?” I asked curiously.

  “Of course not. This is a wig.”

  “But what have you done with your own hair?”

  “They make a very tight-fitting latex skullcap now, and the wig fits right over it.”

  “Amazing,” I said and meant it. “But your eyes—they look different too.”

  “Just different makeup,” she said offhandedly.

  In fact, everything about her looked different but it had all been very subtly done. None of the changes were major but the sum total was the evolution of a new person.

  One aspect was not subtle, though …

  She caught me staring and smiled. “Like the outfit?”

  She was wearing a skintight, flesh-colored blouse that was only one short step away from see-through. Over it was a minuscule garment like a waistcoat. It was in dark blue with a lacing of black running through it. The shiny black skirt was extremely short and so tight that it rode up her thighs as she drove, exposing enticing lengths of very shapely legs.

  “Four inches longer and it would be a miniskirt,” I said weakly.

  “Suits today’s purpose,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Just one question about the costume …”

  “What’s that?”

  “Makes it impossible to carry a gun.”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. Beretta has a new model that is very flat and very small.”

  I looked her over very carefully—several times in fact. I finally shook my head.

  “I give up,” I said. She smiled but didn’t enlighten me.

  “I used to think a disguise meant you needed to be inobtrusive, not readily noticeable, blend into the background sort of thing.”

  “You’re right, that’s how it used to be. The latest advice from the police psychologists is to be noticeable. Once you’ve been registered in a memory, the automatic assumption is that you must be okay or you wouldn’t want to risk attracting attention.”

  “Sounds as if you do this kind of thing often,” I said.

  “You mean undercover work?”

  I
looked her over again, twice.

  “I wouldn’t call it exactly undercover—but yes.”

  “No, I don’t do it often, only when the occasion demands.”

  “Okay. Now the next question is, what am I going to wear?”

  “You’re wearing it.”

  I glanced at my lightweight slacks and gray flannel jacket.

  “This? This isn’t a disguise.”

  “You’re not going in disguise. You’re going as you. The more people recognize you the better.”

  “Isn’t that a little—well, dangerous?”

  “Not very,” she said with a careless toss of blond locks.

  “Let me get my position straight. You mean I’m sort of a Judas goat pegged out waiting for the big bad wolf to show up?”

  She smiled wickedly. “No, I see you more as a pot of honey—and we’re going to wait for the flies to swarm all over you.”

  “And you’re the girl with the fly swatter?”

  “The Beretta.”

  “In that outfit, you’re more of the honeypot. You’ll have men four deep around you.”

  She neatly avoided a motorcyclist and speeded up through a yellow light.

  “Impossible. I’m on duty.”

  “But you’ll be too engrossed with all those men just when I need you to protect me.”

  “In an emergency, you’ll find a way,” she said confidently.

  “Speaking of duty and impossible—just what is today’s mission?

  She settled down to a position in a stream of traffic. We were heading north and went past the massive stone edifice of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine.

  “We’re going to the Bronx. This is the background. There’s a group of merchants who got together some years ago to have an annual sale of all the products they hadn’t been able to sell. I know that sales are not a novelty in New York—stores are having them all the time. But this was a bumper affair with tremendous bargains and it always resulted in a complete sellout.”

  The car sputtered a couple of times. Gabriella expertly juggled the choke and it settled down to as smooth a rhythm as its aging engine would permit.

  “A few of those merchants had a further idea,” she continued. “They had done so well putting on sales of goods they hadn’t been able to sell that they decided to step over the line and start selling goods they shouldn’t be selling.”