Food Whore (17 page)

Then he came up behind me, so we were both facing the counter. “Well, faking it is fine for amateurs. But I know you're a professional. I'll show you. Get the knife,” he whispered in my ear. He picked up a stalk of lovage, holding on to my shoulder as he side-­stepped. We gripped the knife together. With his thumb, he pressed my thumb against the blade, as if the knife were a fanned deck of cards. “Just light pressure. Always come back to the tip. Use the curvature and keep rocking.”

We practiced, the knife dipping in and out over the cutting board, his hand pressing harder as we swept into the downswings. Then he put the lovage underneath our knife and we started. The knife slipped through it like skis on snow, not like the
clomp clomp
of my regular slicing.

“See? Easy.”

He pulled away and—­just like at our meeting at Tellicherry—­my skin sizzled with the memory of his touch. I still felt his chest against my shoulder blades, my butt against his hips, his arm curved around mine.

I couldn't decipher what he was doing with me. We had accidentally bumped into each other at Tellicherry and Whole Foods, but this, now, was intentional. But on whose part? The way he talked to me, looked at me . . . This morning, I never would have thought that I'd end up here, in Bakushan, with Chef Pascal Fox practically spooning me while teaching me knife skills.

I heard my phone ring in the dining room but decided not to answer it. I didn't want to break the spell. All the other cooks had left, the calm before the dinner storm. The kitchen bloomed with the full smells of roasting onions and garlic. In the back, a duck on a spit. Where Michael Saltz's apartment was prickly and cacophonous, here everything swelled and harmonized.

While he sautéed the lovage, my eye caught on a framed newspaper article. It was just two lines, but it was the only thing in the room not designed to make or serve food, and it had choice placement on the door between the kitchen and the dining room, next to the two-­person chef's table.

PASCAL FOX of Antoinette has left his Executive Chef position to pursue other projects. Chef Fox says multiple investors have approached him and he is weighing options.

“Why did you frame this article?” I asked.

“Well, why not?”

“Because it doesn't really say anything.”

He stopped tending the stove and looked back at me. “Actually,” he said, “it's what it
doesn't
say that matters. What comes next? What are the possibilities? It's easy to rest on your laurels, but this tiny mention inspires me.”

“Right. Because you're on the line to do something good and prove yourself.” I thought of the reviews—­so many ­people lived on those words: the diners, the chefs, the owners, the waitstaff.

“No, no,” he said. “I don't need to prove anything to anyone. Just me.” He pointed to his chest and he would have sounded cheesy had he not seemed so genuine. “But, here,” he said. “Try this.” He handed me a fork.

I poked the fluke, a cube of lovage, and hay-like strands of some dried root vegetable, and dragged it through a sauce studded with nigella.

Before I took my bite, I asked, “Did you try? What did you think?”

He grinned and took off his apron. “I don't care what I think, I care what you think.”

“Sounds like you want to prove something to me,” I teased. Where I was coming up with this saucy tone?

“Maybe I do,” he said with an arched brow, his gaze never leaving mine.

I tasted. “It's great,” I squeaked. What did I think? I thought he was the hottest guy I had ever talked to, maybe even seen. It didn't matter what I thought of the dish.

I heard my phone ring again and groaned. Not now! I just wanted this moment a little longer. Who knew if I'd ever live anything like this dream again?

“Is that you?” he asked.

“Yeah, but it's fine,” I said as the ringing stopped. I took another bite. It didn't follow any normal standards. The fluke was slippery, cold. The lovage's potency poked through, funked it up. But it felt incomplete.

“It's missing something . . . right?” Pascal asked, reading my mind.

I tipped back on my heels and considered him. He barely knew me and yet he seemed in tune with my thoughts. Even in the tiny kitchen, we somehow danced around each other without stepping on each other's toes.

“Right,” I said. “But I'm not sure what it is.”

Pascal put his hand on his hip. “Come now, Tia. This is the creative process and I want your input. We have to remember those words on that wall.”

We? We
who
? We the restaurant, or we
us
? Like, him and me?

“Who wrote that, anyway?”

“A woman named Helen Lansky.”

“Helen?” I nearly hiccupped. I studied the article again, but it was still two lines, the same two lines I had read before. Of course Helen Lansky knew who he was. He wasn't some random grad student like me. “You know Helen?”

“Yes,” he said. “She's a prize unto herself, separate from restaurant reviews and that blogger shit.” Annoyance overtook his voice, but he shook it off. “Helen is
magnifique
. I have all her cookbooks; her flavor combinations are classic, eternal.”

I couldn't help staring at him, slurping up every atom and utterance and whistle in his voice. He'd become more relaxed in the kitchen, relaxed yet assertive. He bit his thumb in thought and the contrast between his big, strong hands and this adorable, boyish habit made me woozy.

“Well . . . what are we doing with this dish?”

“Let me think,” I said, letting my exhalations calm me down yet again. “I think the dish needs something more to ground it. Something earthy.”

“That's the lovage,” he said, now looking in the fridge, his jean-­clad butt poking out.

“No, the lovage is the wild card,” I said, as steadily as I could, even though I was intensely distracted and slightly astonished that a man's butt excited me so much.

“That flavor remains suspended in your mouth,” I continued. “You need something that goes deeper.” As I said it, he slowly approached me. I lifted my hand to make way for him but he caught it midair.

“I
need
something?” he asked, tightening his grip with a little smile and a little threat. He walked one inch closer and that inch set my heart fluttering again, the air between us compressed and tickling.

“Yes. Um, I mean . . .”

Still holding my hand, he grabbed a bowl of toasted almonds. “Like this?” He dropped one in my mouth with his free hand, his fingers barely touching my lips.

I didn't feel like eating. I felt like either running back to my apartment and hiding under the covers, or maybe just pretending I was someone else and kissing him right then and there.

But I ate the almond and resigned myself to imagining his lips on mine. His hand was still around my wrist . . . his finger on my lips . . .

“Or, maybe this.” He gripped me tighter and, with his other hand, picked up a frond of dehydrated kale, as big and light as a feather. He touched the end of my lips, but when I opened my mouth, he pulled it away. “Careful,” he said. “It crumbles.” He placed it on my lips once more and I took a bite, little flakes of kale falling like green fairy dust.

Now my heart was taking off and I was gripping his hand, too. Was this what cheating felt like? Like the wind is being sucked out of you and replaced with something volatile and hot, something that saps you but leaves you invigorated all the same? My breaths shortened. I leaned all my weight on the wall. One nudge and I'd fall to the ground—­or into Pascal's arms.

“Or this might do the trick.” He reached for a plastic container and plunged his pointer finger in. Out came a puff of white on the tip of his finger. “It's a sesame-­yogurt mousse, with a hint of sumac.”

Yes, that would go well with the dish, that was perfect.
Cheating tasted like helium. You can breathe it, but it makes your insides go awry. It flushes out the oxygen to make way for something new, something false.

But maybe if you're starved for air, you'll breathe anything.

And before I knew it, the tip of his finger was against the side of my mouth, the mousse cooling my skin. I turned my head to get a full taste, but he moved his finger away so I only got a tiny wisp of the mousse, not enough to know it.

“Hey, come on,” I said. “Let me taste it.”

He took another step forward, and I took the tiniest of steps back, pressing us both against the wall, Helen's write-­up just over my left shoulder. “Oh? You think this is what's missing?”

I chased his finger with my lips. He had only grabbed one of my hands, so I could have brought his hand to my mouth, but I stayed there, transfixed, like a bug pinned down for inspection. Finally, the flat of my tongue and the tip of his finger met. He gently pushed it inside my mouth, and I tasted the yogurt at last. It was surprising in every way—­airy yet hearty, sunny yet earthy. The final piece. He kept his finger in my mouth even after I finished tasting it, my tongue against the ridges on the underside of his finger, coarse from cooking, I suppose, but more likely from being a man. Pascal was a man.

He pulled his finger out and my lips made a suctioned
pop
sound.

Maybe Pascal was the oxygen. Maybe he was what I should have been breathing.

He tilted his head, let go of my hand, and took a step back. “Yes, I think that'll do the trick.” He handed me his phone. “Can I get your number?”

I was still woozy, hungering for Pascal's body and face and breath. This was 110 percent unacceptable to Elliott and Michael Saltz, but I went through with it anyway.

As I entered my number in his phone, I kept on messing up and deleting, messing up and deleting. Whenever I gave my number to a guy, it was always to collaborate on a school project or something. But this was different. Pascal—­for some reason—­desired me.

I had to imagine this was how things happened when a boy meets a girl in a restaurant or bar. I didn't have much experience.

By the end, I had forgotten about Elliott and Michael Saltz. Pascal's touch had taken over. Pascal and his body and his cooking and the way he understood and listened to me.

“
Parfait,
” he said when I finished typing. “I can't wait to see you again.”

I
WALKED HOME
with my body singing. In my mind I re-­created the warmth of his hands, the proportions of his body, the tip of his finger. Even though we'd had our clothes on, I had never felt so sexy, so electrified by another person's presence.

But that was just my body. My mind knew better. By the time I got home, I was on the verge of vomiting. I looked at my phone and saw Elliott had called me three times, texted once, and left a voicemail. Who leaves a voicemail?

The text said,
where r u?,
which sounded fine enough. Standard. But the voicemail. He'd said those same three words, but they had come out mean and scared and annoyed, a voice laced with distrust.

I texted Elliott back and asked when we could get together. He said he'd be at Barnes & Noble the next day to study. His boss had put him on the lab's night shift and he wouldn't need to go in until seven
P.M.,
so we could hang out while doing some work.

Theoretically, the timing was perfect. The Tellicherry review was coming out online that night, but I was thinking about waiting for the print version the next morning, so I could experience it for the first time as a physical object. At Barnes & Noble, I could pick up a hard copy and share it with Elliott.

But that was just in theory. He couldn't know the truth. Instead of looking forward to seeing Elliott, I began to dread it. And I kept thinking about Pascal.

 

Chapter 18

T
HE NEXT MORNING AT
B
ARNES
&
N
OBLE,
E
LLIOTT AND
I
SAT
across from each other in the café section. He'd brought ten botany journals and one textbook, which stood between us like a wall. The bottom of my stomach rumbled with the taste of that sesame-­yogurt mousse, of Pascal against me in Bakushan. I shook the memories out of my head.

“What are you doing?” I asked warmly, trying to be sweet and open to his affection.

“Studying evaporation rates in tropical versus tundra climates,” he said, his head already buried in his books.

“Oh, cool,” I said. I looked down at my books and tapped the table. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

He glared at me for a quick second before he returned to his work. “I can't now. Moishe wants this report before I come in. Sorry, Tia, I'll explain it to you later.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, playfully tapping his foot. He pulled it away.

I took a deep breath. Elliott wasn't even noticing my efforts, so I went to find the newspaper without him.

There in a wire bin next to the entrance, I spotted them. I peeled away to the Food section and saw a beautiful picture of Tellicherry's jewel-­like dining room, centered around the best table, where Michael Saltz and I had sat and Pascal had paid a visit.

I read it slowly and carefully, ingesting each word before I moved on to the next.

Some parts of my review were left out or skewed. For one, I had raved about the lavender-­peach macarons, but Michael Saltz had decided they didn't make the cut. I had also written favorably about Tellicherry's varied menu, but Michael Saltz's review tweaked my words so that the menu selections came off as flighty and indecisive instead of agile and joyous. It made the thrilling will-­he-­or-­won't-­he danger of the dishes something to be frightened of.

But those were subtle matters of punctuation and syntax, slight connotation shifts. More important, there were two major things that caught my attention.

First, just like the Madison Park Tavern review, Michael Saltz had used my exact words in the vast majority of his column. As he had said on the phone, he was perfectly able to write his own review, even if he was using my thoughts. So why had he bothered to use my wording? I loved some of my turns of phrase, but I couldn't imagine why he had used them, especially given that this was Michael Saltz—­his ego and name were so precious to him.

And then there was the big type across the bottom of the review: THREE STARS, as Michael Saltz had said it would be. He'd had it in his head from the beginning, and that's why he'd made it so. My words, his judgment call.

But even with the star rating changed and those other minor tweaks, I still felt I owned that piece of writing. My words were in the
New York Times,
and that was an intoxicating, sky-­high rush, the type that makes you want to scream from the rooftops and tell everyone you know. But of course I couldn't tell a soul. All that energy ricocheted back inside me and I felt radioactive, so excited and pent up I might have burst.

I ran back to sit with Elliott and made a big show of opening and shutting the paper, spreading it wide over my face, crinkling the edges, folding and unfolding. He kept working.

I didn't want it to, but my mind turned to Pascal again. I couldn't help it. What would he say if he saw this review? If I wrote one about him, would he hang it up in his kitchen? Would he celebrate with Chef Rhodes, because after all, three stars was pretty good?

Elliott sat there while I thought of another man's hands on me, his finger in my mouth, his smell of caramelized onions and brown butter and sage. Thankfully, Elliott would never find out about Pascal. We weren't in college anymore. In New York City, millions of ­people went about their business on separate tracks, going to work, going to bed, having sex.

Yikes, sex. I tried to refocus, away from Tellicherry and the review and a certain someone's tattooed arms.

“How's it going?” I asked Elliott, my heart still fluttering like a hummingbird after a candy binge.

He pursed his lips and hit his book with the end of a pen. “It's okay. I'm thinking about a problem. Give me a ­couple moments.”

“Um . . . sure,” I said, my heart sinking. He was studying a molecular diagram and drawing out his own. His head turned from side to side as he compared the diagrams, his lips skewed in thought. I had always liked Elliott's hard-­core study sessions. He dove into everything he did, and that passion, that disregard for what anyone thought of his intensity, had attracted me. But now he looked pained, his eyebrows at an angry slant, his fingernails scraping at the table.

Fact was, Elliott could never match Pascal. He and I didn't share the same passions. Elliott didn't light up around esoteric veggies. Elliott didn't have his own restaurant and a staff who reported to him. And, frankly, frighteningly . . . Elliott didn't turn me on like Pascal had. I had always thought I just wasn't a sexual person, but . . . Pascal. Pascal and his strong arms. His hair mussed just so. His hands rough and firm and . . . large. Part of the appeal was Pascal's size. Not that he was a giant or anything, but he had stature.

I took a walk to cool off. Studying was impossible. So I kept quiet, choking on my happiness. Every now and again, I looked back at Elliott, still engrossed by those molecular diagrams. I monitored the newspaper bin and tried to eavesdrop on ­people reading the review:

“Have you read the review of that new place on Bond Street? Sounds like Michael Saltz got his groove back.”

“Dude sounded like he was losing it for a while. His old reviews were so boring.”

“Tellicherry sounds interesting, we should go.”

“This licorice breadstick sounds so cool.”

Perhaps ­people were quoting my words in their emails and would talk about them over dinner. Perhaps a young girl had brought my review to school and read it in class while her teachers weren't looking. Perhaps she dreamed that she could write this column, too.

I wished
I
could write this column and have it to myself.

I didn't attempt to lure Elliott out of his shell again. Instead, I listened to the chatter. I walked past a
Bon Appétit
magazine with Pascal Fox on the cover, holding a plate toward the public.

Oh, Pascal,
I thought, as if we were two old hats working at the famous foodie game. I imagined him right there in the bookstore with me, holding me from behind, his chest so warm and broad in my imagination that I got too hot and took off my cardigan. I shook my head—­yet again—­to rid myself of these thoughts. I had a boyfriend. But thinking about Pascal wasn't cheating. Especially if Elliott was already being so distant. I liked Elliott when he was passionate, but those passions had usually included me. Now I didn't know where I stood.

Finally, I returned to our table. “Hey, are you hungry?” I asked.

“Hungry?” Elliott said gruffly. “We just got here.”

I looked at my watch. “No, not really. It's one thirty. We've been here two hours.”

“
Eugh,
yeah, you're right,” he said. “Let's go, then.” He began to put everything in his backpack. “How about that falafel place?”

“Falafel?” I scrunched my nose. “Actually, what do you think about going to Tellicherry?”

“What's Tellicherry?”

“It's a new restaurant. The
New York Times
reviewed it today.” I opened the paper and showed him the page. My page. It was my last effort to connect.

Please,
I thought.
Please like this. Please please please.

It was relationship voodoo. If he liked it, everything would be okay. If he loved me on a fundamental level, he'd somehow be able to recognize this as mine—­knowing nothing about it. He'd feel it in his bones.

He quickly glanced at the article. “Really? That place? Eh . . . that's not us.”

My hands dropped with the newspaper. I reworked my voodoo. If he realized the importance after a little coaxing—­after all, he couldn't read my mind—­then we were right for each other.

But part of me knew that was an impossible challenge. Maybe I wanted him to fail.

“Come on, read it,” I said, meaning to sound breezy, but my voice came out a little mean and annoyed, a voice laced with distrust.

Elliott sighed and took the paper. I watched him expectantly.

I wanted him to love it so we could share this moment, even in the weakest of ways. That would be better than nothing. Yet I also wanted him to hate it, to absolve me of my Pascal thoughts, to give me permission to think new ones.

“Yuba stick?” he said with a small note of disgust in his voice. “Curry ice cream? Sounds pretentious, doesn't it? And gross, frankly.”

I staggered back as if he had struck me. One last chance. “You're missing the point. Read it again.”

“I don't want to read it again,” Elliott said with finality. “I want to eat lunch.” He took me by the hand but I yanked it away.

“I don't want falafel,” I said. “I want to go to Tellicherry.”

“Okay!” Elliott replied with his hands up, as if I were holding him hostage. “Let's go. I definitely want to spend my nonexistent money there. Maybe it'll be as good as Bakushan.”

The word from his lips paralyzed me for a second and I felt protective over Pascal and his restaurant.

“Fine, I'll go by myself.” It'd be a mistake to take him there anyway. What did he know about food? Why did I need to tolerate this attitude? I'd given him a shot, but I wouldn't pretend that the review didn't matter to me.

By now ­people were looking at us, shoppers and tourists and kids and parents. The newspaper stack had diminished considerably. God, couldn't they get more papers here? ­People wanted to read the review! Where was the floor manager?

Tellicherry was never the type of place for Elliott. I don't know why I even bothered to ask him in the first place, especially after Bakushan.

I'd find someone else to go to Tellicherry with me. At least one guy would be game. I let my mind escape to that fantasy. He'd go with me to any restaurant in the city. He was the ultimate insider, tastemaker, key-­holder. Everything about Pascal excited me—­the roughness of his skin, the clench of his hand, the lullaby that was his knife slicing through the lovage.

I didn't have to fantasize for long, though. Just then, Pascal texted me a picture of that fluke, lovage, and yogurt mousse dish along with a caption:

IT'S A HIT!

I smiled and didn't even bother to hide it from Elliott, who was loading up his backpack with his mountain of books.

“Sorry, I mean . . . I just don't feel like going out to a fancy lunch.” He smiled in a long-­suffering kind of way. “I guess I'm stressed. And I remembered I have to head out anyway. I have this thing—­”

“Sure,” I said, relieved, actually. Elliott picked up his bag and walked away without saying good-­bye. I waited for him to turn around and wave back at me, in case a small part of “us” was still there. He descended on the escalator, walked through the crowd, and left through the revolving door.

I realized then that my relationship voodoo was juvenile. There were no cryptic signs. It was either there or it wasn't.

L
ATER THAT AFTERNOON
, I got another text from my new friend. He really wanted to see me again.

HEY. I NEED TO THANK YOU FOR THAT LOVAGE INSPIRATION. DINNER?

But before I had a chance to think about it, I got an email from Elliott. A mass email.

Dear Friends,

Come one, come all to the botany symposium—­tomorrow! A ­couple of us will present our work, ranging from cryptozoology to chemosynthesis, and we'll also show a sneak peek of our Poison exhibit.

I'll be your honorary emcee and will also present my project, eco-­friendly pest control via carnivorous plant enzymes. It sounds sexy because it is sexy. I'll be introducing our awesome speaker, Dr. Mohammed Zalmai, who'll speak about the New York Botanical Garden's partnership with Beth Israel Medical Center.

The symposium is tomorrow at 3:00
P.
M
.
in Weill Auditorium, 1300 York Ave and 69th St. Hope to see you all there.

Cheers,

Elliott

Had he been planning the symposium at the bookstore? Had he told me about it? Wasn't he studying something about the Arctic? I looked at my phone, then at my computer. I made an effort to get back to Elliott first, even though I wanted to flood Pascal's inbox with
Yes, what time, I've been thinking about you every second.
But I focused on Elliott's message. I had scheduled lunch at Le Brittane with Michael Saltz, but Elliott's thing wasn't until three. And then I had to report to Madison Park Tavern at five thirty. It would be tight, but it seemed doable.