Food Whore (20 page)

“I guess I'm figuring things out,” I said. “And . . . I'm a bit hurt that I haven't been able to share the things I love with you. Like that time we went to that restaurant, or when I tried to show you that review in the newspaper . . .”

“Review in the newspaper? That thing you showed me at the bookstore? You know I've never been into that stuff. I try, I've always tried. Come on, you can't make me the bad guy here.”

“I know you're not a bad guy,” I stammered. “But even you have to agree that we haven't been that attentive to each other lately.”

“Attentive, right,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I've been trying to figure out what's going on with us. I guess I was pissed that you couldn't make the symposium, but I'm not sure I even told you about it. That won't happen again. We can do better. Like, go out? I want to try Madison Park Tavern. It sounds . . . great? Whatever, even if it was some disgusting roadside shack, I'd still want to go with you.” He looked around for a second and I tried to follow his line of sight. I was in my work clothes, but then realized I'd brought my Goyard. My paranoia rushed out again. Would he notice? Now that he was in New York, did he realize how much those cost?

Instead, Elliott looked at his corkboard of pictures.

He took a pushpin out of a snapshot of me posing with a Helen Lansky cookbook.

“I love this picture of you. I guess I never told you that I'm sorry you didn't get the Helen Lansky internship. That must've sucked for you.”

My heart plummeted a mile. Part of me wanted him to deny everything I had just said about our distance. I wanted him to say that I was wrong, that it was all in my head.

He continued, “And I'm sorry I was passive-­aggressive at Bakushan.”

“Mm-­hmm,” I said, biting my lip and closing my eyes. His apologies should have stitched us together, but instead they did the opposite. Each word snipped us farther apart.

­People say you should never keep secrets from your partner, but that's all I'd been doing since we got to New York. I could have disobeyed Michael Saltz and told Elliott the truth about the reviews and all of it. And then we'd be Tia and Elliott again. But I didn't. I didn't think he'd understand why I was putting myself through Michael Saltz's intimidation and abuse. He wouldn't understand the failure I'd feel if I didn't go after this with every ounce of my being.

In the end, I didn't want to be on the same page again. That was the truth of it.

I took the photo out of his hands and laid it on his end table. “Elliott,” I started. “I'm sorry. I never thought New York would be like this, either. I know you didn't mean to hurt me. And I didn't mean to hurt you, but—­” I took one last look at that Helen Lansky picture and gulped. That was ages ago, whole identities ago. With my eyes down, I said, “I know I've been a jerk lately. But I just don't think—­” I stopped again and bit my lip.

I hadn't planned on doing this, but this is where life's momentum had taken us. We couldn't make each other happy anymore.

I looked back up at him. “I think we should take a break.”

Elliott's shoulders dropped a millimeter but his eyes stayed focused on mine.

“Is that what you want?” he asked. To my surprise, his voice was steady. As steady as I was forcing mine to be.

I steeled myself again. This was so hard, excruciatingly hard, but I had to do it so we could get on with our lives.

“Yes,” I said. “Not a breakup . . . a break.”

I saw his tears collect, yet he didn't let one drop. He straightened up and walked over to me. He held me for a long time. We stood there, quietly rocking.

“Okay,” he said. We didn't fight for each other. He deserved better. And so did I.

I
GOT HOME
a little after midnight, and found Emerald's program from the symposium on our coffee table. She had circled Elliott's presentation.

I quickly escaped to my bedroom, catching my breath.

I remembered my best times with Elliott: puzzling over econ problem sets while playing footsie. Him tagging along gamely as we visited farmers' markets across town. Trekking to our favorite deli way off campus and picnicking in the park. Sitting in his dorm room drinking cheap wine and nibbling on whatever my latest project was—­caramel corn, flaxseed crackers, coconut macaroons with some exotic spice.

I opened my wallet and took out a small piece of paper, now faded and creased to oblivion:
59 Reasons Elliott Loves Tia
.

But we were in New York City now, which burned with an activity and excitement that eclipsed those memories, all fifty-­nine of them.

I put that out of my mind and wrote Le Brittane's review in one sitting. We hadn't even finished the meal, but what I didn't know, I made up. I had gotten the hang of the rhythm, and the words banged out of me easily, even the wholesale fabrications.

TWO STARS

I knew what a downgrade from four to two stars would mean. I knew that the soul of the restaurant would change, that morale would plummet, and that I was bringing an end to a New York institution.

But in my room, I didn't see those things. It felt small pressing the Send button, not like I was throwing a grenade into the New York dining world. It just felt like this was the only way I could untangle my emotions after a very long, very hard day.

By sunrise, my review and everything that had pained me that night were in Michael Saltz's hands.

 

Chapter 20

“A
RE YOU SURE?”
M
ICHAEL
S
ALTZ ASKED THE NEXT
morning on the phone. “Two stars, huh? That's a big thing. ­People will talk.”

I sat in the living room in my pajamas, my eyes crusted with fatigue. Emerald and Melinda were still sleeping.

“I didn't enjoy it that much.”

“Are you talking about the experience, or the actual meal?”

“The meal, of course.”

“Do you want to try it again?” he offered. “No shellfish this time, and we'll make sure the scheduling is less problematic.”

“No,” I said. “I'm set in my decision. I think it can run as is.”

“Well . . .” he said. Then a ­couple of seconds later, “Okay. We didn't finish the meal, but that might be okay.
Scandal
. The news will be everywhere.”

“Right.” I gulped. “It's your call, obviously. It's your byline.”

Though I wished it was mine.

I imagined Michael Saltz in his big apartment overlooking Central Park. I tried to guess what he was sniffing. Perhaps a roasted seed from Bhutan, or a fermented bean paste from China, or a fatty pâté from southern France. Whatever he was doing, he had it so easy. It was
my
life that was fragmenting into little pieces. Helen and my words in the
New York Times
were the only things keeping me going until spring
.

“Two stars, that would make a splash,” he said. “It's an interesting thought. What did your boyfriend say when you got to his presentation late?”

It sounded like a riddle, another trap. I waited until the wave of emotions had retreated. “It was fine,” I lied.

Another pause. “We have a good thing going here. Don't forget that. Sometimes you have to struggle to gain clarity.”

Struggle! That was the key word for my life these days. His concerned, earnest tone caught me off guard, but he was the one who knew the most about my life—­my double life, that was. And in that way, he was more than a boss or mentor—­he was my best friend. As much as I disliked him for his sneakiness, the sense that I was never quite getting the full story, I couldn't hate him.

“Why did you agree to the lunch if you knew you had another commitment?”

I looked around the room, squinting, looking for some knowledge that I never had.

“I thought I could do both,” I said, and nearly gagged, because at the time, that had been true. But now I realized I had been lying to myself, as brazen a lie as telling Michael Saltz I was “fine.”

“Watch out for that,” he said, with what I thought was empathy.

“How do you keep everything balanced?” I heard popping in the background.

“Sorry, making popcorn,” he said. “To start, I have a lot of secrets. I can't taste. I'm hiding you. And I'm the supposedly anonymous
New York Times
restaurant critic. After a certain point, these secrets don't register anymore. They just become second nature.”

“Second nature,” I repeated. I imagined a life of this being the status quo. Getting to things late, changing in the bathroom, lying to ­people I cared about.

It wasn't what I wanted long term. Absolutely not. But I had gotten this far, and I couldn't give up yet. Spring would be here in no time, and then I'd be able to file this semester away as simply paying my dues. Getting to the NBT would make up for everything.

“Hey, I've been meaning to ask, when is your surgery scheduled?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,
that,
” he said, like it was the last thing he wanted to talk about.

“Is everything going okay?”

“Well . . .” He sighed. “It's been a battery of tests. Grueling, actually. Brain surgery is never a bet easily taken, and psychosurgery, that's another story.”

“Are you excited? Scared?”

“Um, well. Not scared. It's, um . . .” Michael Saltz was usually so articulate, I took his stammering to mean that he felt real terror. “The other patients in the trial have had success, so that's quite promising. I just need to hear back from New York–Presbyterian on timing, and they're waiting on the FDA for approval, and my test results and the like. It is a bit . . . harrowing, in a way.”

I had never heard him speak so frankly. On the other end of the line, I imagined his posture changing, the slouching of a bewildered patient in front of his doctor.

“But what are you saying? Do you think you might not get the surgery?” I had visions of having the column to myself, with my name as the byline. Maybe Michael Saltz would pass it on to me. It'd make history.

“No, no, it will happen,” he said. And then, as if reading my mind, “Don't dance on my grave yet, Tia Monroe.”

T
HE
L
E
B
RITTANE
review was the top emailed story on the
New York Times
website. The comments section exploded. Hordes of ­people tweeted about it, reposted it. And then, just a few hours later, there were articles about the article, and then comments about the articles about the articles.

The review took on a life of its own. There were arguments about the role of white tablecloth restaurants, about Michael Saltz's refreshed writing style, even about responsible fish farming. I had given birth to something big and I felt like a conductor before her orchestra. Read! Reflect! Rebel! It's shocking how easily you can shake ­people up, even if you can never control what they say.

Mostly the conversation centered around the downfall of another restaurant. Like Madison Park Tavern, Le Brittane was an institution, and New York with two fewer four-­star restaurants was like a basketball team without two of its star players, a city stripped of its iconic landmarks. Only three four-­star restaurants remained. I had changed the character of New York, not once, but twice.

I went through all the avenues of the Internet, chasing down articles and blog entries and tweets. The Le Brittane Wikipedia page added the watershed
New York Times
two-­star review. Then a new section emerged: Controversy.

The reactions to the review exhilarated me. I was alone in my room and yet I felt like I had company. Out there, these ­people were talking to me. They listened to me. It was the most gratifying conversation I'd had in weeks, though they never knew my name.

 

Chapter 21

O
VER THE NEXT THREE WEEKS
, M
ICHAEL
S
ALTZ AND
I
WENT
to three different restaurants. Harpsichord, a restaurant inspired by the Appalachian trail and where the waiters carried walking sticks. (The food was surprisingly refined, yet hearty. Perfect for late autumn weather. Two stars.) Crangteen, a greenhouse-­inspired restaurant where guests could request herbs plucked off the walls. (Fresh and delightful. Three stars.) On Halloween we went to XB5, a modernist restaurant promising a new style of molecular gastronomy featuring neurological taste triggers administered by various stimuli and actual dishes. Michael Saltz was excited about this one, but it felt more like a Disney-­fied hospital cafeteria, which horrified us both. The
Times
rarely gave zero stars—­if it's not worth at least one star, it's not worth a review—­but Michael Saltz was so appalled by the execution that he wrote most of the column and used it to make sure XB5 would be closed within a month.

Michael Saltz had told me that critics typically visited restaurants at least three or four times, but we only went once before we dealt our rulings. Michael Saltz didn't see the need for multiple visits. He was strict as always and made me keep my phone on the table. He insulted my outfits. Threatened me and my career.

But he kept on using my words and inviting me to meals. And I kept going with him so I could get to Helen.

I had kept my life stable, but only by doing three things: school, restaurant, and dining with Michael Saltz. Plus some clothing requests to Giada, who basically just shipped my wish lists.

After the scare at Le Brittane, I had learned how paranoia could overtake me. So I kept my world small and contained. I was friendly and agreeable in class, but never went out of my way to hang out or show an interest in anyone. I avoided Emerald altogether. We saw each other for less than ten minutes a day—­if at all—­and we mostly never said a word to each other.

Finally, one day in early November, Michael Saltz asked me about the one restaurant I had been dreading.

“Bakushan?” I repeated on the phone.

“Yes, Bakushan. The kitchen should be up and running smoothly . . . Or so we'll find out.”

I was getting out of class and swerved into a more private hallway. “I guess,” I whispered, “but it's still so new. I don't think it should be reviewed now. Pascal—­or, Chef Fox—­probably needs more time.”

“I give them three months, that's my rule and we will follow it. We saw Pascal Fox taking a night off at Tellicherry a month ago, so obviously he's at a point where he can relax. Besides, I've heard some rumblings that the ser­vice is snobby and the cooking is sloppy. It looks good on paper, but taste is a different story. We need to get in there and organize the masses.”

“Organize the masses?”

“Yes, add direction and clarity to the conversation.”

I knew what he meant, in theory, but I had no direction or clarity to give when it came to Bakushan. In my mind, it existed away from my world with Michael Saltz, as a place where I wasn't a critic but a girl. Every week or so, Pascal would text me new dishes that reminded him of me. One day, it was a freeze-­dried lemon square. Another time, it was an ostrich omelet for six. He made me laugh and I felt close to him. I never answered any of his texts, but he kept sending them for some reason. But I drew the line at seeing him again, alone.

Every time Pascal texted me, I texted Elliott. Most times he never responded, or replied with a curt “ha” or “k.” But I kept checking in anyway. Call it love. Call it guilt. All I knew was that I wasn't ready to let him go.

“I disagree,” I said. “Bakushan's not ready.” But maybe it was. I just didn't want to do this, the whole “disguise and judge” thing. I wanted to have his texts, his attention in pocket form that I could control and hide. I wanted to see him so badly, but I couldn't. So I just stalked him on the Internet and read every single thing ever written about Pascal Fox.

“If you want it done, I think it's better if you go without me,” I said.

“Don't be absurd. You need to go with me,” Michael Saltz snapped. “Eight
P.
M
.
Next Tuesday. Don't be late.”

“Wait!” I said. If I couldn't avoid this dinner, then I'd have to remove myself in another way. I had four days. “Should I get a new look for Bakushan?” I was going to explain why—­that Pascal might recognize me from Tellicherry, that I thought it would help me separate my food critic “character” from my grad student reality—­but Michael Saltz didn't need to hear any of it.

“Oh! That's a brilliant idea. Highlights and a fresh cut. I'll refer you to my stylist now.”

It was one thing for me to think I needed a makeover, and quite another for someone else to agree so immediately. But Michael Saltz was never one to spare my feelings. At least he and I were in agreement. It was time for a true transformation.

I took a walk to Mercer Street later that day and entered a gigantic salon that soared up and sank low from the entrance. A tall, handsome man greeted me as I walked in.

“Tia, right? Let's get freaky.” He ushered me to the back, where the daytime clientele of trophy wives were getting their blowouts and manicures.

He treated me no differently, even though we both knew I was there on someone else's dime. I suppose, to him, it was a regular thing, five-­hundred-­dollar cut-­and-­colors given as gifts. He played with my hair, lifted a strand then let it fall, rubbed his fingers at my scalp to measure the density. He circled around me like a sculptor in front of marble, or in the case of my unruly hair, maybe a matador in front of a bull.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

I realized then that he, too, was gorgeous—­tall, dark, chiseled jaw, hair tied into a surprisingly alluring man-­bun. Yet another specimen in a disorienting stream of hunky men. Was it New York? Or was it me, attracting them with some force? Two months ago, that would have been ludicrous. And yet since arriving in the city, ludicrous had become the norm: strikingly handsome men, four-­star meals, an unlimited expense account at one of the world's most glamorous stores.

“Well,” I started soft, like I was apologizing.

When Pascal had first met me, I was just a scared girl. But now, with some reviews under my belt, I had grown. Theoretically, this makeover was so I'd disappear in front of him. That's what I had told Michael Saltz.

But, really, I wanted him to notice me. I wanted him to see how far I'd come in terms of clothing and looks and restaurant cred.

My volume grew. “I don't want to be a kid anymore. I want to command attention and be beautiful and sexy and powerful.” My hair had fallen in my face as I got worked up.

The stylist pushed my hair aside and looked at me in the mirror. “Honey, you're already all those things. I can just give you a nice hairdo.”

In the end, he transformed my black hair to a dark brown with subtle auburn highlights. My erratic straight hair plus frizzy waves inflated into a voluminous va-­va-­voom thing. I never in my life had imagined myself with dyed hair. What was the point when you were born with perfectly good coloring?

But those weren't the same eyes looking back at me in the reflection. In the last few months, I'd had a ­couple of moments like this: getting dressed by Emerald before Bakushan and by Giada at Bergdorf. The moment I had decided it was okay to return to Bakushan with Pascal and give him my number. And now this.

I was ready to see Pascal again, ready to step out as a new person. I had already changed on the inside, and now the outside had caught up.

O
N THE WAY
back home, I felt ­people's eyes on me. My hair made me look bolder, sassier. I was dressed head-­to-­toe-­to-­underwear in designer. My stilettos navigated cobblestones and ragged asphalt. I didn't particularly care when the tip of my heel got stuck in a grate—­I could always get a new pair or ten.

I detoured to the SoHo Prada store and admired a fur coat.

Not one, but two attendants rushed to me. They were practically groveling: their spines curved, their hands pressed in pleas.

“Good afternoon, miss,” one said.

“Would you like me to take your coat?” the other said.

Just two months ago I would have laughed nervously and said no. I was a normal girl! But this time, I let them take it away while I browsed the store. I couldn't buy anything—­I only had the expense account at Bergdorf—­but they didn't know that, and I didn't give anything away.

T
HAT EVENING
I
was slated to work at Madison Park Tavern. I had long abandoned my trusty Jil Sander and now had a rotation of luxe but unflashy suits. Today I wore an Armani with a moonstone brooch in the shape of a star.

“Hottie alert!” Chad whistled when I got to the restaurant. He circled around me, stroking his chin.

Angel yelled at him from across the dining room, “Let the girl go!”

Chad grinned goofily and punched me in the shoulder. “You know I'm fucking with you, right? You look good. Different.”

Angel came over and looked me up and down. I had worn this suit to work before—­had even worn other, nicer suits—­and they never said anything. My hair was also pulled back and gelled, so they wouldn't have been able to see my new hairdo, either.

“You do look good. Not like a schlumpy grad student anymore.”

I had to chuckle to myself. I was glad they had finally noticed something was different. I wanted to be better in all parts of my life, not just with Pascal and Michael Saltz.

Carey spotted us and gave me a hug. “Here, try this.” We walked away from the rest of the team and she handed me a cube that looked like a marshmallow covered in sawdust.

“What is it?”

“It's Chef Darling's ‘Fuck You, Michael Saltz' dish.”

“That's what's written on the menu?” I gagged.

“Ha! You're too funny. It's in the subtext.” Carey smiled. “He's been perfecting an alternate menu since the review, and is now rolling out his new creations. ­People have been going crazy over this one.”

I popped it into my mouth. The outside was soft like a marshmallow, but it got progressively harder toward the core. It had the vision of Chef Darling's best dishes—­of vegetables and sun and tilling the fields. But I couldn't quite place the flavor. It was part artichoke, part bitter green, part creamy something or other.

“What is this?” I asked.

Carey raised her eyebrows. “Have you been reading the Wiki?”

“Yes!” I laughed. How many nights had I spent on that site, clicking on links to ingredients, to other restaurants, to NYC lore? It was the best resource out there.

“Well, this is a throwback to Chef Darling's work at Vrai,” Carey offered.

“Okay, okay, don't tell me,” I said. I rolled the wood-chip-­like elements in my mouth. They had the taste of hazelnuts, but the ephemerality of chocolate flakes.

“Hazelnut. Artichoke. And mustard green?”

“Fava bean, actually.” Carey beamed.

“Nice! I remember reading about this now.”

Carey went straight and solemn, a sudden shift in tone that unnerved me. I stopped smiling. “You should,” she said. “Maybe that review was a good thing. Matthew is cooking the best food of his life now. It should be recognized.”

“I'm sure he will be,” I said. “This is really good.”

Carey shook her head, like I wasn't understanding.

“This is
incredible,
Tia. I know you know that.” She handed me a piece of paper with a URL and password written on it. “That's admin access to the Wiki. I know you have your eyes and ears open just as much as I do. So, I'm putting you on data duty. You can now post on the site.” She gave a long, meaningful pause, and all I could do was gulp and hope she'd change the subject.

“But anyway,” Carey said finally, her tone ramping up to her usual level of intellect and intensity. “We missed you at the tasting!”

“There was a tasting?” I asked. “I guess I'm not included anymore.” After Gary Oscars had put me on probation, I had been invited to fewer events. Some days I'd get to coat check, do my thing, and leave without speaking to anyone on staff. I'd also called in sick a ­couple of nights when I had to eat out with Michael Saltz or I was in a rush to get him my notes.

“Oh,” Carey said. “Sorry . . . I mean . . .” Chad and Angel walked up to us and she looked at them as if to say,
Can one of you guys help me here?

“No, it's okay,” I said, but inside I felt that familiar pinch, of missing out on something good. “I was wondering when I'd stop being invited to everything altogether.”

“Gary Oscars is a bastard who'd hold a grudge against his asshole,” Chad said.