Food Whore (29 page)

 

Chapter 31

T
HE SECOND
I
GOT BACK TO
N
EW
Y
ORK,
I
CALLED
M
ICHAEL
Saltz and told him I needed to see him. He suggested we meet up on Saturday at Bay Derby, which I assumed was up for review. He even gave me the whole pre-­review spiel: the chef was Zinc Varley, he had five other restaurants in San Francisco, this was his only place in New York City. I asked to move the dinner to Tuesday, when I knew the restaurant would be quieter.

I would play along for the time being, but my days of doing his work were over.

It all made awful sense. Maybe a ­couple of months ago I would have made excuses for him. Perhaps he'd misheard a doctor, or the FDA had some covert surgery division. But I wasn't that naïve anymore. All those sleepless nights spent researching restaurants, not once had I ever thought to google taste-­correcting surgery. It had taken two seconds to see that New York–Presbyterian had stopped their experimental trials a year ago. Apparently the early patients suffered a drastically increased risk of schizophrenia. I also learned that taste-­correcting surgery was widely considered to be bad science, likened to crude and cruel lobotomies.

Then I emailed Kyle Lorimer.

Hey—­good to see you the other night! I totally forgot to ask you at Kel Jabone, but do you know when Helen will take on new interns?

Kyle got back to me right away.

Hey there, dancing machine. No interns for the rest of the year. We're wrapping up some things before Christmas, and then she's off to Paris for the spring and summer. That's where she's doing more cookbook research and testing.

Helen had never been a possibility, spring or summer. The surgery was never in the cards. I half expected the clothes in my closet to disintegrate into ash.

My anger burned up so much that my whole body shook. I knew Michael Saltz was unreliable, but I had never suspected anything on this scale. Though if there was one thing I had learned from him, it was the capacity to lie when the situation demanded it. My ignorance would end here. Starting with this dinner.

O
N
T
UESDAY, ONCE
again, I transformed myself.

I knew my picture had been circulating, but it was of me at Panh Ho, wearing my first designer dress and stumbling in my new heels.

I put on a white knit Chanel dress, black knee-­high boots, and the New York woman's armor—­a black leather jacket. I crowned the whole thing with a flawless chin-­length wig and a pair of German eyeglasses that looked like tortoiseshell but were made of a metal reserved for spacecraft. I had erased myself.

When I arrived at the restaurant, Michael Saltz was already seated, munching on something fried. The waitstaff snapped their heads toward me. Did they already know who I was? I immediately regretted coming and yet the sight of Michael Saltz smugly chomping away revved me up again.

“There you are!” he said, mid-­munch. “The evasive Tia Monroe shows her face.”

“
Shh!
” I said, not wanting anyone to hear my name. I pushed my wig in front of my eyes. Even though I cared little about Michael Saltz's anonymity anymore, I still needed to stay discreet for the next phase of my plan.

I put my phone on the table and eased in. Busboys squeezed behind me; the kitchen's steam and smoke filled my lungs. A table of frat-­boys-­cum-­bankers toasted with tall glasses of beer. I ordered a Cabernet from our handsome waiter and forced myself to look Michael Saltz in the eyes.

“Here,” he said. “Try one of these.” He handed me a wrinkled deep-­fried clam.

“Bivalves? Remember?” I said.

“Oh, yes. Sorry.” He could hardly keep his hand out of the red plastic bowl, the type you get at roadside New England fry houses.

“These clam strips,” he said between chomps. “You're missing out.” I had never seen him eat with so much enthusiasm. “The batter is perfection. It's a panko beer crumb with a double pancake batter! Do you know how I know that?”

One of the frat-­boy-­bankers ordered another round of beer, and the guys cheered, filling the restaurant with their voices. I pushed my phone closer to Michael Saltz.

“Why do you know about the batter? Did you ask a twenty-­two-­year-­old girl?”

“No!” Michael Saltz said, brushing my comment aside. “I tasted it.”

“Your taste is back?” Relief instantly, instinctually, washed over me.

“Well,” he elaborated. “Not like that. It's the texture. It's as forceful as a flavor.”

I took another sip of wine as our waiter approached. So his taste hadn't returned. But that was okay. Better, in fact, for my plan.

“I already ordered the whole menu,” Michael Saltz said.

“But I can't eat some of these shellfish courses.”

“Oh, yes, I always forget about that allergy.”

After the scare at Le Brittane, you'd think the knowledge would have been seared into his mind. But of course he wouldn't remember it. I was just a disposable pawn in his plan.
Who cares if you lose Tia to a deadly allergic reaction?
There were plenty of others who'd take my place.

“We'll have the waiter identify them,” he said. “I have a good feeling about this place.” He took a deep breath, as if he were at the top of a mountain and Bay Derby's smoky, garlicky air was invigorating his very being.

“Right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Maybe I should write the whole review right here on the spot. Without tasting a thing. Just like you.”

“Tia, watch yourself.”

The wine rushed to my head. “Why bother eating anything? I'm better off without all the calories,” I growled. “Let's see . . .
The crab cakes offer a luscious bite of the seashore, a satisfying blend of citified grade-­A sophistication and down-­home buttery crumb . . . the goat meat and goat cheese ravioli is a rustic, sloppy dish with a papery-­thin dough encasing a burst of savory decadence.”

“Tia, I'm warning you.”

“No, really, Michael, I can write these in my sleep.” Rage bubbled up inside me and my volume rose. “It's a fun game. You can play along, too!
The foie gras, flown in from Marin Cress, the famously sustainable farm in Sonoma, had piercing earthy undertones, but a grainy texture I found off-­putting . . . the quail with rosemary and red grapes felt like supper in some Tuscan wonderland, though the bird would have benefited from a ­couple more days on the feedlot to fatten itself up.
” My voice carried through the restaurant and now I knew for sure that the staff was looking at me, my face wide open for everyone to see.

“Tia, please.”

“It's all bullshit,” I said. I glared at him, but he looked at me with such horror I had to look away. “You must think so, too, if you wrote reviews for so long with a dead, burnt-­out palate.”

“Shut up, will you?” he said. “What's gotten into you?”

He still wasn't giving me what I wanted. I kept silent and thought as the waiter brought us our meal, dishes upon dishes, like some gag assembly line where the food just doesn't stop: oysters with five mignonette sauces, the crab cakes, rabbit sausage with kale chips, goat ravioli, chicken under a brick with warm bread and dandelion salad, a strip steak with horseradish-­scallion mousse, grouper with carrot and pine nut risotto, pork shoulder with a caramelized potato and apple galette, and finally a bowl of classic San Francisco cioppino, a rustic seafood soup.

When the waiter left, I went on the offensive again. “Tell me the truth—­is this surgery ever happening?”

Michael Saltz furrowed his brow and took a sip of his wine. “Why would you ask such a thing? You know it is.”

“I saw that New York–Presbyterian canceled their experimental trials a year ago. Were you planning on stringing me along forever or just dumping me on the side of the road?”

“Tia!” He kept shaking his head, confused, even aggrieved by my accusation. But I didn't back down.

“I don't know the whole story, but I know you've been lying. The FDA has nothing to do with experimental surgeries.”

Michael Saltz put his hands in front of him, as if I would flip the table on top of him. But he didn't have to worry about physical assault. I'd flip the tables another way.

“Now, Tia. Please don't get ahead of yourself. There's an explanation. You are . . . not incorrect about New York–Presbyterian. But experimental surgeries aren't like haircuts. You can't walk in, pick from a celebrity gossip magazine, and get one. So, yes, there have been bureaucratic complications. And, yes, I haven't been totally honest with you. I'm rather embarrassed that I cited the wrong government agency. But . . . well, I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you.”

Michael Saltz pushed the bowl of cioppino toward me. “Can you try a bit of this? Here, I'll take out the shellfish.”

“I asked you about your surgery, and now you're giving me soup you know I'm allergic to?”

“Tia, please. You would help me immensely.”

I crossed my arms and leaned back in my seat. His face had gone pale and his eyes—­normally beady, precise—­were big and mournful.

“We will review this place,” he said, “but I also brought you here for a personal visit . . . as a friend.”

“Personal how?”

Michael Saltz sighed. “This cioppino was my last meal before I lost my sense of taste. I was sitting in that back booth over there. Every now and again, I still experience the phantom taste of it. It's true that the New York–Presbyterian trial suffered setbacks, but I have five other hospitals I'm talking to. Just a ­couple more months of this charade. Think about how much you want me to get this surgery, how that will help you start your life. Now think about me. You're not the only one who wants to start their life, Tia. We're on the same team. Yes, once in a while I might
lie.
There might be
secrets.
The world runs on secrets, and the sooner you understand that, the better. Your writing—­
our
writing—­is essential to New York. You go to any restaurant and ask them—­would you rather the
New York Times
come to your restaurant and judge you anonymously, or would you rather be passed over—­neither forgotten nor known, but never was?”

I stammered for an answer. I hadn't made a career out of secrecy and I obviously couldn't weave in and out of the shadows like he could. But I also didn't want to.

He pushed the bowl closer to me. I eyed it but kept my hands on my lap.

Just a little more information. I already had enough for my other purpose, but this I wanted to hear for myself.

“Answer one question and I'll taste the soup for you,” I said.

“Okay, you taste the soup and then I'll tell you what you want.”

“No,” I said. “You answer me first.”

“. . . Or what?” Michael Saltz said.

My nerves picked up. I wasn't as sneaky as Michael Saltz. Lying would never be second nature to me, and for that I was grateful. I wouldn't take him down with lies—­the truth was better.

“Or nothing,” I fake-­demurred. “It's an easy question. Did you ever talk to Helen about my interning with her?” I asked.

“Tia, of course I've spoken to her. I told you I'm a man of my word.” He sighed, and I assumed he was happy that he could just flick my question away, but he was too skilled to show any triumph.

“And she knows that I'm supposed to work with her this summer?”

“. . . Yes,” he said. “That's exactly what I said.”

“But she's going to be in Paris.” Then I stood up and leaned over the table, my face a foot away from his. “You're full of shit.”

And now—­finally—­I saw panic on his face. The moment when he realized that he couldn't stay two steps ahead of me. That I had caught up and wouldn't back down.

“Well . . . she is a busy woman. These things take finesse. I was meaning to email her about it.”

I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to swipe every one of these plates onto the floor.

“You lied. She was never planning to be in New York in the spring
or
in the summer. You probably never even gave her my essay. You probably made sure I was placed at Madison Park Tavern so you could corner and con me.”

He pursed his lips and sat up in his chair. “I planned to do it soon enough, Tia. I would have made it happen given enough time.”

“You
robbed
me,” I said, disgusted.

“I gave you all the food, those clothes, an opportunity of a lifetime.”

“You gave me misery! I don't even know who I am anymore!”

“I will admit to manipulating you. But you must own that you wanted this for yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come now, Tia. You wanted the power.”