THE CITY HALL subway station had been closed since the middle of the last century, but it retained an air of majesty—vaulted brick arches, decorative patterns in Guastavino tile, and elaborate leaded glass skylights. The sun was pouring through those skylights now, illuminating a buzz of activity on the platform that had been extended to cover the abandoned tracks.
The station had the look of a Roman bath, but the aroma of an industrial kitchen. The air was steamy from the heat of a hundred pots, sitting on massive gas stoves against the interior walls. A dozen white-jacketed cooks stood at their stations, slicing mountains of onions, peppers, and tomatoes and shaking sizzling skillets of ground beef. The prepped ingredients were dumped into huge simmering pots, then swirled with stirring paddles the size of small oars.
Sonor Breece walked slowly up and down the line, hands folded behind his back. Between his fingers he dangled a long-stemmed tasting spoon, which flicked out behind him like a thin silver tail.
The aromas that filled the space were a bit crude for his senses. He preferred more subtle seasoning and, as a rule, he avoided meat. But scale and economy were the objectives here, not haute cuisine.
He wandered over to the side of the cook in the center of the line and dipped his spoon into the bubbling mixture on the burner. He touched the spoonful to his lips to test the temperature. Then he took a small nibble and let the flavors expand in his mouth. He worked the mixture lightly between his molars for a few seconds, then leaned forward and spit the half-chewed wad back into the pot.
“Too thin,” said Breece. “Start again.”
The cook’s eyes never lifted from the stove in front of him.
“Right away, sir,” he replied, his voice barely audible. The sweat on his forehead was from the heat of the stove. But the sour odor of stress rose from beneath his jacket as Breece watched him tip the forty-quart pot by its handles and dump the steaming contents into a large garbage bucket.
“More texture this time,” said Breece, wiping his spoon on a clean towel.
The loud squeak of metal wheels echoed against the curved station walls. Breece looked up to see a crew moving toward the station on a small electric cart made to fit over the ancient steel rails. The three men riding the cart wore rubber bib overalls and heavy gloves.
Two of the men climbed a small ladder onto the end of the platform and began to unload their cargo—dozens of small metal containers, each marked with an abstract stencil of a bird’s head. The third man, the foreman, just watched. Breece pulled a pair of rubber gloves from a workstation and walked toward the workers.
“Gently, please,” he said. “Gently.”
The words of caution were unnecessary. The heavyset men were already handling the containers as if they were precious jewels, stacking them carefully in a neat pyramid. Breece picked a container from the top of the growing pile. He used the narrow stem of his tasting spoon to pry off the tight-fitting lid. Inside was a clear liquid with the consistency of cough medicine.
Breece carried the open container over to the sweating chef in the center, now furiously chopping up a fresh load of produce. Breece dipped his tasting spoon into the container, picking up a small dollop of syrup on the tip.
He held it up to the chef’s mouth.
“Taste,” said Breece.
The cook rested his knife on the cutting board as Breece lifted the spoon to him—almost like feeding a baby. Instinctively, the cook sniffed. No smell. He wrapped his lips around the spoon tip and took a small dot of syrup onto his tongue. He rolled it slowly in his mouth. He swallowed.
Suddenly, the cook spun back against his stove, his body stiff, eyes wide. Breece saw him try to scream, but his vocal cords were already paralyzed. The gas flame from the burner flared onto his jacket pocket, singeing it. The cook reached for his throat as white foam began to pour from his mouth. He dropped hard onto the cement platform as an almost comical waft of smoke rose from the side of his jacket—like a cartoon character after grasping a live wire.
Breece tossed his tasting spoon into the garbage along with the chef’s failed recipe. He looked at the foreman.
“Perfect,” he said.