Five hundred eight Madison Avenue was a perfectly ordinary-looking office building at the corner of Fifty-fifth Street. It was, perhaps, the least interesting stretch of Madison Avenue in midtown Manhattan; it came after the Palace Hotel and Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, but well before the most chic part of the avenue, the blocks in the sixties and seventies—the part of Madison Avenue that rivaled the Faubourg Saint Honore in Paris and the Via della Spiga in Milan as a fashion center. Up there on Madison where the ladies who lunch shopped for clothes that they wore to the chic restaurants that were, oddly enough, in exactly the same neighborhood.
The building at 508 Madison Avenue was not the kind of place where one would expect to find a fine, four-star restaurant in New York City. While it was true that some New York City skyscrapers did boast superb restaurants on their top floors, those buildings tended to be glamorous or famous, and the restaurants just as well known: Windows on the World atop the World Trade Center, or the Rainbow Room, a fixture on the top floor of Rockefeller Center since the 1930s. Five hundred eight Madison Avenue simply did not compare.
When Andrew got to the top floor, there wasn’t even a restaurant. Just a torn-up, open space. It was a mess, a completely unfinished disaster with construction debris scattered in piles everywhere.
In the middle of all this chaos stood Monica and Tess. They did not look happy, either, but they did not look as if they were about to give in to madness or hysteria. Andrew, on the other hand, took but one glance around the place and was absolutely panic-stricken. His jaw dropped, and he gasped. This dump most emphatically did not fit the description of the “nice place” he had promised Kate.
“What is this?” he demanded. “What kind of joke are you trying to play on me?”
“No joke, Andrew,” said Monica brightly. “This is going to be your restaurant.” She spoke with such conviction that it seemed as if she believed that the restaurant was already there.
Tess was more down-to-earth about the situation. “This is not a restaurant, is what this is,” she said dryly. She didn’t seem upset at all by the state of the “restaurant.” She was just stating the facts.
“But she’s coming,” said Andrew. “She’s going to be here in three hours!”
“Well,” said Monica, “we have a problem.”
“A problem!” Andrew yelped. “I’d say we have a little more than a problem. We don’t even have any chairs!”
“First things first,” Monica replied. She seemed extremely calm about the whole thing. “Tess wants to go Italian, but there are so many Italian restaurants in New York, so I was thinking more along the lines of Pacific Rim—what do you think, Andrew?”
Andrew sighed heavily and sank down onto a big, wooden cable spool. “I think it’s going to be a very long night.” He hated to think what Kate would say when she showed up and got a look at this place. Doubtless, her tongue would be extra sharp.
“Don’t worry about it, Angel Boy,” said Tess. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
But Andrew was worried about it. He jumped to his feet and paced the bare room. “This is not happening,” he said. “This cannot be happening.”
“What are you so nervous about?” Tess asked him. Of course she knew the answer, but she got a little kick out of teasing Andrew. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“This is his first date,” said Monica with a little smirk. “Everyone is nervous before their first date.”
“First date.” said Andrew.
“This is not a date,” Tess growled. “It is an assignment, and I hope you two aren’t going to forget it.”
Andrew stopped pacing for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “But I’ve been assigned to go on a date. This is serious. Look at this place! I can’t bring her in here.”
“But this is where you were told to bring her,” Monica chimed in. Monica, like Tess, believed that the rules were the rules. If the assignment was to take place in this location, then there was a good reason for it, and they were not to question it.
“I believe it’s something called a controlled environment,” Monica went on. “Your doctor lady should appreciate that. Scientists like that sort of thing.”
Andrew was in no mood to have his leg pulled, not with the catastrophe that was looming before him. “She’s in a ‘controlled environment’ all day,” he responded sharply. “And I promised her I would take her someplace really nice. And no matter what you say about this place, ‘really nice’ is never going to come to mind. At least not to my mind.”
Tess’ backbone straightened, and she drew herself up to her considerable height. She looked down at Andrew, her eyes blazing with that “Oh ye of little faith” look that Andrew and more than a few other angels had found particularly intimidating over the centuries.
Andrew got a load of Tess’ look and felt a little tremor of fear. Somewhere inside his head, he heard a little voice say “Uh-oh.”
“Listen up,” Tess announced sternly. “God doesn’t do cheap, baby. And if I recall, we have been assigned as your backup. So if you will relax and hush up, you will be backed up. Have you got the picture now, Angel Boy?”
But Andrew didn’t get the picture—not right away, at least. “Wait a minute . . . You guys are gonna make this happen? You’re going to turn this mess into a restaurant by seven o’clock?”
“Yes.” Tess crossed her arms across her chest and stared at Andrew balefully. “You got a problem with that?”
Monica stepped up. “The menu is pretty much worked out. We were thinking about a little tower of salade nicoise with ahi tuna as an appetizer, then perhaps roasted pheasant over risotto with a lemon sage reduction and just a touch of Asiago cheese, and, let’s see, . . . for dessert, a strawberry tart with pistachio filling, topped with vanilla bean sauce and a mocha latte to finish it all off. That would be decaf, of course.”
Andrew opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, then closed it again.
“Any questions?” Tess asked.
Andrew nodded. This time he felt as if he could ask a question without getting his head bitten off. “I have just one question. What is this all for? Do either of you have any idea?”
Tess shook her head slowly. “Baby, I don’t know. Some lady in Duluth lives a few extra minutes longer so she can watch TV, and she makes an Angel of Death late for an appointment. All of a sudden, I’m cooking dinner in New York and you’ve got a date with a lady doctor and Monica starts using words like Asiago. Now, something has clearly been messed up here, but you know and I know that God is able to straighten it out, which is exactly what I’m sure He’s gonna do in His own good time. In the meanwhile—” Tess pointed to something behind him, “Work! For the night is coming!”
Andrew turned to see a broom leaning against the wall. He took a deep breath, took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and did what he was told.
In due course the night did come, and miraculously— in the literal sense of the word—the junk and rubble cluttering the top floor of 508 Madison Avenue were swept away.
A restaurant—and a luxurious one at that— appeared in its place. Tess and her angels had outdone themselves.
There were a main dining room, a bar, and a dance floor, as well as a state-of-the-art, fully equipped professional kitchen. The linens were creamy white and accented with small gold damask flowers; the china was delicately painted with wildflowers, the crystal seemed so delicate it might have been spun from sunlight, and old-fashioned cutlery was silver and heavy.
Chez Tess was the name that Monica had insisted on naming the restaurant, given that Tess would be doing the cooking, and any restaurant lived and died by the skill of the cook. And there was no doubt in Monica’s mind that Tess would produce meals that would be nothing short of delectable. It was a complicated way of carrying out an assignment, but the angels did not question it for a moment, as they had complete trust in their Boss. All of the energies of Monica and Tess were geared toward one end: all that had to be done was to produce one delicious meal for two diners, and then Chez Tess could safely go out of business forever.
Tess was ensconced in the kitchen and Monica presided over the “front of the house,” stationing herself at the maître d’s desk just inside the front door. She was dressed in a dramatic black sheath of silk that ran in a straight line from her shoulder to her ankle, and she wore her hair up for a change. She had never looked lovelier.
Monica was delighted as she looked around at all the details of the beautiful restaurant. The room, filled with fine, old furniture and decorated with heavy, framed pictures seemed more like a rather grand but tastefully decorated private home than a mere restaurant.
Monica felt a little sad that this lovely place would exist for one night only. Wouldn’t it be nice, she thought, if they could just give the restaurant to some deserving chef when the night was done? But she knew that could not happen.
The view out of the arched windows was nothing short of spectacular. It seemed that every light in every Manhattan skyscraper was burning that night and the sky was lit with a big, yellow, full moon. The soft tinkling of piano music came from the baby grand in the corner, the keys moving by themselves as if played by unseen but skillful hands.
Andrew paced the restaurant nervously, glancing at the antique clock every few seconds, as the old brass hands edged toward the hour of seven o’clock. As the clock began to chime, Kate Calder walked into Chez Tess. It had never occurred to Andrew that his “date” would be nothing if not on time.
Kate was impressed with Chez Tess too. As she walked through the front door of the restaurant, her normally hard features softened for a moment as she took in the gorgeous room. There was a look of wonder in her eyes and she thought that she must have walked into the most romantic restaurant in all of New York City. Of course, if Kate had seen the same place just a few hours before, she would have been even more amazed.
The doctor herself had undergone quite a transformation. Gone was the severely cut suit that she had worn that day. In its place was a red velvet evening gown, accented with a few pieces of expensive jewelry. Gone, too, was the stiff hairstyle that had been pulled back in a tight, professorial bun. Instead she had it down, her dark brown hair falling to her bare shoulders.
Monica could see the look of surprise register on Kate’s face, and she felt joy swell inside of her and it almost came pouring out. It was all she could do to maintain the discreet, excessively polite demeanor of a professional headwaiter.
“Good evening,” said Monica. “Are you Dr. Calder?” she asked, preserving the fiction. Monica could not imagine anyone else walking through the doors of Chez Tess that evening.
Kate nodded. “Yes, I am Dr. Calder.”
“Your table is waiting. This way, please.” Monica led the young woman farther into the restaurant. The best table in the place was in the far corner, close to the windows and just to the left of the marble fireplace in which a fire crackled.
Andrew was already waiting there, dressed in a black tuxedo, fiddling with his bow tie and readjusting his cummerbund—an article of clothing he had never worn before. Next to his chair was a bottle of champagne that was sitting in an antique silver ice bucket.
He wished he had more details on this assignment; he felt as if he were flying blind and, for a moment, he considered darting into the kitchen for some last-minute advice from Tess. But then he realized it was too late for that. Monica and Kate were making their way across the room toward him. He stood and pulled out Kate’s chair.
“Hi,” said Andrew.
“Hi.” They shook hands—an awkward, uncertain moment—then Kate slipped into her seat, Andrew into his. Kate looked around the room. For all her attempts to be strictly businesslike, the room and the atmosphere were having the desired effect. She could feel herself relaxing, the cold core inside her melting a bit.
“Shall I open the champagne, sir?” Monica asked. She reached for the bottle chilling in the ice bucket.
“No, thanks,” Andrew replied with a smile. “I’ll see to it myself, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, sir,” said Monica, withdrawing to her post at the door, just like a real maître d’.
Andrew pulled the champagne from the ice bucket and started working on the foil around the neck.
“This is a strange place,” said Kate, looking around again. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Restaurants were a minor religion in Manhattan, restaurant reviewers were celebrities, and restaurant reviews were pored over as if they were revealing some universal truths. Diners who wanted to eat in one of the hot new restaurants had to book a month, sometimes two months, in advance. Friends in celebrated kitchens were actively cultivated, because it was an open secret that one celebrity chef could usually free up a table if approached by another celebrity chef.
“It’s a pretty new place,” said Andrew. “Just opened, really. I sort of stumbled onto it myself.”
If only she knew how new . . . He held up the bottle of champagne for her inspection.
“Is this okay?” he asked. “Or would you like something else?” He had chosen champagne because he knew it was the kind of drink one took in a place like this. Until that moment, it had never occurred to him that Kate might want something else.
The champagne was a bottle of 1989 Perrier Jouet “Fleur de Champagne,” the bottle distinguished by the intricate design of art nouveau flowers painted onto the green glass. Andrew may not have known much about wines, but he had hit the jackpot with this one—there were few champagnes in this class and even fewer that were considered better. And there was an added, more personal bonus in his choice.
Kate beamed when she saw it. “No, nothing else. As a matter of fact, that’s my favorite. I have a bottle of it sitting in my refrigerator. It’s been there a while now . . . But one day I’ll open it. Right now, it’s nice to know it’s there, because I know that one day I’m going to need it. At least, that’s what I hope . . .” She thought a moment. “No. Not hope. I know I’m going to need it.”
“No kidding?” said Andrew. “Are you going to tell me what you’re saving it for? Is there some special occasion coming up? A birthday? An anniversary?”
Kate did not answer, slipping under the question— she knew what the champagne was for, but she didn’t want to tell. Not yet, anyway. Andrew noticed her hesitation and knew that there was something very significant in Kate’s future, something she was waiting for. He decided not to press her on it.
She countered his question with one of her own. “So, are you a doctor or not? It doesn’t matter to me, but I don’t think you should go around passing yourself off as one. It’s a crime in this state, you know.”
Andrew did not hesitate. “I’m not a doctor,” he said. “And in my own defense, I never claimed that I was. Never passed myself off as one. Jackie Cysse made an assumption that I attempted to correct, but without success. In fact, she sort of rolled right over me like a freight train. She was unstoppable.”
Kate smiled. “That is her reputation,” she said. “But the charities she works for certainly benefit from her persistence. Nobody can get out the old money and the nouveau riche like Jackie Cysse. If she weren’t already so wealthy she could probably make a fortune as a professional fund-raiser or party planner. She certainly has the knack for it.”
Andrew knew all about Jackie’s fortune. He tore the foil from around the cork of the champagne, then turned his attention to the intricate little wire cage that held the cork in place. There was a small, flat curl of wire tight against the neck. This seemed to be the key to removing the cage.
“So you’re not a doctor,” said Kate. “That means you didn’t treat Jackie’s husband, Harvey.”
“No,” said Andrew. “Although I do know him.” He stopped and corrected himself. “I did know him. Before he died, that is.”
“Well, you would hardly have known him after he died.”
“How true.”
“So,” Kate asked. “Now that we’ve established that you’re not a doctor, do you mind if I ask what it is you really do?”
Andrew paused a moment before answering. This was always a tough question. He was going to have to sit down one day and think up the definitive answer, one that would satisfy everybody and tell the truth at the same time.
“Well,” he said after a moment or two, “I guess you could say I’m a sort of counselor. I help people die.”
“Ah, I understand,” said Kate. She had heard about this modern approach to death and dying. It relied heavily on counselors and grief therapy and working with the person before death to accept death when it was inevitable.
Kate didn’t exactly have contempt for the movement—she just didn’t have time for it. “I understand. When science fails them, you come in and clean up, is that it? Something like that?” Dying is dying, Kate thought. There is no other way of looking at it.
“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” said Andrew, trying to keep the conversation light. But Kate’s words were getting darker and the look on her face a little hard. “I give them hope. At least, I try to give them hope.”
The word annoyed Kate. “And what do you tell these people about hope? What kind of hope can you give to someone who is so sick they haven’t a prayer of recovering?” she asked, bearing down on him as if interrogating him. “I can’t help but think that what you do could be considered a little cruel.”
Kate thought she had asked a difficult question, but for Andrew there was no easier question to answer.
“Oh,” he said, “it’s not cruel at all. I tell them that there is hope.” He shrugged as if the rest of the answer were obvious. “I tell them about God.”
“God?” Kate said, as though encountering the word for the first time. “You tell them about God?” She made the notion sound quaint and old-fashioned, as if she, as a doctor, had prescribed leeches or bloodletting to a desperately ill patient.
The wire wrap came off the cork, and Andrew began easing it out of the bottle. “Remember,” he said, “I help people die. I don’t give them hope about this life, Kate. I give them hope about the next life . . . You’d be surprised how interested they are.”
His words put Kate on the defensive, and she started to stiffen.
“Ah,” she said. “There’s something you need to know before we go on with this . . . I don’t believe in God.” She squared her shoulders. “I believe in science.” She spoke proudly, almost boastfully, as if her beliefs were something unique and single to her, as if this were a position that she alone had taken.
But Kate was far from being unique. Andrew had heard these words before. But he knew that truth resonates in a person’s spirit and that God’s Word never returns void. So he was not discouraged by Kate’s cold, hard pronouncement.
“You can’t believe in both?” Andrew asked. “Surely there is room for both God and science in a person’s life. Not every scientist is an atheist, after all.”
“I can only believe in things I can see,” Kate replied. “In things I can prove.”
“I see . . .” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Well, do you believe in dinner?” He pulled the cork from the neck of the champagne bottle—there was the faintest little pop and then a gentle puff of condensation that looked like blue smoke.
In spite of herself, Kate smiled. “Dinner? Yes, I believe in dinner.”
“So do I,” Andrew answered. “So I think we should make the first toast to common ground.” He poured the champagne into the flutes and handed one to her. “So, here’s to a small piece of common ground. A piece of common ground we can both stand on.”
Kate nodded. “I can drink to that.”
“Good,” said Andrew. “It’s not much, but it’s a start, I suppose. Right?”
“Right,” said Kate.
They touched their glasses together lightly in a toast, then they both sipped.
Kate felt the bubbles explode on her tongue. “Hmm,” she said appreciatively. “Very, very good champagne.” She owned a bottle of it, but she had never actually tasted it. Perrier Jouet “Fleur de Champagne” cost ninety dollars a bottle—a little too much to spend just for a taste of what was to come.
“I’m glad you approve.”
Monica had been observing them from her post. They had had their icebreaking chat; the champagne was open. Maybe it was time for them to order. She picked up two menus, the only menus in the restaurant, and walked to the table.
“Welcome to Chez Tess,” she said, handing a menu first to Kate, then to Andrew. The menus were carefully written out in exquisite calligraphy with principal letters that looked as if they had been copied from a medieval illuminated manuscript.
“We have a fixed menu, and this is what our chef will be serving this evening . . . ,” Monica explained as Kate studied the menu closely. Then, without thinking, Monica continued. “However, if you would like to request a substitution, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
Even as she spoke the words, Monica wondered why she was saying them. As far as she knew, Tess was set up in the kitchen for one menu and one menu only. It just seemed like the right thing to say, something that a fine New York restaurant would do.
And, as it turned out, Kate did happen to have a number of substitutions in mind. It came as no surprise to Andrew that she would want to make changes in the menu. She had long ago learned that if she wanted something she would have to speak up. No one else would do it for her.
“I would like veal instead of pheasant,” she said, handing her menu back to Monica. “And no sage in the lemon reduction, and tea instead of coffee.”
Monica did her best to paste a smile on her face, but she could not help casting a fearful glance toward the kitchen. She gulped slightly, but she had to go on, making the best of things. Tess was not going to be happy about this at all.
“Certainly,” Monica said, managing to conceal her misgivings. “Veal instead of pheasant, no sage. I will share that with the chef.” Monica turned to Andrew. “And for you, sir?”
Monica said a little prayer. Surely Andrew knew what was going on in the kitchen and would order the menu exactly as it was written. What else could he do? Monica knew that he didn’t want to risk the wrath of Tess. But Andrew seemed more intent on making Kate feel comfortable, so he followed her lead. Thus, he did not cooperate, much to Monica’s chagrin.
“Make that two,” said Andrew with a mischievous smile. “I’d much rather have veal than pheasant.” He handed the menu back to Monica and hoped that she would not exact too horrible a revenge on him when this assignment was done.
Monica’s face fell. Then she forced her smile back in place. “Very good. Thank you.”
Monica returned to the head waiter’s podium at the door where she put away the menus. She paused there a moment summoning up her courage to go into the kitchen and tell Tess about the small changes in the plan.
But just as she had more or less steeled her nerves to confront Tess with the bad news of the substitutions, something happened that no one— not Tess, not Andrew, and certainly not Monica— could have anticipated. A second customer walked into the restaurant and surveyed the room, a look of great imperiousness on his deeply lined face. He was tall and thin and almost bald, but he carried himself with great hauteur, a slight look of contempt in his eyes, as if he were always beset by little annoyances and irritants that made his life so very difficult.
He was perfectly dressed in what amounted to the uniform of the New York male of the exclusive Upper East Side—an oxford cloth shirt with a knotted rep tie, gray flannels, and a blue blazer. He seemed rich and bossy and was definitely used to getting his way. Monica’s heart sank when she saw him. She could feel in her bones that this man was going to be trouble. There was nothing she would have rather done than get rid of him, but she knew that he would not go easily.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Monica diffidently. “May I help you this evening?”
“Is this a restaurant?” the man demanded. His words were clipped and forceful and he had a slight accent—perhaps an English accent or a refined Scottish one. The man glanced around the room, looking hard at Andrew and Kate.
Monica hesitated. “Well . . .” This was the one thing they had not counted on: other diners, even some degree of popularity. What if more people started coming in?
“It is a restaurant,” Monica conceded. “But we’re terribly new, sir. I’m not sure you’d be happy dining here this evening. Some other time, perhaps. When we’ve worked out all the kinks and problems.” Monica smiled what she hoped was her most winning smile. It would be hard enough on Tess to deal with the substitutions that Monica had offered so rashly. To add an additional customer . . . Well, Monica had no idea how Tess would react to that!
And yet, this formidable man looked unconvinced, completely unmoved by her impassioned plea.
“And this is a restaurant?” he asked again.
“Well . . . yes,” said Monica. “We’ve only just opened,” she added, “and I’m not at all sure that we’ll be able to satisfy a demanding customer such as yourself, sir.”
“I am not at all demanding,” the man said. “I am merely hungry. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Monica.
“And this is a restaurant?”
Monica tried to buy a bit of time. “How do you mean, sir? A restaurant?”
This rather grand man did not deem it beneath his dignity to define what he meant by a restaurant. “Tell me, do people sit down at tables here, look at menus and order food and then eat and then get up to leave? Does that happen here, young lady?”
“Well, that’s the plan so far,” Monica stammered. “But we’re not quite set up for anything too—”
The man cut her off. “Then this is a restaurant,” he said dryly. “And given that it is a restaurant and that it is open to the general public, I wish to have a table, and I demand to be served. And is that clear to you, young lady?”
“Oh, yes,” said Monica. “Quite clear.” But she did not budge from behind the bulwark of the maître d’s desk.
“Then seat me,” the man ordered. “And let’s hurry up with it, shall we? I’m hungry.”
Monica had only one fallback position and she knew it wasn’t a terribly good one. “Yes . . . I see . . . ,” she said. Monica looked down at the desk top, as if examining notes of great importance. “Would you mind, sir, if I asked you,” she said, “if you have a reservation with us this evening?”
The man looked her square in the eye. It was obvious to Monica that he had been faced with this particular gambit before. “Do I have a reservation, you ask? No, I don’t. I do not have a reservation. No, sorry about that.”
Monica felt relief flood through her. “Well, sir,” she said, “without a reservation I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly seat you. Not this evening, anyway. So sorry about that, sir.” Monica shrugged as if there were nothing more to say.
The man surveyed the restaurant. There were a dozen tables, and only one was occupied, the best table, the one in the corner where an attractive couple was sitting.
“May I ask you a question?” the man said.
“Of course. You may ask me anything.”
“You seem to have a very strict policy about reservations,” said the man, looking down at the lectern Monica stood behind.
“Oh, yes we do,” Monica replied. “The chef insists on it.”
“Well,” the man asked, “do you have such a thing as a reservation list?”
Monica blanched and did her best to avoid the man’s gaze. Well, she was forced to admit he had her there, they had made no provision for a reservation book or list.
“A list,” she said. “Um . . . no. There is no list. I mean, we don’t have a list now . . . but we are sure to get one sometime in the future. I should think . . .”
“But you choose not to admit me now?” the man asked, sounding quite irate about the state of things. He looked like the type of man who might file a lawsuit if he didn’t get exactly what he wanted.
“Well, you know,” said Monica, “we’ve just opened, and we don’t want to tax the kitchen all that much. Surely you can see the point of that, sir.”
The man surveyed the room, his eyes fixing on Kate and Andrew.
“There are only two diners in this entire restaurant,” he protested vehemently. “Preparing dinner for one more will not, I’m sure, overwhelm your chef. And if it does then he has no business in a commercial kitchen.”
“That would be she, actually,” said Monica.
“She, he, what difference does it make?” the man said with a dismissive shrug. “She should be able to manage one more diner, I should think.”
Monica could see that this rather demanding patron might have a point. To put him off any more would only create a commotion. Neither Andrew nor Monica wanted that.
“Seat me, please,” said the man.
“But of course,” Monica replied. “Please follow me, sir.”
Monica walked into the dining room, the man following in her wake. She tried to seat him as far away from Andrew and Kate as she dared, but he would have none of it. Without prompting, he chose a table quite close to that of Kate and Andrew. He settled in his chair, grabbed the thick linen napkin, fluffed it, and placed it on his lap.
Andrew looked up in disbelief as he saw Monica lead the elderly man across the restaurant, and she responded to his inquiring glance with a look of helplessness. But all she could do was act as if nothing out of the ordinary were going on. She seated her new customer and handed him the menu, hoping against hope that he would find nothing he wanted to eat written out there.
“Here we go, sir,” she said. “We have a fixed menu. This is what our chef will be serving this evening.” The elderly man paid little attention to her but scanned the menu intently, like a scholar studying some newly discovered ancient text.
“And may I interest you in something to drink, sir?” Monica asked quietly.
He did not look up from the menu. “I would like to see the wine list,” the man said. “And quickly, if you please.”
“Of course, sir,” Monica replied.
But the elderly man still did not look up, which was just as well, because the look on Monica’s face suggested that the wine list at Chez Tess was just as tangible as its reservation list.
“The wine list,” said Monica. “Ah . . . of course . . .” She backed away from this lordly old man as if leaving the presence of royalty. The evening was getting out of hand, but only Monica knew just how irregular things had become. And to top it off, Kate was about to throw a very volatile ingredient into the pot.
As Monica passed, Kate waved, summoning her to the table. She gestured that Monica lower her head so she could whisper in her ear. Kate looked excited—excited the way New Yorkers can be when they have some inside information.
“You do know who that is, don’t you?” Kate murmured, pointing at the newly arrived diner. She need not have been so discreet—the man was paying no attention to anything or anyone— in fact, his eyes had still not left the menu.
Monica exchanged a quick glance with Andrew. “No, I don’t,” she said. “He didn’t have a reservation, so I don’t know his name. Should I know him?”
“Well, he wouldn’t have given his real name anyway,” said Kate. “The critics never do. And yes, you should know who he is. He’s a star in New York food circles.”
“The critics?” asked Monica.
“That man is Norman Delmonico,” Kate announced triumphantly, as if this piece of information would definitely get a rise out of Monica.
“And who is Norman Delmonico?” Monica asked.
“You have a restaurant in New York and you’ve never heard of Norman Delmonico?” said Kate. “He is the food critic.”
“He is?” said Monica, feeling a little foolish.
“That’s right,” said Kate urgently. “And you had better let your chef know that he’s here.”
“Why?” Monica asked.
Kate looked at Monica as if she had lost her mind. “Why? Because a good review from him and you’re made—a bad review and you are out of business. Everybody reads him, and there aren’t a lot of people who dare to disagree with him. That’s why.”
Monica did not know that a certain level of New York City society followed the opening and closing of first-class restaurants, tracked which restaurants were in and which were out, the way sports fans lived and died with their teams.
Certain chefs at certain New York restaurants were celebrities. Food critics wielded immense power. Some of them worked hard to preserve their anonymity and insisted that they never be photographed—certain restaurants were known to pay bounties for tips on forthcoming visits by influential critics. But Norman Delmonico was far from anonymous. Quite the contrary, he was something of a New York fixture, a well-known member of the culture corps, one of the opinion makers who wrote the influential columns in newspapers and magazines, telling New Yorkers exactly what to think.
His face was well-known to just about everybody. Delmonico did not mind being photographed for the society columns; he could be seen on television pontificating about food and wine, and he and his photograph sat atop his column.
“I see,” said Monica. As far as she knew, Chez Tess was going to be in business for one night only and serve exactly three meals—one more than planned—so reviews were not something she had given any thought to. On the other hand, she did have to keep up the facade.
“Oh, yes. I’ll take care of that, and I know the chef will be so grateful. Thanks for spotting him, Dr. Calder.” Monica hurried away as if anxious to give the chef all the good news.
Tess was happy in the kitchen. She was dressed in chef’s whites with a giant toque perched on her head, and she sang as she moved from pot to pot as they bubbled on top of a big, professional range.
“I’m cooking, I’m cooking,” she sang, “with a blessing, with a blessing for evvvverrry-one! ”
The pheasant was slow-roasting in the oven, the salade nicoise with ahi had already been arranged in the vertical heap that a lot of New York restaurants affected with appetizers. The reduction was reducing. All in all, considering the haste with which Chez Tess had been assembled, things could not have been going better in the kitchen.
As Monica swept into the kitchen, Tess handed her a basket of crusty, fragrant, fresh-baked bread that had just come out of the oven.
“How’s it going out there?” Tess asked as she put curls of sweet butter on a small plate. She paused a moment and looked at the butter. “Should we serve butter or be really chic and trendy and send out a dish of extra virgin olive oil instead?”
“How about both?” suggested Monica.
“Sure, why not?” said Tess. “They’re both good. So, how is it going out there? Angel Boy doing his job?”
“Andrew is doing fine,” Monica replied evenly. Then she took a deep breath, finally able to give Tess the bad news. “However, . . .”
Tess looked up. “However? However, what? I never like sentences that begin with ‘however.’”
“However, there have been a couple of substitution requests,” Monica said, hoping she sounded nonchalant. “Nothing to be worried about, really.”
Tess’ eyebrows arched, and she gazed balefully at Monica. “Oh, really,” she said. “Substitutions? And who, may I ask, told Kate and Andrew that substitutions were allowed?” The question was purely rhetorical, of course; Tess knew that Monica was prone to giving in to her own enthusiasm in the excitement of the moment.
“Well,” said Monica gingerly, “purely in the spirit of hospitality . . . I did. It seemed like the right thing to do. And that Dr. Calder knows her own mind.”
“You did?” said Tess, a little miffed that her well-run kitchen was being disturbed. “And just how hospitable are we going to be?”
Consulting her order pad, Monica replied, “They would like veal instead of the pheasant, no sage in the lemon reduction,” she announced. “And tea instead of coffee.” She held up two fingers. “And that would be twice.”
“I haven’t added the sage to the reduction yet,” grumbled Tess. “And tea instead of coffee is easy. But no pheasant? The pheasant is . . . it’s a masterpiece, Monica. A masterpiece. I do all this cooking, and no one is going to have it?”
Monica shook her head slowly. “No pheasant, Tess. Well, at least, not at table one . . .” She took the basket of bread and made her escape, returning to the relative peace of the dining room. Monica was very relieved. Tess had handled the news of the substitutions much better than she had expected.
Tess gaped as Monica swept out. “Table one? If there’s a table one,” she said, “that would suggest that there is a table two . . .”
There was no champagne or rich food on the menu for Beth Popik that evening. She had worked as late as she could, then left the lab to go home. Since she did not live in the city, she could not stay as late at Nichols BioTech as she would have liked, but was ruled, instead, by the tyranny of the train schedule. The last train to her suburban home north of the city left Grand Central Station at 7:06, and Beth knew from experience that she had to leave work at least twenty minutes before that to catch the train, arriving at the station just as the doors of the train were about to close. She never got there in time to get a seat.