Dear Genie,
It was the gingerbread, of course; when Jake tasted it, he said anyone who could turn the world’s most banal cake into something so compelling—he actually used that word—belonged at Delicious! He said he had to hire me if only to get the recipe.
As if I’d give it to him!
Everything’s happened so fast. Two weeks ago I was heading back for senior year, and now I’ve got a job in New York, an apartment, a whole new life. If I let myself think about it, I get terrified, so it’s a good thing I’ll be busy: Jake said I’ll sometimes have to work till after midnight. And the pay’s so low. Dad says he’ll cover my first year’s rent, which is pretty serious, considering how much he hates me dropping out of school. And how much he’s going to miss me. Aunt Melba keeps texting me, reminding me to call him. She thinks he’s going to take this hard, but, then, she’s always worrying about Dad.
I found the most incredible place, a fifth-floor walk-up on the Lower East Side. It’s like the place I’ve always dreamed of, so perfect I sometimes think I must have conjured it from my imagination. It’s tiny, but there’s tons of light, and it’s in a great old neighborhood. If I keep the windows open, I can hear people’s voices as they walk down the sidewalk, and if they’re loud enough I catch intriguing little snatches of conversation. It goes on all day and all night; there’s always something happening on Rivington. I love that.
My first night here, I went out at midnight—midnight!—to grab a bite at the little Chinese place on the corner. Then I went to the bookshop. Even that late at night, it was filled with people who looked like they led interesting lives.
I just wish you were here to share this. I feel so lonely. And then there’s the question of clothes. I’m heading off to my first day of work, and I’m hopeless. All those mornings I watched you getting dressed—if only I’d paid attention.
Miss you.
xxb
Stately, gracious, old, the Timbers Mansion seemed to soak up all the sunshine on the street. I walked slowly up the soft stone steps, taking in the worn bricks and faded marble columns. A hundred years ago, in 1910, when Delicious! magazine moved in, Greenwich Village must have been full of houses just like this, but now the mansion was the last one standing on this narrow tree-lined street.
Inside, the high-ceilinged lobby was dark and cool. The guard at the antique desk glanced up. “First day, right?” He waved me toward the staircase. “Jake’s expecting you. Second floor.”
The day of my interview, I’d been too nervous to notice much, but now I looked around, taking in the details. How amazing to be working in this gorgeous old house, surrounded by marble, carved oak, and chandeliers. There must be a fireplace in every room, and ancient windows with wavy handblown panes captured the sun and drew it inside.
Jake was waiting on the second floor beneath a silver chandelier. His dog was there too, leaping ecstatically to greet me as if I were his favorite person in the world. I reached down to pat him, but he jumped up, put his paws on my chest, and tried to lick my face. I laughed.
“Good thing you like dogs.” Jake pulled him down. “That temp they sent was terrified of Sherman.” He tugged gently on the dog’s silky ears. “But you didn’t think much of her either, did you, boy? The woman was a disaster. Poor Billie’s got no idea what a mess she’s walking into.”
I liked the sound of that; it was bound to make me look competent. As he led me down the quiet hall, I imagined a desk piled with papers reaching to the ceiling, imagined myself efficiently creating order out of chaos. I figured the sooner I could please him, the sooner he’d start throwing small writing assignments my way.
Jake gestured at the closed doors around us. “By ten, most of them will be here.” He said it apologetically, as if his entire staff had failed the work-ethic test. At the moment the empty corridor, with its thick carpet and graceful torch-shaped sconces, felt more like a fancy hotel than a place where any work got done.
The illusion ended when we got to my “office,” which was a dreary little cubbyhole, sparsely efficient, with nothing but a desk, a phone, and a computer. Jake didn’t stop, so I followed him through into his office, blinking at the sudden burst of light pouring through the large arched windows.
Sherman went to the desk, circled three times, and flopped down beneath it. I looked around, studying my surroundings. The room was an even bigger mess than last time—books, manuscripts, and newspapers were scattered everywhere. It smelled like leather and lingering wood smoke; apparently the fireplace worked. There was a round table in front of it, heaped with books and magazines that probably hadn’t been touched in the ten days since my interview.
Jake sat down in the chair behind the desk. “Sit down, sit down,” he said, waving vaguely.
Where? The scuffed leather sofa beneath the windows held even more manuscripts and magazines than the table did. The two deep armchairs weren’t any better; they too were piled with manuscripts and folders. I glanced at the little end table, but the bronze elephant sculpture on it had sharp edges. In the end I went over to one of the chairs and perched on an armrest.
Jake looked amused. “You go to orientation?”
I nodded.
“So you know this is just a trial period? That it’ll be three months before the job’s official?”
I nodded again. He was watching me, waiting. When the pause got uncomfortable, he said, “Your letter of recommendation mentioned that you’re kind of quiet.”
I am. Genie’s always talked enough for both of us.
“Your professor also said you’re an eloquent writer and a, quote, awesome, unquote, cook. You looked so uncomfortable when I asked you to cook, I was sure he’d gotten that wrong. You went completely white. I admired your pluck for going through with it, but frankly I wasn’t expecting much. Then you made that gingerbread.… ”
“Even Maggie seemed to like it.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. His eyes narrowed, moving over me. I sat up straighter; I’m tall and I have a tendency to slouch. Dad’s always trying to persuade me that I’d be pretty if I’d do something with my hair or buy better glasses, but he’s my father, so of course he thinks that. I tugged at the cuffs on my white shirt and smoothed the loose khaki pants. “She said you’d never hire me.”
“Maggie says that to everyone. She’s allergic to change.” He fiddled with the ebony letter opener and added, “And as you clearly noticed, she’s got something of a mean streak.” He stood up abruptly. “C’mon.” He made for the door. “I’ll take you around and introduce you.”
By now the doors were all open, and we went into one office after another: executive editor, managing editor, articles editor, fact checker, copy editor.… It was a blur of names and titles, which made it easy; all I had to do was shake hands and say hello. Everyone seemed friendly and slightly harried. No small talk required.
The last door on the hall remained closed, and Sherman began to paw at it, trying to nudge it open with his nose. “Give it up, pal.” Jake pulled the dog away. “Sammy’s not here.”
I traced the letters on the old-fashioned brass nameplate with my finger. “ ‘Samuel Winthrop Stone.’ ”
“Travel editor.” Jake gave the dog’s collar another tug. “C’mon, Sherman, Sammy’s in Morocco. No smoothie for you. Maybe you’ll have better luck in the kitchen.”
At the word “kitchen,” Sherman pricked up his ears and raced for the stairs. “This dog is so smart.” Jake said it softly, as if worried that Sherman might overhear. “He loves smoothies, and he knows exactly who the suckers are. Paul even brought in a special little juicer just for him.”
I followed them up the stairs. “The art department’s on four,” said Jake, pointing. I followed his finger, noticing the graceful plaster swags and garlands decorating the walls. The Timbers Mansion really was beautiful; if Genie were here she’d be reaching for her sketch pad. “Library’s up there too, but you don’t need to worry about that: It’s been locked for years. Down here”—we’d reached the third-floor landing and he turned left, sweeping me into an enormous cream-colored room—“is the kitchen, which you’ve seen, and the photo studio, which you haven’t.”
The photo studio must once have been a ballroom. Even now, with lights dangling from the ceiling, thick electrical cords snaking along the floor, and half a dozen tripod-mounted cameras, it clung so stubbornly to the past that I could easily imagine an orchestra tuning up for the next waltz. As we watched, the door to the kitchen opened and a woman inched out backward, carefully sheltering an arrangement of vegetables.
“That’s Lori,” Jake whispered. “She’s a food stylist—and our best baker.” Taking tiny steps, she edged into the middle of the room and very slowly lowered the plate onto a pedestal in front of a huge cloth-covered camera.
“Valente?” Jake called, and a short, solid man surprised me by emerging from beneath the cloth. He shook my hand briefly and then ducked back inside the camera. Jake and I watched Lori fussing with the plate, moving microgreens and midget carrots first one way, then the other. She picked up a tiny brush from a tray sitting on a nearby table and fastidiously applied olive oil, then added flecks of cheese, one by one, with a pair of tweezers. From beneath the cloth, Valente directed the precise positioning of each tiny morsel.
“Move the parsley to the right, Lori,” Valente ordered. She pinched up a minuscule bit of green with her tweezers, moving it an infinitesimal fraction of an inch.
Suddenly the door flew open and Maggie came charging in. At the sight of her, a spark of adrenaline shot through me; was I going to have to see her every day? Buoyed by the breeze, the parsley leapt into the air, and as it floated back down, Valente appeared again. “Damn it, Maggie,” he shouted, “now we have to start over.”
“Oh, sorry.” She was unconcerned. Valente snorted and pulled the cloth back over his head. She turned to Jake. “Do me a favor? I need really good anchovies, and Thursday’s cornered the market on menaicas.” She made a face, doing that thing with her lips that made her look as if she’d swallowed vinegar. “Again. If I send a messenger it’ll take all day. Do you think the new girl could …?”
Jake seemed embarrassed, reluctant to ask me to run this errand but even more reluctant to turn Maggie down. He shrugged and turned to me. “Do you mind? Thursday’s the chef at The Pig.”
“I’ve heard of her.” You’d have to be a hermit not to know about America’s most famous female chef. “Her picture was on Eater this morning; Patti Smith threw a big party at The Pig last night.”
“I know; I was there.” Jake handed me a twenty. “Grab a cab. It’s not far, just into Chelsea, but it’ll be faster.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER I was standing on 16th Street, so far west I could see the Hudson River. From outside, The Pig looked like any other scruffy tavern. I’d been expecting something fancier, or at least more exotic. In the famous Annie Leibovitz picture “Midnight at The Pig,” the restaurant has a dark, gritty glamour. The photographer had caught Keith Richards lounging across a scarred wooden table, surrounded by eccentric friends. The picture always made me think of Paris in the twenties—you wanted to be there—and I’d anticipated something with a bit more style.
I banged on the door until a tattooed man with a nose ring finally let me in. It smelled like spilled whiskey, and daylight had drained every bit of romance from the room. “Thursday’s in back,” said a man with a ponytail from behind the bar, jerking his head toward a swinging door. He tossed an empty bottle into a giant garbage can. It clattered noisily to the bottom.
I gave the battered door a push. The kitchen was dim and much smaller than an average California kitchen, so crammed with industrial equipment that there was barely room to move. Thursday was standing at the stove, swathed in a cloud of steam. She was elegantly beautiful, with an ash-blond braid reaching almost to her waist and big black-lashed eyes that hovered somewhere between gray and blue. “I’m—” I began.
“Taste this.” Thursday thrust a large wooden spoon into my mouth. Her eyes watched closely as I swallowed. She had fed me a fluffy cloud, no more than pure texture, but as it evaporated it left a trail of flavor in its wake.
“Lemon peel,” I said, “Parmesan, saffron, spinach.” She held out another spoonful, and this time, at the very end, I tasted just a touch of … something lemony but neither lemon nor verbena. It had a faint cinnamon tinge. “Curry leaf!”
“I’m impressed.” Her hands were on her slim hips and her voice was—what? Sarcastic? “But I didn’t mean it as a test. I just wanted to see if I’m getting anywhere with this new gnocchi.”
“That’s an amazing combination. The saffron’s brilliant—it gives it such a sunny flavor. But what made you use curry leaf? I never would have thought of that.”
“It kind of came to me at the last minute. So you think it works?”
“Yes! But maybe you should use a little more?”
I blushed; who was I to be giving Thursday Brown advice? But she was tasting the gnocchi, rubbing her lips together in that way that chefs do. “You think so?”
I was about to ask if I could taste it again when she cried, “Sal!” with such delight that I looked over my shoulder. A tall, broad man in a baseball cap was standing in the doorway. He had the look of a plumber come to fix a leak—blue jeans, work boots, and a plain blue work shirt. He was probably fifty, but his face had a curious innocence. When he removed his cap, a thatch of thick, graying dark hair sprang joyfully upward. Thursday scooped up another gnocchi. “We were tasting my new gnocchi.” She thrust one into his mouth. “What do you think? She—what did you say your name was?—thinks I need more curry leaf.”
“I didn’t, actually. Billie Breslin.”
Thursday looked at me now, really taking me in. “So you’re Jake’s new assistant? That should work out well. I bet there isn’t one person in a hundred—no, a thousand—who’d know there was curry leaf in there.”
“Curry leaf?” Sal tasted again. “There isn’t one person in a thousand who’s even heard of it.” He was studying me the way Thursday had, as if he were trying to see into my mind. “One taste and you could tell it was there?”
“Yeah. Curry leaf doesn’t taste like anything else. It’s like there’s an echo of cinnamon right behind the lemon.”
Sal reached into the pot and scooped up another gnocchi. “You’re right!” He sounded truly excited. He turned to Thursday. “And she’s right about using more too. But if you ask me, you’re using the wrong cheese. That’s the fall Parmigiano—am I right?—and it’s too rich. You need the spring cheese. I’ll send you some.”
Definitely not a plumber.
“I need that cheese right now!” She turned to look at me again. “Sal knows more about cheese than anyone in this city. Why don’t you go with him? Fontanari’s isn’t far, and he can give you my cheese. By the time you get back I’ll have figured out where I put those anchovies.”
I hesitated. “I really should get back.… ”
“You’re new to New York, right?”
I nodded.
“Then you need to see Sal’s shop. Fontanari’s is incredible; every cook should know it.”
“I’m not a cook.”
“You aren’t?” She peered at me as if she’d just encountered a rare specimen in the zoo. “With that palate? Then what the hell are you doing at Delicious!?”
“Oh, leave her alone, Thursday,” said Sal. “You’re embarrassing her.”
I smiled gratefully. “I’d love to come with you, but Maggie wanted me to bring the anchovies right back.”
Thursday crossed her arms. “She’ll wait. I don’t even know where I put the damn jar. Go on, now!”
She made little shooing motions with her hands, and resistance seemed futile. I followed Sal out the door.
“That’s right.” Sal gave me a cheerful smile. “No point in arguing with a chef. They’re all bossy, but Thursday’s the worst. Did you know she once worked at Delicious!?” He glanced down at me. “I can see from your face that you’re wondering how that turned out. Well, let me tell you, it was pretty bad. Thursday was just out of culinary school, but even then she had to have her own way. She and Maggie …” He whistled. “All I can say is, when it comes to Thursday, there’s no point in arguing. You might as well give in at the start. Where you from?”
“Santa Barbara—”
“Now, me, I’m from right here.” To my relief, Sal was as talkative as he was kind; I wouldn’t have to say a word. “My family shop’s been on the same corner in Little Italy for a hundred years.”
“Little Italy?” I tried to remember where that was.
“Just a couple of miles,” he said comfortably. “A good walk that will take us past some of the finest food in the world. Coming from—where’d you say you were from? This is going to be a treat for you.”
“Santa Barbara. Maybe we can take a cab?” I pleaded.
“A cab?” He sounded scandalized. “To go a couple miles? If you’re going to be a New Yorker, you’ll have to learn to walk. It’s the only way to get around this town. Besides, this way I can give you my personal tour.”
Sal walked through the streets as if they belonged to him, utterly indifferent to the concept of straight lines. He meandered, breaking off in the middle of a sentence to beckon me across the street and point out the attractions of some shop. Everything from hats to hardware captured his curiosity. The nightclubs and restaurants of the Meatpacking District were still sleeping, but once we got to Bleecker Street he stopped every few feet to peer into the windows of bookstores, toy shops, and art galleries. The neighborhood aged as we walked south, and as the shops grew more venerable he paused to breathe in the aroma of old bakeries and to appreciate salvage shops, cutting a zigzag path so we missed nothing. I’d never met anyone like Sal; his knowledge was encyclopedic, and he seemed to know everyone we passed. Part of me knew I should get back to the office, but he was taking so much pleasure from this walk that I found myself irresistibly drawn in, sharing his pleasure, enjoying the moment.
“Joey! Great to see you!” Crossing Seventh Avenue, Sal had spotted a policeman. “Where you been? It’s been a while. Please don’t tell me you’re buying your salami somewhere else.”
“The line at your place is always so long.” The cop actually looked guilty.
“Not for you.” Sal put his arm around the policeman’s shoulders. “Never for the boys in blue. Come see us soon, okay? My sister, Theresa, misses you. We all do.”
Every panhandler got a dollar and a “Good luck to you.” “Rosalie—that’s my wife—thinks I’m too soft a touch, but I say, there but for the grace of God. I’d rather be a fool than hard-hearted.” He swiped a hand across the upturned nose that made his face so amiable.
“There’s Benny!” He waved me across Carmine Street. “You have to meet him. I bet you don’t have any real butchers in Santa Barbara, and Benny’s one of the greats.”
He led me proudly into a shop that looked as if it had been here, unchanged, for at least a hundred years. There was sawdust on the floor, and the clean forest scent hung in the air, mingling with the mineral aroma of good meat. Framed in bouquets of parsley, the various cuts were proudly displayed in a tall refrigerated cabinet. Sitting on top was a huge old-fashioned roll of pink butcher paper; an antique dispenser of twine dangled above it. Photographs of customers were everywhere, and a huge calico cat sat curled on a bench, purring loudly.
The man behind the counter had a bloodstained apron wrapped around his mountain of a body. He looked like an aging prizefighter, and everything about him—body, hands, even his feet—seemed thick. But when he smiled, I saw that the gap between his teeth made him less formidable. Sal pushed me forward. “Meet Billie. She’s just gone to work for Jake.”
Benny held out a mammoth hand. “Come on back here.” He swept me behind the counter and through a heavy wooden door. It was dark and cold in the meat locker, and I found myself staring at a quarter of a steer hanging from a hook. “Look at that loin!” Benny swung the carcass onto a scarred slab of wood. “Do you know where the T-bone ends and the porterhouse begins?”
I shook my head. He began cutting up the animal, and I stood watching, mesmerized. I’d never seen a real butcher work, and Benny was as precise as a surgeon as he showed me how the muscles met, his knife flashing down with incredible speed, carving up steaks, roasts, and chops. Benny’s whole appearance changed when he had a knife in his hand, each motion so sure and economical that the bulky torso became graceful. It was like watching a bullfight, without the thrilling terror of the kill.
Benny held up a long loin of prime aged meat, its exterior hardened into a crust the color of withered roses. Picking up a thin blade, he trimmed the crust off with a single pass of the knife. The meat beneath was bright red and heavily marbled with fat. “Some people think that wet-aging in Cryovac is just as good as dry-aging. Sure, it’s cheaper. Sure, it’s easier. But the only way you get a respectable steak is you let it hang a few weeks. Me? I like twenty-six days, but some like it longer. Concentrates the flavor. No other way to do it.” He sheared off the thinnest sliver. “Open your mouth.”
It was like nothing I’d tasted before, the rich slice melting onto my tongue, its texture so soft I barely needed to chew. The flavor, on the other hand, was potent, filling my mouth with the slight tang of iron. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything more wonderful.”
Benny beamed.
“You’re lucky, kid.” Sal touched my arm. “The old-time butchers are dying out. Take a lesson when it’s offered. That’s why you came to New York, right?”
“Yeah,” Benny chimed in. “This is the Neanderthal approach, but it works. And New Yorkers, thank God, they appreciate an artisan.”
“Benny’s amazing,” I said when we were back on the street.
“He doesn’t always open up like that. Benny’s stingy with his talent, but I think he saw something special in you. You want to know the truth? It was a treat for me too; that’s the first time he’s let me watch him butcher an entire hindquarter.”
“Do you know everyone in every shop in this neighborhood?”
“Pretty much. I grew up here. I travel a lot—buying cheese for the store—but I’m always happiest at home. People will tell you food is better over in Europe, but don’t you believe it. We’ve caught up; these days the place to be is New York.”
“I wish I could spend all day just following you around. I want to meet everyone!” I looked down, guilty, at my watch; I’d been gone two hours.
“Don’t worry”—he gave my arm a reassuring pat—“not far now.”
He kept walking, turning serenely onto Prince Street at a leisurely pace. But then he spotted someone on the next corner and began to trot down Thompson Street. “It’s Kim!” He urged me to keep up. “She makes the best chocolates in the city. You have to meet her!”
I love chocolate.
Up ahead, an elegant Asian woman was standing in the door of a shop, waiting. “Sal!” Her voice was as delighted as that of a child who has sighted Santa.
“Meet Jake’s new assistant. Billie Breslin. Kim Wong.”
“Welcome.” She opened the door to a quaint shop filled with sparkling glass cases, then reached for my hand and tugged me inside. The shop was dark and dramatic, the chocolates laid out on velvet and lit like jewels. It was the perfect setting for this delicate, bird-like woman with a face like carved ivory.
“I know you’re a chocolate lover. I can always tell. I’m about to temper the chocolate. I have my own method; want to watch?”
“Could I?” Inside my head, a little voice was reminding me that I had to get back to the office, but it was drowned out by the scent of chocolate, which flooded all my senses with a heady froth of cocoa and coffee, passion fruit, cinnamon and clove. I closed my eyes, and for one moment I was back in Aunt Melba’s kitchen with Genie.
I opened them to find Kim dancing with a molten river of chocolate. I stood hypnotized by the scent and the grace of her motions, which were more beautiful than any ballet. Moving constantly, she caressed the chocolate like a lover, folding it over and over on a slab of white marble, working it to get the texture right. She stopped to feed me a chocolate sprinkled with salt, which had the fierce flavor of the ocean, and another with the resonant intensity of toasted saffron. One chocolate tasted like rain, another of the desert. I tried tracking the flavors, pulling them apart to see how she had done it, but, like a magician, she had hidden her tricks. Each time I followed the trail, it vanished, and after a while I just gave up and allowed the flavors to seduce me.
Now the scent changed as Kim began to dip fruit into the chocolate: raspberries, blackberries, tiny strawberries that smelled like violets. She put a chocolate-and-caramel-covered slice of peach into my mouth, and the taste of summer was so intense that I felt the room grow warmer. I lost all sense of time.
Sal was waiting outside, talking on his cell phone, but when he saw me he slipped it into his pocket. “You liked her chocolates!”
“She’s a sorceress. That rain chocolate—it tasted the way the air smells just before a storm. I want to know how she does it. I identified hyssop and maybe myrtle and a bit of cassia, but then it got away from me. God, she’s amazing!”
“Cassia, hyssop—you’re really something. I wish my daughter had your talent for flavor. But”—he sighed—“Toni’s a lawyer, and I’d bet she’s never even heard of hyssop.” He gave me a slightly guilty look. “Don’t get me wrong; Toni’s the most wonderful daughter a person could ask for. But she’s never had an interest in our business.”
Sal sounded so sad that I said impulsively, “I think my father feels the same way about me. He’s a lawyer. My mother was too. Dad’s the nicest man in the world, but I know he’s disappointed. He would have liked me to follow in their footsteps.” Embarrassed at having said so much—too much?—I stared down at my watch again.
Sal reached out and covered it with his hand. “Don’t worry.” His voice was sympathetic. “Jake’s a good guy. And”—he was watching me with a kind of compassion I found hard to interpret—“he’ll understand that you saw an opportunity and seized it. Jake appreciates curiosity. And these are all people you should know if you’re working at Delicious! Wait until you see our store!” He led me east past bakeries, butcher shops, and Chinese grocery stores. “Just a couple more blocks.” He spread his arms wide, taking in the shops around us. “Aren’t you glad you came to New York?”
His love for his city was so compelling that I found myself inhaling the aromas wafting from every door—roasting ducks, soy, dried mushrooms—with special pleasure.
“When we were growing up, my sister and I knew everyone on the block. But the neighborhood’s changed. Good people, still, but mostly Asian now. Here we are!”
He turned in to a crowded shop, and the deep, pungent smell of cheese wrapped itself around us. I smelled garlic and tomatoes and, somewhere, the rich ancient scent of olives. Bottles of clear green olive oil and dark-purple vinegar glistened like stained glass, while hams and salamis dangled from hooks in the ceiling. Huge loaves of bread balanced precariously on the shelves behind the raised counter, and great bunches of herbs hung from the rafters. It was like walking into a small Italian village, a kaleidoscope of scent, sound, and color that shifted each time another person came in.
I’d never been inside a store like this one, never imagined a room filled with great wheels of cheese stacked so high they towered over me. There must have been three dozen people, all talking at the same time, their babble resonating like a flock of exotic, excited birds. An old lady with a cane reached to touch Sal’s arm, and he bent to murmur Italian endearments in her ear. A little girl handed him a drawing, and he swept her off her feet, both of them laughing as he swung her into the air. An elegant old gentleman said in heavily accented English, “I’ve been waiting. You’re the only one who cuts my cheese right,” and Sal replied, “You know my sister, Theresa, always gives you extra.” As he escorted me through the crowd, he whispered, “I want you to taste the cheese, so you understand why Thursday should be using the spring Parmigiano.”
I’d forgotten about Thursday. “But I need to get her the cheese! She said she was going to wait.”
“Relax.” He was reaching for the nearest wheel of cheese, a huge round, nearly two feet tall. He gave it a good thump. “This is the spring Parmigiano.”
And before I could stop him, he was off.
By this time I would have followed him anywhere. He showed me how each wheel was stamped with the month and year, and then he cracked the first one open to reveal its pale cream-colored interior. He chipped off a hefty shard and handed it to me. I took a bite, and my mouth filled with the hopeful taste of fresh green grass and young field flowers welcoming the sun.
“That’s the spring cheese.” Sal was cracking the next wheel, which was stamped with an autumn date; he chipped off a little piece. The color was deeper, almost golden, the texture heavier and nubbier. When I put the cheese in my mouth it was richer, and if I let it linger on my tongue I could taste the lush fields of late summer, just as the light begins to die.
Sal sliced off a slab of winter cheese and put that into my mouth. It felt different on my tongue, smoother somehow, the flavor sharper. “It’s like a different cheese.” I was savoring it. I tasted again; there was a familiar flavor. “It tastes like hay!”
“Yes!” Sal was openly delighted. “I knew you were going to be able to taste how different this cheese is! Most Americans don’t even notice, but that cheese is so different that, back in the old days, it was sold under a different name. The Parmesan made from December to March, when the cows were in the barn, was called ‘invernengo’—winter cheese—because the flavor is so distinct.” He looked genuinely happy, as if he had met a kindred spirit, and I thought how hard it must be to care so much and have a clueless clientele. “Now I want to take you into the back kitchen and introduce you to my wife, Rosalie. She’ll show you how we make the mozzarella.”
I wasn’t about to pass that up. But I glanced at my watch again, thinking that even Jake wasn’t going to appreciate how fully I had seized this opportunity. “I might need a marketable skill. If they fire me”—I was only half joking—“will you give me a job?”
“They’re not going to fire you.” He picked up an apron. “But if they do, there’s a place for you at Fontanari’s.”
But the mention of the magazine seemed to jog his memory. He looked up at the clock. “It’s after three! You’d better get the Parmigiano to Thursday right away. I hope she’s not too upset.” He handed me a package. “If you have any trouble, tell Jake to call me. But I meant what I said: You can always have a job here.” He gave me a shrewd look. “I know it’s not your first choice, but it could be worse. We pay a lot better than the slave wages they hand out over at Pickwick Publications. You wouldn’t have to stay all night either. And you’d learn a lot.”
“Thanks.”
Sal put his hand on my arm. “Got any friends in New York?”
“I just got here.”
“If you find that you’re lonely on the weekend, we can always use an extra pair of hands. I like you, kid. Don’t be a stranger.”
THURSDAY IS A SMALL WOMAN, and every review mentions she has eyes like pansies and enormous charm. But she was scowling when I got back to The Pig. “I was hoping to use this today.” She held out her hand. “I should have sent a messenger. I expect Maggie was hoping the same.” She shook her head. “Wasn’t this your first day on the job?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I blew it.”
She gave me an enigmatic look and went back to stirring her pot.
The cab I’d managed to hail crept through traffic, and I sat there wondering if I still had a job at Delicious! Probably not. Working at Fontanari’s wouldn’t be so bad. I could always temp. Maybe I could even try to freelance. It had been worth it; I wouldn’t trade this day away for anything.
On the other hand, I’d just blown the best job in New York. I was a total idiot.
I reached the Timbers Mansion in a schizophrenic state and went racing up the stairs. I barreled into the kitchen with such force that the door almost sent Maggie, who was standing behind it, reeling into a counter. Surrounded by a semicircle of cooks, she rubbed her arm and peered accusingly at me. I handed her the anchovies and turned to go.
“Wait!” Maggie’s voice was imperious. She had set the jar on the counter and stood staring at her watch. “Congratulations. You’ve clocked the slowest time in Delicious! history.”
“Excuse me?”
“In the eight years we’ve been sending people off to take the Sal Test, no one’s ever stayed away this long.”
“The Sal Test?” There was a beat as all the cooks looked at me expectantly. “What are you talking about?” My eyes moved from one face to another, trying to understand what was going on. When I finally got it, a wave of laughter swept through me, mingled with relief, indignation, and disbelief.
“Are you telling me you planned that?” I said when I was finally able to speak. “Thursday was in on it? Benny? Kim? They all were?”
Maggie nodded. “A waste of everybody’s time, if you ask me,” she said sourly. “But Jake doesn’t want to be surrounded by what he calls ‘corporate widgets.’ He appreciates ‘curiosity.’ ” She even used air quotes.
I laughed again. Sal had been telling the truth. Something occurred to me. “Does anyone ever manage to escape?”
“Most do.” Her voice implied that if I had any sense, I’d have been among them.
“What happened to them?”
“Jake paid them for their time, thanked them very much, and told them they wouldn’t be happy here.” She walked away. “Oh, yeah,” she called over her shoulder, “thanks for the anchovies.”
“Did you even need them?”
But she was gone.
“No,” said a pretty cook with a heart-shaped face. “She’s got two jars in her refrigerator.” She had straight black brows sitting like dashes above widely spaced brown eyes, and they were raised now, as if she was trying to make up her mind. Then the brows relaxed and she held out her hand.
“I’m Diana. Maggie would never tell you this, but after you left the shop, Sal called Jake. He told him you have an extraordinary palate. He said he didn’t know how Jake had found you, but he should not, under any circumstances, let you go. He said you belong here. Welcome to Delicious!”