Chapter 7

Perhaps you’ve seen Maid in Manhattan—the movie where Jennifer Lopez plays a hotel chambermaid who borrows a socialite’s Dolce & Gabbana ensemble and catches the eye of senatorial candidate Ralph Fiennes? Or Scent of a Woman? Or Serendipity?

If so, you know the Waldorf Astoria—its art deco frontage, the sleek silver-gray stone contrasting with the luxe gold lettering, the legendary Starlight Lounge with its retractable roof.

I barely gave the property a second glance yesterday, so today I got here half an hour early so I can drink in the understated swank and class. Before the Lambert-Leighs arrive and ruin it all.

I had prepared a little introductory talk—I wanted to tell them that the Waldorf Astoria was the first hotel to have room service, that this is where Marilyn Monroe stayed while filming The Seven Year Itch and that the Conrad Suite was the chosen venue for the engagement party of His Serene Highness Prince Rainier III and Grace Kelly. But, after the utter lack of interest at my itinerary talk in the limo, I’ve decided to ditch it and cut to the cake.

It’s funny, in all the time I’ve known Charlie (and his lovely wife Rosaria), I’ve never before asked how Red Velvet Cake is made or what makes their version so legendary.

It would have been like seeing behind the curtain at Oz. That being said, I am really excited to see Pamela’s Victoria Sponge materialize before my very eyes. I can’t tell you how much I “heart” Victoria Sponge. We chose it as a match because of the red and cream pinstripe of the jam and cream filling and also because British royalty has favored the Waldorf Astoria (specifically Elizabeth II). I wonder if it will be the best I’ve ever tasted? I mean, the M&S triple layer version is hard to beat . . .

“All right, all right,” I soothe my stomach as it yawps impatiently. “Not long now.”

I check my watch against the ornate bronze clock centerpiece and smile. The rich mahogany wall panels, the black marble columns, the inlaid ceilings with their abundance of gold flourishes—the whole room feels like being inside a 1930s jewelry box.

I settle into one of the velvet-hug chairs and people-watch. Or rather, people-judge. I cannot for the life of me understand those folks who spend an arm and a leg to stay on Park Avenue and then put said arm in a T-shirt and said leg in a jean. And I’m not talking some chic little Helmut Lang scoop neck and J Brand denim but Walmart’s finest. Look at this one family—bundling through, yanking and scrapping as they go. It’s just so uncouth! I know. I sound like I’m eighty years old, despairing at the youth of today. But I do. I really do.

And then my face brightens—now that’s more like it!

A woman has emerged from the lifts looking as if she’s been performing a Noël Coward play between floors. I do love a dame who can wear a scarf with flair. I wonder if she’s French? Or maybe she really is an actress? That dress is beautiful, silky with raised velvety patterns. I bet her lipstick casing is heavy gold and her compact mirror exquisitely engraved.

Oh gosh. She’s caught me staring. And now she’s heading straight for me.

“Laurie?”

“Yes?” I startle to my feet.

She extends her hand. “Gracie Lambert-Leigh.”

I know my mouth is gaping but yours would too. The transformation is extreme.

“Judging by your response, I must have been quite a sight yesterday!”

“No, no, not at all!” I gulp, trying to regain my composure. “How are you feeling after, er, your lovely rest?”

“Rest? It was more like a coma. Still, I had to do something to get away from that awful girl.”

My eyebrows rise. “You mean your granddaughter?”

“Oh don’t!” she shudders. “The fact that we are genetically connected gives me chills.”

I remain stunned.

“Of course, her mother is a co-conspirator. Or, what’s the modern term for that, remind me . . .”

Dare I say what I’m thinking? “Enabler?” I venture.

“That’s it. Here she comes now.”

“Good morning Pamela!” I turn to smile at her, relieved to see that she’s looking a little brighter than yesterday. (Her smock top has a soft lilac print and I really think you only reach for florals when you’re feeling optimistic.)

“Ravenna not joining us?” I check.

“Oh no, she’s still in her pajamas. She was up late with her boyfriend.”

“She has a boyfriend here in New York?”

“No no, he’s back in England. They were on Skype. Or Face-Time or something.”

“Though who’d want to spend any time with his face . . .” Gracie shudders.

“Anyway,” Pamela tuts her mother, “Ravenna is really more interested in going shopping, so she’s going to give us a call when she’s ready.”

“Ready to milk the guilt money.”

“Mother, please. Could we go one day without the sniping?”

Gracie thinks for a moment and then says, “I can’t make any promises.”

“Ah! Here’s our host now!” I’m relieved to see my pal, the executive pastry chef, making his way over to us.

Charlie Romano is a brown-eyed, handsome man with a sweep of dark hair, sheeny olive skin and an Italian accent, which Gracie at least seems to appreciate. She takes his arm as he leads us away from the lobby, through a side door and down into the wonderland that is the Waldorf Astoria’s kitchen.

Or should I say “kitchens”? The food preparation area spans an entire city block. It’s almost like a culinary department store down here—avant-garde reception party nibbles prepared here, sixteen-dollar soups du jour over in the West Wing . . .

“You know the Waldorf Salad originated here?” Charlie chirps.

“The clue is in the name,” Gracie tinkles.

“Also Thousand Island dressing.”

“And the Manhattan cocktail!” I chime in.

“And Red Velvet Cake . . .” Pamela’s eyes widen as Charlie opens the doors to the chilled baking department.

“It’s so spacious,” she coos as she enters. “And immaculate.”

She’s right. There’s not a sprinkle or crumb out of place. Just acres of marble countertop and a fleet of stainless steel stacking trays on wheels.

Charlie has already set out all the ingredients, including, rather surprisingly, beetroot!

“We don’t use any dyes or colorings,” Charlie explains. “The beetroot gives the basic chocolate cake batter a red hue, plus beetroot is great for keeping the cake moist.”

Pamela nods in agreement as she takes in the mascarpone cheese and double cream that will make up the filling, as well as the thick layer of “icing” that will cloak the entire cake. This is going to be delish!

“Have you ever tasted pure cocoa before, Laurie?” Charlie asks, directing my attention to a small glass bowl of what appear to be dusty dark chocolate buttons.

“I don’t think so,” I frown.

“In that case, the answer is no,” Pamela laughs. “If you had, you’d remember.”

“Try one,” Charlie holds out the stash. “These pieces are ninety-nine percent pure chocolate.”

How can that be bad? I pop one in my mouth.

Almost immediately my tongue is encased in bitterness. Oh my god!

They all laugh as my face contorts and I try to shift the powder-dense coating.

“Some water?” He offers me a glass.

“Yes please!” I wince, then watch as he empties the rest of the buttons into a metal bowl set over a saucepan of boiling water and gently melts them to a sheeny sludge.

“It tastes better combined with other ingredients.”

From this point he starts juggling assorted bowls, mixers and baking tins. As he does so, I recall one (possibly apocryphal) story that tells of a woman, back in the 1940s when the Red Velvet Cake was first introduced, writing to the hotel requesting the chef’s secret recipe. The hotel obliged by mailing her a copy, along with a bill for $350! She consulted her lawyer who said she was liable for the cost and so, by way of revenge, she distributed the recipe far and wide, to every friend and family member, which actually served in spreading the popularity of said cake.

“Excuse me a moment.” As Charlie steps away to check on the oven, Pamela’s phone rings.

“It’s Ravenna.” Her face falls. “She’s ready to go shopping.”

“Do you think she needs an escort?” I ask, a little bemused.

“Oh, would you? I’d be so grateful! I really don’t think she should be left unattended at the moment.”

Ah. I’ve just inadvertently talked myself out of an up-close-and-personal encounter with my favorite cake.

“Of course,” I tell her, though my heart has just collapsed in the middle. “I’ll go straight up. Just give me a call if you need anything in the meantime.”

“One second.” Pamela reaches into her handbag and pulls out her credit card, extending it to me. “Take this.”

I hesitate. “I tell you what, why don’t you keep hold of that for now. Ravenna can have a good look around, and then if she sees something she falls madly in love with, you can come along later and decide if it’s something you’d like to buy for her.”

“Oh I like this girl, Pamela.” Gracie smirks delightedly.

“I-I . . .” Pamela flusters.

“You keep it,” I guide her hand back to her purse. “Thanks again, Charlie!” I call over and give him a little wave before I head back upstairs, ready for anything Ravenna can throw at me.