Delicious! by Ruth Reichl Read Free Book Online Page B

convinced myself I was in Delhi or Mumbai: The streets smell as if they’ve been curried, there are sweets shops everywhere, and men on the street sell paan, which turns your teeth bright red. I went into a supermarket where there were whole aisles of spices I’ve never seen before—kokum and black salt and mango powder. Getting out like that helps with the loneliness, but I find myself looking wistfully at all the paired-up people, wondering if I’ll ever be like that again. The weekends can get long.
    Weekdays are another matter—no time to think. Jake never leaves till after nine, and I can’t leave before he does. Last week, when we closed the issue, we were there till almost two in the morning. Jake ordered dinner in for us, but most nights I pick up takeout from Ming’s, the little place on the corner, climb the stairs, turn on the TV, and fall asleep with the chopsticks in my hand.
    Being the new girl at work makes me kind of edgy; they’ve all known one another forever, and it’s hard to find a way in. But I think I’m starting to make a friend. Diana’s one of the cooks, and she’s been stopping by my desk to ask if I want to go to lunch or to suggest a quick drink after work. At first I thought she was being kind, but now I think it has something to do with the Sal Test. He told everyone about my palate, and she’s intrigued; she keeps kind of testing me, which I find very funny. But I like her: She has aterrific sense of humor, and she doesn’t seem to give a damn what anybody thinks. All the other cooks come to work in old clothes and sensible shoes, but she’s always showing up in vintage clothes, very high heels, and lots of makeup. Would you think she was silly? You might.
    Tonight she’s taking me to friends-and-family night at some new restaurant a friend of hers is opening in Alphabet City. I guess her boyfriend didn’t want to go. The place is called Nowhere. Stupid name, right? Like Who’s on First? Hope it’s fun.
    I thought I should bring something as a thank-you for the dinner, and this afternoon I was passing a thrift store and saw a velvet beret in the window. I thought she might like it, but now I’m not so sure. What was I thinking? Me buying clothes for someone?
    Dad and Aunt Melba seem to be doing okay without us. But Aunt Melba’s driving me crazy; she keeps reminding me to call Dad, as if he couldn’t pick up the phone if he wanted to talk to me.
    Miss you. Miss you. Miss you.
    xxb
    Nowhere was aptly named, which was a relief; when you’re by yourself, it’s a lot less embarrassing to walk into a small nondescript restaurant than a big glitzy one. I perched on a stool at the minuscule counter in the front, put the gift-wrapped beret down next to me, and hoped Diana wouldn’t be too long.
    I tried pretending I was a restaurant critic, swiveling on my stool to scope out the small storefront. The owners hadn’t done much besides cram in some booths they must’ve found in an old fifties diner. I got the feeling they’d begrudged the white paint on the pressed-tin ceiling and the sander for the soft wood floors. I ordered a glass of white wine and picked up the menu.
    Fried pig’s ears. Braised duck hearts with snails. Pork-snout terrine with pickles and toast. Grilled rabbit livers with bacon. Whole grilled mackerel. Lamb burgers. Breaded pig’s tails … “As you can see,” said a voice behind me, “my friend Tom’s a nose-to-tail guy.”
    Diana was wearing a short plaid skirt with a tight black sweater and high black boots. I gestured apologetically at my worn khakis and frayed oatmeal sweater.
    “You look fine. I’m overdressed.”
    “I love your skirt.” I handed her the package before I lost my nerve. “This might go with it.” Giving people presents is such an intimate act; you’re basically telling them who you think they are, and if you’re wrong, it’s over.
    But when Diana unwrapped the package, she went straight back to the ladies’ room. And