Slice and Dice, page 3
part #5 of Sophie Greenway Series
“You know what it’s like?” continued Harry. “You get a bad review and it hurts business. Customers stay away. So you end up with too much inventory and eventually serve food that isn’t quite up to your normal freshness standards. If you don’t use the food, your profit margin takes a nosedive. But you end up losing money anyway because some of the produce inevitably spoils before it’s sold and you have to dump it. So then you reevaluate your ordering. But because you put out substandard food for a few days, or a few weeks, you lose more customers and the cycle continues. You don’t know how to plan anymore. None of this is David’s fault. He’s a talented chef, one of the best I’ve ever worked with. It’s just that that first review hurt us. And unless you believe in miracles, today’s installment will probably kill us. I can’t fight it any longer, but it makes me so damn mad I could spit nails.” He downed more of the brandy, then went on. “I go home at night and I write letters to the editor at that damn paper. To date, I’ve written seventeen, all of them unprintable. To think that one man could wield such power.”
Sophie might have pointed out that Harry’s current problems were a combination of many factors, though she had to admit that it was probably the review that had tipped the scales.
Harry finished his drink, his anger building.
“Hey, buddy,” said Bram. “You’d better go easy on that stuff.”
“Why?” Harry asked. “It’s not every day you see your life’s work crumble before your eyes.”
Sophie and Bram sat with Harry for another hour, listening to his tale of woe. He covered the same ground over and over again. Since the death of his wife four years earlier, Harry made it clear that he’d lost his best friend and sounding board. The restaurant had become his whole life, and now it was about to be taken away from him. The conversation occasionally veered into surprisingly venomous tirades. Neither Bram nor Sophie could offer much other than a sympathetic ear.
When they finally parted, shortly before ten, Sophie still hadn’t told Harry that she would be replacing George Gildemeister at the Times Register. The truth was, she didn’t have the nerve.
Journal Note
Friday, 9 P.M.
She’s arrived. Finally. I’m sitting in the lobby, watching her entourage swirl around the bell captain and the front desk like a bunch of sleek well-dressed ocelots. I expected to see Constance and her lawyer, Kenneth Merlin — apparently, she never travels without him — but I was surprised to find the rest of the family in attendance, too. Something big must be in the works, something other than a simple stop on a promotional tour for Constance’s newest cookbook How a woman who has morphed into the living embodiment of Betty Crocker could have produced such a strikingly handsome set of children is beyond me. They ‘re all adults now and will surely play a role in her story.
This is so delicious — food fit for the gods. What’s so special about gourmet cuisine when you can serve up good, old-fashioned scandal? M.
3
Not being terribly interested in spending the shank of the evening alone, Bram decided to make a small detour into . Scotties, the Maxfield’s first-floor bar, to have that second martini he’d never ordered at the Belmont. Sophie had some hotel business she needed to attend to before she could join him upstairs in their apartment.
Because it was such a beautiful springtime evening, Scotties wasn’t particularly crowded. Bram nodded to a few regulars, then slipped onto one of the chrome bar stools and ordered his drink. Pulling a basket of peanuts in front of him, he eyed the photographs of various theatrical stars hanging on the wall behind the counter.
A few minutes later, as he was being served, an attractive woman sat down two stools away. She placed her order — a Tequila Rose on the rocks — then removed some pamphlets from her purse.
Bram glanced at her and smiled.
She smiled back.
After a few awkward moments, the woman said, “Of all the gin joints in all the world, I’ve got to sit down next to a guy who looks like —”
He held up his hand. “Don’t say it.”
“You object to looking like an old-time movie star?”
“No, but after a good night’s sleep, I look much more like Tom Cruise.”
She laughed.
He knew he was flirting, but it was fun. And meaningless. “You’d be amazed what eight good hours can do to wash away the years.”
“Would I?”
“I’d never lie to a beautiful woman.”
She smiled again. This time she turned to face him. “Lela Dexter.” She held out her hand.
“Bram Baldric.” For some reason, she looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t say why.
“Are you a guest at the hotel?” she asked as her drink was set in front of her. She signed the receipt, charging the drink to her room.
Bram noticed that her shiny black hair was pulled up in a pearl-studded net. Very classic. Next to the dark hair, her skin was a fine white porcelain. The red lipstick and bluish eye makeup suggested a French figurine — flawless, touched with just the right amount of color, yet essentially cold. “Not exactly.”
“A man of mystery.”
“Would that bother you?”
Her eyes dropped to his wedding band. “It might bother your wife.”
He held up his drink, saluting her, tacitly suggesting she was undoubtedly right.
She glanced over her shoulder for a moment and surveyed the room, then shrugged and turned back to him.
Bram figured she’d decided he was the best bet in town. She might as well stay put.
“I’m here on vacation,” she said, removing a cigarette from her purse. Before she could find her lighter, the bartender appeared with a lit match. He was a new employee, a kid in his mid-twenties, and Bram assumed his hormones were on overdrive. “Thank you,” she said, rewarding the bartender with an amused nod. Turning back to Bram, she continued. “I flew in this afternoon from New York.”
“Where you live?”
“Now and then.”
She obviously wanted to project her own sense of mystery. “Do you have family here?” he asked, popping a couple of peanuts in his mouth.
She shook her head.
“You’re traveling alone then?”
This time her smile was more openly seductive. “Why, sir, where I come from, all these questions would seem extremely forward.”
Under the hard New York inflection, he noticed a hint of softness. A drawl, if he wasn’t mistaken. “If I had to guess, I’d say you grew up in the South.”
“You have a good ear, Mr. Baldric. I’m originally from Savannah.”
“Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.”
She shuddered. “Horrible book. It made the entire town look like a freak show. Have you ever been to Savannah?”
“Years ago. I was a DJ at a local radio station there for about six months. That was back in the Seventies, during my wild, impetuous youth.”
“You’re no longer impetuous?”
He wasn’t going to touch that. The gleam in her eyes told him they were getting awfully close to a line he wouldn’t cross. “You know, I loved everything about Savannah. In so many ways, it doesn’t even feel like it’s part of the same country as Minnesota.”
She studied him through the smoke from her cigarette. “And your career in radio. What happened to that?”
“Actually, I have a talk show here in the Twin Cities now. It’s just recently been syndicated to nine states, but not as far away as New York. I doubt you’ve heard of it.”
When she turned to him this time, Bram could see a question in her eyes. “A talk show. How… fascinating.”
Something had just happened, though he couldn’t say what it was. “You know, this may sound crazy, but you seem familiar to me. Could we have met somewhere before?”
“I’m sure I’d remember if we had.”
“What do you do in New York?”
Drawing on her cigarette, she said, “I work at the UN. I’m senior attaché to Steven Bell.”
“Our new ambassador?” He laughed, then shook his head. “And what does a woman used to living in the fast lane do for a vacation? She comes to the Maxfield Plaza in sunny St. Paul, Minnesota.”
“Don’t put your town down. It’s lovely. Charming even. And this hotel, it’s like stepping back into the Thirties. It must have been the height of luxury back then.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Gangsters with guns under their double-breasted suits and handsome men in tuxedos. Women in fur, crepe de chine, and pearls, sipping champagne while they danced the night away. Fated love and illicit desire. Hatred, passion, lies, and lust… maybe even murder.”
Tugging his collar away from his neck, Bram said, “You have quite an imagination, Ms. Dexter.”
“Lela.”
“Maybe you should have been a writer, not an attaché.”
She just smiled at him.
“I take it Art Deco buildings really speak to you.”
“Don’t tell me you can’t feel it. This hotel reeks of adventure.”
His smile turned to a grin. “You came to Minnesota seeking adventure? Maybe you saw Fargo one too many times.”
She ground out her cigarette, a faint smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
“Well,” said Bram, holding up his drink. “Here’s hoping you find it.”
She touched her glass to his. “I think I already have.”
4
When Sophie entered George Gildemeister’s office on Saturday morning, she found him sitting in his chair, feet up on his desk, reading a seed catalog. In his jeans and red plaid shirt, he was the picture of a burned-out food critic. His office, while almost neat to a fault, reflected far more interest in his current passion: horticulture.
Plants were everywhere — draped off cabinets, crowded onto his desk and on the window ledge behind him. There were even seed pots resting under a grow lamp on top of a filing cabinet. On the floor to Sophie’s right was a circle of nasty-looking cactus plants. To her left was a table filled with orchids. This greenhouse-away-from-home might have made sense if George wrote the gardening column, but he didn’t. He would talk endlessly about his hobby farm, the weather, the new corn hybrid he’d just planted, but rarely would he ever mention the wonderful sea bass Provençale or espresso fudge soufflé he’d been served at a local restaurant. When Sophie spied the Jell-O snack carton on his desk, it was the last straw. She marched into the room and said, “Jell-O, George? Jell-O?”
He glanced up at her. “Oh, morning, Soph. Have a seat.
Yale will be here any second.” He returned his attention to the catalog.
People had known for years that George was coasting on the reputation he’d made during the Eighties. Five years earlier, after buying the hobby farm up near Fergus Falls, he’d become the farmer in the dell. Colleagues at the paper even called him silly names behind his back. It seemed that his passion for food was totally gone. He still kept an apartment in the city, but every moment he could spare away from his job at the paper was spent on “the land,” as he referred to it, with his wife, his two golden retrievers, and his garden.
Well, Sophie thought, glaring at the Jell-O carton, the corn plants could have him.
She was just about to sit down when there was a knock on the door. A second later Yale McGraw entered. He looked his usual harried self, the stub of an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. Yale, like George, was in his early sixties, but whereas George could easily have passed for middle-aged with his dark hair and healthy tan, Yale looked every minute of his sixty-two years. He was tall and lanky — well over six foot five — and when stressed, his arms and legs flew out at odd angles, much like a marionette manipulated by a novice puppeteer. He combed his white hair straight back from his forehead, allowing the world an unencumbered view of his classic Roman profile. Put a laurel wreath on his head and he’d be the spitting image of Julius Caesar — Caesar with a stogie. It was an image he nurtured, though everyone knew McGraw was a notorious softie. It didn’t always make him the best managing editor, but it did make him a valued friend. He was well loved at the Times Register.
Dumping a pile of papers onto George’s desk, Yale fell into a chair. “Lord,” he said, biting down hard on the cigar. “What a day.” He glanced at George, then at Sophie. “I’m glad you could make it,” he said, giving her his trademark scowl. “I hope you brought a decision with you.”
“Me, too,” said George, tossing the seed catalog into a side drawer. “I’ve given two weeks’ notice, but I’d like to be out of here as fast as possible.” He sniffed the air, then glared at Yale. “You smell like an ashtray.”
“I’ve been down in the smoking lounge. Don’t worry, George, I won’t light my stogie around your precious plants. We wouldn’t want them to have a collective asthma attack. The noise would be deafening.”
“Damn right you won’t,” muttered George. Switching his glare to Sophie, he continued. “You already know the drill. You should be able to step in without any hand holding.”
“So what’s it gonna be?” asked Yale, turning to her with his formidable gaze.
The moment had come. She hadn’t realized she’d be this excited. “Yes, I’d like the job, providing you can meet two conditions.”
Yale shifted in his chair, removing the cigar from his mouth. “You said one condition yesterday, Sophie. You wanted us to hire you a full-time assistant — in this instance, your son. I’ll have to look at his resume, of course, but I think I can guarantee it won’t be a problem.”
Now she was even more excited. “Rudy will be home from his trip next Sunday. I’ll make sure he sets up an appointment with you right away.”
“Fine,” said Yale. “Now about this other condition …”
Sophie knew her second point might be a harder sell. Even so, she felt so strongly about it that in her mind it was a potential deal breaker. Taking a deep breath, she plunged ahead. “I don’t want to use a star system for rating restaurants.”
“What?” George sat up in his chair. “We’ve always used a star system. I instituted it twenty-three years ago.”
“And now that I’m on board, I want to do away with it.” She’d prepared her arguments ahead of time, so she started right in. “Star systems might work in Europe, but they don’t here. In France, for instance, stars represent levels of refinement, so you know you need to achieve certain standards to qualify for certain star levels. But in the United States, there are no clear standards. When the restaurants being reviewed range from multimillion-dollar enterprises to simple storefront eateries, the system breaks down. It becomes meaningless.”
“No, it doesn’t,” insisted George, his round face growing flushed. “Yale, tell her she’s wrong.”
Yale folded his arms over his chest. “I’d like to hear a little more on the subject — from both of you. A little healthy debate.”
George shot him an exasperated look. “Look, the use of stars forces a reviewer to be honest. You can’t be wishy-washy. You have to make a clear statement and then you use the force of the stars to back it up. Even Sophie has to admit that the market today demands stars. It adds weight and significance to a review. All the big boys do it, so we should, too. And then … well, there’s a more pragmatic reason.”
“What’s that?” asked Yale.
“Time. It’s a quick way for our readers to decide where to spend their hard-earned money. As far as I’m concerned, the case is closed.”
“But that’s just my point,” said Sophie. “People look at the stars and don’t read the review — and they should.”
“It’ll never work,” said George, shaking his head. “People who read this newspaper expect our restaurant reviews to include ratings. Even the restaurants themselves expect it.”
“The luxury restaurants perhaps. But is a luxury context always better than, say, an ethnic restaurant that operates on a shoestring?”
“You’re muddying the point.”
“That is the point,” said Sophie. “Not all the restaurants in this town fall along the same continuum. Even you have to admit you don’t have a clue how to rate some places.”
George grunted.
“And even with the luxury restaurants, you could have meals there during a two- or three-week period, write your review, and then two weeks later the chef quits. But the rating stays until you get around to reviewing the restaurant again, which could be years later. It’s not fair.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re going to be a bleeding-heart-liberal food critic. Fairness above standard business practice. Good luck,” George said, spitting the words at her. “In my mind, fairness should remain secondary to truth.”
“But, George,” said Sophie, exaggerating her patient expression, “restaurant reviews aren’t about truth, they’re about opinion. Educated opinion, certainly, but opinion nonetheless.”
“She’s just throwing dust in the air,” George blurted out, pointing a finger at her but looking at Yale. “That’s what happens when you give a tough job to a woman. Criticism isn’t for the faint of heart.”
“You mean people like Ruth Reichl? Phyllis Richman? Gael Greene?”
In a slow, reasoned tone, Yale asked, “So what’s your reviewing philosophy, Sophie?”
She’d thought alxrnt that a lot over the years. “Well, I’d say that the quality of the food always comes first. Next would be service. Third, atmosphere. It’s an entire package, but again, just because you’re sitting in the midst of luxury doesn’t mean you’re going to have the best dining experience. I want the review itself to be entertaining, fun, but I prefer to write my critique from the standpoint of an average diner. Since I know a great deal about different cuisines, where I can educate, I will.”
“I educate all the time,” muttered George.
“You mean, like your review of the Belmont?”
George flicked his eyes toward Yale. Pulling some dead leaves off a small schefflera, he said, “No, that was more on the order of a funeral notice.”
