London Broil Read online

  “James tells me you’re an English professor with a philosophical bent,” said Nolly in his Masterpiece Theatre accent. “I’m all agog to hear more. I read English at Oxford myself.” So, she thought with satisfaction, James did realize that she was a professor rather than a librarian. She hadn’t been entirely certain on that point.

  She smiled at Nolly. “I couldn’t decide between Classics and English, so I had coursework in both, though my PhD is in English,” she said. “The philosophy is just a personal interest. I’m particularly attracted to the Epicureans.”

  “Hah! The epicure meets the Epicurean,” put in James.

  “What’s the difference?” asked Nolly as her martini arrived, and she savored a sip of the chilled drink before answering. “An epicure is a gourmet, of course, but an Epicurean believes that pleasures have to be tempered with discipline.”

  “Be still, my beating heart,” said Nolly dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Why, I adore discipline! I don’t suppose you’d want to pop over one day and be my tutrix?” And he waggled his eyebrows suggestively while James rolled his eyes.

  “Well, from what I’ve heard about your gout, it sounds as though you could use a few lessons,” she said tartly. “And to be frank, people with gout would be wise to learn my kind of discipline and steer clear of yours. Unless you enjoy the thought of a riding crop connecting with your toes?”

  Nolly winced. “You see what I have to put up with?” said James.

  “Not at all, not at all,” replied Nolly, appraising Laura with new respect. “Why, there is nothing to equal a woman of wit. My third wife Phyllida was very learned, you know. I loved to listen as she discoursed on Kant, especially since she insisted that the correct German pronunciation was…” (and here he lowered his voice to a stage whisper) “Cunt!” Nolly and James both guffawed at this, and Laura sighed, wondering if it was going to be a long night. “Shall we look at the menus?” she asked.

  “Of course,” said Nolly, picking up his menu. “My dear, the one thing you need to know about me is that I’m a complete and utter idiot…” (Here he waved a dismissive hand at James, who was strenuously objecting that “wanker” would be a more accurate description) “…and you must never listen to a thing I say. Now, can you help us with the decipherment? What the devil is seitan?” Nolly giggled at his own pun.

  “It’s a meat analog made of wheat gluten, and it’s very good,” she said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it for either of you carnivores. If you think of it as fake meat, you’re bound to be disappointed. You should stick to more familiar dishes like the spring vegetable risotto with leeks, or the morel ravioli.”

  “But no! If I am to write intelligently about this food, I must be initiated into both the major and minor arcana, all the esoteric secrets, and you shall be my high priestess,” said Nolly, his voice rising in what seemed to be genuine excitement.

  “If you insist,” she replied, amused. She looked over at James, who shrugged.

  “The danger with a place like this,” she began, “is that the menu is so eclectic. You could end up having guacamole as a starter, nori rolls for your main dish, and gelato for dessert… I mean pudding. That would be monstrous, at least to my way of thinking. So my advice is to choose carefully and make sure that your meal is coherent. And of course, get a good wine.”

  Nolly almost clapped his hands together in delight. “James, what a lucky man you are. Where have you been hiding this treasure? Now, Laura, what do you say to the grilled artichokes? They would be a good match for the lasagna, would they not?— but what does ‘live zucchini’ mean?” After consulting with the sommelier at length, they ordered several dishes and agreed to share all of them along with a bottle of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc. Nolly asked about Laura’s research, and she replied that she was studying Alexander Pope.

  “Ah, the wicked wasp of Twickenham,” he said, and quoted, “I am his Highness’ dog at Kew; pray tell me sir, whose dog are you?”

  She laughed, and he asked, “Have you been to Twickenham to see what’s left of his grotto? It’s rather dreary, I’m afraid.” Pope had been an admirer of the cave of the nymphs in the Odyssey, a book he spent years translating, and had built a rustic, shady grotto in his garden.

  “No, I think I’d rather imagine it as it was when he was in residence, with water trickling in little fountains, and the walls covered with shells and pretty stones. I wonder if he ever met any tempting nymphs there, mortal or otherwise?”

  “Doubtless they’d have run screaming from him; the man was a twisted little dwarf, you know,” said Nolly, in a smug tone that suggested he was blissfully unaware of his own physical imperfections.

  “But such a genius!” Laura felt compelled to defend her hero. “Women find that attractive, at least I always have. There’s something so irresistibly sexy about a towering intellect, even in a diminutive body.”

  “Right, did you hear that?” said James. “She’s just suggested that the two of us are great, hulking cretins.”

  “Speak for yourself, my friend,” said Nolly loftily.

  “I said no such thing,” replied Laura. “And you shouldn’t sell yourself short, James. I saw the books by Joyce on your shelf. Have you actually read Finnegans Wake?”

  “Only about a third of the way,” he said, looking chagrined. “I bogged down in that one, though I liked it.”

  “You got through more of it than I did,” she said. They both looked expectantly at Nolly.

  “I refuse to read anything written after 1900,” he said defensively. “Pound, Eliot, Joyce, all that modern rot has no attractions for me.” As their order began to arrive, James explained that Nolly was a traditionalist. Except when it came to food, he believed that anything new was a ruinous threat to the fabric of society.

  “Oh, one of those Tories who believes in Merrie Olde England?” she asked innocently. Nolly looked taken aback, but recovered quickly, saying “Precisely. The dear old Church of England, the village green, the sanctity of marriage…” he was interrupted by the sound of James choking on his wine. Laura pounded James on the back, and matching Nolly’s tone said, “Pray continue. The sanctity of marriage?”

  “James is incredulous because I happen to have been married… more than once,” said Nolly primly. “And because, at least until he met you, he chose to affect the persona of an aging reprobate —a veritable rake, I say!— who preferred to disparage that most honorable estate… my word, what is this delicious substance?” he said, pointing to a forkful of marinated tempeh, which he had speared from a bed of grilled kale, lentils and pickled onions.

  “It’s fermented soybeans. Doesn’t sound very appetizing, but it’s great, isn’t it? Have you been to an Indonesian restaurant? You may have had it there, as satay.”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” he replied. “And this creamed spinach,” he said, reaching over to spoon some up from the plate in front of James, “You said it was made with cashew cream instead of real cream? How odd! It reminds me of a spinach dish my dear Constance used to make. What a talent that woman had in the kitchen! Her boeuf bourguinon was so ravishing that I proposed to her on the spot after tasting it.”

  “Constance was his second wife, and she was indeed a gifted cook,” explained a smiling James. “I’ve stood up for him at four of his five weddings. I’ve almost learned the service by heart.”

  “With my body I thee worship,” quoted Nolly nostalgically.

  “With your belly, is more like it,” replied James.

  “Laura, I must caution you against too intimate an association with this godless Irishman,” said Nolly. “James is, by his very nature, impervious to the intimations of transcendence that move me.”

  “Leaving aside his perviousness,” James said with a wink at Laura, “I merely reply that nothing moves Nolly like a plate of chocolate éclairs from Euphorium placed within his visual range. He points like an English setter and then moves with surprising agility for a man of his avoirdupois.”
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  “Heathen,” said Nolly, “will you never cease taxing me with the éclair incident?”

  “You didn’t leave me even one,” said James.

  “The statute of limitations had expired.”

  James said to Laura, “The last time Nolly dined at the Singing Capon, Chester Rosenberg told me he was inspired to create a new dish and name it for him.”

  This caught Nolly’s attention. “Eh, what’s that?” he said, almost visibly swelling. Rosenberg, an English chef whose Singing Capon rated three Michelin stars, had won celebrity with a style of cooking called molecular gastronomy, which emphasized unusual techniques and multisensory experiences. One of his best-known dishes involved listening to a recording of ocean waves while eating fish and seaweed served on a bed of nori-flavored breadcrumb “sand” and garnished with seawater-flavored jelly bean “pebbles.”

  “Oh yes, didn’t you know?” James went on. “It’s his interpretation of the traditional Spotted Dick. That’s a boiled suet pudding,” he added for Laura’s benefit. “Chester puts in plenty of suet, boils it in cheesecloth for an hour, and then uses his vacuum jar to aerate it. The air bubbles inside expand so that when the diner pierces it, there’s a great blast of wind.”

  Shaking his head, Nolly changed the subject by asking whether Laura’s research had been successful so far. “It’s very promising,” she answered, explaining how she had visited J. Roworth’s bookshop. “He’s impressive. He remembers everything he ever sold, and he has the most delectable books. I had trouble restraining myself.”

  “I hope you limited your enthusiasm to his paper assets,” said James.

  “Don’t be absurd. He’s old enough to be my father. Now, I’ve tracked down the books I need to a library in Yorkshire. You two are journalists. Can you tell me how to find a Baron Belmont-Speck?”

  “Nothing easier,” said Nolly. “He’s my sister in law’s brother in law. That is, there were two sisters. One married my brother, and one married old Speck. Why, I’m going up there for the grouse shooting in two weeks. I’ll get invitations for you two.”

  “Laura, you can close your mouth now,” said James, looking amused. “Nolly’s got a lot of friends. I’m not surprised he knows this Speck bloke.”

  “That’s… I mean, it’s incredibly kind of you,” she stammered. “But… grouse shooting?”

  “Oh, you won’t have to do that. It’s a driven shoot. The Baron makes ends meet by bringing in paying guests. Though I daresay he’ll insist that James join in if you both come with me.” James didn’t look particularly pleased at the Baron’s generosity. Nolly said that he’d let them know about the prospective visit, and turned back to the food, taking notes on a little handheld recorder. Given his massive girth, he never bothered trying to disguise his identity or to hide the fact that he was a food critic.

  As it turned out, Nolly preferred the tempeh, the lemony “seitan piccata” with creamed spinach, and even the marinated grilled tofu better than the dishes with no savory proteins. James was less enthusiastic, but as they exited the restaurant, Nolly was declaring his intention to eat at Fava weekly until the three months of his red-meat embargo were completed.

  James insisted on taking Laura back to her flat. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not going to keep you up late. I only want to see you home safely. And I’ve not had a chance to talk with you tonight.”

  “It’s true. Nolly more or less sucks up all the oxygen in a room, doesn’t he? But I like him very much,” she said. “Your relationship with him reminds me of something Pope once said: I would love my Friend, as my Mistress, without Ceremony, and hope a little Rough Usage may not be more displeasing to one than it is to the other.”

  “He took far too great an interest in you,” said James. “If he calls you and asks for a refresher course on the difference between seitan and tempeh, don’t agree to meet him. He’s not to be trusted.”

  “James, I don’t find Nolly attractive. I like a big man, but he’s a little too massive even for me.”

  “I don’t suppose you know who Nicholas Soames is. A very well-fed chap who used to be Food Minister. His girlfriend said that making love with him was like having a wardrobe fall on top of you with the key sticking out. It got into the papers and made a big splash. But what most people didn’t realize was that she nicked the quote from Constance.”

  She put her hand under his arm as they walked. “I like feeling your weight on me,” she said. “‘Oh happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony.’ Do you know that line? I always thought it was sexy.”

  “Antony and Cleopatra is one of my favorites. I did a little amateur drama in my college days and that was one we put on.”

  “Did you play Antony?”

  “No, Enobarbus. I got to say the best line: ‘Other women cloy the appetites they feed, but she makes hungry where most she satisfies.’” He turned to glance at her as he quoted this. She felt the implied compliment, and though she didn’t comment on it, she squeezed his arm a little tighter.

  “How did Nolly get so many women to marry him?” She’d meant it when she said that he wasn’t particularly attractive, though he was amusing enough.

  “Nolly’s a toff, and a rich one. His brother’s titled, childless, and not in good health. So if he dies, Nolly becomes milord. Also, Nolly’s got a peculiarity that attracts certain women. He loves giving a lass a good seeing to. Errm… between the legs.”

  Laura laughed. This wasn’t what she’d expected.

  “Nolly’s developed a bit of a fetish about it,” James continued. “He swears that you can tell what a woman’s been eating when you taste her. Phyllida divorced him after he insisted on feeding her sage leaves fried in butter and salads full of thyme and rosemary for weeks on end. He had this theory that it would produce the perfect bouquet.”

  “Like a jamón ibérico,” said Laura, thinking of the Spanish pigs that were pastured on mountain herbs and acorns to make their flesh perfumed and delectable.

  “Yes,” said James, scrutinizing her expression to see whether she was offended at this wholesale analogy of female flesh to swine flesh. She wasn’t, because she knew that Nolly’s passion stemmed wholly from his sensitivity to aroma and flavor. With his long nose that came to a quivering point, Nolly himself was not unlike a hound or a pig trained to seek out exquisitely scented truffles.

  They had reached her block now and were almost at the front steps to her building. She thought sage leaves fried in butter sounded delicious, but said nothing, lest she give the impression that she would like to become one of Nolly’s bouquets. Finally James asked tentatively, “Laura, has a lover ever kissed you… between your legs?”

  “I’ve only experienced that a couple of times,” she answered, “Clayton, the man I used to live with, made it clear that he thought he was doing me a favor. He didn’t want a mouthful of hair, and said women’s bodies had a fishy smell. After that, I was far too inhibited to enjoy it.”

  “Bloody hell,” said James. “Listen to me. A woman has a scent like fruits de mer if she hasn’t bathed for a day or two. It’s exciting to a man. If you want to try it with me, I’ll see that you have just enough to drink that you don’t feel bashful, but not so much that you lose sensation.”

  “Would you like me to get a Brazilian wax?”

  “God no,” he said, revolted. “That makes a woman look like a wee lass. Just trim the hair nice and neat. Nolly’s the expert on such things, and he says that removing all the hair is like drinking cabernet out of a martini glass.”

  They were standing outside her building. “Do you remember the first time you walked me back here?” she asked.

  “I’ll not soon forget it. I wanted you to invite me in, but you slipped away the minute I kissed you. I stood out here and smoked a cigar, thinking that you might change your mind and open the door, but you never did.” He took her in his arms and kissed her, open mouthed, his tongue caressing hers. She felt as though the cartilage in her knees was dissolving,
and she was about to ask him to come upstairs with her, when he said “Goodnight, Laura. I’ll see you on Friday. Sleep well,” and gave her a little push toward the door.

  19.

  The Poetry of Flavors

  The next morning she emailed James: Come Saturday (not Friday) at 6:00. My place. Before the end of the day she saw his reply: Are you going to cook for me? Looking forward to tasting your dish.

  Laura spent Saturday cleaning her flat and planning the menu. She made a leisurely bath the last of her tasks before cooking the meal. She wore some black knit pants that clung to her behind and thighs but had wide boot-cut hems, and what she hoped was a sexy dark red top with a low back and bare shoulders, and a high neck in front. When she slipped it on, she could clearly see the outline of her nipples. Good, she thought. A woman bent on conquest had to have some volume in the bustline, or else show some nipple. She thought of Magda, with her blonde chignon and full breasts, and hoped that she wasn’t suffering by comparison.

  James arrived punctually, bringing a gym bag from which he extracted a jar of Venchi gianduja, a spread of dark chocolate and hazelnuts. “It’s like Nutella, but better,” he explained.

  “Thank you; this looks wonderful,” she said, as he kicked off his shoes and placed them by the door. Her flat belonged to an acquaintance, a professor of Classics at the University of London who was spending the year in Rome. She’d been delighted to find a trustworthy tenant for several months, and Laura had been thrilled at the offer of a flat in Kings Cross, near both the British Library and the British Museum.