Peter Melman
To be a man of consequence,
she said, means knowing who to call
when your back’s up against it, don’t you see?
So I said, what time’s it now?
6:14, she said, and 26…27…28 seconds,
and meant it. I wondered—who?
Lassie, my cousin-the-Cop, the Good
Humor Man who’s been skipping
the block lately, for lands where
children are fatter, faster, flusher?
So, who? I looked to phone,
understanding, if I wanted any dessert
I’d have to make the icebox myself.
Goddamned cold it was too, goddamned
cold, only to find she’d eaten the
chocolate, all of it brown, the strawberry,
fruit-chunkless, leaving an isthmus
of vanilla, like paste, sides scraped,
soiled with negative space.
An isthmus, some cool grafting
of two, like ice to ice.
You, I said, who the
fuck else?
from The Feast of Empty Air, Chapter One
"But in his sleep he dreamed of food,
his jaws / Closing on nothing, and he ground his teeth / On nothing, and his throat
kept swallowing nothing, / His feast was empty air, and when he wakened, / He
was ravenous."
—Ovid's Metamorphoses,
Book VIII,
"The Story of Erysichthon"
A tip on launching an Italian in Manhattan: success means
a waitstaff from Rome, period. Forget expenses. Pluck them right off the boat,
bribe Immigration with Knicks tickets and Johnnie Walker, promise new Vespas if
necessary, do whatever it takes, but go Roman. Get them young and perfumed, the
kind who'll wear clothing more refined than the restaurant's patrons ever will.
Consider this. Two thousand years ago their ancestors were serving the
Bacchanal, negotiating projectile vomit and grapes on hard marble. They were
stewards to nobles who loved to grab hold of a scrotum while being poured wine,
threatening castration if a drop spilled, so it shouldn't present a problem
when some neurotic from Scarsdale asks for vinaigrette on the side. These guys
are priceless. They scarcely conceal their disdain for those they serve, and
nobody, not even Wall Street ballbreakers, has the moxie to do anything about
it.
But it's in the kitchen, that's where they're worth their new
scooters. I worked with them once, for about five days. Too green for the front
of the house, Sebastian stuck me in the back doing salads. I've never heard
such indignation, and I've shared walls with neighbors who were blind. Table
Seven swills good Barolo—Antonio screams for a cleaver. Table Eleven crams
buffalo mozzarella and prosciutto crudo
into a roll, then asks for mayo—Leo tosses his apron to the floor. In the
kitchen they were coarse, shouting bastards, the cacophony of ten voices at
once like the hagglers and hawkers of an open-air market, their native Italy
reclaiming its stake in them. That's why you need to go old country. Because
these guys are better at their jobs than most patrons are at their own, and any
patron worth a damn will leave realizing this.
Four years have passed since I worked that kitchen, but whenever
I'm down on Mulberry I sometimes step in for an espresso and a series of small,
Mediterranean bows. The bows, I realize, aren't due to any occupational
solidarity the Italians and I may have once shared, nor do they suggest the
least trace of kindness. No, I'd be an asshole to think they bow for any other
reason than they have to. Despite Sebastian's warm, meaty hugs and
double-cheeked kisses, I know mine is the one job that makes their backs
stiffen, their mouths draw tight. While I'm sitting by the large, plate-glass
window, stirring my espresso, I am aware the noisy kitchen has gone silent at
my expense. Outside, the sun may be setting on Manhattan, the East Side may be
met by the deepening shadows of the West, and I might be drinking my espresso
slowly, two fingers and a thumb, thinking of Kate or admiring decorative wheels
of Romano cheese the size of dummy spares—and I'll be struck by the quiet of
the moment. Once my espresso is done, I'll sit back, nose in the air, and
search for the smells of fresh oregano sauces and apples and dusty semolina,
kitchen smells that cause hungry little children to stamp their feet. And when
I stand to pay, clapping Sebastian once on his fat arm before I go, he'll smile
at me and say "Ciao,
Reuben," not because I prepared his salads for five days, four years ago,
but because I now have the power to destroy him.
Questo Momento is one of the few places where I'm always
recognized, so I like to get there once every couple of months if possible. On
those rare occasions when I am known beyond Mulberry St., restaurants are left
no choice but to seat me, when I want and usually where. It's in these moments
I swear I'm in love with myself, though if I had a psychiatrist I'd probably
pay him to tell me I shouldn't admit it. The ethics of my profession are near
Buddhist in their demand for understatement, most food critics going to great
lengths to preserve their anonymity. Then again, most of my colleagues have me
by twenty years. Now in their fifties and sixties, they've grown tired of the
flattery, of the sweet talk fawning, and get their kicks instead from soft-core
role-play. Word is a few have colluded to enroll in Costume Design 101 for a
semester at the Tisch School, down at N.Y.U. I’ve heard The Village Voice enjoys wearing worn overalls and broken teeth to
five-stars: "'Scuse me, son, y'all go head and char my steak but good. No
use in puttin' meat to flame, 'less you aim to burn it some." Or New York's hooker from the Bowery,
fishnet-stockinged: "Bowl of anything, just so long as it ain’t
cream-based." I know for a fact The
New York Times owns eleven wigs; my favorite, a gray pageboy, gives her a
look of seasoned acerbity I find sexy. The
Observer dines under as many as eight different credit card aliases. Most
of the critics I know take pride in their ability to sample a place incognito,
perhaps because there's a growing number of kitchens that red-flag our names
and reservation phone numbers. A few of the more investigative owners are
posting our photographs in the back, which, if true, dumps us somewhere in the
range of post-office felon, and that kills me. I can't help but wonder if I've
made it up there, anywhere, and if so, whether they've managed a shot of my
good side.
Overall, my job is about the push and pull of fast-ones, what
with the wigs and second-hand glasses and affected accents; all this for the
off-chance that we'll be served as poorly as the next guy, or that the meal
itself will be so inedibly bad that our consciences will be clear when we fill
our articles with euphemized words for "shit." Hidden beneath the
false fronts, critics feel they're more likely to unearth honest intentions,
something the very nature of our profession jeopardizes. "Fair," they
say, "fair is a must," and to a certain extent I agree. I've got a
hardened rule that I never go to press on a place without eating there at least
three times. Objectivity is a good thing, but on Saturday night in a crowded
restaurant in Manhattan, principles won't get you to a better table. In
Manhattan, principles get you the bathroom flyway.
Restaurants work plenty of their own angles, don’t you worry.
I've heard it said that there's nothing a restaurant can do to enhance a visit,
that each customer gets the same experience, famous or not, but that's crap.
When you've got celebrity, you get attended, you get their main man, your
dishes get preferential treatment, the head chef himself may work your meal.
Big shots invest millions in these places, and because the 1st Amendment
protects your power to pull their plug, you can be damned sure that if they
know you, they'll do their best to get you off in the only way they can—with
way, way too many truffles.
Still, I mostly call in for reservations, like everyone else. I
wait to be seated, like everyone else. Like everybody else, I'm forgotten by
the waitstaff three minutes after my credit card clears. My cholesterol level
has broken 200, I'm gaining weight on a short frame, and I've always had a
strange relationship with food. I study cookbooks the way most freshmen do Shakespeare,
as if assigned, though not without some measure of admiration. I subscribe to Saveur, Culinary Trends, Williams-Sonoma
Taste, Bon Appétit, Quarterly Review of Wines, and Wine Spectator because when a new dish
or vintage or saucepan alloy is introduced, my occupation demands I know it. I
keep Toussaint-Samat's History of Food by
my toilet, and a few years ago I attended three sessions of a cooking course
because the instructor was a woman I'd met at a cooking expo, and thought
delicious. My editor feels I'm pretty good, even if she rails against my
habitual inability to make word count: “Goddamnit, Reuben, I’ve only got so
much column.” And lately she’s taken to labeling my writing style as
“self-conscious, too artsy for its own good,” that my details “tax the reader’s
patience with their over-the-topness.” “Fine,” I think to myself, “you want
concision, how’s this for concision—‘blow me.’” I smile. Jesus Christ, this
isn’t Manhattan, Kansas I’m writing about here; this is NYC, the big-top. Of course
my style’s going to be self-conscious and artsy, you silly little dyke.
She does confess that I know food, though feels I’m unable as
yet to truly inhabit a meal. I gnash my teeth and tell her it's a meal's job to
inhabit me. Despite our friction and
the seemingly rote attention I'm forced to pay it, I do love eating. The
flavors, the ambience, the artistry—all of it. The problem is, dining out has
begun to get stale, as has my job, as do all jobs, eventually. Whereas I once
relished the idea of a good meal, I'm now forced to admit the appeal of
television, turkey on rye, and a can of Dr. Brown’s for dinner. So if it's the
recognition I like, sue me. It's a small victory, I know, but in this city of
millions, you take your Waterloos.
Like tonight for instance. I'm supposed to head back to this
place, The Great Helmsman. Upscale Chinese, it opened at 57th and 1st six weeks
ago, geared toward the intolerant of MSG. The owner Chu'an is a good man, with
a son in the Pioneers back in Beijing and a pathological need to debase
Kissinger. Even though his past few attempts at haute Chinese have failed miserably, I can’t help but admire him.
As generous with the maotai as any
mainland Communist I've ever met. Assuming he doesn't botch my name too badly,
an abridged version of the write-up should go something like this:
Well, it seems Mr. Chu'an has
done it again. Amongst the alter Menschen of Sutton
Place, he's staked his claim as one of the Red Guard's finest epicures, an
expat inexplicably stationed north of Canal St., though very happy indeed to be
there, as his kosher ice creams attempt to suggest. For starters, try the kau
choi kau, or fried chive dumplings, and,
providing the rabbi is sitting shiva at
anyone's table but your own, try the pork lo mein as a side. For a rare treat, order squab. Don't worry, Mr. Chu'an
swears his pigeons come from an accredited supplier in Flushing, so if you spot
him in the Park with a burlap sack and bread crumbs, just remember the old
adage about how tough it is to tell his kind apart. Hint: Keep talk of human
rights abuse chained to the curb outside; you'll get better service that way.
Casual attire. Reservations recommended. All major cc accepted.
It may not be particularly genteel, but it
works in Manhattan. New Yorkers love ringside seats to someone else's injury
because as a consensus, they're the only people I know who actually believe
their mothers didn't raise them well enough. It's the living with too many hard
edges. The street, the geometry where building meets sky, the smell of
sauerkraut. All hard and sharp. A review like this lets them know they're not
alone in believing they've discovered the awful truth of things. Now
understand, I like New York. People here smile as well as anywhere in the
world. It's just that, like failure, laughter here is a little more painful to
admit.
I acknowledge my reviews aren't necessarily inspired, but
inspiration either alienates or earns you a Pulitzer, and I'm still waiting on
my call from Columbia. With thousands of restaurants on the island of
Manhattan, you can be twenty-nine and a food critic and no one will consider
you a waste. Not your friends or past professors, not your father, not in New
York, because the amount of respect you get for criticizing the work of others
is perfectly appropriate to this city, a city admired most for its culture
inherited from older, bluer cities. It's an impressive power, considering the
number of lives at stake.
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Last updated: May 1, 2001.