Roman sniffed the air. “Charcoal.”
The smell tickled my nose, too, along with the scent of hot sesame oil, garlic, and ginger.
“I think we’re getting warm,” Roman said with a quaver in his voice.
Halfway down the block we stopped in front of a small, gray-shingled house with a gambrel roof like an old barn. A single, tiny window covered with scarlet curtains faced the alley.
While the youth opened the unlocked front door, I glanced up the block and spied the men who’d been loitering in front of the Taiwan Center. Were they fellow dinner guests?
I was about to ask our waiter but never got the chance. He hustled us into a foyer, and a wave of cooking scents washed over us: Indian and Asian spices, seared meat, and a peppery smell that woke up my tear ducts.
“Positively delightful!” Roman closed his eyes and waved his hands like a parfumeur experiencing a riot of new scents.
We were ushered into a cozy living room with powder-blue walls covered with family photos. Floor lamps gave the space a soft glow. At the far end of the room was a nook of a dining space. A long, narrow table started in that small room and flowed out of it, reaching well into the living room. It was set for ten. Three couples were already seated, sipping wine and speaking with a stocky man who stood over them. As we entered, the well-dressed group turned in their seats to greet Roman, who seemed to know them all.
“This is Clare Cosi, everyone. She’s the manager of the Village Blend.”
In a rush, everyone shouted their names. They were all Caucasian and appeared to be prosperous professionals in their thirties and forties. One man stood out, however. Younger than the rest, I recognized him from the uncannily accurate caricature on his Web site.
“Chef Perry!” Roman said, “Clare’s been dying to meet you.”
Ack. So much for subtlety.
Neville Perry stood up. I quickly stepped forward and offered my hand. He shook it firmly.
“I’m flattered to meet a fan.”
Wearing a Levi’s jacket over a loose Hawaiian shirt, the chef was no older than thirty. His spiky hair was platinum blond (obviously bleached, since his goatee was dark brown), and I noticed the glint of a silver loop in his ear. The striking contrast of perfectly even white teeth against a salon-perfect tan screamed Hollywood. So did the way his shirt was open at the neck to flaunt as much bronzed flesh as possible.
His eyes were the pale-green color of honeydew melon, and they checked me out so quickly from head to toe I would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching.
“So, Clare...” He smiled. “Were you a fan of my canceled reality show, my defunct restaurant, or my Prodigal Chef blog?”
“Oh, all three,” I said, surprised by the dry humor in the man’s tone. Self-deprecation was the last thing I expected from this guy.
“Well, that’s really nice of you to say. Have any favorite episodes? Or dishes?”
“It’s really your Web site that’s got my attention lately.”
“That’s great, too.” Neville glanced at Roman. “I’m happy you’re socializing with someone besides your gossip-mongering, yellow journalist buddies.” Neville slapped his forehead. “Wait a minute! I forgot. You’re one of those gossip-mongering, yellow journalists, aren’t you?”
“Oh, Neville. You’re jealous because I actually get paid for my writing. By the way, I’ve been wondering. What do you do for a living?”
Chef Perry winked at me. “I wonder if our food critic gets paid by the word or by the pound?”
Roman rolled his eyes. “Ersatz cheese is sold by the pound, Neville. That would be your department.”
Our escort reappeared, minus his hooded jacket, bearing a tray of wine. Roman accepted a glass, sniffed it with theatrical trepidation, then took a sip and made a face.
Perry lifted his chin in my direction. “I’ll bet Clare doesn’t think my blogs are crap.”
Roman raised a finger. “I didn’t say crap. I said ersatz cheese. There is a minor difference. Considering your reputation, it’s one you should recognize.”
Though the men were throwing comments as prickly as cactus leaves, I didn’t get the impression Neville Perry actually disliked Roman.
“Man, I hope we eat soon.” Perry glanced at his bling-heavy watch. “These aromas are making me ravenous.”
“Anything to clean my palate of this subpar wine,” Roman said, plopping his glass on the table.
“We’re still waiting for someone to arrive,” said one of the other guests.
Just then a loud voice boomed from the foyer. “I’m here, all! Start ringing the dinner bell!”
Roman looked as though he’d just sampled something more displeasing than the “subpar” wine. He turned to Neville. “Well, Perry, it appears you’re not the only show biz chef to taint us with his presence this evening.”
“Oh my God. Rafe Chastain is here,” burbled a woman at the table.
I knew Chastain by reputation, but I never expected the Adventure Channel’s infamous Exotic Food Hunter at Large to show up at a place like this. The man looked much the same as he did on my TV: a leanly muscled charmer with a face well lined from years spent under the harsh sun (not to mention his decades of hard living, if the man’s reputation for drinking, drugging, and daring was accurate). He wore his Egyptian cotton shirt open at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves, and his long legs sported tight black denims over pointed snakeskin boots.
Chastain’s television travels had taken him all over the world in search of new culinary experiences, which often involved eating the kind of stuff I’d run away from, not put in my mouth. We’re talking bugs, snakes, lizards, rats, along with the occasional feast of entrails, gizzards, and other questionable parts of animals, domesticated and wild.
I’d seen the show once or twice but was more familiar with the serious culinary articles he’d written for the New Yorker, GQ, and Food & Wine.
Intimidated by the celebrity’s entrance, no one rose to greet him. Mostly they just gawked, as if the man were still on display behind their high-def screens. Out of politeness I stepped forward.
“Hello, Mr. Chastain, my name’s Clare—”
“Nice to meet you, honey.” He gripped my hand, glanced down my blouse, and looked right past me. “Where’s the booze?”
Eighteen
The waiter with the wine tray approached, and Rafe Chastain snagged two glasses for himself. He downed one immediately and set the empty glass back on the tray. That’s when he noticed two familiar faces in the room.
“Roman. Neville,” he said, nodding in their general directions. Then he ran his fingers through his short, iron-gray hair, showing off the tattoos on his gangly forearms. Finally, he sniffed the air.
“Yum-yum. Something smells good.”
Frowning, Neville Perry glanced at his watch again. “I hope the food hasn’t gone cold. It’s been so long.”
Chastain smirked at the dig but held back his reply when he saw an older Asian woman bowing graciously before us.
“I’m Mrs. Weng. Welcome to my house.”
“Quiet, kids. The show’s starting,” Chastain loudly whispered.
“Tonight you will experience the cuisine of Chef Moon Pac,” Mrs. Weng continued. “Born in Chonju, South Korea, Moon Pac first learned to cook beside his Malaysian mother. The chef moved from there to some of the finest kitchens in Asia. He apprenticed at Jeolla Hoigwan, then went to Hong Kong and cooked at the Hoi Tin Garden—”