“I’m impressed,” Chastain interrupted before draining his second glass.
“Now he’s here,” the woman added, “and Chef Pac is ready to bring his unique fusion of Eastern cuisine to America. Please be seated.”
Chastain snatched another glass of wine from the waiter’s tray and suddenly hooked my arm. “Clare, wasn’t it? Come sit beside me, honey.”
“But I was speaking with Neville—”
“Yeah, Rafe, hands off,” Perry said. “I saw her first.”
“Gentlemen,” Roman interrupted. “Clare accompanied me to the ball.”
Chastain shrugged but failed to release me. “Fine. Then you two Flying Monkeys can sit next to us.”
Roman sniffed. “That’s Mr. Flying Monkey to you!”
Chastain took the seat at the far end of the table, near the house’s back patio door, and plopped me down beside him. I quickly offered Neville Perry the seat to my right. Roman settled into the chair across the table. Then the waiters streamed in with the first course.
“Malaysian hotcakes with curry dipping sauce,” our hostess announced.
A platter with a pile of hot, sticky dough, thin as tissue paper, sat beside a bowl containing a breast portion of chicken in a curry-colored sauce.
“Do they have to serve it with the bones?” asked a woman at the other end of the table.
Chef Chastain smirked. “The bones are where the flavor is, baby. They make the sauce rich and savory.” He tore into the thin pancake and plunged it into the bowl of hot sauce.
“This roti is the best Malaysian flatbread I’ve ever tasted,” Perry declared, his mouth still full.
“The sauce is piquant,” Roman noted. “It’s reminiscent of murgh makhani—classic Indian butter chicken—but without the tomato base.”
“Mmmmm. Besides the ginger, I taste garlic, coriander, cumin, and white pepper,” Chastain said. “Too much white pepper.”
“A few too many sprigs of lemongrass, as well,” Roman said.
Neville Perry caught my eye. “And a few too many critics. Don’t you think, Clare?”
I couldn’t argue. The crepelike pancake was so moist and delicious it almost tasted fried. And the dipping sauce was luxuriously succulent—buttery smooth yet spicy with the faintest kiss of heat. But I wasn’t here for the food. As I chewed and swallowed, I considered my next step with Perry.
Just go for it, Clare. Reel him in, pull the rug out, and see how he reacts.
I waited for the next course to come, ipol poh piah, a steamed Malaysian spring roll stuffed with white turnip, egg, onions, minced dried shrimp, and a salty fish paste. Roman and Chastain began discussing the benefits of dried versus fresh herbs and spices, and I laid my hand on Neville’s.
Time to get down to business.
“You’re a pretty popular guy among my employees,” I said, summoning a warm (hopefully trustworthy) smile. “In fact, one of my baristas swore you were near our coffeehouse the other night. Or maybe it was last night?”
“The Village Blend?” Neville shrugged. “Could be. I hang in the Village a lot, when I’m not downtown.”
“Is that where you live?” I leaned toward him. “Downtown?”
He smiled flirtatiously. “I can give you my number if you like. See, I’m transitioning. I had to move out of my old place; now I’m checking different neighborhoods to see what suits me.”
“You should try the Village,” I said. “Someplace historic. Or are you more interested in the modern amenities? The apartments in the Time Warner Center are luxurious. I was there today, at Trend’s offices, visiting my friend Breanne Summour...”
That did it. Neville had been fine conversing with Roman earlier. At the first mention of Breanne’s name, the freshness of Neville’s smile expired. I saw his reaction and decided to up the pressure.
“I read that piece on your site. You know, the one about ‘serving’ Breanne? A little too Hannibal Lecter, don’t you think? Or is it just that you don’t like my friend very much?”
Neville dropped his flat bread. “What I don’t like, Clare, are bullies. Especially so-called trendsetters who wield their huge circulation and massive advertising base like a sword over everyone’s head. A sword that’s always ready to chop you off at the knees.”
Head? Knees? Brother, this guy was into chopping body parts. Now he just needs to say the right words, threaten Breanne with harm, violence, something specific. Come on, Neville...
Reaching for his napkin, Neville sat back in his chair. “Anyway, your friend Breanne is big enough to take my insults. Believe me, she has them coming. That’s why I started my blog. Thanks to the Internet, magazines and newspapers no longer have a lock on taste or opinion. In my blog, everyone out there can hear what I have to say. The other side of the story—”
“Wow,” Roman interrupted. “There’s another side to serving up expired poultry, seafood, and produce to your customers? Please, Neville. Let’s hear it.”
Neville narrowed his pale-green eyes. “For one thing, Brio, those products weren’t expired. They were frozen and thawed, not that I’d expect Ms. Summour to tell the truth. Okay, not the freshest ingredients, maybe. But at that point the restaurant was in trouble. I had to cut corners to keep the dream alive and protect the livelihood of my employees.”
“If you cared so much for your staff, why did you gouge their tips?” Roman demanded, all playfulness gone from his tone. (I’d almost forgotten how he’d started out in this town—as a lowly waiter, dependent on tips to make the rent.)
Neville met Roman’s accusing gaze, leaned forward, and pounded his fist on the table hard enough to shake the wine-glasses. Conversations stopped, and the other diners looked his way.
“Just because your boss published that crap, doesn’t make it true. I was cleared by the arbitration board. I’m still waiting for Summour to print a retraction—”
Okay, here we go. Threaten Breanne now, buddy, get it out...
“And I’ll tell you one more thing—”
“Jesus Christ!” Chef Chastain spat. “Will you give it a rest. Some of us are here for a relaxing evening!” He lowered his voice. “I’d like to digest.”
Perry’s flushed face glanced around. “Sorry,” he said and sat back in his chair.
Damn! Chastain’s outburst effectively doused Perry’s rage. I was annoyed at first—he’d been so close to a real threat—but then I thought it over.
Would an adolescent mind close to homicidal rage really be able to control his temper so fast?
“Ikan bakar,” the hostess announced.
“How delightful,” Roman said, his own fury dissipating in the tempting aromatics of the newly arrived dish.
“What is it?” I asked quietly.
He leaned toward me. “It’s a Malaysian dish of seafood grilled using fragrant charcoal.”
“Is that all you’ve got for her, Brio?” Chastain drained another glass of wine and turned toward me. “Ikan bakar means ‘burnt fish’ in Malay, honey. The seafood is marinated in a slew of spices and a chili and fermented shrimp paste called sambal belacan.”
The tight space filled with a charcoal aroma as the plates were served. Each dish contained three strips of seared white flesh with blackened edges and visible grill marks, served on a banana leaf.