The chef directed them to a quiet corner. “Let’s see your book, then.”
Rose placed it on the counter, happy to see that he wiped his hands on his apron before handling it.
“This is from the fifties?”
“Nineteen fifty-two, to be exact,” she said. “A man named Sam Buckley compiled it, and we’re trying to find out more about him.”
He spent several moments perusing the text. “Well, I can tell you this much: Sam Buckley was way ahead of his time. No one back then would dare experiment with these spices. Several were unheard of in America until thirty or so years ago. Where did this guy come from?”
“From New York City, originally. But he was abroad during World War Two. We think he wrote this after he got back.”
“These are amazing blends, surprising even today. Let’s try one of them and see.”
He called out a list of herbs from page seventeen of the book to his sous chef, and in no time had a pestle and mortar as well as jars of fresh spices lined up in front of him.
“Nice to have someone do your bidding,” said Jason.
“Like when I used to make you do my science homework.”
Rose turned to Jason. “You were in school together?”
“High school. I did his homework and he fed me homemade pizza after school.”
“Sounds like a fair trade.”
The chef measured out the recommended amounts of each spice, mixing dried cilantro, dried kaffir lime leaves, and pepper.
“This is one of the simpler formulas.” Steven mixed it with lime juice and then chopped up papaya and mango and drizzled the dressing over the cubes. “Preferably, you’d want to dry or cure the spices yourself, to get the optimal flavor. Can you imagine the housewives of that time making something like this? We’re talking about the era when TV dinners first came onto the scene.”
He speared a mango and offered it to Rose. The taste was frighteningly powerful at first, with a sour finish that left Rose wanting more.
“Delicious doesn’t come close to describing this.”
“Agreed,” said Steven. “It’s a complete crime this guy Buckley was never recognized for his genius.”
“Any idea how we might find out more about him?”
“I think I do, actually. Jason knows I’m a pretty major food history geek, and as far as I understand it, the spice trade in New York City was handled by a single person back in the fifties—a man named Benny Kalai. He was originally from Jakarta, but had a storefront in Chinatown and a warehouse in Brooklyn, on the docks. All spices came through him.”
Jason looked at Rose and smiled. “Told you it wasn’t a waste of time.”
She ignored his ribbing and smiled at Steven. “Thank you for letting us stop by.”
“Oh, I can do more than that. Table for two coming right up.” He waved at a passing waiter.
“No, we shouldn’t.” The thought of sitting across from Jason for a fancy dinner unnerved her.
“Are you really refusing a chef who just received three stars in The New York Times?” asked Jason.
Her stomach growled from hunger after the small bite of mango. “You’ve got a point.”
They were seated in a far corner of the restaurant, away from the hubbub of the bar and kitchen, and Jason ordered a bottle of white wine.
“Are you planning on expensing this? I have to warn you, Tyler will not be pleased.”
“Don’t worry. Steven owes me. He would’ve never passed physics if it weren’t for me. We won’t be paying a cent for this meal.”
“Good to have friends in high places.” She sipped the wine, letting the citrus and tannins mingle in her mouth before swallowing. Jason was staring at her. “What?”
“Nothing.” He held up his glass. “Here’s to Darby McLaughlin and Sam Buckley, wherever they may be.”
They clinked glasses and devoured the first course of squid with a hint of lime.
She racked her brain for something to talk about. “Tell me about growing up in New Paltz.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m not. As a city girl born and bred, I picture upstate as Norman Rockwell territory.”
“Far from it. Couldn’t wait to get out. That changed when my mother got ill and I went back to take care of her. Luckily, she wasn’t in too much pain and, at the end, passed quickly. Not the type of lady to linger.”
“I’m sorry, that must’ve been very difficult.” She had no doubt her father would have expressed a similar sentiment about his own decline, if he were able to.
“What about your mother?” Jason asked.
“She disappeared when I was young. We heard she died years later from a drug overdose. My father didn’t like to talk about it.” The vagueness of her mother’s history unsettled her, as always. Normally, she told people that her mother died when she was young and left it at that, but for some reason, Jason’s story brought out the truth. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “What do you think of this Benny Kalai idea? I figure I’ll do some digging and find out what I can about him.”
“There’s no way he’s still alive.”
“True, but maybe we can get some color around what Sam was up to back in the day.”
Jason was looking at her closely; his eyes were very blue. She was struck by how masculine he was. More than Griff, who had the crisply polished appearance of Manhattan’s one percent. Jason was rougher than that. And his speaking voice was rough as well. His quiet confidence appealed to her.
The dinner was more entertaining than Rose had expected. They both knew many of the same journalists, and Jason’s travels around the world were astonishing in scope and detail. By the time they’d finished their dessert, they’d also finished off several glasses of wine and Rose swayed slightly as they fought their way through the crowds and out to the street.
“That was quite a surprise,” she said. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He stood facing her, unmoving.
“I should head home.”
“Share a cab?”
Once again, the driver was the kind who liked to race to the next red light at great speed, then jam on the breaks. “Why is it we attract the daredevils?” Jason murmured.
The driver took a turn onto Park Avenue with no warning, sending Rose careening into Jason’s side.
She laughed and righted herself. “Sorry about that.”
The driver swerved into a different lane and they banged shoulders once again, but this time she stayed where she was. She liked the sensation of his muscled arm against hers. He took her hand in his. “You have beautiful fingers.”
“Thanks.”
The kiss was simple, easy, tasting of wine and sweetness. He didn’t do anything but touch his lips to hers, ever so softly, then pull back and wait to see her reaction.
“Jason,” she said. “We shouldn’t.”
He lifted his head, smiling. “You’re absolutely right. That was awful.”
The cab was nearing Sixty-Third Street. “This is fine. I’ll get out here.”
“Are you sure? We can drop you off at the front door.”
She didn’t want to explain why she couldn’t go in that way, and the fire in her body was not to be trusted.
“Yes. Have a great night, and thanks again.”
Rose was still thinking about Jason when she tripped over Miranda in the stairwell of the Barbizon.
She’d collected Bird for his last walk of the night and was rounding the third-floor landing at a good clip when a pair of jean-clad legs stopped her in her tracks. The girl sat sideways on the top stair, one leg stretched out, the other foot resting on the stair below. Her back was pressed up against a blue-green mosaic embedded in the wall. The painted tiles might have once depicted a churning sea or a lively reef teeming with fish, but time and bleach had worn the animation away. Miranda’s hair curled out prettily against the faded glaze. She had her earphones in and stared down at the screen of her phone, which was cobwebbed with cracks. At Rose’s gasp, she looked up.