Devour, p.15
Devour, page 15
“No shit. Just think of all the interesting people you’ll meet.”
“I certainly hope so,” she shrugged. “Plan to, anyway.”
Natalie pulled off one top and put on another. Suppressing a grin, she asked, “As interesting as Stephan?”
Kathryn did not look up and kept folding. “Who?”
Natalie grinned. “The producer of your new film?”
“Oh. Yes,” she looked up. “Like him, I suppose.”
“Um, that would be…” she said, cramming a pair of sweats into the suitcase. “The man you’re crushing on?”
With a look of mock surprise, Kathryn said, “Don’t be silly.”
Natalie stopped. “I’m not.”
Kathryn stopped. “You are.”
Fidgeting, Kathryn walked to the closet to browse. Natalie joined her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Mom, Dad may not see it or know about it, but I do. It’s pretty obvious.”
Resigning to the fact, she sighed, “How?”
“The secret calls with quiet voices,” she dramatically whispered, then giggled and returned to packing. “The look on your face when a text comes in. It’s not like your standard response when one of your girlfriends—of which you have few—reaches out. Besides, I saw his number pop up one day. I’d seen it several times before, so, well, I called it.”
Whipping her head, Kathryn snapped, “You what?”
“Well, not actually me. Rachel.”
She got up in her face and pointed at the end of her nose. “You little sneak. What did you learn?”
Giggling, she pushed her Mom’s hand away. “That he’s Italian, has a sexy voice—if you like that sort of warm, sultry charm,” she laughed. “And that he’s had a long string of popular projects he’s produced.”
She nodded.
“As well as a long string of Hollywood starlets.”
“Natalie!”
“Mom!”
They broke out laughing.
“You don’t suppose…” Kathryn began, looking out the corner of her eye. “Your father knows, does he?”
Nothing.
“Nattie?”
A deep sigh. “He does. Suspects it, anyway.”
“Shit.”
She sat on the bed. “But Mom—and I can say this because we live in Mill Valley. Well, Valley-adjacent, anyway,” she grinned. “I am my mother’s daughter and certainly ahead of my time—if you want to call it that.”
“What?”
“Is it any real surprise? And I’m not saying that you two no longer love one another. It’s just, well, you grew up together, you’re still young. Plus, with me now,” she added air-quotes, “Leaving the nest. It’s bound to happen.”
Kathryn began to tear up and whispered, “I know.”
“Oh shit, please don’t start. Or I will, too.” That triggered tears for both of them as they laughed.
Natalie loved that moment. It was one she had wanted for so long but had been too busy, too distracted, or too disengaged to engage.
Taking a deep breath, she asked, “Mom, it’s not too late. Is it?”
Kathryn looked from her hands in her lap to her daughter’s inquiring eyes. “For what, Peanut?”
“For you and me…to be even closer than we have been? And if you and dad were to split…” She touched Kathryn’s hands as she was about to respond. “And I’m not saying you will or would, but please tell me you and I will still remain close.”
Kathryn wiped away another tear and whispered, “Oh, my love. Of course, you’re my angel. My one and only baby girl.”
Looking as though they were about to tear up again, Natalie slapped her hands. “Shit! This is why we don’t have these mother-daughter chats.”
“Why?
“All the crying!”
“Wait,” Kathryn said seriously. “Honey, you don’t think your father is…”
As she stopped, Natalie avoided her gaze.
“Natalie Catherine?”
“Oh, Geez. Do you know how many times you’ve called me by both names?”
Kathryn tried to suppress a grin. “How many?”
“Maybe three times.“ Natalie shook her head. “And it always means—”
“Trouble,” they said simultaneously.
Leaning closer, Kathryn said, “Do you?”
Natalie stopped. “Do I what?”
“Don’t play with me,” she frowned. “We’ve been honest all our lives. We won’t start hiding or lying now. Right?”
Natalie instantly recalled a recent ride to school and a certain pinky promise. “Right.”
“So?”
“Let’s just say he loves you very much, Mom. I know that to be a fact. And you know that to be a fact. And he loves the idea of family. Always has—always will.” Under her breath she added, “Even though he works more than I wish he did.”
“Ditto.”
Natalie changed her body position as she was getting stressed out. “But he, I think—while I can’t be certain about this but would assume it to be, that is—if I were a gambling gal or a betting broad, would—”
“Natalie!” Kathryn snapped. “Stop stalling.”
“You know me too well. I think, feel, uh, have intuited that Dad…really enjoys being around Jasmine.”
She was stunned. “His manager?”
A nod.
She snorted, “She’s like five years younger!”
Natalie cut her a look. “Mom, most guys Dad’s age aim for 10, sometimes 20 years younger. It’s not about a younger model—as insensitive as that may sound, and trust me, you’re still blazing hot—”
She whispered, “Thank you.”
“It’s just that, well, ask any of my girls, or guys for that matter; it’s all about—maybe the word is proximity.”
She frowned.
“Think about it,” Natalie continued. “They work together ten to twelve hours a day, six days a week. At a minimum that’s more time than he spends with us.”
Natalie could see Kathryn getting angry and squeezed her mom’s hands.
“And please, don’t get mad, Mom. Look at the life he’s provided for us. This house, my education, your education. Oh, and our upcoming travel—both of us. He’s made it possible for us to want for nothing. And he loves us, he truly does, Mom.”
She let that sink in, then took a deep breath. “I think more than anything—like a lot of men—he’s just ready for a new adventure.”
Frowning, Kathryn slouched and stuck out her bottom lip. “I know you’re right. And so flipping smart.” Sitting up, she smiled. “And if I’m honest with myself, I’d say I’m doing the same thing. Stephan is three years younger than me, and while—like your father—it’s not about age, it’s about the attention he gives me, the passion he has for me, and the yearning he feels for me.”
“And you for him.”
“Well, yes,” she blushed. “Of course.”
Silence.
“Do you think you two will divorce.”
“Natalie!”
“It’s a fair question.”
“No, you’re right,” she sighed. “I don’t know. But if things continue as they’re going—for both of us—I would say there’s a chance. And the funny thing? Your father is and always has been my best friend. My lover too, but my absolute best friend. And when you have that, it supersedes pretty much all else,” she said. “And it will never change. Even apart, we will always be together. In here,” she pointed to her heart.
“Aw, Mom, you’re such a sweet sap.”
“I know, right?”
Less than an hour after the mother-daughter chat ended, Kathryn returned to Natalie’s bedroom. This time, she walked straight in. “I meant to ask you earlier,” Kathryn said, holding up a cup of hot tea—nodding to see if Natalie wanted any. “Do you like Jasmine?
She shook her head. “Do I like Jasmine?”
“Be honest.”
“She’s nice. Well, that sounded bland—like those girls at school who never get chosen for anything. ‘She’s nice’ usually means she’s either boring or ugly,” she giggled. “Okay, I’d say this. Yes, she’s smart, and from what little I know—trust me when I say that I know very little—I would say he’s interested.”
Kathryn tried to hide her feelings and Natalie eased up.
“And he will likely tell you. Certainly before you tell him about Stephen.”
“I will,” she frowned.
Natalie grinned. “Of course you will.”
“I will,” she cocked her head. “Before I leave.”
Natalie giggled, “Not telling my mother what to do, but I think that’d be a really good idea.”
Kathryn started to leave, then stopped at the door. “So you like her.”
Natalie looked at her mother and knew she had to be honest. “Yes. I think it could be a good fit. That is, of course, if you and my most wonderful father…were not to work out. Hashtag: JustSaying.”
“Okay,” Kathryn said, leaving—adding over her shoulder, “Whatever that hashtag bullshit even means!”
Natalie returned to her packing when Kathryn stuck her head back in and said, “But do you like her…in the same way you like Rachel?”
“MOM!!”
She smirked, “Really?”
Blushing, Natalie took a breath. “Is it that obvious?”
A nod.
“Really?”
Another nod.
She smirked. “For real?”
Grinning, Kathryn stepped back in the room to hug Natalie.
“Look, times have changed, people are more open about how they feel, and you know beyond a doubt that your father and I love you…no matter what.”
Looking from her perfectly painted toenails back to her mother, Natalie said, “Right.”
“So? C’mon and dish!”
34
Top Chef
Caught up in the rhythmic hum of his tires on the grated surface of the Golden Gate Bridge en route to Dévorer, Dalton recalled a time when he was not so obsessed with food. Before his friends and family started calling him weird. Before the special doctors told him he had an eating disorder. And before his mother told him he was a sick and perverted young man with evil in his heart and deceit on his mind.
The way he saw it, people were addicted to any number of things. His mother was hooked on two: the church and the bottle. One gave her comfort; the other fueled her judgment. They were often interchangeable. His father, on the other hand, loved gambling and women. One he could bet on—the other, not count on. They were likewise interchangeable. And his brother loved drugs and boys. He abused them both until one day the more powerful of the two took his life.
Dalton’s singular obsession: Food.
He never married, was not a gambler, did not abuse alcohol or drugs, and was not gay—although he did not mind if any of these gave him attention or pleasure. After all, the end justifies the means. The older he got, the more he ate and the fatter he became. One day, he decided it was time to leave home and the military seemed to be the answer. The problem was the Army had no patience for fat people.
His sergeant was one of the toughest, meanest, strictest, and absolutely fittest 45 year old men he had ever met. His abs were so tight, he would order grunts to punch him in the gut as hard as they could, and if they could make him lose his breath, his balance, or his breakfast, he would give them a week without chores and a weekend of leave.
No one managed to do it—ever.
The best thing that came from his military training was discipline. The worst thing that emerged: a renewed passion for food.
Discipline taught him how to make a bed perfectly, polish shoes to a shine, press a shirt without an iron, run a mile without breaking a sweat, carry more weight on his back than humanly possible, and as it pertained to food: moderate portions. Getting in the best shape of his life was key as it allowed him the leeway to cheat on his diet. His renewed passion for eating came from the Army serving the shittiest food on the planet. He swore to himself once he got out, no one would tell him what to eat ever again. Besides finding a job as a civilian where he could be the leader and muscle people around, he became obsessed with finding the most exotic foods possible.
His “new life” started with sushi, octopus, and calamari, then eel and sea urchins. Sushi bars became a second home. Next came rare beef—both the hard-to-get kind like Wagyu and pure raw meat. In fact, tartare became a new staple. While traveling overseas, he found himself going off the beaten path and trying obscure dishes like cow tongue, monkey brains, sweetbreads—the thymus or pancreas of calves or lambs—and Rocky Mountain oysters or beef testicles.
If it was odd, he was interested. Peculiar was part of the magic.
Through his vast travels, he experienced multiple nationalities—all of whom ate all forms of living things—thus beginning his quest for other protein sources.
Suddenly, a car horn blared from behind. He waved sorry, then hung a right onto Van Ness.
Just minutes from the restaurant, he was feeling a bit intimidated. After all, even though his “old pal” was now Chef Rogan—the most significant Chef in the country, according to Zagat and Fodor’s, both The LA Times and The New York Times as well as Food & Wine and Bon Appetit—Dalton wished he could be listed among the elite.
He could, however, recite the top chefs in the world: Anthony Bourdain was number ten until he passed in 2018, followed by Heston Blumenthal, Thomas Keller, Charlie Trotter, Emeril Lagasse, Paul Bucose, Wolfgang Puck, Marco Pierre White, Gordon Ramsey, and his personal hero, Michael Rogan.
At the corner of California and Mason Streets, he pulled into the Crocker Garage. Exiting, he stopped to admire the Pacific-Union Club, one of the few structures that survived the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and fire.
Stepping into the foyer of Dévorer, Dalton felt like what he imagined a child arriving at Disneyland would feel. Mesmerized by the fixtures, colors, and textures, he entered the restaurant. It was exactly as he expected: Perfect.
Just then, he heard Michael’s voice toward the back. In the next moment, Michael appeared with a confused expression.
Checking his watch, he said, “Hello, Freddie.”
“Hi Michael. And please call me Frederick.”
Shaking hands, Michael said, “Okay, Frederick. I completely forgot you were coming today. Did we confirm a time? Jasmine didn’t—”
“I’m sure we confirmed,” Dalton lied with a dash of charm. “But you know what, perhaps I confirmed it with her and thought I had done so with you. You know what—” he turned to leave, “If this isn’t a good time, I can come back.”
“No, no—you’re here now. Besides, if you just came from work, I know the drive you faced,” he said, checking his watch again. “Tell you what, let’s do this now. But can we move more quickly than I would have originally planned?”
“Sure, sure,” he smiled. “Whatever works best for you. And again, I can do this—”
“No, don’t be silly. Follow me. The wine library, as we like to call it, is this way,” he gestured to follow.
“Michael? I’ll be in and out in fifteen minutes tops. I promise.”
Passing through the luxurious restaurant, Dalton absorbed the lushness and was salivating at all the thoughts he was having. He said, “You know, I’ve been following your career from a distance. You are everywhere—between the TV and radio shows, the cookbooks. Man, if I had your life…I’d spend more time doing nothing than doing more.”
Michael spun and frowned. “Have you been talking to my wife or daughter?” He nervously chuckled before showing his guest into the quiet and temperature controlled space.
Dalton was surprised to find such an impeccable collection, and while gawking said, “Not really. But here’s a funny question. What’s the last great meal you made that you actually sat down and enjoyed?”
Michael stared blankly. “To tell you the truth, I don’t even know.” He waved the comment away like it was nothing and began sharing vast details about the various vintages and their regions. He talked in depth about which wines he thought would pair well with different meats, while others would work well with seafood. He pointed out reds, white, roses, champagnes, ports, and even aperitifs.
“This is fantastic, Michael. I had no idea you had such a collection. How many bottles?”
“While we like to keep our customers guessing, I’ll tell you. Somewhere around six, no, closer to seven hundred. Between here and our basement cellar.”
Dalton whistled.
“So, you mentioned exotic meats. Tell me more about that.”
Dalton felt self-conscious. He wanted to share everything and was not sure why. He needed to give enough information to be intriguing, but not enough to call attention.
“I have superb connections in Japan where I access the very best A5 Wagyu. There’s some exceptional dry-aged beef I get from Washington and Kurobuta pork—which is, as I’m sure you’re aware, the Wagyu of pork. I get it from Snake River Farms. And my favorite includes a wide selection of foie gras—duck, goose, or otherwise,” he grinned.
Michael’s raised eyebrows accented his nodding head. “Impressive,” he said, stopping to jot notes on his clipboard. “I have some really fine accompaniments.”
He put aside his pen, clipboard, and cell phone, and began pulling down wines and setting them aside. “I’ll just guesstimate the number of bottles since I’m not sure your exact number of guests, and I’ll pad my list so you don’t come up short.”
“Good idea, Michael. And whatever we don’t serve with the dinner, I’ll just add to my cellar.”
Dalton knew he was running out of time and had to make his second move. With Michael’s back to him, he retrieved a slender box from his shoulder bag.
35
Knife’s Edge
Jasmine entered the front lobby and suddenly realized she had forgotten to bring her stack of deposits. She was just about to turn the corner when she spotted Dalton and Michael through the window of the wine cellar.
Stopping in her tracks, she whispered, “What the—” then stepped back so they would not see her. Taking a breath, she leaned forward to peek through the thick curtain that separated the lobby from the main room. Both men were animated and acting like old friends. She was about to push through the curtain then suddenly stopped.
“I certainly hope so,” she shrugged. “Plan to, anyway.”
Natalie pulled off one top and put on another. Suppressing a grin, she asked, “As interesting as Stephan?”
Kathryn did not look up and kept folding. “Who?”
Natalie grinned. “The producer of your new film?”
“Oh. Yes,” she looked up. “Like him, I suppose.”
“Um, that would be…” she said, cramming a pair of sweats into the suitcase. “The man you’re crushing on?”
With a look of mock surprise, Kathryn said, “Don’t be silly.”
Natalie stopped. “I’m not.”
Kathryn stopped. “You are.”
Fidgeting, Kathryn walked to the closet to browse. Natalie joined her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Mom, Dad may not see it or know about it, but I do. It’s pretty obvious.”
Resigning to the fact, she sighed, “How?”
“The secret calls with quiet voices,” she dramatically whispered, then giggled and returned to packing. “The look on your face when a text comes in. It’s not like your standard response when one of your girlfriends—of which you have few—reaches out. Besides, I saw his number pop up one day. I’d seen it several times before, so, well, I called it.”
Whipping her head, Kathryn snapped, “You what?”
“Well, not actually me. Rachel.”
She got up in her face and pointed at the end of her nose. “You little sneak. What did you learn?”
Giggling, she pushed her Mom’s hand away. “That he’s Italian, has a sexy voice—if you like that sort of warm, sultry charm,” she laughed. “And that he’s had a long string of popular projects he’s produced.”
She nodded.
“As well as a long string of Hollywood starlets.”
“Natalie!”
“Mom!”
They broke out laughing.
“You don’t suppose…” Kathryn began, looking out the corner of her eye. “Your father knows, does he?”
Nothing.
“Nattie?”
A deep sigh. “He does. Suspects it, anyway.”
“Shit.”
She sat on the bed. “But Mom—and I can say this because we live in Mill Valley. Well, Valley-adjacent, anyway,” she grinned. “I am my mother’s daughter and certainly ahead of my time—if you want to call it that.”
“What?”
“Is it any real surprise? And I’m not saying that you two no longer love one another. It’s just, well, you grew up together, you’re still young. Plus, with me now,” she added air-quotes, “Leaving the nest. It’s bound to happen.”
Kathryn began to tear up and whispered, “I know.”
“Oh shit, please don’t start. Or I will, too.” That triggered tears for both of them as they laughed.
Natalie loved that moment. It was one she had wanted for so long but had been too busy, too distracted, or too disengaged to engage.
Taking a deep breath, she asked, “Mom, it’s not too late. Is it?”
Kathryn looked from her hands in her lap to her daughter’s inquiring eyes. “For what, Peanut?”
“For you and me…to be even closer than we have been? And if you and dad were to split…” She touched Kathryn’s hands as she was about to respond. “And I’m not saying you will or would, but please tell me you and I will still remain close.”
Kathryn wiped away another tear and whispered, “Oh, my love. Of course, you’re my angel. My one and only baby girl.”
Looking as though they were about to tear up again, Natalie slapped her hands. “Shit! This is why we don’t have these mother-daughter chats.”
“Why?
“All the crying!”
“Wait,” Kathryn said seriously. “Honey, you don’t think your father is…”
As she stopped, Natalie avoided her gaze.
“Natalie Catherine?”
“Oh, Geez. Do you know how many times you’ve called me by both names?”
Kathryn tried to suppress a grin. “How many?”
“Maybe three times.“ Natalie shook her head. “And it always means—”
“Trouble,” they said simultaneously.
Leaning closer, Kathryn said, “Do you?”
Natalie stopped. “Do I what?”
“Don’t play with me,” she frowned. “We’ve been honest all our lives. We won’t start hiding or lying now. Right?”
Natalie instantly recalled a recent ride to school and a certain pinky promise. “Right.”
“So?”
“Let’s just say he loves you very much, Mom. I know that to be a fact. And you know that to be a fact. And he loves the idea of family. Always has—always will.” Under her breath she added, “Even though he works more than I wish he did.”
“Ditto.”
Natalie changed her body position as she was getting stressed out. “But he, I think—while I can’t be certain about this but would assume it to be, that is—if I were a gambling gal or a betting broad, would—”
“Natalie!” Kathryn snapped. “Stop stalling.”
“You know me too well. I think, feel, uh, have intuited that Dad…really enjoys being around Jasmine.”
She was stunned. “His manager?”
A nod.
She snorted, “She’s like five years younger!”
Natalie cut her a look. “Mom, most guys Dad’s age aim for 10, sometimes 20 years younger. It’s not about a younger model—as insensitive as that may sound, and trust me, you’re still blazing hot—”
She whispered, “Thank you.”
“It’s just that, well, ask any of my girls, or guys for that matter; it’s all about—maybe the word is proximity.”
She frowned.
“Think about it,” Natalie continued. “They work together ten to twelve hours a day, six days a week. At a minimum that’s more time than he spends with us.”
Natalie could see Kathryn getting angry and squeezed her mom’s hands.
“And please, don’t get mad, Mom. Look at the life he’s provided for us. This house, my education, your education. Oh, and our upcoming travel—both of us. He’s made it possible for us to want for nothing. And he loves us, he truly does, Mom.”
She let that sink in, then took a deep breath. “I think more than anything—like a lot of men—he’s just ready for a new adventure.”
Frowning, Kathryn slouched and stuck out her bottom lip. “I know you’re right. And so flipping smart.” Sitting up, she smiled. “And if I’m honest with myself, I’d say I’m doing the same thing. Stephan is three years younger than me, and while—like your father—it’s not about age, it’s about the attention he gives me, the passion he has for me, and the yearning he feels for me.”
“And you for him.”
“Well, yes,” she blushed. “Of course.”
Silence.
“Do you think you two will divorce.”
“Natalie!”
“It’s a fair question.”
“No, you’re right,” she sighed. “I don’t know. But if things continue as they’re going—for both of us—I would say there’s a chance. And the funny thing? Your father is and always has been my best friend. My lover too, but my absolute best friend. And when you have that, it supersedes pretty much all else,” she said. “And it will never change. Even apart, we will always be together. In here,” she pointed to her heart.
“Aw, Mom, you’re such a sweet sap.”
“I know, right?”
Less than an hour after the mother-daughter chat ended, Kathryn returned to Natalie’s bedroom. This time, she walked straight in. “I meant to ask you earlier,” Kathryn said, holding up a cup of hot tea—nodding to see if Natalie wanted any. “Do you like Jasmine?
She shook her head. “Do I like Jasmine?”
“Be honest.”
“She’s nice. Well, that sounded bland—like those girls at school who never get chosen for anything. ‘She’s nice’ usually means she’s either boring or ugly,” she giggled. “Okay, I’d say this. Yes, she’s smart, and from what little I know—trust me when I say that I know very little—I would say he’s interested.”
Kathryn tried to hide her feelings and Natalie eased up.
“And he will likely tell you. Certainly before you tell him about Stephen.”
“I will,” she frowned.
Natalie grinned. “Of course you will.”
“I will,” she cocked her head. “Before I leave.”
Natalie giggled, “Not telling my mother what to do, but I think that’d be a really good idea.”
Kathryn started to leave, then stopped at the door. “So you like her.”
Natalie looked at her mother and knew she had to be honest. “Yes. I think it could be a good fit. That is, of course, if you and my most wonderful father…were not to work out. Hashtag: JustSaying.”
“Okay,” Kathryn said, leaving—adding over her shoulder, “Whatever that hashtag bullshit even means!”
Natalie returned to her packing when Kathryn stuck her head back in and said, “But do you like her…in the same way you like Rachel?”
“MOM!!”
She smirked, “Really?”
Blushing, Natalie took a breath. “Is it that obvious?”
A nod.
“Really?”
Another nod.
She smirked. “For real?”
Grinning, Kathryn stepped back in the room to hug Natalie.
“Look, times have changed, people are more open about how they feel, and you know beyond a doubt that your father and I love you…no matter what.”
Looking from her perfectly painted toenails back to her mother, Natalie said, “Right.”
“So? C’mon and dish!”
34
Top Chef
Caught up in the rhythmic hum of his tires on the grated surface of the Golden Gate Bridge en route to Dévorer, Dalton recalled a time when he was not so obsessed with food. Before his friends and family started calling him weird. Before the special doctors told him he had an eating disorder. And before his mother told him he was a sick and perverted young man with evil in his heart and deceit on his mind.
The way he saw it, people were addicted to any number of things. His mother was hooked on two: the church and the bottle. One gave her comfort; the other fueled her judgment. They were often interchangeable. His father, on the other hand, loved gambling and women. One he could bet on—the other, not count on. They were likewise interchangeable. And his brother loved drugs and boys. He abused them both until one day the more powerful of the two took his life.
Dalton’s singular obsession: Food.
He never married, was not a gambler, did not abuse alcohol or drugs, and was not gay—although he did not mind if any of these gave him attention or pleasure. After all, the end justifies the means. The older he got, the more he ate and the fatter he became. One day, he decided it was time to leave home and the military seemed to be the answer. The problem was the Army had no patience for fat people.
His sergeant was one of the toughest, meanest, strictest, and absolutely fittest 45 year old men he had ever met. His abs were so tight, he would order grunts to punch him in the gut as hard as they could, and if they could make him lose his breath, his balance, or his breakfast, he would give them a week without chores and a weekend of leave.
No one managed to do it—ever.
The best thing that came from his military training was discipline. The worst thing that emerged: a renewed passion for food.
Discipline taught him how to make a bed perfectly, polish shoes to a shine, press a shirt without an iron, run a mile without breaking a sweat, carry more weight on his back than humanly possible, and as it pertained to food: moderate portions. Getting in the best shape of his life was key as it allowed him the leeway to cheat on his diet. His renewed passion for eating came from the Army serving the shittiest food on the planet. He swore to himself once he got out, no one would tell him what to eat ever again. Besides finding a job as a civilian where he could be the leader and muscle people around, he became obsessed with finding the most exotic foods possible.
His “new life” started with sushi, octopus, and calamari, then eel and sea urchins. Sushi bars became a second home. Next came rare beef—both the hard-to-get kind like Wagyu and pure raw meat. In fact, tartare became a new staple. While traveling overseas, he found himself going off the beaten path and trying obscure dishes like cow tongue, monkey brains, sweetbreads—the thymus or pancreas of calves or lambs—and Rocky Mountain oysters or beef testicles.
If it was odd, he was interested. Peculiar was part of the magic.
Through his vast travels, he experienced multiple nationalities—all of whom ate all forms of living things—thus beginning his quest for other protein sources.
Suddenly, a car horn blared from behind. He waved sorry, then hung a right onto Van Ness.
Just minutes from the restaurant, he was feeling a bit intimidated. After all, even though his “old pal” was now Chef Rogan—the most significant Chef in the country, according to Zagat and Fodor’s, both The LA Times and The New York Times as well as Food & Wine and Bon Appetit—Dalton wished he could be listed among the elite.
He could, however, recite the top chefs in the world: Anthony Bourdain was number ten until he passed in 2018, followed by Heston Blumenthal, Thomas Keller, Charlie Trotter, Emeril Lagasse, Paul Bucose, Wolfgang Puck, Marco Pierre White, Gordon Ramsey, and his personal hero, Michael Rogan.
At the corner of California and Mason Streets, he pulled into the Crocker Garage. Exiting, he stopped to admire the Pacific-Union Club, one of the few structures that survived the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and fire.
Stepping into the foyer of Dévorer, Dalton felt like what he imagined a child arriving at Disneyland would feel. Mesmerized by the fixtures, colors, and textures, he entered the restaurant. It was exactly as he expected: Perfect.
Just then, he heard Michael’s voice toward the back. In the next moment, Michael appeared with a confused expression.
Checking his watch, he said, “Hello, Freddie.”
“Hi Michael. And please call me Frederick.”
Shaking hands, Michael said, “Okay, Frederick. I completely forgot you were coming today. Did we confirm a time? Jasmine didn’t—”
“I’m sure we confirmed,” Dalton lied with a dash of charm. “But you know what, perhaps I confirmed it with her and thought I had done so with you. You know what—” he turned to leave, “If this isn’t a good time, I can come back.”
“No, no—you’re here now. Besides, if you just came from work, I know the drive you faced,” he said, checking his watch again. “Tell you what, let’s do this now. But can we move more quickly than I would have originally planned?”
“Sure, sure,” he smiled. “Whatever works best for you. And again, I can do this—”
“No, don’t be silly. Follow me. The wine library, as we like to call it, is this way,” he gestured to follow.
“Michael? I’ll be in and out in fifteen minutes tops. I promise.”
Passing through the luxurious restaurant, Dalton absorbed the lushness and was salivating at all the thoughts he was having. He said, “You know, I’ve been following your career from a distance. You are everywhere—between the TV and radio shows, the cookbooks. Man, if I had your life…I’d spend more time doing nothing than doing more.”
Michael spun and frowned. “Have you been talking to my wife or daughter?” He nervously chuckled before showing his guest into the quiet and temperature controlled space.
Dalton was surprised to find such an impeccable collection, and while gawking said, “Not really. But here’s a funny question. What’s the last great meal you made that you actually sat down and enjoyed?”
Michael stared blankly. “To tell you the truth, I don’t even know.” He waved the comment away like it was nothing and began sharing vast details about the various vintages and their regions. He talked in depth about which wines he thought would pair well with different meats, while others would work well with seafood. He pointed out reds, white, roses, champagnes, ports, and even aperitifs.
“This is fantastic, Michael. I had no idea you had such a collection. How many bottles?”
“While we like to keep our customers guessing, I’ll tell you. Somewhere around six, no, closer to seven hundred. Between here and our basement cellar.”
Dalton whistled.
“So, you mentioned exotic meats. Tell me more about that.”
Dalton felt self-conscious. He wanted to share everything and was not sure why. He needed to give enough information to be intriguing, but not enough to call attention.
“I have superb connections in Japan where I access the very best A5 Wagyu. There’s some exceptional dry-aged beef I get from Washington and Kurobuta pork—which is, as I’m sure you’re aware, the Wagyu of pork. I get it from Snake River Farms. And my favorite includes a wide selection of foie gras—duck, goose, or otherwise,” he grinned.
Michael’s raised eyebrows accented his nodding head. “Impressive,” he said, stopping to jot notes on his clipboard. “I have some really fine accompaniments.”
He put aside his pen, clipboard, and cell phone, and began pulling down wines and setting them aside. “I’ll just guesstimate the number of bottles since I’m not sure your exact number of guests, and I’ll pad my list so you don’t come up short.”
“Good idea, Michael. And whatever we don’t serve with the dinner, I’ll just add to my cellar.”
Dalton knew he was running out of time and had to make his second move. With Michael’s back to him, he retrieved a slender box from his shoulder bag.
35
Knife’s Edge
Jasmine entered the front lobby and suddenly realized she had forgotten to bring her stack of deposits. She was just about to turn the corner when she spotted Dalton and Michael through the window of the wine cellar.
Stopping in her tracks, she whispered, “What the—” then stepped back so they would not see her. Taking a breath, she leaned forward to peek through the thick curtain that separated the lobby from the main room. Both men were animated and acting like old friends. She was about to push through the curtain then suddenly stopped.
