Spiced to Death Read Free

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    If America is a melting pot, then New York is a cooking pot. Surely no city in the world has so many eating places and such an enormous variety of ethnic cultures on which they are based. There cannot be any cuisine in the world which is not represented in New York.
    We were in the Mondragon, one of Manhattan’s newer eating establishments. The canopied entrance was in soft French blue with gold lettering. Inside, the stained-glass ceiling panels, the elegant mahogany-railed curving staircase leading to the upper dining level and the luxurious leaf-patterned carpet made a sumptuous background. Don caught me looking around.
    “Don’t worry—the food’s as good as the decor.”
    He ordered a bottle of champagne by way of celebration—it was the Dom Ruinart Brut Blanc de Blancs.
    “Well, that tells me one thing about the buyer of the Ko Feng—he’s paying well for this job,” I said, knowing that the price tag would be close to $100 for the bottle.
    Don nodded. “You were asking about him. Name’s Alexander Marvell. He was in the restaurant business for many years, then went into the food importing field here in New York. When I first opened the Spice Warehouse, he bought some turmeric from me. It was from Alleppey in India—the very best kind as you know. I’ve sold him a couple of other shipments since then but that’s all. I was surprised when he picked me for this assignment.”
    “Willard recommended you, that’s why Marvell picked you,” said Peggy.
    “Willard Cartwright is Marvell’s right-hand man,” Don explained.
    “Nobody better qualified than you, surely,” I said. “The Spice Warehouse must have put you in the forefront of spice experts.”
    “It’ll work the other way too,” Peggy added. “There’s a lot of prestige involved here—should boost business in the warehouse by a few percent.”
    The wine waiter brought the champagne and opened it expertly, enough of a pop to satisfy but not enough to make heads turn. It bubbled perfectly into the glasses and we drank and studied the menus.
    Don and I both decided on the Oysters Rockefeller while Peggy chose the crab meat with avocado and lemon grass with a red pepper coulis. For the main course, Peggy and Don had the rack of lamb while I ordered the Jarret de Veau à l’Italienne —a refined French version of osso buco, one of my favorite dishes.
    We finished the champagne and Don ordered a Diamond Creek Cabernet Sauvignon. The appetizers were excellent and so were the main courses. Don and Peggy’s rack of lamb was rosy red and oozing with taste, they told me. My slowly cooked veal shank had been sprinkled with gremolata, that wonderful blend of garlic, parsley and lemon zest, and it was slightly dry rather than being drenched in braising juices, a common fault with this dish. The imaginative accompaniment was a purée of white beans.
    The waiters were prompt and attentive, and Don and I compared service in New York restaurants with their counterparts in London.
    “Many’s the time I’ve had to wait thirty minutes for a check in London,” Don said, “even in the West End. Some restaurants seem to have a positive aversion to bringing it.”
    “English middle-class disdain for any dealings with money,” said Peggy. “Anyway, waiting for the check never bothered you—you’d just order another bottle of wine.”
    “Isn’t that out of character for a nation of shopkeepers?” I asked.
    “We never were,” Peggy said. “That was just Napoleon’s way of showing his contempt.”
    “Or his ignorance,” added Don.
    We sipped the wine. “Meanwhile,” I said, “back at the Spice Ranch with the Ko Feng …”
    Don laughed. “The way it was found, you mean? Alexander Marvell was in Saigon negotiating a contract for rice—that’s one of his biggest commodities. One of the men he was talking to mentioned a cinnamon plantation that he thought Marvell ought to take a look at. Marvell doesn’t handle that many spices so he