Food Whore by Jessica Tom

ID’d. His ‘disguise’ was bogus, so that’s not an excuse. Believe me, I blame myself more than anyone. But no one in this room gets a pass. Why do we have multiple pictures of the guy in the dining room and in the kitchen? Hasn’t his image been seared into your minds by now? If we don’t notice Michael Saltz—­fat, skinny, bald, even if he’s got a fucking eye patch—­then I shudder to think who else we are missing. We’re clearly being reviewed now, and the four stars are ours to lose. We must treat him like a king. But it is us against him.”
    Jake sat down among us. He adjusted his tie clip and sighed. “The photographs are already done. That means the review can be printed as soon as this week. This restaurant and everyone in this room relies on that man’s words. You and I know that Madison Park Tavern is one of the best. But if we lose that focus, we will die.”
    Jake shook, as if possessed by something much stronger than him. He was a man who took offense when the fork was in the wrong place, suffered shame when a host or hostess didn’t say good-­bye to a guest. And his pain now? Practically visible from space.
    I bit my nails and let his words sink in. The four stars are ours to lose. I hoped that wouldn’t happen. I hoped that my conversation was a little side thing. We just happened upon each other.
    But I knew he’d had a plan to see me. The memory of that night burned so hot into my heart that I was sure my face gave me away. That, or a scarlet MS blazed on my chest.
    â€œCome on, let’s eat these dishes before they get too cold. Let’s get a sense of what Mr. Saltz experienced.”
    In sports, the coaches analyze the tapes, but we were going to experience the game in real time. We sampled all the dishes the photographer had requested. These would be the targets in Michael Saltz’s review.
    As I tasted the food and listened to everyone hypothesize how Michael Saltz could have perceived it, I reviewed my strange conversation with him. I carefully controlled my face in case someone could see that my focus lay elsewhere. I needed to make sense of our basement chat before I reached out to him. He’d started as a reporter, so maybe that was why he was questioning me. He was getting an outside opinion, right? ­People always ask their waiter or waitress about ingredients or recommendations. Looking at it that way, perhaps the whole thing wasn’t so bizarre.
    While ­people crowded around the bar, I stole a peek at Michael Saltz’s receipt to see what he’d decided not to photograph. And then I knew my theory was wrong.
    There on the marble counter was the pork with ras el hanout. But the receipt told a different story: Saltz had ordered the pork loin from the main menu. The other, homier one. One dish could never be mistaken for the other.
    Then why did Michael Saltz tell me and the photographer he got the ras el hanout one?
    After we ate everything, Jake adjourned the meeting, then walked toward my table.
    â€œTia, I wanted to let you know that I’m glad it was you who backserved Michael Saltz for a short time on Saturday. This whole thing?” He waved his finger in a circular motion around the dining room, which was at the height of its grandeur in the dying afternoon light. “This is a big deal in this city. And you’re an important part of it. You’re doing an outstanding job.”
    I clasped my hands so tightly, both my arms trembled. It was a prayer, of sorts. I wished he couldn’t see my guilt. I wished what I’d done wouldn’t change anything. And as I squeezed harder and harder, I wished that I could keep this episode contained. No leaks, no betrayal. No messiness.
    He gave me one last look, a fond one even, then walked away. I felt so relieved that I collapsed onto the banquette and closed my eyes. I wanted to freeze time for a little while, to help my mind