Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Read online

  We meaning she. Althea wasn’t one for group decision making. Especially when it came to me. But just at the moment I really wasn’t up to a fight.

  “Oh,” she said, “I almost forgot. Bernice made you breakfast.” Bernice Hartley is Wilson’s wife and the best cook in all the world. Really the absolute best. She makes the most fabulous blueberry muffins. I’ve been trying to figure out the recipe for years.

  Althea waved her hand and, as if conjured, Bernie appeared in the doorway, breakfast tray in hand. In truth, I suspected she’d been listening at the door.

  “So.” Althea beamed as I sat back in bed and Bernie put the tray over my legs. “Everything is arranged. And I’ll be back before you know it.” She leaned down to give me an air kiss and then headed out the door.

  “She certainly knows how to make an exit,” I observed as Bernie sat on the edge of the bed next to me.

  “She’s really worried about you.”

  “I suppose. At least as much as Althea worries about anyone.”

  “Andi,” Bernie chastised.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I’m a bit out of sorts.”

  “Well, that’s not surprising, considering all that you’ve been through. How are you feeling?”

  “A little sore,” I said, rotating my shoulder for emphasis, “but all things considered, it could have been worse.”

  “I meant about Dillon,” she said. I should probably explain that Bernie has been listening to my problems since I was just a kid. She’s been working for my grandmother since before I was born, and her kitchen’s always been a place of refuge. Especially after my mother left. “I know you’re hurting.”

  “Actually, I think I’m sort of numb,” I said over a mouthful of blueberry muffin. “I had no idea he was seeing someone else.”

  “Well, maybe he’s just sowing his oats, so to speak.”

  “He’s sowing something all right.” Diana-fucking-Merreck—if you’ll excuse the pun.

  “I don’t blame you for being bitter, but men just have more doubts than women when it comes to commitment.”

  “Wilson didn’t.” Wilson had loved Bernie almost from the moment he saw her. It had been Bernie who’d taken a little time to come around. But in the end she’d fallen in love and the two of them had been together for over twenty years. No seed sowing in her hayloft.

  “He was rather sure of himself, wasn’t he?” She smiled fondly and then patted me on the leg. “Anyway, I’m sure Dillon will come to his senses and before you know it he’ll be at the door, hat in hand.” The idea of Dillon in a hat, let alone penitent, was laughable.

  “So you really think he’ll come back?” I’ll admit, there was a certain amount of appeal to the idea, if only so that I’d have the opportunity to throw him to the curb.

  “Yes, I do, actually. I’ve seen Diana Merreck, and she can’t possibly hold a candle to you.”

  I smiled, feeling comforted in a familiar sort of way. “So,” I said, changing the subject as I took another bite of muffin, “what about pepper? Could the missing ingredient be Madagascar pepper?”

  “Guess the ingredients” was an old game. One we’d been playing for years. And I figured bringing it up now was as good a way as any to segue away from Dillon’s philandering and the newly installed hope that maybe he’d just made a horrible mistake and, once realized, would come crawling home. Of course, there was also the fact that I really did want to figure out her muffin recipe, and I wasn’t above using my current dejected state to advantage.

  “It’s not pepper,” Bernie said with a sniff. “You’re not really trying.”

  The truth is, Bernie is responsible for my love of cooking and I suppose de facto for my choice of career. As I said, I spent a lot of time in her kitchen. And like many unhappy kids, food had provided a nice distraction. (It’s a wonder that I don’t weigh three hundred pounds.)

  Anyway, it became a game to try and guess the ingredients in one of Bernie’s recipes. I started out with easy things like chocolate chip cookies or my favorite spaghetti sauce. And it seemed I had a knack for it. So once I’d mastered the basics, I’d moved on to more complicated challenges, like divining the secrets for making killer gnocchi or homemade tamales.

  And from there I’d moved out of Bernie’s kitchen, taking the whole thing to a higher level—copying the signature dishes of some of the finest chefs in the world.

  I mean, this is Manhattan, a veritable bastion of culinary brilliance. What better place to taste a fabulous dish and try to identify all the different ingredients that make it so special? And it turned out I was good at it.

  So good, in fact, that I managed to parlay it into a career— starting with a column in one of the dailies, followed by an early morning segment on one of the local shows. And that, along with a little divine inspiration from my friend Clinton Halderman, had led to my show on the Gourmet Channel.

  Not bad for a little girl lost.

  Anyway, without Bernie it never would have happened.

  “I am trying,” I said. “Pepper is a valid guess. There’s a wonderful pound cake made with black pepper. And if someone didn’t tell you it was there, you’d never know it. But the spice enhances the vanilla and in my opinion makes it one of the best cakes around.”

  “Yes, but it’s not enhanced vanilla you’re tasting, is it?”

  I frowned, concentrating, and took another bite, savoring the flavor of the muffin. Blueberries, butter, eggs, cream, and coconut. The latter is what made Bernie’s muffins truly unique and amazingly moist. But there was still something else. Some ingredient I’d never been able to put a finger on. I’d made batch after batch, but it was never quite right.

  And Bernie wasn’t telling.

  “No, not vanilla. But I fell down a cellar so I’m not at my best.” I sighed, resisting the urge to put hand to head.

  “Nice try,” she said. “But I’m still not telling. You’ll figure it out. Eventually .. .”

  I sighed again, just for good measure, and finished the muffin. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then maybe you’re not as good as you think you are.”

  “Now that’s a dagger to my heart.” I feigned horror.

  “Oh, please,” she said, leaning over to plump my pillows. “I’m your biggest fan. Wilson even TiVo’s the show, and you know he normally doesn’t watch television unless there’s sport involved. What I want to know is when they’re going to move you to prime time?”

  “You and me both.” I shrugged. It was actually a bone of contention. My producer believed that we were ready. But the network wasn’t as sure. “My numbers are good, so I figure when the time is right, it’ll happen.”

  “Which reminds me. I heard an interesting tidbit the other day.” Bernie was always in the know about what was new in the city. Her network of in-house domestics rivaled the CIA when it came to extracting juicy bits of information.

  “So tell,” I prompted with a little smile, enjoying Bernie’s obvious excitement.

  “Philip DuBois is here in New York.” As news went, this really was big. Especially in the culinary world.

  Philip DuBois was considered one of the most talented chefs in the world. Originally from France, he’d opened five-star restaurants in most of the world’s hot spots, and a few not so hot, which interestingly enough had immediately put those cities on the map. In a world of celebrity chefs he was the certified king.

  I’d been following his career for years, and Bernie knew how much I admired him.

  “For a conference?” I asked. Manhattan’s status as a culinary capital means the city’s a draw for all kinds of events and seminars, and world-class chefs of DuBois’ caliber are in high demand to headline such occasions.

  “No,” she said with a smile, clearly enjoying the moment. “He’s opening a new restaurant.”

  “Where in the world did you hear that?”

  “From Lois Miller—she had an interview for housekeeper. Apparently, he’s bought an apartment and is hiring sta
ff.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s opening a restaurant,” I said. “He’s gone on record saying he’d never come back here.”

  Years ago DuBois had owned a restaurant called Bijou. It was a smashing success—a five-star affair—-until he abdicated his role as chef to one of his staff. No one knows exactly what happened, but he left Manhattan and went back to France. And the rest is the stuff of legend. The man is an enigma. Which makes him all that much more fascinating.

  “I guess he changed his mind.” Bernie shrugged. “Lois was very definite on the matter. The place is going to be called Chére, and it’s supposed to open sometime this fall. DuBois is here to get it up and running.”

  “Did she say anything about cuisine?”

  “French.” Bernie nodded. “Something about going back to his roots, I think.”

  “Oh my God, this is huge. Any idea where the new restaurant is going to be?”

  “No. Apparently, they’re keeping that hush-hush. At least for now. But Lois is going back for a second interview. I suspect she’ll know more after that.” I’m telling you, never underestimate the domestics of Manhattan.

  “Well, it’s fabulous news,” I said. “DuBois trained under major chefs like Michel Guerard and Roger Vergé. He’s amazing. He’ll be like the jewel in Manhattan’s culinary crown. I can’t wait.”

  “I’m just glad to see you smile.” She glanced down at her watch. “Oh, heavens, look at the time. You’re due downstairs in half an hour. So I’d best let you be getting on with it.” With a last poke at the pillow, she smiled and left the room, leaving me alone— totally, completely alone.

  Without Dillon.

  Without anyone.

  I patted Bentley, who was looking at me as if to say, ‘What am I, chopped liver’, and felt a rush of self-pity. It really wasn’t fair. But then, life wasn’t about fair. And I wasn’t a wallower. So with forced determination, I finished my breakfast, then headed for the bathroom, a shower, and some serious pharmacological help.

  Less than an hour later, I was standing in Chelsea outside the doors to my studio wondering if maybe three Vicodin mightn’t have been the better way to go.

  Chapter 4

  A hush fell over the normally bustling studio as I walked in, and I hesitated on the threshold, wondering how in the world news could travel so fast. But then, this was Manhattan. Clinton Halderman was the first to speak.

  “You look like hell.”

  Clinton and I had met ages ago when he was opening his first restaurant in Manhattan. I was doing a feature on new chefs, and had scheduled an interview. Our conversation had lasted late into the night, and after several bottles of wine, a fabulous risotto, and the best crème brûlée I’ve ever eaten, I not only had a great article, I had a new friend and culinary adviser. So when I’d decided to try for my own show, it was only natural that I’d turned to Clinton for advice.

  He’d seen the kernel of something interesting in my early morning segments, taken that tidbit, and fleshed it out. The result being What’s Cooking in the City. Although billed as my creative consultant, he was actually the heart of the show, working on all aspects of production.

  “Thanks for the charming endorsement,” I said, wincing through a smile. “If it helps, it looks worse than it feels. You don’t look surprised; how’d you find out?”

  “You made the Post. ‘Epicurean Socialite Tumbles into Black Hole of Despair.’ Page Six. At least there weren’t photos.”

  “Oh, God," I sighed. “I didn’t even think to look. What else did it say?”

  “Basically, that Dillon’s defection led to a champagne pity party that ended with a headfirst dive into a bodega cellar.”

  “There was no pity party,” I insisted, shaking my head. “It was just an accident. I was upset.”

  “Justifiably,” he sniffed. Clinton was loyal to a fault. “Anyway, it’ll be old news by tomorrow. And I’m sure Margaret can do something to fix your face.” Margaret was the show’s makeup artist. “The prep work’s already done. We’ve just been waiting for you.”

  “Where’s Cassie?”

  If Clinton was my right hand, Cassandra Harper was my left. An up-and-coming producer, Cassie was being groomed for the big time. Her love of food had landed her in my circle and, sharing common interests, we’d become friends. When Clinton had brought her the idea for the show, she’d instantly recognized its value, and, lucky for me, had the clout to make something happen. Three nail-biting meetings later she’d managed to convince the network that America wanted a little innuendo with their perfectly prepared bouillabaisse, and a month later, What’s Cooking in the City had hit the airwaves.

  “She’s at a meeting upstairs. The big brass are in from Dallas.”

  A part of Texas-based Vision Quest, the Gourmet Channel was only five years old. Designed to compete in the burgeoning food-as-entertainment market, the network’s chief competitors were the Food Network (also conveniently housed above Chelsea Market) and California-based Bravo, home to ratings-winning Top Chef.

  The original idea for the Gourmet Channel sprang from Vision Quest’s VP of artistic development, Tim Grubbin, who is also responsible for POW! (a ratings-busting superhero channel) and Two Hankies (romantic programming for women, taking on Lifetime, Oxygen, and WE). The baby of the group, Gourmet Channel was meant to feature high-end cuisine with a dash of glitterati thrown in for good measure.

  “Did I know about this meeting?” I asked as I settled into the makeup chair, allowing Margaret to work her magic.

  “No.” Clinton sat in the chair next to mine. “Apparently, it was a last-minute thing. And judging from her face, not at all expected.”

  “That sounds worrisome.” I frowned and Margaret tsked.

  “No need to be concerned,” Clinton assured. “Ratings for the show are up. And we’ve got solid national advertising support. I imagine it’s just some sort of business thing. And frankly, that’s why we’ve got Cassie.”

  “You’re probably right. Besides, it’s not like I don’t have other things on my mind.” I tilted my chin as Margaret gently rubbed foundation onto my skin to cover up my bruises.

  “I really am sorry about Dillon,” Clinton said.

  “Me, too. But there’s nothing I can do about it. So I’m just trying to soldier on.”

  “You sound like Althea. Soldiering is her kind of activity.”

  “I spent the morning with her. I guess it rubbed off. Anyway, it’s useless to whine about something I can’t change.”

  “That’s a good attitude, but in my mind revenge is always the better avenue.” His smile was a little wicked, and despite myself, I smiled, too.

  “What have you got in mind?”

  His grin broadened. “Well,” he leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice, “it just so happens that Ms. Merreck owns a piece of Mardi Gras.”

  Once a month we do a segment reviewing the opening of a new restaurant in the city. Sometimes, if we like the restaurant, we have the chef on to cook one of his or her dishes. Other times, when we’re not being so favorable, Clinton does the segment with me, and we cook an appropriate dish while discussing the restaurant’s failures.

  This month we were doing Mardi Gras. And the review wasn’t good.

  “How in the world did you stumble upon that little piece of information?”

  He shrugged, opening his hands in the age-old sign for innocence. “Inquiring minds…”

  “Oh, please, you were digging for dirt.”

  “And hit a payload.” Clinton nodded, his expression smug.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely. I had dinner last week with an old friend. He’d lost out on the sous chef position at Mardi Gras and was grousing about it. And in the course of the conversation he mentioned Diana. So this morning, I called around to verify. And it’s absolutely positively true. Apparently, Diana has a small fortune invested. Which means that if it fails, she’ll have eggs Benedict all over her plastically enhanced f
ace.”

  “I have to admit the idea is appealing. But—”

  “But what? You have her right where you want her—it’s perfect.”

  I sighed, sorting through my cascading thoughts. I wasn’t the vengeful type, but the restaurant honestly wasn’t any good. So what harm could there be in twisting the knife a little? “I think you’re giving me more power than I actually have.”

  “Maybe. But the truth is that people watch the show. And even more importantly, our reviews are often picked up by local print media. Which means that word will travel.”

  “And the restaurant really is awful. So it’s not like we’d be lying.”

  “Absolutely not. But who can blame us if we pour it on a little thick. Boyfriend-stealing hussy.” He wrinkled his nose with a disgusted shake of his head.

  “I really do hate her.” And Clinton was right, revenge would be sweet.

  “So let’s bring her restaurant down.”

  “All done,” Margaret said, a smile lifting the side of her normally taciturn mouth. “And just for the record, if it were me, I’d go for it. Hell hath no fury and all that…”

  Clinton waggled his eyebrows in agreement as I walked into the dressing room to change. A few moments later, suitably clad, I joined him on set.

  Everything was ready to go, including three versions of the jambalaya we were cooking. With only thirty minutes to do the show, and only two segments of that dedicated to the dish of the day, there wasn’t time to complete a dish on air. So, through the wonder of television, whatever I was cooking magically moved from one stage to the next in a matter of seconds thanks to the wonderful chefs in the network’s prep kitchen.

  Frank the cameraman signaled positions and, with a smile that was part Vicodin and part girl on fire, I opened the segment.

  “Welcome back. Today we’re celebrating the fiery tastes of Louisiana cooking. And in this segment we’ll finish making our jambalaya and find out what our guest chef thinks of Manhattan’s newest Creole restaurant, Mardi Gras. But first let’s check our veggies. We’ve got chopped green pepper, onion, and celery sautéing in a little olive oil.” I closed my hand on the handle of a saucier and gave the simmering vegetables a gentle toss.