Espresso Shot

faced the alley.

While the youth opened the unlocked front door, I glanced up the block and spied the men who’d been loitering in front of the Taiwan Center. Were they fellow dinner guests?

I was about to ask our waiter but never got the chance. He hustled us into a foyer, and a wave of cooking scents washed over us: Indian and Asian spices, seared meat, and a peppery smell that woke up my tear ducts.

“Positively delightful!” Roman closed his eyes and waved his hands like a parfumeur experiencing a riot of new scents.

We were ushered into a cozy living room with powder-blue walls covered with family photos. Floor lamps gave the space a soft glow. At the far end of the room was a nook of a dining space. A long, narrow table started in that small room and flowed out of it, reaching well into the living room. It was set for ten. Three couples were already seated, sipping wine and speaking with a stocky man who stood over them. As we entered, the well-dressed group turned in their seats to greet Roman, who seemed to know them all.

“This is Clare Cosi, everyone. She’s the manager of the Village Blend.”

In a rush, everyone shouted their names. They were all Caucasian and appeared to be prosperous professionals in their thirties and forties. One man stood out, however. Younger than the rest, I recognized him from the uncannily accurate caricature on his Web site.

“Chef Perry!” Roman said, “Clare’s been dying to meet you.”

Ack. So much for subtlety.

Neville Perry stood up. I quickly stepped forward and offered my hand. He shook it firmly.

“I’m flattered to meet a fan.”

Wearing a Levi’s jacket over a loose Hawaiian shirt, the chef was no older than thirty. His spiky hair was platinum blond (obviously bleached, since his goatee was dark brown), and I noticed the glint of a silver loop in his ear. The striking contrast of perfectly even white teeth against a salon-perfect tan screamed Hollywood. So did the way his shirt was open at the neck to flaunt as much bronzed flesh as possible.

His eyes were the pale-green color of honeydew melon, and they checked me out so quickly from head to toe I would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching.

“So, Clare…” He smiled. “Were you a fan of my canceled reality show, my defunct restaurant, or my Prodigal Chef blog?”

“Oh, all three,” I said, surprised by the dry humor in the man’s tone. Self-deprecation was the last thing I expected from this guy.

“Well, that’s really nice of you to say. Have any favorite episodes? Or dishes?”

“It’s really your Web site that’s got my attention lately.”

“That’s great, too.” Neville glanced at Roman. “I’m happy you’re socializing with someone besides your gossip-mongering, yellow journalist buddies.” Neville slapped his forehead. “Wait a minute! I forgot. You’re one of those gossip-mongering, yellow journalists, aren’t you?”

“Oh, Neville. You’re jealous because I actually get paid for my writing. By the way, I’ve been wondering. What do you do for a living?”

Chef Perry winked at me. “I wonder if our food critic gets paid by the word or by the pound?”

Roman rolled his eyes. “Ersatz cheese is sold by the pound, Neville. That would be your department.”

Our escort reappeared, minus his hooded jacket, bearing a tray of wine. Roman accepted a glass, sniffed it with theatrical trepidation, then took a sip and made a face.

Perry lifted his chin in my direction. “I’ll bet Clare doesn’t think my blogs are crap.”

Roman raised a finger. “I didn’t say crap. I said ersatz cheese. There is a minor difference. Considering your reputation, it’s one you should recognize.”

Though the men were throwing comments as prickly as cactus leaves, I didn’t get the impression Neville Perry actually disliked Roman.

“Man, I hope we eat soon.” Perry glanced at his bling-heavy watch. “These aromas are making me ravenous.”

“Anything to clean my palate of this subpar wine,” Roman said, plopping his glass on the table.

“We’re still waiting for someone to arrive,” said one of the other guests.

Just then a loud voice boomed from the foyer. “I’m here, all! Start ringing the dinner bell!”

Roman looked as though he’d just sampled something more displeasing than the “subpar” wine. He turned to Neville. “Well, Perry, it appears you’re not the only show biz chef to taint us with his presence this evening.”

“Oh my God. Rafe Chastain is here,” burbled a woman at the table.

I knew Chastain by reputation, but I never expected the Adventure Channel’s infamous Exotic Food Hunter at Large to show up at a place like this. The man looked much the same as he did on my TV: a leanly muscled charmer with a face well lined from years spent under the harsh sun (not to mention his decades of hard living, if the man’s reputation for drinking, drugging, and daring was accurate). He wore his Egyptian cotton shirt open at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves, and his long legs sported tight black denims over pointed snakeskin boots.

Chastain’s television travels had taken him all over the world in search of new culinary experiences, which often involved eating the kind of stuff I’d run away from, not put in my mouth. We’re talking bugs, snakes, lizards, rats, along with the occasional feast of entrails, gizzards, and other questionable parts of animals, domesticated and wild.

I’d seen the show once or twice but was more familiar with the serious culinary articles he’d written for the New Yorker, GQ, and Food & Wine.

Intimidated by the celebrity’s entrance, no one rose to greet him. Mostly they just gawked, as if the man were still on display behind their high-def screens. Out of politeness I stepped forward.

“Hello, Mr. Chastain, my name’s Clare-”

“Nice to meet you, honey.” He gripped my hand, glanced down my blouse, and looked right past me. “Where’s the booze?”

EIGHTEEN

THE waiter with the wine tray approached, and Rafe Chastain snagged two glasses for himself. He downed one immediately and set the empty glass back on the tray. That’s when he noticed two familiar faces in the room.

“Roman. Neville,” he said, nodding in their general directions. Then he ran his fingers through his short, iron-gray hair, showing off the tattoos on his gangly forearms. Finally, he sniffed the air.

“Yum-yum. Something smells good.”

Frowning, Neville Perry glanced at his watch again. “I hope the food hasn’t gone cold. It’s been so long.”

Chastain smirked at the dig but held back his reply when he saw an older Asian woman bowing graciously before us.

“I’m Mrs. Weng. Welcome to my house.”

“Quiet, kids. The show’s starting,” Chastain loudly whispered.

“Tonight you will experience the cuisine of Chef Moon Pac,” Mrs. Weng continued. “Born in Chonju, South Korea, Moon Pac first learned to cook beside his Malaysian mother. The chef moved from there to some of the finest kitchens in Asia. He apprenticed at Jeolla Hoigwan, then went to Hong Kong and cooked at the Hoi Tin Garden -”

“I’m impressed,” Chastain interrupted before draining his second glass.

“Now he’s here,” the woman added, “and Chef Pac is ready to bring his unique fusion of Eastern cuisine to America. Please be seated.”

Chastain snatched another glass of wine from the waiter’s tray and suddenly hooked my arm. “Clare, wasn’t it? Come sit beside me, honey.”

“But I was speaking with Neville-”

“Yeah, Rafe, hands off,” Perry said. “I saw her first.”

“Gentlemen,” Roman interrupted. “Clare accompanied me to the ball.”

Chastain shrugged but failed to release me. “Fine. Then you two Flying Monkeys can sit next to us.”

Roman sniffed. “That’s Mr. Flying Monkey to you!”

Chastain took the seat at the far end of the table, near the house’s back patio door, and plopped me down beside him. I quickly offered Neville Perry the seat to my right. Roman settled into the chair across the table. Then the waiters streamed in with the first course.

“Malaysian hotcakes with curry dipping sauce,” our hostess announced.

A platter with a pile of hot, sticky dough, thin as tissue paper, sat beside a bowl containing a breast portion of chicken in a curry-colored sauce.

“Do they have to serve it with the bones?” asked a woman at the other end of the table.

Chef Chastain smirked. “The bones are where the flavor is, baby. They make the sauce rich and savory.” He tore into the thin pancake and plunged it into the bowl of hot sauce.

“This roti is the best Malaysian flatbread I’ve ever tasted,” Perry declared, his mouth still full.

“The sauce is piquant,” Roman noted. “It’s reminiscent of murgh makhani-classic Indian butter chicken-but without the tomato base.”

“Mmmmm. Besides the ginger, I taste garlic, coriander, cumin, and white pepper,” Chastain said. “Too much white pepper.”

“A few too many sprigs of lemongrass, as well,” Roman said.

Neville Perry caught my eye. “And a few too many critics. Don’t you think, Clare?”

I couldn’t argue. The crepelike pancake was so moist and delicious it almost tasted fried. And the dipping sauce was luxuriously succulent-buttery smooth yet spicy with the faintest kiss of heat. But I wasn’t here for the food. As I chewed and swallowed, I considered my next step with Perry.

Just go for it, Clare. Reel him in, pull the rug out, and see how he reacts.

I waited for the next course to come, ipol poh piah, a steamed Malaysian spring roll stuffed with white turnip, egg, onions, minced dried shrimp, and a salty fish