abutting the lake. A group of hardy members of the Audubon Society stood in the downpour peering through their binoculars. According to the Mountain Journal, rotten weather or no, the birders were making daily walks around the lake in hopes of a second sighting of a long-billed curlew.
Sam cleared his throat with a frightened squeak and twisted in his modified Adirondack-style chair. Tony consulted his sculptured nails, gnawed his bottom lip, brushed more imaginary dust off his white shirt, then shot me another questioning look. Clearly, Marla hadn’t been as persnickety a taste-tester as I was turning out to be.
“Goldy?” said Tony. “I like to involve the common folk. A little nine-year-old kid next door told me to buy Clearly Canadian. I did, and made a mint on flavored water. Got another tip from Zane Smythe. Know who he is?”
I nodded. Zane is a local fisherman who teaches fly tying and writes articles on fishing for the Mountain Journal.
“Zane tipped me onto Timberland. I’ve done real well going long on backpacks and water.” Tony lowered his voice. “Things aren’t going so great now, as you know. And in addition to everything else, my taste buds are shot.”
Sam murmured, “Yours and everyone else’s in that firm.” They were the first words he’d spoken.
Marla put a friendly hand on Tony’s elbow. “Honey, if I’d put jalapeno jelly on English muffins every morning for the last ten years, my taste buds would be gone, too. It’s one of the laws of food.”
Tony removed Marla’s hand from his elbow. “Will you stop?” Now he gave me the full benefit of his dark brown eyes. “I need you to be honest, Goldy. If you approve of Sam’s offerings, I’ll round up the cash so he can open two more locations.” He paused. “Actually, you need to do more than approve… .”
Marla flapped a hand in my direction. “You need to love it, Goldy. You need to say it’s going to be the next nationwide rage. Like Mrs. Field’s, right, Tone?” Tony shrugged. “Like Starbucks,” she whispered.
I didn’t dare look at Sam. Outside, rain fell. The birders gingerly trod through the soggy wetlands. I lifted the spoon and took another bite. No better. I tried the Big Cheese Chowder; it was lumpy and if there was cheddar in the soup, it was barely discernible. I moved on to Terrapin Tom’s Tomato. My own homemade tomato soup boasts the rich, sweet smell of fresh tomatoes, combined with a thick, smooth texture. Sam’s tomato soup was thin and indeterminately spicy. Well, I had my integrity. I’d finally tasted, and I’d found the soups wanting. I felt Tony’s glare but said nothing. And Marla’s best friend or no, I wasn’t going to taste the chocolate.
I glanced back toward the kitchen, but the chef was nowhere in sight. At this very moment he might be concentrating on his commercial-sized Hobart as it beat ponds of cream sauce with broth into soups that he fervently hoped would make him a multimillionaire. Maybe he believed money would bail him out of being stuck in the kitchen. I doubted both.
Tony impatiently spread his fingers on the rim of the empty dish in front of him. “Look, Goldy. Just tell me. Everybody says these soups are great. Gonna be the next craze. Lowfat, rib-sticking, but…” He chewed the inside of his cheek to find the right word, then brightened. “Lowfat, rib-sticking, but delish. There’ve been articles in local papers. Pretty soon all kinds of venture capital folks will be itching to get in here. Once this thing takes off: it’ll be too late. I want to get in on the ground floor. Know what I mean? Understand? Comprende?”
“I guess I don’t,” I said honestly.
Sam Perdue pressed his thin lips together. His terrified expression had turned resentful.
“I may have missed Boston Chicken,” Tony continued insistently, as if I had not spoken. He picked up a three-pronged fork and tapped the table in time with his next words. “And I may have missed Outback Steakhouse. But I am not going to miss Sam’s Soups. So tell me. Tell me that these journalists are right.” He scrutinized my face, the dark mustache aquiver. I took another spoonful of the cheese chowder and closed my eyes. I rolled my tongue over the lukewarm melange of ingredients. There was a hint of cheese, yes, but the mixture was not smooth, creamy, or light, not to mention redolent of cheese, whether it was fine Swiss or sharp cheddar. Even I had a better recipe for cheese soup than this. I swallowed and sighed. Every muscle in Tony’s taut, expectant face rolled, tightened, and rolled again, like cables on a high-speed ski lift. Should I take another sip of the tomato, I wondered, smile, close my eyes, swallow? Venture a fourth bite? What happened if I frowned and delicately set the spoon aside? Would he really holler at me?
“Well ? ” I began.
“She doesn’t like it,” Marla interrupted with a fluttering of bejeweled fingers. She put one chubby hand on Tony’s forearm. He jerked away. “Give it a rest, Tony. Come on.”
Sam Perdue, his face a mottled study of anger, scraped his chair back, stood, and silently marched away. Marla’s efforts to mollify Tony were unsuccessful. When he made one short, fierce shake of his head, she sent a hopeful gaze around the restaurant.
“I want to lose money,” she said brightly. “I know how to throwaway more than we’ve already allowed to slip past. Hey, Tony! All we have to do is invest in a restaurant producing food that Goldy thinks is garbage.”
“Damn it, Marla!” Tony snapped. Then he relented and rubbed her hand. “Don’t get in the middle of this, sweetie. If it’s no good, we’re not going to invest in it. Okay?”
I could practically hear her purr at his saccharine attentions. Fool! I wanted to shout, but did not. Tony sighed gustily and dipped a clean spoon into the chocolate soup. He didn’t look at me as he put the spoon loaded with dark stuff on my plate.
“Hey Tony, what am I, a kid?” I demanded. “Don’t you think I can feed myself?”
“No, you’re not a kid,” he said quietly, still not meeting my gaze. “In fact, I hear you’re the right-hand woman to the county’s number one investigator.”
“Yeah, too bad he doesn’t investigate soups, right?” I parried. I eyed the chocolate, which was dark and velvety-looking. When the Aztecs had named chocolate “food of the gods,” they’d been onto something. I didn’t want to imagine, much less experience, how Sam’s chef had wrecked it.
“Eat the damn soup, Goldy, and tell me if it’s any good. It’s the last one.” He scanned the restaurant again, and spoke confidingly. “Sam’s had a hard time with Prospect, and he’s ready to go to the newspapers with his tale of how cruel we’ve been to him. The last thing I want is more bad publicity, okay? Victoria didn’t like the soups, Albert got away with a bundle, and Sam’s going to hate the hell out of me if we veto his plans. I do want to try to help this guy expand, if I can.” He gestured at the chocolate soup. “Tell me if anything here has potential.” He exhaled, then spoke with clenched teeth. “I need a successful investment at this time, because of what’s going on at the firm.”
“You’re being a jerk, To-ny,” Marla singsonged, winking at some friends and holding up an index finger to indicate she’d be right over.
Tony’s voice was corrosive. “Oh, I’m a jerk? I thought you two saved the term jerk for your mutual ex- husband.” Marla tsked, rose, and flounced off She wriggled through some tables, poured herself some forbidden coffee, and carried it off to greet her buddies.
Tony smoothed his mustache with his index finger and gave me a blank look. “Eat your chocolate soup, Goldy,” he said coldly.
I watched Marla’s back as she sipped from her coffee cup and chatted with her acquaintances, women who from their expensive clothing looked as if they, too, like Marla, belonged to the nonworking segment of the populace. Maybe they were also signed up for the art appreciation adventure to Italy. The excursion was supposed to be all-female, but maybe the Botticelli and Bernini would be supplanted by marinara and men. Actually, that would have been good for Marla, I mused. Much as I worried about Marla’s health, I worried more about her social life. Not the country club variety, but the intense kind you have with guys. Guys like Tony. Tony who was now giving me the soup-sipping evil eye.
I took a dainty spoonful of the chocolate concoction. It was too thin. And too sweet. “No more,” I said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Tony cried. “Can’t you at least give me more information than that?” he demanded in a nasty tone I tried to think of as concerned. He wanted to hear sensory analysis, or at least reasons for culinary rejection, straight from the caterer’s mouth. “You realize we’re talking about a lot of money to be made here?” he added in a lower, patronizing voice.
Well. That did it. If the man wanted a bona fide taste assessment, the man was going to get one.
“They’re all boring. They lack creamy texture and depth of taste. They’re too thin. Worse, the seafood and cheese selections are not spicy enough for the American palate. They’re not terrible,” I said wistfully. “Just not… unusual. And I should tell you, Tony, good soups can be extraordinarily labor-intensive. Labor-intensive means lots of money. Plus, soup is volatile. Cook it too long, and it gets like library paste. Cook it too little and it tastes like
