Read Online Food Whore by Jessica Tom - Free Book Online

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    â€œAll right, for real,” I said, rubbing his hand from across the table. “What do you want?”
    â€œYou decide, T. I trust you.”
    I gave in and decided on three of the most talked-­about dishes: buttermilk Parmesan flan with maple broth, pork and snail dumplings with effervescent chive oil, and beef meatballs with deep-­fried cilantro chips. They weren’t our typical restaurant orders, but that was the whole point.
    While we waited for our food, Elliott told me about his New York Botanical Garden job studying poisons and their medicinal applications. They were getting ready for an exhibit and partnering with Beth Israel Medical Center and Cornell Medical College.
    â€œThe doctors visited the lab today and were impressed with our work. It looks like by the time the exhibit comes out we’ll have actual case studies from patients. ­People have been really receptive. Today someone said that his aches and pains have disappeared since we administered treatment. Between the ­people and the facility and the project, I feel . . .”
    â€œYou feel . . . what?” He had me at the edge of my seat.
    He gulped. “I feel like I’m living my dream.”
    â€œElliott . . .” I started. I jumped out of my chair and hugged him. “That’s so amazing. I’m so happy for you.”
    â€œAnd things are good with you. You like the restaurant.”
    It wasn’t lost on me that he hadn’t asked that as a question. He always saw the world in its best light, and though that was the thing that made me love him, I wished in that moment that he could help me with these darker feelings—­of insecurity and disappointment. Of doubt and regret.
    With my best happy smile, I said, “Yeah, it was great,” just as busboys with nose rings poured us more water and our food arrived.
    â€œIt’s just . . . I don’t know. I came in thinking that I’d be with Helen. That was my track, you know? But now I’m kinda doubting my reasoning. We’re in New York, having dinner at one of the hottest new restaurants. I’m starting at a four-­star restaurant tomorrow. ­People care about these places. Important ­people.”
    â€œImportant ­people?” he said, tucking his chin.
    With Elliott, mentioning status always qualified as a faux pas. Even in college, he’d been so sure of himself. But now I was starting to think that he didn’t have the full perspective. Status underlined everything in New York. Even at NYU, ­people didn’t talk about their mentorships as much as what restaurant they’d tried, what club they’d gotten into, what celebrity they’d chatted up on some cool but unknown-­to-­the-­plebeians street.
    â€œI’m thinking this Madison Park Tavern thing is for the best. I can always go back to Helen. And besides, she’s not about this sort of stuff,” I tried, gesturing to our meal. “I tasted such incredible dishes at work today, and look at what we have here at Bakushan! These dumplings are amazing. It’s one thing to have the snail, which is ambitious on its own, then the pork and the effervescent chives? It’s genius, right? The sauce is incredible, like a headfirst flavor dive. But Helen Lansky, does she really innovate?”
    I thought I was protesting too much after seeing Kyle, overcompensating for some insecurity. But maybe that was me rationalizing. This food truly got to me and my allegiances were starting to slide. I still loved Helen, but the restaurants had their own siren song.
    I looked at Elliott’s plate and saw it was untouched, minus some half-­eaten bites moved way to the side.
    Now my mouth dropped in disbelief. “You didn’t like what I ordered?”
    â€œSnail? I mean . . .” he said. “It’s not my thing. And it tastes kinda sandy? Anyway, we can talk about Helen again.