Fragrance of Death

ONE

The moment I opened that cardboard to-go container I suspected something might be amiss. At lunch yesterday, the pizza’s aroma of garlic had been so powerful that Allison and I had joked about waking up the next morning with the stink emanating from our pores. But now, as I held the box up to my nose, I detected no hint of garlic whatsoever.

Huh. Well, perhaps it simply needed reheating to unlock its pungent smell. I slid the cold pesto slice onto a plate and shoved it in the microwave, then set about brewing a pot of coffee. Java and leftover pizza – breakfast of champions. And given the day before me, I knew I’d be glad of the fortification provided by both.

At the ding of the machine, I pulled out the hot plate and set it on the counter. Weird. Still no whiff of garlic. How could that be?

Gingerly lifting the hot slice to my lips, I blew on it before taking a bite from its pointy end. Nothing. And I mean truly nothing: not only was there no smell, but the pizza was devoid of any flavor whatsoever. I could feel the texture of the crispy crust and gooey topping on the roof of my mouth and my tongue as I chewed and swallowed. But I couldn’t taste a thing.

What the …? I stared accusingly at the leftover pizza, trying to fathom how something which the day before had positively reeked of basil, garlic, and cheese could now taste like cardboard. No, I thought as I dropped the offending slice back onto the plate. Cardboard has more flavor than this.

And then I realized the horrible truth. I’d been down with a cold the previous week, which had been accompanied by a particularly vicious sinus infection. Yesterday, however, the pounding in my head had finally diminished and I’d started to feel a little better, so I’d celebrated by going out to lunch with my high school pal, Allison.

But I hadn’t truly recovered, after all. Although the infection may have begun to subside, it had left in its wake something far worse.

I’d lost my sense of smell. And with it, the ability to taste food.

I’m a cook by trade, so I depend on my sense of smell – and taste – for my livelihood. Not to mention my happiness. After all, who can be truly content if they’re unable to appreciate the flavor of a chicken slow-roasted with sage-and-onion stuffing or the fragrance of a tree-ripened peach?

Though right at this moment, I was primarily concerned about the next six hours. For today I’d be competing in the annual Artichoke Cook-Off out on the Santa Cruz Municipal Wharf, and I had no idea how I was going to make Artichoke Salad with Lemon Aïoli for two hundred people with no ability to smell or taste what I was preparing.

Not only that, but one of my fellow competitors was my father, who would love nothing better than to best his only daughter this afternoon and bring home the prized thistle-shaped plaque for first place.

With an oath that would have made my fellow Gauguin line cooks proud, I took another bite of pizza. Whether I could taste it or not, I’d need the sustenance for the day ahead.

At least I wouldn’t be on my own at the booth. Each competitor was allowed one helper, and I’d enlisted the aid of our restaurant’s trusty prep cook, Tomás, for the job. He’d proven himself to be both talented and reliable (this last trait perhaps the more important of the two), and I’d been thinking of moving him up to the Gauguin hot line sometime soon. I’d have to discuss the possibility with my co-owner, Javier, but I was fairly certain he’d agree. In any case, today would be a good test of the young cook’s ability to stand the stress of working the line.

Tomás and I used a dolly to cart all our equipment and supplies from his battered pickup truck to our designated spot. It was a little too close to the walled-off enclosure housing the dumpsters and grease-trap for my liking, but at least we were upwind from the area. And the wind was indeed blowing. The organizers of the cook-off had erected canopies for all the contestants, and their canvas roofs were whipping about like the sails on a racing sloop. Good thing we’d thought to bring clamps to fasten down our tablecloths, or they’d have been immediately carried across the water all the way to the Boardwalk.

But I was thankful it wasn’t raining. And in the moments of respite between the gusts of wind, it was actually fairly warm for the end of March.

While Tomás got started unpacking the ingredients for our salad, I set up the portable stove I’d borrowed from my dad that we’d use for making the aïoli. I’d chosen a simple dish for today – one that wouldn’t be too difficult to pull off in a camp-style setting, yet which allowed the earthy flavor of the artichokes and the bright, tart notes of the lemony garlic-mayonnaise to shine through. Not that I’d be tasting any of that today, I thought with some chagrin as I screwed the stove’s nozzle into the propane tank.

I had just unpacked our hand-press citrus juicer when a shadow fell across the crate of yellow lemons before me.

‘Morning, Sally.’

I looked up in response to the familiar voice. ‘Hi, Dad. You set up already?’

The contestants had from nine until ten o’clock to organize their booths, but no food prep or cooking was allowed until after that time. Then, at noon, the crowds would descend and the tastings commence.

‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘I finished twenty minutes ago.’

‘Yeah, well, you have a distinct advantage, given that Solari’s is just across the street from your booth. Who’d ya have to bribe to get that spot, anyway?’

Dad merely smiled in response to my quip, which made me wonder if maybe he had bribed – or at least sweet-talked – someone. It certainly was a boon for him that our family’s Italian seafood restaurant was only twenty paces from where he’d be cooking today. If he needed a different pot or ran out of an ingredient, it would take but a few minutes to fetch the item.

My restaurant, on the other hand – Gauguin, which I’d inherited from my aunt the previous April – was a good ten minutes’ drive away. Which meant I didn’t have the luxury of forgetting anything important for my cook-off dish.

‘What’d you end up deciding to make, anyway?’ I asked. I knew my dad had been vacillating between an artichoke, Parmesan cheese, and shallot dip and a soup prepared with artichokes, potatoes, and chicken stock.

‘I went for the soup,’ he said. ‘It may not be what the deep-fried loving crowd goes for.’ Dad nodded in the direction of the booth next to mine, where a woman in an Oakland A’s baseball cap was setting several gallons of vegetable oil next to a portable deep fryer. ‘But I made it last week and thought it was amazing. It’s more of a subtle dish that I think the judges will appreciate.’

There would be two sets of prizes given out today: those for the Judges’ Awards (decided via blind tasting by a panel of six tasters) and those for the People’s Choice Awards (decided by popular vote). This being my first time out as a cook-off contestant, I’d be thrilled with a third place in either category, but Dad was gunning for number one in the judges’ division. He’d now entered the contest for three years’ running, with one second place and two wash-outs and had declared that this was going to be his year.

We’d see about that.

After my father left, I consulted my list and checked off the ingredients I’d need against what now stood on the long table: three cases baby artichokes, six bags arugula, two bags peeled garlic cloves, one crate eggs, one case lemons, two jars Dijon mustard, five pounds Pecorino cheese, two three-liter bottles olive oil, sea salt, and black pepper. Plus the two gallons of water we’d brought along for drinking and for thinning the sauce.

At five minutes to ten I was double-checking my equipment (knives, mandoline, mortar and pestle, pots, bowls, cutting boards, whisk, spoons, side towels, paper towels, serving plates and forks, napkins) when a voice called out from the booth next to mine, ‘Sally Solari! I thought that was you.’

I turned to see a tall, stocky man sporting a white T-shirt with a bright green artichoke on its front. It took a moment, but then I remembered who he was.

‘Neil Lerici. I didn’t know you were still in town.’

He hefted a bag of artichokes onto his table with a grunt. ‘I never left. After a couple years at Cabrillo I decided college wasn’t for me and ended up working at the farm. That’s where these come from,’ he said, indicating the mesh bag before him.

I glanced again at his T-shirt and saw that it bore the same logo as on the produce bag. ‘Lerici Brand Artichokes – Thistle Make You Hungry’ was printed below the large green artichoke on the bag. ‘Ah, so your folks still own that farm up the coast.’

‘Yep. That’s the reason I’ve been doing this competition the past few years – as advertisement for our produce. ’Cause, c’mon, let’s face it,’ he said. ‘We do grow the very best artichokes in the tri-county area.’ With a grin, Neil slapped the mesh bag affectionately, as if it were a beloved dog. ‘And hey, it’s worked, too. Nothing like winning the People’s Choice Award two years in a row to drum up business.’

I nodded toward the woman in the A’s cap helping him, who was now inspecting the baskets for the deep fryer. ‘What are you guys making this year?’

‘The same thing I’ve done the last two years – Carciofi alla Giudia – a recipe from my mom’s nonna. It’s pretty grungy dealing with all that oil, and prepping the suckers is a real pain in the butt. But people can’t seem to resist anything that’s deep-fried, so I figure why mess with something that ain’t broke?’

‘True.’ I’d had the dish before – twice-fried artichokes that, if properly prepared, come out tender inside and crispy outside, with the pleasing appearance of tiny sunflowers. But a real pain, indeed, to make. ‘So how’s Grace these days?’ I asked. ‘She still in town, too?’

Grace was Neil’s older sister, and she and I had been in the same year in high school and had hung out together freshman year. She’d owned a horse back then, and we used to spend afternoons taking turns riding the aged Pinto around a ramshackle ring her dad had constructed next to their fields of artichokes. But we’d drifted apart during our junior year and then, after I headed to Southern California for college, I’d lost track of her completely.

‘Yeah, she is,’ Neil said. ‘She moved up to Chico after high school and was there for years, but then ended up getting involved with a plumber who was from Santa Cruz. She moved back down here just last year, after they got married, and works as the bookkeeper for his company, now. But hey,’ he added, leaning down to grab a large, red-handled cleaver and a paring knife from a box at his feet, ‘Grace said she’d come down here today, so you can ask her yourself what’s going on with her these days.’

At the blast of an air horn – the signal that we could now begin our food prep and cooking – Neil reached for an artichoke and whacked off its spiky top with the giant cleaver. ‘Good luck,’ he said with a grin. ‘Not that luck is gonna help you any, since there’s no way I’m not winning again this year.’

With ten minutes left to go in the cooking period, I was frantically whisking a stream of olive oil into my mixture of egg yolks, garlic, lemon juice, and mustard. Tomás was plating up tasting-sized servings of arugula topped with thinly-sliced raw artichoke that had been marinated in olive oil and lemon, which would be drizzled with the lemon aïoli and scattered with shaved Pecorino cheese right before service.

‘Hey, Tomás,’ I called out to him, ‘come here a sec, would ya?’

The prep cook wiped his hands on his side towel and walked over to where I stood.

‘Could you taste this and tell me if you think it needs any more lemon?’

‘Sure,’ he said, dipping a spoon into the garlicky mayonnaise. ‘But I doubt I’ll know any better than you do.’

Should I tell him about my loss of smell? No, I decided, better he didn’t know.

He tasted the sauce, then frowned. ‘Actually, it could use a lot more lemon. As well as a little salt.’ And then he smiled. ‘You were just testing me, huh?’

‘Right,’ I said with a forced chuckle. ‘And you passed with flying colors.’

I’d just whisked a half cup more of lemon juice and a handful of salt into the enormous pot of aïoli when the horn blasted once more, telling the hungry hoards milling about the wharf that they were now free to sample our goods. A line had already formed at Neil’s stall next door, and before the horn had even ceased reverberating against the line of buildings facing us, people started pushing their way to the table, hands out for his crunchy delights.

Here we go, I thought as I drizzled aïoli onto the dozens of plates Tomás had set out along the long table. Let’s hope we didn’t make too much.

But I needn’t have worried. Perhaps it was the overflow from Neil’s booth, or perhaps word had gotten out that our salad was actually pretty darn tasty, but by one thirty I was starting to wonder if we’d made enough salads.

Tomás was plating up another twenty servings, and I was whisking the second batch of aïoli to smooth out any lumps that might have formed, when I heard my name called out once again. It was Grace, and, with the exception of a few lines about the eyes, she looked almost exactly as she had over twenty years ago, back in high school.

‘Neil texted me that you were here,’ she said, leaning over the row of salad plates to give me a hug and peck on the cheek. ‘It’s so great to see you after all this time!’

‘I know!’ I agreed. ‘Though you don’t look like much time has actually passed. What’s your secret?’

Grace laughed. ‘It comes in a little bottle I buy at the drug store,’ she said, flipping back a lock of shiny, reddish-brown hair. ‘And I do my best to keep my thighs and butt in shape by riding as often as I can.’

‘So you still have a horse?’

‘Two now, actually,’ she said, moving aside to allow a trio of women to come up to the booth and accept the artichoke salads offered by Tomás. ‘Since me and my husband both ride. A quarter horse gelding and an Arabian mare.’

Two more people lined up behind the threesome and Grace stepped even farther back. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I should let you do your thing. And I have to meet up with my parents and brother Ryan in a couple minutes, anyway. But we should get together sometime and catch up. Are you on Facebook?’

‘I am. More often than I should be.’

Grace pulled out her phone. ‘Cool. I’ll friend you, and then we can figure out a time to meet up later.’ With a wave of the hand to me and then to her brother Neil next door, she made her way through the crowd, eyes glued to her screen.

I checked the clock on my phone. It was a quarter to two, five minutes before my scheduled time to bring a sample to the judges’ booth. Taking a paper plate from the stack behind me, I made a bed of arugula, then lay slices of artichoke over the greens in such a way that it looked as if they’d been simply ‘scattered’ on top, yet had a pleasing and artistic design. Next I drizzled lines of aïoli back-and-forth over the salad, and then finished the plate with five curls of Pecorino cheese.

The man standing guard at the judges’ booth accepted my salad with a grunt. He tore a raffle ticket in two and placed one half on the side of the plate (messing with my presentation, but I wasn’t about to complain) and gave me the other half. As he wrote my name and number down in a spiral notebook, I examined the ticket. Lucky number seventeen – or so I hoped.

A line had now formed behind me of other contestants bearing their dishes, but the doorman was not making the slightest attempt to hurry his pace. He leisurely tore another ticket and accepted the next sample, then set it on a table behind him next to mine.

As I headed away from the judges’ booth, I passed the gal from Neil’s stall, standing at the end of the line and talking to the tall, blond guy next to her. Neither looked terribly happy. In her hands was a plate of fried artichokes, still steaming from the hot oil they’d been fried in.

‘Wow, those look delicious,’ I said. ‘I’m gonna have to stop by and try some for myself.’

She turned to me with a harried look. ‘Thanks. But I just hope that with this long line, the judges get to taste them before they’re completely cold.’

‘Well, no matter what, I’m sure you’ll do great in the People’s Choice division. I can’t believe the throngs that have been stopping by your booth.’

‘Yeah, they’ve been super popular,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Neil’s already starting on our fifth batch.’

I headed back down the wharf toward my booth, but, when I passed by my father’s table, decided to stop and sample his soup. ‘Gotta check out the competition,’ I said as Dad handed me a small cup garnished with crispy, frizzled artichokes. It was only when I took a sip that I remembered the malady that had struck that morning: I couldn’t taste a thing.

‘So what do you think?’ Dad asked, his blue eyes eager with anticipation.

‘Uh … I love the texture. Silky smooth, with that crispy garnish – it’s perfect. And the flavor is great, too,’ I improvised. ‘Subtle but refined. Is there sherry in it?’ I figured there was a good chance a soup like this would have some sort of wine or sherry.

He smiled. ‘Close. It’s white wine. Or maybe it’s the shallots you’re tasting.’

‘Ah, right.’ I tossed the cup into the wastebasket next to his booth. ‘Well, good luck to you. Gotta get back to work.’

I threaded my way through the crowd and, once back at our stall, spelled Tomás so he could take a break and go check out the other competitors’ dishes for himself.

A few minutes later, I heard a commotion from Neil’s booth. ‘What the hell?’ a shrill voice yelled. It was his helper, who dashed to the deep fryer and pulled one of the baskets from the hot oil. The burnt remains of artichoke florets were visible within the mesh basket, now transformed into a shriveled and blackened mess.

She turned an accusing eye on me, as if to say, Didn’t you notice the smell?

But, of course, I wouldn’t have smelled anything even if the entire booth had gone up in flames. ‘Oh, wow,’ I said, coming over to inspect the charred mess. ‘Sorry I wasn’t here to catch it, but I only just got back, myself.’

‘Where the hell could Neil have got to, anyway?’ she said, and set the basket on its draining rack. ‘He had no business leaving while a batch was in the deep fryer.’

A group of people had now gathered around the booth, some curious about the hubbub, others merely wanting a taste of its fried delicacies. ‘It’ll be a few minutes before I can get another batch going,’ the woman called out to the crowd, then got to work draining and patting dry the prepped artichokes soaking in a tub of lemon water.

I returned to my own booth, but kept a curious eye on the goings-on next door. Once she’d dropped a fresh basket into the deep fryer, the woman pulled out her cell phone, typed a message, then shoved the device back in her pocket with an irritated shake of the head. ‘Where on earth are you?’ I heard her say as she dumped the now-drained basket of burnt sticks into the trash can.

Noticing that we had only ten salads on the table, I turned to check on our aïoli supply. There was less than a quarter pot left, and only one bag of arugula, but the People’s Choice voting had closed at two o’clock, so it wasn’t a big deal if we ran out before long. I plated up another dozen servings of salad, at which point I was joined again by Tomás.

‘What’s that smell?’ he asked, waving a hand in front of his nose.

‘The guy next door left his booth while a batch of artichokes was in the deep fryer, and they burned.’ Glancing toward Neil’s booth, I saw he still hadn’t returned. The woman had pulled out her phone again and was typing furiously on the screen.

Tomás and I continued to pass out salads, all the while talking up Gauguin and its menu with the cook-off attendees – for that was, ultimately, the primary purpose of participating in events like this. After about a half an hour, the prep cook looked up from plating the last of our arugula.

‘Oh, it’s starting,’ he said, and I turned my attention to the portly man who had stepped up onto the small stage set up across from the booths a little ways down from ours.

The announcer tapped on his microphone several times, then held it up to his mouth. ‘Tasting, tasting,’ he said, prompting chuckles from the crowd, who now quieted down. After a few introductory remarks and thank-yous, the man unfolded a piece of paper and held it up for all to see. ‘And now for the fun part – the prizes! First, the Judges’ Awards, which are based on a combination of flavor, presentation, difficulty of preparation, and originality. Third place goes to …’

I watched as the third place winner, the head chef at a French restaurant out in Aptos Village, and the second place winner, a young woman who’d recently opened a pop-up Greek place downtown, accepted their prizes. I knew my father had to be going nuts right about now: he’d either been skunked entirely in this category or had won the whole shebang.

The announcer cleared his throat. ‘Okay. And first prize for the Judges’ Award goes to …’ A dramatic pause. ‘Mario Solari, for his delectable take on a creamy artichoke soup!’

Dad climbed onto the stage, his grin as wide as the hazelnut mezzaluna cookies he baked