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faster.”
    FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER I was standing on 16th Street, so far west I could see the Hudson River. From outside, The Pig looked like any other scruffy tavern. I’d been expecting something fancier, or at least more exotic. In the famous Annie Leibovitz picture “Midnight at The Pig,” the restaurant has a dark, gritty glamour. The photographer had caught Keith Richards lounging across a scarred wooden table, surrounded by eccentric friends. The picture always made me think of Paris in the twenties—you wanted to be there—and I’d anticipated something with a bit more style.
    I banged on the door until a tattooed man with a nose ring finally letme in. It smelled like spilled whiskey, and daylight had drained every bit of romance from the room. “Thursday’s in back,” said a man with a ponytail from behind the bar, jerking his head toward a swinging door. He tossed an empty bottle into a giant garbage can. It clattered noisily to the bottom.
    I gave the battered door a push. The kitchen was dim and much smaller than an average California kitchen, so crammed with industrial equipment that there was barely room to move. Thursday was standing at the stove, swathed in a cloud of steam. She was elegantly beautiful, with an ash-blond braid reaching almost to her waist and big black-lashed eyes that hovered somewhere between gray and blue. “I’m—” I began.
    “Taste this.” Thursday thrust a large wooden spoon into my mouth. Her eyes watched closely as I swallowed. She had fed me a fluffy cloud, no more than pure texture, but as it evaporated it left a trail of flavor in its wake.
    “Lemon peel,” I said, “Parmesan, saffron, spinach.” She held out another spoonful, and this time, at the very end, I tasted just a touch of … something lemony but neither lemon nor verbena. It had a faint cinnamon tinge. “Curry leaf!”
    “I’m impressed.” Her hands were on her slim hips and her voice was—what? Sarcastic? “But I didn’t mean it as a test. I just wanted to see if I’m getting anywhere with this new gnocchi.”
    “That’s an amazing combination. The saffron’s brilliant—it gives it such a sunny flavor. But what made you use curry leaf? I never would have thought of that.”
    “It kind of came to me at the last minute. So you think it works?”
    “Yes! But maybe you should use a little more?”
    I blushed; who was I to be giving Thursday Brown advice? But she was tasting the gnocchi, rubbing her lips together in that way that chefs do. “You think so?”
    I was about to ask if I could taste it again when she cried, “Sal!” with such delight that I looked over my shoulder. A tall, broad man in a baseball cap was standing in the doorway. He had the look of a plumbercome to fix a leak—blue jeans, work boots, and a plain blue work shirt. He was probably fifty, but his face had a curious innocence. When he removed his cap, a thatch of thick, graying dark hair sprang joyfully upward. Thursday scooped up another gnocchi. “We were tasting my new gnocchi.” She thrust one into his mouth. “What do you think? She—what did you say your name was?—thinks I need more curry leaf.”
    “I didn’t, actually. Billie Breslin.”
    Thursday looked at me now, really taking me in. “So you’re Jake’s new assistant? That should work out well. I bet there isn’t one person in a hundred—no, a thousand—who’d know there was curry leaf in there.”
    “Curry leaf?” Sal tasted again. “There isn’t one person in a thousand who’s even heard of it.” He was studying me the way Thursday had, as if he were trying to see into my mind. “One taste and you could tell it was there?”
    “Yeah. Curry leaf doesn’t taste like anything else. It’s like there’s an echo of cinnamon right behind the lemon.”
    Sal reached into the pot and scooped up another gnocchi. “You’re right!” He sounded truly excited. He turned to Thursday. “And she’s right about using more too. But if you