Delicious! Read Online Free Page A

ask me, you’re using the wrong cheese. That’s the fall Parmigiano—am I right?—and it’s too rich. You need the spring cheese. I’ll send you some.”
    Definitely not a plumber.
    “I need that cheese right now!” She turned to look at me again. “Sal knows more about cheese than anyone in this city. Why don’t you go with him? Fontanari’s isn’t far, and he can give you my cheese. By the time you get back I’ll have figured out where I put those anchovies.”
    I hesitated. “I really should get back.… ”
    “You’re new to New York, right?”
    I nodded.
    “Then you need to see Sal’s shop. Fontanari’s is incredible; every cook should know it.”
    “I’m not a cook.”
    “You
aren’t
?” She peered at me as if she’d just encountered a rare specimen in the zoo. “With that palate? Then what the hell are you doing at
Delicious!
?”
    “Oh, leave her alone, Thursday,” said Sal. “You’re embarrassing her.”
    I smiled gratefully. “I’d love to come with you, but Maggie wanted me to bring the anchovies right back.”
    Thursday crossed her arms. “She’ll wait. I don’t even know where I put the damn jar. Go on, now!”
    She made little shooing motions with her hands, and resistance seemed futile. I followed Sal out the door.
    “That’s right.” Sal gave me a cheerful smile. “No point in arguing with a chef. They’re all bossy, but Thursday’s the worst. Did you know she once worked at
Delicious!
?” He glanced down at me. “I can see from your face that you’re wondering how that turned out. Well, let me tell you, it was pretty bad. Thursday was just out of culinary school, but even then she had to have her own way. She and Maggie …” He whistled. “All I can say is, when it comes to Thursday, there’s no point in arguing. You might as well give in at the start. Where you from?”
    “Santa Barbara—”
    “Now, me, I’m from right here.” To my relief, Sal was as talkative as he was kind; I wouldn’t have to say a word. “My family shop’s been on the same corner in Little Italy for a hundred years.”
    “Little Italy?” I tried to remember where that was.
    “Just a couple of miles,” he said comfortably. “A good walk that will take us past some of the finest food in the world. Coming from—where’d you say you were from? This is going to be a treat for you.”
    “Santa Barbara. Maybe we can take a cab?” I pleaded.
    “A cab?” He sounded scandalized. “To go a couple miles? If you’re going to be a New Yorker, you’ll have to learn to walk. It’s the only way to get around this town. Besides, this way I can give you my personal tour.”
    Sal walked through the streets as if they belonged to him, utterly indifferent to the concept of straight lines. He meandered, breakingoff in the middle of a sentence to beckon me across the street and point out the attractions of some shop. Everything from hats to hardware captured his curiosity. The nightclubs and restaurants of the Meatpacking District were still sleeping, but once we got to Bleecker Street he stopped every few feet to peer into the windows of bookstores, toy shops, and art galleries. The neighborhood aged as we walked south, and as the shops grew more venerable he paused to breathe in the aroma of old bakeries and to appreciate salvage shops, cutting a zigzag path so we missed nothing. I’d never met anyone like Sal; his knowledge was encyclopedic, and he seemed to know everyone we passed. Part of me knew I should get back to the office, but he was taking so much pleasure from this walk that I found myself irresistibly drawn in, sharing his pleasure, enjoying the moment.
    “Joey! Great to see you!” Crossing Seventh Avenue, Sal had spotted a policeman. “Where you been? It’s been a while. Please don’t tell me you’re buying your salami somewhere else.”
    “The line at your place is always so long.” The cop actually looked guilty.
    “Not for you.” Sal put his arm around the