to the Seaweed Forest.
As we gathered before dinner, Helmut Helberg approached me. “I liked your presentation,” he said. “The reason I wanted to attend was that I am thinking of having presentations like that in my markets.”
I nodded. “Part of your campaign to change the supermarket image?”
“Right. It stands to reason that we could sell more lobsters if people knew more about them—how to buy them, how to prepare them.”
“The public is more afraid of the lobster than of any other food,” I said. “It has a terrifying appearance for a start. Most people don’t know what to look for and don’t know how to prepare it.”
“A lot of customers don’t want to be bothered to prepare it,” Helberg argued.
“Then you should consider preparing it for them.”
“But they don’t keep.”
“On-the-spot preparation—prepared to order. While still fresh.”
He took on a pensive look and wandered away. I had a short conversation with Oriana Frascati. “Getting any ideas for your cookbooks?” I asked. She was not unattractive but used no makeup, and her hair looked as if it had not spent much time under the care of a hairdresser.
“Too many,” she sighed. “I already have a full schedule for the winter and the manuscripts keep flooding in.”
“Must be hard to find new approaches,” I suggested.
She studied me as if trying to decide whether to confide in me. “I have several possibilities,” she murmured. “I’m doing some final sifting right now. Maybe you would like to give me your opinion on them?”
“Pleased to,” I said, and waited. She nodded as if satisfied. “I’ll be talking to you,” she said, and walked off. They must be confidential, I thought, and she is afraid that the competition will hear about them. Was the cookbook business as cutthroat as the rest of the publishing business? I wondered.
Caroline de Witt was there, looking glamorous in a tight-fitting black dress. I congratulated her. “Superb organization,” I told her. “Everything is running as smoothly as—well, as a Swiss watch.”
She smiled appreciatively. “Thank you. It’s a lot of work but very rewarding.”
“An eclectic group of students too.”
“Yes. Classes like this are very gratifying. The interest is not professional in a direct sense but just as intense. It is more diverse, it brings in so many other concerns. The people are more demanding.”
“Your facilities are very impressive,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance yet to partake of them all—”
“Oh, you must,” she implored, laying a beautifully manicured hand on my arm. “The mud baths—”
“Yes, I want to try those first. Then there are the others. …
“The underground sauna is wonderful, so beneficial. The Seaweed Forest too is so healthful.”
“Hmm,” I tried to sound reluctant. It was not difficult. “Sounds dangerous to me. More of a jungle than a forest, somebody said. It’s a flagellator, isn’t it?”
She laughed musically. “Oh, yes, but a very gentle one.”
An image floated into my mind of a dead body among those “gentle” seaweed strands. “You really must try it,” she insisted.
I nodded, still reluctant.
“I will see how my schedule is. Maybe I can introduce you to it.”
“That would be nice,” I said politely. My last assignation with a female in the Seaweed Forest was not a situation I wanted to repeat.
The dinner menu did indeed include the two lobster dishes I had mentioned, but a couple of other items caught my eye. For a starter, I chose the Cuban tamales, a dish containing pork, a Cuban favorite, and served with a sauce of orange, cherry, and lime juices with onion and garlic. The tamales had a pleasantly fragrant herbal taste that was unusual, and when I asked I was told that it was “culentro,” a Central American variant of coriander and much stronger.
Brad Thompson, the fast-food millionaire, was at my table and displaying an enterprising spirit in ordering the
As we gathered before dinner, Helmut Helberg approached me. “I liked your presentation,” he said. “The reason I wanted to attend was that I am thinking of having presentations like that in my markets.”
I nodded. “Part of your campaign to change the supermarket image?”
“Right. It stands to reason that we could sell more lobsters if people knew more about them—how to buy them, how to prepare them.”
“The public is more afraid of the lobster than of any other food,” I said. “It has a terrifying appearance for a start. Most people don’t know what to look for and don’t know how to prepare it.”
“A lot of customers don’t want to be bothered to prepare it,” Helberg argued.
“Then you should consider preparing it for them.”
“But they don’t keep.”
“On-the-spot preparation—prepared to order. While still fresh.”
He took on a pensive look and wandered away. I had a short conversation with Oriana Frascati. “Getting any ideas for your cookbooks?” I asked. She was not unattractive but used no makeup, and her hair looked as if it had not spent much time under the care of a hairdresser.
“Too many,” she sighed. “I already have a full schedule for the winter and the manuscripts keep flooding in.”
“Must be hard to find new approaches,” I suggested.
She studied me as if trying to decide whether to confide in me. “I have several possibilities,” she murmured. “I’m doing some final sifting right now. Maybe you would like to give me your opinion on them?”
“Pleased to,” I said, and waited. She nodded as if satisfied. “I’ll be talking to you,” she said, and walked off. They must be confidential, I thought, and she is afraid that the competition will hear about them. Was the cookbook business as cutthroat as the rest of the publishing business? I wondered.
Caroline de Witt was there, looking glamorous in a tight-fitting black dress. I congratulated her. “Superb organization,” I told her. “Everything is running as smoothly as—well, as a Swiss watch.”
She smiled appreciatively. “Thank you. It’s a lot of work but very rewarding.”
“An eclectic group of students too.”
“Yes. Classes like this are very gratifying. The interest is not professional in a direct sense but just as intense. It is more diverse, it brings in so many other concerns. The people are more demanding.”
“Your facilities are very impressive,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance yet to partake of them all—”
“Oh, you must,” she implored, laying a beautifully manicured hand on my arm. “The mud baths—”
“Yes, I want to try those first. Then there are the others. …
“The underground sauna is wonderful, so beneficial. The Seaweed Forest too is so healthful.”
“Hmm,” I tried to sound reluctant. It was not difficult. “Sounds dangerous to me. More of a jungle than a forest, somebody said. It’s a flagellator, isn’t it?”
She laughed musically. “Oh, yes, but a very gentle one.”
An image floated into my mind of a dead body among those “gentle” seaweed strands. “You really must try it,” she insisted.
I nodded, still reluctant.
“I will see how my schedule is. Maybe I can introduce you to it.”
“That would be nice,” I said politely. My last assignation with a female in the Seaweed Forest was not a situation I wanted to repeat.
The dinner menu did indeed include the two lobster dishes I had mentioned, but a couple of other items caught my eye. For a starter, I chose the Cuban tamales, a dish containing pork, a Cuban favorite, and served with a sauce of orange, cherry, and lime juices with onion and garlic. The tamales had a pleasantly fragrant herbal taste that was unusual, and when I asked I was told that it was “culentro,” a Central American variant of coriander and much stronger.
Brad Thompson, the fast-food millionaire, was at my table and displaying an enterprising spirit in ordering the
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