occupancy tax, 5 percent state occupancy tax and $6 for delivering breakfast. So not only was service down, but prices were up. Frank Sinatra might sing of the city that doesn’t sleep but anyone who did sleep certainly paid dearly for it.
I took a cab to the Framingham and checked in. The room was half the size and about half the price, and I got a 15 percent discount by taking the room for a week. I took out some business cards and wrote the address and phone number of the Framingham on the back. Then I took a cab to the Javits Center and the International Food Fair.
CHAPTER TEN
I T HAD ONLY BEEN open a few minutes but already it was fairly crowded. I skimmed through the catalog and picked out a few names that were familiar. The nearest pavilions were those of Japan and the West Indies and I chose to start with the latter.
Many of the islands were represented, the biggest and most colorful booth being that of Jamaica. Tables were set out under palm-fronded roofs and a realistic stand of sugar cane swayed in the breeze from hidden fans. Music from steel bands throbbed softly and despite the early hour, a bar was dispensing rum drinks. A snack bar and a restaurant were preparing typical Jamaican specialties and tempting aromas were drifting out.
There were strips of curried goat for the more adventurous American eater, Jerk Chicken for the lovers of the hot and spicy, beef patties and spareribs for those who wanted more familiar food. The national dish, Salt Fish and Ackee, was on display—the salted cod was mixed with red and green peppers and ackee, a Jamaican fruit. Slices of pawpaw, pineapple and mango were on most tables and it all looked irresistible. But I managed to resist and moved on to the Middle East pavilion.
Persia had a large display. As food disdains political boundaries, the change in name to Iran was ignored. In any case, the home country played little part in mounting this display, which was put on by American establishments. Lamb tongues simmered in a rich sauce under the eye of a swarthy chef in a clever duplication of a Persian kitchen. I asked him what was in the sauce.
“Advieh,” he told me. “A spice mixture containing cumin, coriander, cardamom and cinnamon plus secret ingredient.”
“And what is the secret ingredient?” His grin widened. “If I tell you—is no secret. No, I tell you—is rose petals.”
“Aren’t they lost with all those other spicy ingredients? Don’t they overwhelm it?”
“No, no, they give it fragrance.”
He may have been right. Certainly the aroma was different and I knew that the Persians had traditionally used rose petals in many of their dishes.
The next stand was a spectacular reproduction of a restaurant front in the Middle East and had an eye-catching sign: PHOENICIA. Beneath it, another sign said FOOD IN THE STYLE OF THE ANCIENT WORLD. The front was half cut away so that the visitor could walk in, and the interior was half restaurant and half kitchen. I was admiring the ingenuity of the layout when a woman came out of the kitchen, saw me and walked toward me.
She had a bold, hip-swinging gait that emphasized her voluptuous figure and long legs. She had jet black hair held in a golden band and her skin was a pale olive color which almost shone. Full red lips and a bold nose were noticeable only after you had looked at her eyes. I had heard eyes referred to as “almond” but had never before seen any that truly deserved that description. They were long and brilliant as jewels, and their color was extraordinary.
“Welcome to Phoenicia. My name is Ayesha.”
Her voice had an indolent, purring quality and I could hardly wait for her to go on talking. She wore a blouse and a flowing skirt, both in reds and greens with a wide belt of gold mesh. Bare ankles led to high-heeled sandals with gold straps.
“Food in the ancient style,” I said. “What does that mean exactly?”
She shrugged carelessly. “Everybody cooks modern food but there is
I took a cab to the Framingham and checked in. The room was half the size and about half the price, and I got a 15 percent discount by taking the room for a week. I took out some business cards and wrote the address and phone number of the Framingham on the back. Then I took a cab to the Javits Center and the International Food Fair.
CHAPTER TEN
I T HAD ONLY BEEN open a few minutes but already it was fairly crowded. I skimmed through the catalog and picked out a few names that were familiar. The nearest pavilions were those of Japan and the West Indies and I chose to start with the latter.
Many of the islands were represented, the biggest and most colorful booth being that of Jamaica. Tables were set out under palm-fronded roofs and a realistic stand of sugar cane swayed in the breeze from hidden fans. Music from steel bands throbbed softly and despite the early hour, a bar was dispensing rum drinks. A snack bar and a restaurant were preparing typical Jamaican specialties and tempting aromas were drifting out.
There were strips of curried goat for the more adventurous American eater, Jerk Chicken for the lovers of the hot and spicy, beef patties and spareribs for those who wanted more familiar food. The national dish, Salt Fish and Ackee, was on display—the salted cod was mixed with red and green peppers and ackee, a Jamaican fruit. Slices of pawpaw, pineapple and mango were on most tables and it all looked irresistible. But I managed to resist and moved on to the Middle East pavilion.
Persia had a large display. As food disdains political boundaries, the change in name to Iran was ignored. In any case, the home country played little part in mounting this display, which was put on by American establishments. Lamb tongues simmered in a rich sauce under the eye of a swarthy chef in a clever duplication of a Persian kitchen. I asked him what was in the sauce.
“Advieh,” he told me. “A spice mixture containing cumin, coriander, cardamom and cinnamon plus secret ingredient.”
“And what is the secret ingredient?” His grin widened. “If I tell you—is no secret. No, I tell you—is rose petals.”
“Aren’t they lost with all those other spicy ingredients? Don’t they overwhelm it?”
“No, no, they give it fragrance.”
He may have been right. Certainly the aroma was different and I knew that the Persians had traditionally used rose petals in many of their dishes.
The next stand was a spectacular reproduction of a restaurant front in the Middle East and had an eye-catching sign: PHOENICIA. Beneath it, another sign said FOOD IN THE STYLE OF THE ANCIENT WORLD. The front was half cut away so that the visitor could walk in, and the interior was half restaurant and half kitchen. I was admiring the ingenuity of the layout when a woman came out of the kitchen, saw me and walked toward me.
She had a bold, hip-swinging gait that emphasized her voluptuous figure and long legs. She had jet black hair held in a golden band and her skin was a pale olive color which almost shone. Full red lips and a bold nose were noticeable only after you had looked at her eyes. I had heard eyes referred to as “almond” but had never before seen any that truly deserved that description. They were long and brilliant as jewels, and their color was extraordinary.
“Welcome to Phoenicia. My name is Ayesha.”
Her voice had an indolent, purring quality and I could hardly wait for her to go on talking. She wore a blouse and a flowing skirt, both in reds and greens with a wide belt of gold mesh. Bare ankles led to high-heeled sandals with gold straps.
“Food in the ancient style,” I said. “What does that mean exactly?”
She shrugged carelessly. “Everybody cooks modern food but there is
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