The Alienist - Caleb Carr [52]
But fine food and wine were only part of the reason for the Delmonicos’ prosperity: the family’s professed egalitarianism also drew customers in. On any given night at the uptown restaurant on Twenty-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue, one was just as likely to run into Diamond Jim Brady and Lillian Russell as Mrs. Vanderbilt and the other matrons of New York’s high society. Even the likes of Paul Kelly were not turned away. Perhaps more amazing than the fact that anyone could get in was the fact that everyone was forced to wait an equal amount of time for a table—reservations were not taken (save for parties in the private dining rooms), and no favoritism was ever exhibited. The wait was sometimes annoying; but to find yourself on line behind someone like Mrs. Vanderbilt, who would squawk and stamp about “such treatment!” could be very entertaining.
On the particular night of our conference with the Isaacson brothers, Laszlo had taken the precaution of engaging a private room, knowing that our conversation would be deeply upsetting to anyone around us in the main dining room. We approached the block-long restaurant from the Broadway side, where the café was located, then turned left at Twenty-sixth Street and pulled up to the main entrance. Cyrus and Stevie were dismissed for the evening, having had a lot of late nights recently. The rest of us would get cabs home after dinner. We stepped up to the door and then inside, and were immediately greeted by young Charlie Delmonico.
The family’s older generation had almost completely died off by 1896, and Charlie had given up a career on Wall Street to take over the business. He couldn’t have been better suited to the task: suave, dapper, and eternally tactful, he attended to every detail without a look of care ever narrowing his enormous eyes or ruffling a hair of his natty beard.
“Dr. Kreizler,” he said as we approached, taking our hands and smiling delicately. “And Mr. Moore. Always a pleasure, gentlemen, especially when you are together. And Miss Howard as well—it’s been some time since you’ve been in. I’m grateful that you are able to return.” That was Charlie’s way of saying he understood Sara had been through a lot since her father died. “Your other guests, Doctor, have already arrived, and are waiting upstairs.” He kept talking as we checked our outer garments. “I remembered you saying that you found neither olive nor crimson conducive to digestion, so I have placed you in the blue room—will that be satisfactory?”
“Considerate, as ever, Charles,” Kreizler answered. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome to go right up,” Charlie said. “Ranhofer is, as always, ready.”
“Ah-ha!” I said, at the mention of Delmonico’s brilliant chef. “I trust he’s girding himself for our stern judgment?”
Charlie smiled again, that same gentle curve of the mouth. “I believe he has something quite remarkable planned. Come, gentlemen.”
We followed Charlie through the mirrored walls, mahogany furniture, and frescoed ceiling of the main dining room and then up to the private blue room on the second floor. The Isaacson brothers were already seated at a small but elegant table, looking a bit bewildered. Their confusion mounted when they saw Sara, whom they knew from headquarters; but she very cagily sidestepped their questions, saying that someone had to take notes for Commissioner Roosevelt, who was taking a personal interest in the