The Book of Salt - Monique Truong [45]
"Please tell the chef that I'll have the salt-and-pepper shrimp with the shells still on, please, and my friend here will have the same," he ordered in a French that did not belong in the mouth of any kitchen boy.
The young woman said, "Of course," and walked toward the curtained-off entrance to the kitchen.
"Friend," I whispered, "that will be an expensive meal..."
"Good food is the only thing I'm willing to pay money for," he leaned in to assure me, "and, besides, the chef here won't charge us a centime." He relaxed his back into his chair. The tightness that was building up in between my shoulder blades, a reaction to impending moments of financial constraint, relaxed as well.
The curtain parted. The young woman, who was holding a tray that looked too large to fit through the narrow corridor, swung her body sideways, and she and the tray entered the room with ease. Grace, I would not call it, because such movements are not inborn, not a willowy gift bestowed upon the limbs on the day of her birth. No, movements like these are practiced daily and perfected via the occasional workplace mishaps. I looked back at the man on the bridge and saw him looking at her, well, admiringly. Surely, he is impressed by the tray and not by the body, I thought. The tray, believe me, was impressive. Most of it was taken up by a pink mound of shrimp, all with their shells and their heads still attached. A red sash at the base of their heads, their coral shining through, identified them as females, prized and very dear when available in the markets of this city. There was also a plate on either side. Haricots verts sautéed with garlic and ginger were in one, and watercress wilted by a flash of heat were in the other. A compote dish towered above them all, holding white rice, steam rising at topmast. A bottle balanced out the tray, its cork announcing that it was a decisive step up from the decanted bottles of house wine.
We then exchanged words, sparingly, between generous forkfuls of food. Chopsticks had not been offered, and we did not ask for them. Why waste time on the technicalities of tableware when a feast is before us? I thought.
"Morels?"
Yes, he nodded.
"Morels," I repeated. An unexpected addition, I thought. Rich with the must of forest decay, these mushrooms were hidden below the haricots verts until their aroma gave them away and we began searching for them with the tines of our forks.
"Butter?"
Yes, he nodded.
Salt-and-pepper shrimp finished in a glaze of browned butter! I marveled. Not out loud, of course, as my mouth was entirely too full. When melted butter is brought to the color just moments after gold, it inexplicably acquires, as Anh Minh had taught me, the taste of hazelnuts roasted over a wood-fed flame. A lesson I was now pleased to relearn.
"Watercress?"
He stopped in midbite and stared at me. Startled, I thought. My previous inquiries—they were more like requests for confirmation—may have been simply worded, but they indicated a palate that had spent time in a professional kitchen. This question, however, could have been asked by a simple kitchen boy. Watercress is unmistakable, bitter in the mouth, cooling in the body, greens that any Vietnamese could identify with his eyes closed. I know this dish well. That was not the question. The recipe is a deceptively simple one that calls for oil heated till it smokes, seasoned with nothing more than a generous sprinkling of salt and the blink of an eye. Any more contact with the heat, and the stalks turn themselves into ropes, tying themselves up in your mouth, making it impossible to swallow.
"The salt?" I asked, moving closer to the crux of my question.
Yes, he nodded. "The chef here," he said, "uses fleur de sel to make this dish."
I shook my head. I wanted to signal my unfamiliarity with that French