Cleo Coyle - Espresso Shot

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have taken a cab here. What’s the point of the long subway ride and a rendezvous on a darkened street?”

“Cabs bring attention and unwanted scrutiny. Too much traffic can be the death of an underground eatery. It’s happened before. For instance…” Roman pointed to a gas station down the block. “Once upon a time you could park in front of that station, make a cell phone call to an unlisted number, and in a few minutes an order from the famous dumpling speakeasy would be delivered to your car or cab-”

“Excuse me, did you say ‘dumpling speakeasy’?”

“Best dumplings I’ve ever eaten outside of Shanghai. Sadly, the cab and car traffic caused too much attention. Word leaked to the local supermarket sheets. It hit the bigger papers, then New York 1, and that was that!”

“What happened? Did the Department of Health descend?”

“More like the tax man. An underground restaurant is an unlicensed business. That’s one reason for the secrecy.”

It certainly felt secretive enough loitering there, I decided. At eight thirty in the evening, the traffic on Northern was heavy. There were a lot of police cars around, too, but the sidewalks were pretty empty, except for a trio of men hanging out just like us at the end of the block, in front of the Taiwan Cultural Center. One of the youths wore a black jacket with an elaborate dragon design on the back. He noticed me looking and glanced away.

I wondered if they were coming to the secret dinner party, too. I considered asking them when I felt someone grab my elbow. I whirled to find black eyes staring at me from under the shadows of a dark hooded jacket. I broke away from the stranger, ready to scream, when the man pulled back his hood and said, “Are you with Roman Brio?”

“Right here! Party of two!” Roman waved his chubby hand as if we’d been waiting for our table at Babbo’s bar.

“So nice to meet you, Mr. Brio,” the young man said with a slight accent. He had dark, almond-shaped eyes and a shy smile, which he flashed as he gestured us forward. “Please allow me to seat you.”

I noticed a waiter’s black pants and white apron under the young man’s jacket. “So he’s our waiter?” I whispered to Roman. “This is his job?”

“I’m sure he’s a waiter at a real restaurant,” Roman replied. “Tonight’s probably his night off, and he’s getting paid cash to moonlight for this event.”

The young man led us across Northern. We passed the huge redbrick Town Hall and turned onto a residential block filled with newly built two- and three-family town houses. But we weren’t going to those houses. We turned abruptly instead into a narrow alley that ran behind the Town Hall.

Tiny weathered clapboard houses lined both sides of this short, shadowy block. The buildings were so close to each other, they muffled the noise of the traffic on Northern. For a moment, given the age of the structures and the abrupt quiet, I felt as though I were back in my own Village neighborhood.

Roman sniffed the air. “Charcoal.”

The smell tickled my nose, too, along with the scent of hot sesame oil, garlic, and ginger.

“I think we’re getting warm,” Roman said with a quaver in his voice.

Halfway down the block we stopped in front of a small, gray-shingled house with a gambrel roof like an old barn. A single, tiny window covered with scarlet curtains faced the alley.

While the youth opened the unlocked front door, I glanced up the block and spied the men who’d been loitering in front of the Taiwan Center. Were they fellow dinner guests?

I was about to ask our waiter but never got the chance. He hustled us into a foyer, and a wave of cooking scents washed over us: Indian and Asian spices, seared meat, and a peppery smell that woke up my tear ducts.

“Positively delightful!” Roman closed his eyes and waved his hands like a parfumeur experiencing a riot of new scents.

We were ushered into a cozy living room with powder-blue walls covered with family photos. Floor lamps gave the space a soft glow. At the far end of the room was a nook of a dining space. A long, narrow table started in that small room and flowed out of it, reaching well into the living room. It was set for ten. Three couples were already seated, sipping wine and speaking with a stocky man who stood over them. As we entered, the well-dressed group turned in their seats to greet Roman, who seemed to know them all.

“This is Clare Cosi, everyone. She’s the manager of the Village Blend.”

In a rush, everyone shouted their names. They were all Caucasian and appeared to be prosperous professionals in their thirties and forties. One man stood out, however. Younger than the rest, I recognized him from the uncannily accurate caricature on his Web site.

“Chef Perry!” Roman said, “Clare’s been dying to meet you.”

Ack. So much for subtlety.

Neville Perry stood up. I quickly stepped forward and offered my hand. He shook it firmly.

“I’m flattered to meet a fan.”

Wearing a Levi’s jacket over a loose Hawaiian shirt, the chef was no older than thirty. His spiky hair was platinum blond (obviously bleached, since his goatee was dark brown), and I noticed the glint of a silver loop in his ear. The striking contrast of perfectly even white teeth against a salon-perfect tan screamed Hollywood. So did the way his shirt was open at the neck to flaunt as much bronzed flesh as possible.

His eyes were the pale-green color of honeydew melon, and they checked me out so quickly from head to toe I would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching.

“So, Clare…” He smiled. “Were you a fan of my canceled reality show, my defunct restaurant, or my Prodigal Chef blog?”

“Oh, all three,” I said, surprised by the dry humor in the man’s tone. Self-deprecation was the last thing I expected from this guy.

“Well, that’s really nice of you to say. Have any favorite episodes? Or dishes?”

“It’s really your Web site that’s got my attention lately.”

“That’s great, too.” Neville glanced at Roman. “I’m happy you’re socializing with someone besides your gossip-mongering, yellow journalist buddies.” Neville slapped his forehead. “Wait a minute! I forgot. You’re one of those gossip-mongering, yellow journalists, aren’t you?”

“Oh, Neville. You’re jealous because I actually get paid for my writing. By the way, I’ve been wondering. What do you do for a living?”

Chef Perry winked at me. “I wonder if our food critic gets paid by the word or by the pound?”

Roman rolled his eyes. “Ersatz cheese is sold by the pound, Neville. That would be your department.”

Our escort reappeared, minus his hooded jacket, bearing a tray of wine. Roman accepted a glass, sniffed it with theatrical trepidation, then took a sip and made a face.

Perry lifted his chin in my direction. “I’ll bet Clare doesn’t think my blogs are crap.”

Roman raised a finger. “I didn’t say crap. I said ersatz cheese . There is a minor difference. Considering your reputation, it’s one you should recognize.”

Though the men were throwing comments as prickly as cactus leaves, I didn’t get the impression Neville Perry actually disliked Roman.

“Man, I hope we eat soon.” Perry glanced at his bling-heavy watch. “These aromas are making me ravenous.”

“Anything to clean my palate of this subpar wine,” Roman said, plopping his glass on the table.

“We’re still waiting for someone to arrive,” said one of the other guests.

Just then a loud voice boomed from the foyer. “I’m here, all! Start ringing the dinner bell!”

Roman looked as though he’d just sampled something more displeasing than the “subpar” wine. He turned to Neville. “Well, Perry, it appears you’re not the only show biz chef to taint us with his presence this evening.”