Delicious! Read Online Free PDF

“Don’t worry.” His voice was sympathetic. “Jake’s a good guy. And”—he was watching me with a kind of compassion I found hard to interpret—“he’ll understand that you saw an opportunity and seized it. Jake appreciates curiosity. And these are all people you should know if you’re working at
Delicious!
Wait until you see our store!” He led me east past bakeries, butcher shops, and Chinese grocery stores. “Just a couple more blocks.” He spread his arms wide, taking in the shops around us. “Aren’t you glad you came to New York?”
    His love for his city was so compelling that I found myself inhaling the aromas wafting from every door—roasting ducks, soy, dried mushrooms—with special pleasure.
    “When we were growing up, my sister and I knew everyone on the block. But the neighborhood’s changed. Good people, still, but mostly Asian now. Here we are!”
    He turned in to a crowded shop, and the deep, pungent smell of cheese wrapped itself around us. I smelled garlic and tomatoes and, somewhere, the rich ancient scent of olives. Bottles of clear green olive oil and dark-purple vinegar glistened like stained glass, while hams and salamis dangled from hooks in the ceiling. Huge loaves of bread balanced precariously on the shelves behind the raised counter, and great bunches of herbs hung from the rafters. It was like walking into a small Italian village, a kaleidoscope of scent, sound, and color that shifted each time another person came in.
    I’d never been inside a store like this one, never imagined a room filled with great wheels of cheese stacked so high they towered over me.There must have been three dozen people, all talking at the same time, their babble resonating like a flock of exotic, excited birds. An old lady with a cane reached to touch Sal’s arm, and he bent to murmur Italian endearments in her ear. A little girl handed him a drawing, and he swept her off her feet, both of them laughing as he swung her into the air. An elegant old gentleman said in heavily accented English, “I’ve been waiting. You’re the only one who cuts my cheese right,” and Sal replied, “You know my sister, Theresa, always gives you extra.” As he escorted me through the crowd, he whispered, “I want you to taste the cheese, so you understand why Thursday should be using the spring Parmigiano.”
    I’d forgotten about Thursday. “But I need to get her the cheese! She said she was going to wait.”
    “Relax.” He was reaching for the nearest wheel of cheese, a huge round, nearly two feet tall. He gave it a good thump. “This is the spring Parmigiano.”
    And before I could stop him, he was off.
    By this time I would have followed him anywhere. He showed me how each wheel was stamped with the month and year, and then he cracked the first one open to reveal its pale cream-colored interior. He chipped off a hefty shard and handed it to me. I took a bite, and my mouth filled with the hopeful taste of fresh green grass and young field flowers welcoming the sun.
    “That’s the spring cheese.” Sal was cracking the next wheel, which was stamped with an autumn date; he chipped off a little piece. The color was deeper, almost golden, the texture heavier and nubbier. When I put the cheese in my mouth it was richer, and if I let it linger on my tongue I could taste the lush fields of late summer, just as the light begins to die.
    Sal sliced off a slab of winter cheese and put that into my mouth. It felt different on my tongue, smoother somehow, the flavor sharper. “It’s like a different cheese.” I was savoring it. I tasted again; there was a familiar flavor. “It tastes like hay!”
    “Yes!” Sal was openly delighted. “I
knew
you were going to be able totaste how different this cheese is! Most Americans don’t even notice, but that cheese is so different that, back in the old days, it was sold under a different name. The Parmesan made from December to March, when the cows were in the barn,