In mystery and crime
fiction, as in life, characters exhibit degrees of good and evil, failure and
success, they live and die and, unless they are robots or androids, they need
to eat.
Food had always been
present and often telling in my novels.
Whether a question of what they eat, where they eat, when they eat, if
they have an opportunity to eat—food can reveal much about the characters and their
relationships.
And meetings in cafés and
restaurants can make for delicious encounters.
Jake Diamond, the
protagonist in four novels, works out of a private investigation office above
an Italian salumeria in San Francisco’s North Beach. Food is always nearby. COUNTING TO INFINITY begins:
The
scent of deep-fried calamari floated in through my office window like an invitation
to triple bypass surgery.
The delicatessen also
serves to highlight the difference in the eating habits of Diamond and his
associate Darlene Roman. Darlene does
not eat meat, while Jake, as all good Russian-Italian-Americans, cannot do
without it. In CIRCLING THE RUNWAY, when Jake voices strong dislike for
Darlene’s decision to act as bait for a sexual predator, Darlene reminds him:
You
don’t like tofu either, but that never stopped me.
Describing food can
add color and taste, and the presence of food can play into the action. In COUNTING TO INFINITY, Jake describes a meeting with his nemesis in a Chicago
airport:
Between
the chairs stood a glass-topped table holding a silver tray covered with tiny
sandwiches, crackers, and a mound of foie gras that cost some poor fowl a lot
more than an arm and a leg. The bread was ink-jet black, the crusts had been
cut off, and the beef spilling from the corners was so rare it made tartare
look overdone. The crackers were multi-grain, ten or eleven at least. They had the appearance of untanned shoe
leather. The chopped liver looked as
appetizing as corned beef hash. Granted, I wasn’t very hungry, and I’d had my fill of goose for the day. The cinnamon
roll that I inhaled while dashing to make take-off was like eating a down
comforter.
Later, the same food
tray adds flavor to a physical confrontation:
I
began to turn toward the door when a cannonball, which had to be Ralph Battle’s
fist, struck me in the back between the shoulder blades and knocked me straight
to the floor. My right elbow hit the
food tray, flipping it end over end into the air. The pâté did a fine job of turning a Norman
Rockwell on the wall behind Lansdale into a Jackson Pollock.
Food can help set the
occasion. In CIRCLING THE RUNWAY, as Jake prepares to celebrate St.
Joseph’s Day with friends, he considers inviting Darlene to join them:
Darlene
would not eat meat, and my dining habits and the variety of cooked animals I
regularly brought into the office made it difficult for her to be in the same
room. Angela’s dinner table would be a meat lover’s dream, but her salads and
vegetable side dishes were legendary and meatless. Joey would surely have the
very best Chianti on hand. And the Zeppole di San Giuseppe, fist-sized golden
pastry prepared traditionally for St. Joseph’s Day, was a cream-filled
miracle even Darlene found tough to resist.
Later, the allusion
serves to help Diamond describe a reluctant meeting with a killer:
I
would be discreetly followed to the rendezvous, I would be well protected from
any possible harm, and then the bad guy would be apprehended and brought to
justice. A piece of cake. One far less appealing than Zeppole di San Giuseppe.
Food can also serve
to add a bit of history to the proceedings. In CHASING CHARLIE CHAN, Jimmy Pigeon and Ray Boyle meet at a
landmark restaurant:
“It
is generally accepted as a historical fact that the French dip was originally
created at Philippe’s in downtown Los Angeles in 1918.
“According
to legend, Philippe Mathieu, the French born proprietor, accidentally dropped a
sliced French roll into the pan of hot juices while preparing a sandwich.
“The
patron, a Los Angeles policeman named French, told Philippe to use the bread as
it was. The next day Officer French returned with a group of fellow lawmen,
each asking for their bread to be juice-dipped.”
“So,”
Jimmy asked, “was the sandwich named after the Frenchman, the bread or the
cop?”
“Who
cares?” said Ray Boyle.
In
COUNTING TO INFINITY, food is also
employed to suggest regional cultural differences:
I
suppose I expected Chicago-style pizza to be very thick, that a leftover slice
could be used for a step exerciser. In fact, the deep-dish concoction looked
more like the pan it was baked in. The crust was a thin circle with high sides,
creating a large crusty bowl into which the ingredients were poured. First in
was the cheese, followed by the Italian sausage, which Eddie claimed was a
must, red bell peppers and Portobello mushrooms. Finally, tomato sauce covered
the works. We sat at a pizza parlor not far from Eddie’s place and the ballpark.
Eddie assured me the pie was as good as any you could find in the city, that it
was shipped in dry ice to customers all over the country.
“So, I could have one delivered to me
in San Francisco.”
“Sure, if you don’t mind paying sixty
bucks.”
"For sixty dollars, the thing had
better do my laundry when it gets there.”
In
the stand-alone thriller, GRAVESEND, a scene in a diner introduces pivotal
characters and sets up dramatic future events:
“Good morning,
gents,” says Bill Meyers, bouncing into Mitch’s Coffee Shop and taking a seat
at the counter. “Long time, no see, Gabriel.”
“Been very busy,
Bill,” says Gabriel Caine, working on a plate of eggs and home fries at the
adjacent stool.
“I’ll have the special,
Mitch,” says Bill, “scrambled well and with a little less hair.”
“I add the hair for
the extra protein,” says Mitch, breaking two eggs onto the griddle.
“Drop a few
fingernail clippings into my coffee cup,” says Meyers. “That should take care
of my minimum daily requirement. Been working, Gabriel?”
“Yes. And you?”
“I just started a
major renovation over on Ovington Place,” says Meyers. “Remodeling the kitchen
and bathroom and finishing a basement. Should keep me in groceries for the rest
of the month.”
“How well done do you
want these eggs, Bill?”
“Burn them. Are you
taking a vacation this winter, Mitch?”
“You bet. A week from
today. Thirteen days in sunny San Juan,” says Mitch Dunne. “Which reminds me,
I’d better get a sign up on the door saying that we’ll be closed.”
“Closed?” says Harry
Johannsen, walking into the shop.
“Vacation,” says
Mitch, plating the eggs.
“Where am I going to
get stale rye toast while you’re gone?” asks Harry, grabbing a seat next to
Gabriel.
“I’ll fix you a few
orders to go before I leave,” says Mitch, placing the plate on the counter.
“Where’s the hair?”
asks Harry, checking Bill’s food.
“Mitch used it all up
in my omelet,” says Gabriel.
“Pass the ketchup,”
says Bill.
In
BROOKLYN JUSTICE, Nick Ventura is treated to homemade delicacies while
recuperating in a hospital from a gunshot wound:
Angela
popped in at nine, moved the hospital table into place, and set down a plate
wrapped in aluminum foil. I uncovered a perfect frittata—eggs, potatoes,
garlic, onion, sweet red pepper and grated pecorino Romano. It was a beautiful
sight.
“What,
no Thomas’ English muffin?”
“I
couldn’t resist, I devoured it on my way over.”
“Did
you whip this up?”
“All by
myself.”
“It’s a
work of art.”
“I can
have it framed for you.”
“It
looks too good to eat.”
“Well,
decide, either eat it while it’s still warm or ask it to marry you.”
And
later, a touch of Italian culture:
Angela
returned at half past six with a large bowl of Ziti Siciliana. The bowl matched
the breakfast plate.
“Whip
this up also?”
“I
could have, but it was a busy day. I pulled it out of the freezer. My mother
never lets me go home from a Sunday dinner visit without taking leftovers. Eat
while it’s still piping hot from the microwave in the nurses’ break room. I
need to make arrangements for your release. I expect to see an empty bowl when
I get back.”
“Or
else?”
“Or
else I’ll tell my mother.”
The
setting of a story—San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago, Brooklyn—can be as an
important character as any other.
Similarly, the cultural backgrounds of protagonists and antagonists can
add color and authenticity. Food serves
well in contributing to a stronger sense of the flavor of a place and the
character of a person.
Good
appetite.
