The American Lady(6)

Fruit, vegetables, sausage, salami, cheese, prepared dishes—Dittmer’s had virtually any delicacy a person could desire. The bakery counter was lined with baskets full of long, thin baguettes and platters piled high with southern Italian biscotti. Next to them, deep-black pumpernickel loaves were stacked up like bricks. At the cheese counter a customer could choose from eighty varieties, and the next counter over displayed oysters from Blue Point, Chesapeake Bay, and Pine Island. To make the choice a little easier, the store offered half a dozen oysters for tasting on the spot—with salt and lemon juice on the side. Or customers could opt for a dish of Dittmer’s incomparable oyster stew with butter, cream, and rosemary. A customer could sit down to a plate of oysters and admire the cold counter across the way: with almost ten yards of canapés, it was a feast for the eyes. Whether she was giving an intimate dinner for eight or a banquet for thirty, there wasn’t a hostess in town who could afford not to include at least one course from Dittmer’s, whose dishes were as much part of a society meal as handwoven linen napkins or Tiffany flatware.

Whoever had the money could order the entire meal from Dittmer’s expert cooks. No order was too large and no dish too refined for the kitchen. Three dozen Polish pirogis, filled with Russian caviar? No problem, madame! A banquet for one hundred and thirty guests, to be served five hours from now? Something of a challenge, but you can rely on us! Such orders unleashed a flurry of activity that the customer would never see. Cooks jostled for space on the gas rings, while kitchen hands scrubbed vegetables and plucked grapes as though they were trying to set a record. And when the goods were delivered, everything had been prepared with such loving care that you’d have thought the cooks had spent the whole week doing nothing else.

This perfectionism fascinated Wanda. She glowed with pride at the thought that she was part of this perfectly tuned machine, that her work helped create such marvels.

Of course her mother had turned up her nose at the news that Wanda was going to start work as a counter girl at Dittmer’s.

“Why is there anything dishonorable about selling groceries?” Wanda had asked before Ruth could even say a word. Perhaps she hadn’t been about to say anything. Perhaps now that Wanda was eighteen she didn’t care how she spent her days. But Wanda preferred to think that her mother was upset by her choice.

“There is nothing at all dishonorable about selling groceries. And there’s nothing dishonorable about preparing food,” Ruth had declared. “I’m just wondering why you didn’t go all the way and become a chef.”

“I haven’t yet, but there’s still time,” Wanda had shot back, somewhat annoyed that her mother hadn’t been as shocked by her new job as she had imagined.

She straightened her gleaming, starched apron one more time—she had made a point of putting it on at home instead of waiting until she got to work, as all the other counter girls did—and looked expectantly at the door.

Wanda had been working at Dittmer’s for two and a half weeks now. So far, every day had brought fresh surprises. And best of all was that Mason Dittmer seemed happy with her work. Granted, he hadn’t actually said anything yet, but every time he came past her counter he gave her a friendly nod—though he never so much as glanced at the rest of the girls. Was that because she coped with stress better than most people? Because even amid all the hustle and bustle she kept a cool head? Because even in her first days on the job she had never made a mistake taking an order or writing up the check? Or better yet—perhaps it was because some of the customers had praised her work? After all, she was Wanda Miles; she was from one of the best families in all Manhattan, and that had to help when she was advising customers about their orders. Didn’t it? Her mother was one of the most fashionable hostesses in town and an important customer for Dittmer’s, which had to mean that Wanda knew what others would want as well. Who better to deal with the whims and wishes of high-society ladies than someone who had grown up in their world? That had been Wanda’s argument when Mr. Dittmer had wondered out loud whether the society ladies might not perhaps feel uncomfortable giving orders to her. In the end he had been won over by Wanda’s enthusiasm.



“All the parties are such a bore this season! There’s no spark anymore! Nobody has any new ideas! Everybody’s just chewing over the same old recipes that have already been served up everywhere else!” said Monique Desmoines, wife of Charles Desmoines—one of the most influential brokers at the Stanley Finch Bank—as she fanned herself ostentatiously. She glanced around the counters with an expression approaching disgust.