JAMES BOND'S TASTE:
GOLDFINGER

      By the time Ian Fleming wrote Goldfinger, his seventh James Bond novel, 007 had dependably developed into quite the gourmet, and the books increased the number of references Fleming put in regarding food and drink—as well as cars, guns, clothes and gadgets—as part of his character, and that of his enemies. There are a lot of meals and drinks in Goldfinger and some of the most hilarious ways Bond makes use of his culinary taste is in the Sean Connery film, third in the franchise and one of the very best, despite a rather far-fetched plot line that involves SMERSH gangster Goldfinger attempting to extort money from the U.S. Treasury by threatening to set off an atomic bomb in Fort Knox, which would contaminate the gold inside for thousands of years.
     The novel begins with Bond investigating a smuggler’s warehouse in Mexico City, where he kills a gangster, after which he flies to Miami, intending to get drunk, “stinking drunk so that he would have to be carried to bed by whatever tart he picked up. He hadn’t been drunk in years. It was high time.” There he meets an American named DuPont  (who had been at the baccarat table in Casino Royale), and they go off to have martinis, stone crabs and Pommery Rosé Champagne 1950 at Bill’s on the Beach, obviously based on Joe’s Stone Crab on Miami Beach, which Bond afterwards pronounces “the most delicious meal he’d ever had in his life.”
     Bond checks into the Cabana Club resort, where he meets Auric Goldfinger, five feet tall, fat and “red as a lobster,” with whom he plays cards. Lunch with DuPont is at the Floridian Hotel in Homestead—shrimp cocktail, snapper and roast beef. Back at the Cabana Club Bond meets a beautiful woman working for Goldfinger, named Jill Masterton, whom he seduces and with whom he and Goldfinger return to New York on the Silver Meteor, where they dine on caviar sandwiches and Champagne. He checks into the Ramsgate Hotel before flying back to London, where his superior, M, wants 007 to investigate Goldfinger’s gold smuggling and possible connection to SMERSH.
         Bond goes to Goldfinger’s English mansion, filmed at Stoke Park House (right) in Reculver on the coast east of London, plays golf and meets the fearsome Oddjob bodyguard. Afterwards, it’s drinks at a pub and dinner at Goldfinger’s that consists of shrimp curry, roast duck and cheese soufflé with Piesporter Goldtropfchen Riesling and Château Mouton-Rothschild 1947. Goldfinger is himself a teetotaler for health reasons, and Bond remarks that’s one of the reasons he had recently “taken to vodka,” saying that it being charcoal filtered removes its impurities.
     

    Afterwards, in a gadget-equipped Aston Martin DB Mark III (above) given to him by MI6, 007 trails Goldfinger in his 1909 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost (right)—actually made with solid white gold—to France and Switzerland. Along the way Bond, though preferring the Auberge de la Montespan, stops at the serviceable Hôtel de la Gare in the Orleans RR station, where at the buffet he eats eggs en cocotte (below), sole meunière and Camembert and drinks Rosé d’Anjou and a nightcap of Hennessy 3-star Cognac.
       On the road, Bond foils an assassination attempt on Goldfinger by Tilly Masterton, whose sister Jill had been murdered by Goldfinger by painting her body gold. Bond and Tilly picnic on sausages and bread at Lyon, then have dinner at Bavaria Brasserie (below, left) and enjoy enzian (gentian schnaaps) washed down with Löwenbrau, choucroute garnie and Gruyère with a carafe of Swiss Fendant du Valais. They then check into the Bouches du Rhône in Les Baux.
       Oddjob captures Bond and brings him to a warehouse where a table is set with caviar and foie gras and where he meets another of Goldfinger’s molls, a lesbian named Pussy Galore. Oddjob knocks 007 unconscious. When Bond comes to, Oddjob threatens to cut him in half with a buzz saw unless he agrees to join Goldfinger in Operation Grand Slam at Fort Knox, which Bond says he will. Tilly is killed by Oddjob.
       The Fort Knox operation is foiled, and, on a flight back to England, Bond fights with Goldfinger aboard a hijacked BOAC jet. Bond beats Goldfinger to death, and then takes up with Pussy, who submits to his “tender loving care.”
    

     In the movie some liberties were taken with the book’s plot, allowing Bond to travel more. In Miami he stays at the Fontainebleau Hotel and orders a 1953 Champagne that arrives too warm. Sporting a hideous baby blue sunsuit, he meets Jill Masterson, has dinner in his suite but is knocked unconscious, awakening to find her body covered with gold paint that suffocated her.
     Back in London, he dines with M and members of the Bank of England, where Bond makes one of his most remarkable shows of connoisseurship. When M asks 007 if there’s something wrong with the Cognac, Bond sniffs and says, “Well, sir. It seems to be a 30-year-old fine, indifferently blended, with an overdose of . . . Bon Bois.”
      I have asked people in the Cognac industry if anyone could really figure out such components to such an arcane degree and was told that it would be nearly impossible. But what Bond said was actually based on the facts of Cognac blending: A “fine” is an industry term for brandy, and the overdose of Bon Bois refers to a region in Cognac whose grapes are used in the blend but are considered inferior to the others in the mix from the other regions. 
         As in the book, Bond follows Goldfinger into France and Switzerland, this time driving an Aston Martin DB5, while Oddjob chauffeurs a Rolls Royce Phantom III and Tilly Masterson drives a ’64 Mustang convertible, whose tires Bond destroys with a cutting wheel on his rims. Tilly is killed by Oddjob, who captures 007 and uses a laser beam between Bond’s legs to make him talk, but 007 makes Goldfinger think he knows all about Operation Grand Slam and Goldfinger stops the laser.
      After crashing his car in a chase, Bond is knocked out and awakens to find himself on his enemy’s private jet, which  lands in Kentucky (the airport used in the filming was actually at RAF base at Nortolt in Ruislip, England), where he meets Pussy Galore. They land at Goldfinger's thoroughbred stud farm, where, on  the verandah, Bond enjoys a mint julep after asking it to be made with sour mash whiskey and branch water. And, even for Bond, that is getting way too fussy, insofar as branch water comes from clear springs not likely to be running through Goldfinger's ranch.  And, in fact, most bourbons have always been made with sour mash, a process of  allowing the residue of the spent “beer” to sour overnight, then added to a new batch.
      The FBI alerted, Operation Grand Slam fails but Bond is locked inside Fort Knox with Oddjob, whom he manages to electrocute just in time to turn off the bomb’s ticking timer as the digital numbers strike “007.”
       Bond gets on a plane with Pussy, who now sides with him, but finds Goldfinger has hijacked the jet. After a fight, the villain is sucked out of the window. Bond lands both the plane and Pussy.

         Although not exactly a secret, City Island is unfamiliar to most New Yorkers, and certainly not high among tourist destinations, even in the Bronx. Which is just fine with those who live on this mile-long finger of land that stretches into Long Island Sound within view of Manhattan skyscrapers. For this maritime community—which the local Indian tribe called Minnewits—is as quiet and charming as any in New York, with tackle shops and antique stores to rival any in New England. The 19th century wooden houses were once the homes of sea captains and yachtsmen; indeed, from 1935 to 1980 a dozen America’s Cup yachts were built on the island and the main street is still flanked by dry docks. Dozens of movies have filmed scenes on location here, including Raging Bull (1980), A Bronx Tale (1993) and City Island (2009).
          City Island has always gotten a good local crowd that comes for the Italian and seafood restaurants, many dating back before World War II, and for most of that time Johnny’s Reef has been an open-air seafood cafeteria of a kind that you expect to find up and down the Atlantic Coast, but with a good amount of Bronx swagger and the sounds of so many of the borough’s various Black, Latino, Caribbean and Asian communities.
         Open seasonally from March through November, Johnny’s, with its new outdoor covered but wind-swept eating area, is more popular than ever. The Covid closure allowed renovations and improvements to be made throughout.
         You enter from an ample parking lot and get on line to order from three counters, one for drinks and ice cream, one for food and one for alcoholic beverages. You put in your order, the Latino staff member yells out “Dos camarones, uno pollo!” and within moments your food is ready. Then you get your drinks and stay inside or go outside, where you sit at large blue picnic tables and look out over a panorama of the choppy sound, Long Island’s North Coast—where F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Great Gatsby had his mansion—and within sight of the majestic Throgs Neck Bridge. You also get a big gulp of salty air that makes everything taste even better.
         Johnny’s menu is long but focused: All the seafood may be ordered fried or steamed, from crisp, golden shrimp ($17) and scallops ($23) to fillet of sole ($17), porgy ($17), snapper ($22), whiting ($17), frogs legs ($11) and softshell crabs ($29). There also are Littleneck clams ($13 for a dozen), Cherrystones ($13), linguine with clams ($13) and a first-rate lobster roll ($18). There are also chicken wings ($13) and fried chicken ($11).
    The absolute freshness of the seafood (although the lobster tails come in frozen; $36) is assured by the enormous turn-over of customers. That also means the oil is fresh and replenished often.  All the seafood comes atop a mess of French fries (this year crispier than they used to be) and coleslaw, with lemon wedges.  Soda, beer and cocktails are available, and they have desserts, too.
         If I sound exultant, it’s for several reasons. First, the atmosphere is radiant and the mix of people from all over the Bronx, Queens, Manhattan, Westchester and Connecticut makes it a far more egalitarian spot than most restaurants. Second, I grew up two miles south of City Island, and some of my earliest memories of going out to dinner with my family and friends were the restaurants there, with names like Thwaite’s, the Lobster Box, the old-fashioned City Island Diner, the original Crab Shanty, the Sea Shore (opened in the 1920s) and others.  We had a doctor friend we kids called Uncle Mattie, who had no business piloting a 50-foot Cabin Cruiser around the Sound, but somehow we always puttered up to a slip on City Island, starving for a good meal, and lingered well into the star-lighted night.
         Frankly, a lot of the newer Italian restaurants on the island that have had successive owners are pretty run-of-the-mill, but Johnny’s, wholly lacking in frills but now prettier than it used to be, is as evocative as any lobster shack in Maine or crab shack on the Chesapeake or fish camp in South Carolina. That, and the fact the island is an extension of Pelham Bay Park (which is three times the size of Manhattan’s Central Park) and just south of the pure white sand of Orchard Beach with its 1930s art deco architecture, makes a trip to Johnny’s requisite for anyone unaware of the extensive bucolic nature of the North Bronx.       

Johnny’s Reef Restaurant is located at 2 City Island Avenue, Bronx NY. 718-885-2086. Open daily.  

         There was a beep coming from the fax, followed by an output of continuous paper, six sheets, all headed INTERPOL. They were translations of stories about Stepanossky in The Moscow Times and Novi list. David tore them from the machine and brought them to his desk, then called Katie to get together ASAP.
         He arrived an hour later at Katie’s apartment and showed her the faxes. Katie read one, David the other, both struggling with translations dashed off rather than verbatim.
         David said, “From what I can make out here, it’s pretty much like the European reports, but it makes some digs at Stepanossky, saying that he had recently been at odds with the current administration and that he had told colleagues he would be in Croatia for an extended period of time. Says he was sick of politics and was only interested in running his business and managing his art collection. It says he is expected to make a full recovery after a long convalescence.
       “What’s yours say?”
         “Apparently the editors of Novi list are none too biased when it comes to Stepanossky. At first they just give the straight facts everybody did, but then they kind of rip into him as having once been one of the worst of the K.G.B. officers and that he was responsible for the deaths of a lot of Croatians during the war and a lot of destruction.  Then, it says, he has lately been in conflict with another former K.G.B. officer named Vladimir Putin.”
         “Putin?” David asked. “Kiley mentioned him as an up-and-coming bureaucrat in the government. Even said he was at serious odds with Stepanossky.  Anything else?”
         “It kind of reads like they wish Stepanossky good riddance and that now maybe he will stay out of Croatia in the future. Sounds as if they’re hinting that someone in Croatia may have rigged the land mine.”
         “Anything in there about the type of explosive?”
         “No, just says a land mine.”
         David was twisting his neck as if to work out a kink. 
         “This all gets more exasperating every minute.”
         “Curiouser and curiouser,” said Katie. 
         “So, what we have is a case of Stepanossky either driving over an old land mine—maybe one planted years ago by the Croatians seeking to blow up Russian tanks—or this Putin guy set up a boobytrap for his opponent. Or a Croatian partisan.”
         “Or it was attempted murder by someone who wanted him out of the bidding.”
         “The Chinese?”
         “I don’t know why the Chinese would want him out of the bidding.  I’m sure they’d love to get hold of Stepanossky’s $100 million in Russian gold.”
         “What if Putin was thinking of bidding on the Vermeer?” asked David. “He could really wave that in Stepanossky’s face, in the event he hadn’t been blown to smithereens?”
         “Does Putin have that kind of money?” asked Katie, pouring more wine.
         David recalled that Kiley had described Putin as a rising star in the Soviet bureaucracy but not yet made filthy rich by it.
         “He’s probably on his way, that is, if somebody doesn’t knock him off.  Everyone watches his back in Moscow. I’ll talk to Kiley about all this. Gotta really thank him for sharing this info, and see what he thinks. He couldn’t give us any of this info if this were a real criminal investigation.  Knowing him, he’s going to say, bring me someone’s head on a platter, which I’m far from being able to do.”
         “Well, you’ve already brought him Saito’s heart, Lauden’s arm and now Stepanossky’s foot,” said Katie.
         “Why, Katie Cavuto, that’s pretty raw of you.”
         “I’ve been hanging around big tough guys too long,” she said, then, two glasses of wine to the good, “Hey, David, you know what just occurred to me?”
         “What just occurred to you, Katie Cavuto?”
         “All these nefarious deeds are textbook examples of the preferred ways to knock someone off in each particular country. Let’s see, we’ve got Japanese arsenic, Brazilian kidnapping, a Chinese hit man and a Croatian land mine.  And maybe we’re not done yet.  How do the Dutch like to get rid of people?”
         “Maybe lock them in a room with a Dutch stand-up comedian?”
         Katie laughed and patted David on the shoulder. “Good one, Greco!  And what about Shui?”
         “Hmm, Chinese water torture?”
         The two of them were having a good time, the jokes taking the edge off the work, and David hoped Katie might ask him if he wanted to stay overnight in the extra bedroom, as he’d once done during the Capone case, rather than drive an hour home after drinking the wine. 
         “Jeez,” he said, “I better get going.  The drive, the wine . . .”
         “You can certainly stay here, if you want. I can make some pasta or whip something up.”
         “As long as you’re inviting me for dinner,” said David, “allow me to make the pasta. What’s in your ‘fridge?”
         “Enough,” Kati said, “And now we can finish the wine without guilt.”

                                            *                *                *

         “Any news on the Chinese delegate, Mr. Chin?” David asked Kiley over the phone.
         “Well, his full name is Wei Chin,” said Kiley, “Been attached to the embassy for five years. It’s way over on Twelfth Avenue, right on the Hudson (left). Chin works in the General Affairs Office, purely administrative bullshit. He’s pretty low on the totem pole.”
         “Any progress on getting him out of there?”
         “Nope. The Chinese have refused all comment on Chin, saying he has diplomatic immunity. Of course, they also don’t say he was involved in the ‘accident.’ At some point they’ll probably just send him back to Beijing, or assign him to some backwater bureau in Lhasa (below).”
         “Where’s Lhasa?” asked David.
         “About as far away from Beijing as you can get in China. The boonies.”
         David said, “Christ, all roads in this story”—he was careful not to say ‘case’ this time—“seem to lead to backwaters: the Amazon, Croatia, Lhasa.”
         “Well, Chin is still here. If the F.B.I. can keep the pressure on, maybe the Chinese will back down and toss him over,but I doubt it.”
         “Anything new about Stepanossky?” asked David.
         “One of our sources over there says the smart money believes it was a hit, but no one knows for sure who might have done it.  The Croatians would probably love to claim it, but that would stir up too much political shit for them.  If it was an enemy of Stepanossky in Russia, we’re not likely to hear anything about it.”
         “What about that guy Putin?”
         “His name’s been floated but with nothing more than supposition to go on.  Since Stepanossky is technically out of the government—although these guys never really are—Putin might have no reason to blow him sky high.  In any case, it’s not our problem.”
         “Unless it has something to do with the Vermeer auction.”
         “I just don’t know, David.  There’s still no smoking gun in this whole damn thing.”
         “No, just a couple of lost limbs so far.”