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Authors: Meredith Mileti

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BOOK: Aftertaste
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Contorni
Now by cookery I swear,
Which doth make us whole again,
Cooks surpass all other men!
—Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin
chapter 28
So far, I haven't written a column that Enid hasn't edited the hell out of. I always get the food stuff right; in fact, I know much more about food than Enid does, but I'm no writer. As a result, Enid requires that I e-mail her each column several days before the actual deadline. However, because I often feel the need to challenge authority, I've taken to sending them in later and later with each passing week. I intended to e-mail it to her before I went to bed, but by the time I finished Googling everyone I could think of it was well after midnight, and within minutes I fell asleep on the couch, my laptop resting on my knees. So, when I awake to the ringing phone the following morning, a line of drool as fine as dental floss escaping from my open mouth, I know, without even having to check the caller ID, that it's Enid calling to reprimand me.
“Okay, okay, I'm hitting ‘send' right now,” I offer in lieu of a greeting.
“What? Mira?” asks a voice, not Enid's.
My stomach lurches, releasing a surge of bile that tastes like beer and salsa.
“Oh, shit, I didn't wake you, did I?”
“Ah, no,” I say, sitting up and looking wildly around the apartment. Could I be dreaming? I crane my neck to peer behind me at the clock in the kitchen. It's barely seven o'clock in the morning.
“Jake?” I whisper.
“Yeah.”
“Ah—” My mouth is open and fulminating, my brain a vacuum; nothing, not a sound, not a thought, can escape.
“I know; it's been a while. How have you been?”
I sit up and look over at Richard, who is snoring in his hospital bed by the window.
“I'm fine. We're fine,” I tell him.
“Good. That's good,” Jake says.
“What do you want? Is something wrong?” I ask, cutting to the chase.
“What makes you think I want something?” Jake asks. “Can't I call to see how you're doing? How Chloe's doing?” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I know I—I missed her birthday.”
“Yeah, you did.”
He must have the phone jammed to his ear because I swear I can hear him swallow. “How is she?” Jake asks, his voice hollow and distant, as if we're talking on two tin cans strung together across some great divide.
“She's perfect,” I say, my voice catching.
The silence on the other end of the phone feels like a black hole.
“Listen,” Jake finally says, “I've got something really big on the front burner here—a real deal . . . that I thought you might want—”
“I already know you've opened a new restaurant. I read about it.”
Jake pauses. I don't know if he's expecting me to congratulate him on his latest venture or what, but if that's what he's waiting for, then he can wait. I'd rather chew tacks.
“You thought I might want what?” I ask him. Coffee. I need coffee. I head into the kitchen and loudly begin scooping espresso into my
macchinetta.
Richard stirs in the corner.
“I thought you might be interested in a business proposition, that's all,” Jake says.
I set the
macchinetta
on the stove, turn on the gas, and go to the refrigerator for milk.
“But you just opened another restaurant. Clearly you didn't need me,” I tell him, pouring the milk into the saucepan and setting it to simmer.
“Look, Mira, we're not just talking about Il Vinaio here. That's small potatoes compared to what we're envisioning.”
“We? Really. By the way, is it true you're moving from Grappa? And who's this executive chef from Vegas you're bringing in?” I demand, my voice fueled by the impending arrival of caffeine in my system.
“Who told you that?” Jake asks, instantly suspicious. “Never mind,” he continues. “Just hold on and let me explain. A lot of the top guys, Batali, Keller, Lagasse, have all opened satellite places in big American restaurant markets like New York, Vegas, LA, even Orlando, all of which, I'm sure I don't have to tell you, have been tremendously successful. Look, it's not just another restaurant I'm opening, it's a whole restaurant syndicate we're talking about here. When these guys approached me—”
“Who approached you?” I ask.
“Look, they're good guys. Smart business people. And they want to talk to you.”
“Me?” I ask, surprised. “Why would they want to talk to me? Who are these guys?”
“Philippe—he's the guy I tabbed to run Grappa just until I got Il Vinaio up and running—is Nicola's cousin. Used to be a banker, but he got tired of the life and moved to Vegas and apprenticed himself to Paul Bartolotta. Always wanted to cook. Anyway, he introduced me to the group. He used to work with one of the guys in the conglomerate when he was in finance,” Jake says.
“Well, I have it on good authority that this guy—what's his name—Philippe isn't doing such a great job,” I tell him, remembering Enid's comment several weeks ago.
Jake is silent.
“Jake, why wouldn't you let Tony run Grappa?”
“I'm getting to that,” Jake sighs. “Nicola and I are in as founding investors in this restaurant syndicate, and I've offered Tony a share as well. He's in—a small share—but he's in,” he says. I can hear the strike of a match as he lights a cigarette. He coughs discreetly. “Nicola wants to go back to Vegas—eventually,” Jake says, quietly.
The milk, which I've been simmering on the stove, erupts in a hissing, bubbling volcano, spraying scalding liquid all over my hand. I shut off the gas and run my hand under the water, but after a few seconds, I pull it away. I
need
to feel the throbbing. I need to know this conversation is real, not part of some alternate dream universe into which I've somehow fallen.
“Look,” Jake continues. “You've got the money from the buyout, and I thought maybe you'd be getting tired of not working and might be looking for something to do. This is a fantastic investment opportunity. You won't believe the returns—”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? I just told you it's a great return—”
“No, why are you suddenly so willing to help me?”
“Mira, I don't hate you. I never have. I have a lot of respect for you. You're a talented chef and a good businesswoman, and I want Grappa to succeed. I just wasn't ready to be . . .” Jake can't continue. He clears his throat and takes another long drag on his cigarette. “What you wanted me to be,” he finishes quietly.
“You mean a father?”
Jake doesn't answer me.
“Jake—are you offering to give me back Grappa?” I ask.
He hesitates. “No,” he finally says. “I'm offering to let you buy into the restaurant syndicate that will own Grappa and several other restaurants. We will all make far more money than just by owning Grappa alone. You and Tony, if you want, can move in and take over the management of Grappa. You'll have the autonomy to run it however you want, although technically, you will report to the syndicate—of which you will be a member. How much you buy in will determine your voting share.”
“How much are we talking?” I ask.
“You have enough. Listen, these guys are in from Vegas this weekend and they'll explain all the details to you. Lay out the specs on the deal. Come to New York; meet them. See for yourself. They want to fly you out—top-notch, all expenses paid.”
“Jake, it's been six months. I've started to build a life here. I've got a job and an apartment. What makes you think I can just pick up—”
“I know about your job,” Jake says. “It's a waste of your talent, in my opinion. Come on; you've missed it. I know you, Mira. I can't believe you haven't,” Jake croons, his voice low, teasing, taunting.
Enid had said the same thing the first time she met me. Why? Are chefs like ex-addicts who never stop craving the buzz—our need to cook advertised somehow in our faces, our bodies, like an addict's wild-eyed desperation or trembling hands? I'd told Enid then that real cooks find ways to cook. But was cooking for my family and testing recipes for the culinary neophytes of Pittsburgh enough? Not long-term. Jake is offering me another chance at Grappa. I'd be a fool not to at least hear him out, wouldn't I?
 
“Just promise me you won't do anything rash,” Ruth says when I tell her my plan.
“Who, me?” I ask her, smiling sweetly and batting my eyelashes in her direction.
Ruth fixes me with a withering stare. “Very funny. I'm serious, Mira. Who are these investors? You don't even know who these people are.”
“I promise I'll be sure to get all the details when I meet with them on Saturday, okay?” I tell her.
Ruth and I have taken Carlos and Chloe to the Children's Museum, which nobody except Chloe seems to be enjoying. Carlos has gotten himself stuck inside the yellow snake slide for easily the fifth time this morning. He gets about halfway down before he starts screaming and doesn't stop until Ruth crawls into the snake's gaping maw to retrieve him. When I suggest to Ruth that maybe we should move on to the puppet theater, she refuses.
“It's important for me to try to follow Carlos's lead,” she says, before climbing back into the round yellow tube. “He needs to know that I'll respond when he needs me,” she says.
“What is it with Carlos and tubes?” I ask, remembering a similar experience at Gymboree.
“Our therapist says that Carlos is trying to recreate the birth process as a way of bonding with me. Hey, speaking of therapists, have you talked this trip over with yours?”
Because I suspected she'd try to talk me out of going to New York, I'd cancelled my last appointment with Dr. D-P. “No, it really isn't that big a deal,” I lie. “I'm just going for the weekend. I'll hear what they have to say, take a few notes, and tell them I'll get back to them.”
“You really need to do some research first. Promise me you won't sign anything, okay?”
“I promise,” I tell the yawning yellow snake, which appears to have eaten Ruth and Carlos.
I can hear Ruth slowly inching her way down the slide. She emerges with Carlos behind her, his arms wrapped around her middle, his face buried in her back. When they get to the bottom, she pulls him onto her lap and kisses the top of his head. In the last few weeks, Carlos has grown noticeably calmer, his cries less shrill, his giggles a little easier to coax. Ruth and I exchange a smile.
“So,” she asks, “how was it hearing his voice? Was it weird?”
Ruth's question startles me, despite the fact that I'd been able to think of little else since Jake's phone call three days ago.
“A little, I guess.”
Ruth studies me carefully. “Hmm. More than a little, I'm guessing,” she tells me.
I look away, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. The truth is that after all these months of not hearing his voice or seeing him or hearing about him—or living in the city where I have to face remnants of our life together at every turn—I've gotten to the point where there are things I actually relish about no longer being with Jake. Like, going out to breakfast—which Jake hated and I loved—or being able to fold back the pages of the newspaper willy-nilly, instead of in an origami-style trifold, without inciting some exasperated comment from Jake. Small things to be sure, but still, I notice them.
And then there is Ben, who makes me laugh, who likes to eat. Who likes me.
But all of it, months of work, hundreds of therapy dollars, had seemed to evaporate at the pull of Jake's voice on the telephone.
 
I've arranged to meet Michael and Renata for dinner Friday night at a new Belgian bistro in Tribeca called Moulin Bruges. I arrive in New York in the late afternoon and, since I'm not due at the restaurant for a couple of hours, I drop my bags at the hotel and head downtown.
I don't know what I'm expecting, but Il Vinaio is a small and insignificant space, sandwiched between a grocery store and an Indian restaurant on Fulton Street near Dutch. From the outside at least, it seems like a poor stepsibling to the hipper, more artfully designed Grappa. There's only one small sign above the industrial-looking front door, with the name
il vinaio
in lowercase letters written in a font meant to imitate a small, neat, handwritten script. I peer inside. The place is already crowded. When a pack of brittle, stressed-out-looking financial-types rounds the corner, I allow myself to be jostled inside with them. After all, I'm considering becoming an investor. Isn't it due diligence to check it out? Also, I promised Ruth I'd do some research.
I keep my head down and my sunglasses on, thinking how much I don't want to run into Nicola—who could be here somewhere—or, for that matter, Jake, who's probably in the kitchen. I scan the room, but there's no sign of either of them. There are a couple of seats left at the bar—a glitzy brass and glass affair, an upscale, over-amped version of what you would find in a typical Italian enoteca—but I can't bring myself to sit down.
BOOK: Aftertaste
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