Just a Taste

BODY CHECK

FAIR PLAY

TOTAL RUSH

THE PENALTY BOX

CHASING STANLEY

JUST A TASTE

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

JUST A TASTE

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2008 by Deirdre Martin.

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 1-4295-7717-7

BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

For Jane Dashow, FQOTFU.

Love you, me gel.

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Recipes inspired by Just a Taste

Anthony’s Ricotta Fritters

“S
orry I’m late,
Ang. They’re doing construction on Metropolitan Avenue, and there’s only one lane open. Traffic was backed up to the friggin’ moon.”

Anthony Dante set up a small canvas folding chair beside his wife Angie’s grave and sat down, just as he’d done every Sunday morning for the past year. In one hand he clutched a foam cup of coffee; in the other, a ham and egg sandwich. He took a bite, disappointed to note it lacked the extra salt he always requested. He’d let it go this time, but if it happened again, he might have to say something to Al at the deli. It was important to get customers’ orders right. If his staff was getting sloppy or lazy, Al needed to be told.

“So, let me tell you about my week…”

The vast cemetery was like a silent, sleeping city, the early morning mist draped like gossamer over the trees. Anthony took a moment to pass the steaming cup of coffee beneath his nose, reveling in its robust scent. Nothing like a perfectly brewed cup of coffee to start the day. At least Al had gotten that right. The coffee aroma mingled nicely with that of newly mown grass. The morning sun was a blazing ruby ball, bringing with it the first real hint of the day’s heat. What was that old adage? “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morn, sailors be warned”? No doubt about it: today was going to be a scorcher. Not that Anthony minded. After years in a restaurant kitchen, heat and humidity didn’t bother him the way it did some people.

“First, the veal chops.” He threw a shot of coffee down his throat, sputtering as the scalding liquid burned the inside of his mouth. “Jesus,” he gasped, running his burnt tongue over the roof of his mouth a few times for relief. “I think Al is trying to kill me.”

He took the lid off the coffee, blowing onto the liquid to cool it. “Remember I told you I was going to switch up the recipe a little, maybe use a little more rosemary and a little less garlic to see if the customers would like it? Well, not only did they like it, they
loved
it.” He smiled with satisfaction, imagining Angie’s wide-eyed interest as she pulled one of their kitchen chairs closer to him, the better to listen. “Even Aldo gave it the thumbs-up, and you know what a crotchety old SOB he can be. By the way, he quit again yesterday. Second time this week.”

Angie had always been amused at the way Anthony and the ancient waiter sparred, a tradition reaching all the way back to the restaurant’s earliest days, when the old man had been young and used to mix it up with Anthony’s father. “One of these days, I’m going to call his bluff,” Anthony continued. “
Then
we’ll see how quick he is to throw his apron at me and call me
un cazzone cafone
.”

He paused for another sip of coffee, hearing voices behind him. He turned; two old women were slowly walking arm in arm toward a large, rectangular mausoleum whose double doors were flanked by enormous marble angels. It was rare to see anyone else at the cemetery at this hour, which was why Anthony liked coming so early. He could talk to Angie without having to worry about someone thinking he was a major nutcase, though if the past year of widowerhood had taught him anything, it was that grieving people were all a little unhinged. That, and everyone talked to their dead spouses all the time, whether they admitted it or not. He just chose to do it publicly once a week.

He glanced at his wife’s headstone, at the carved words that read, “Angela Maria Dante, Beloved Wife, Daughter, Sister.” He spoke to Angie all the time in his head. Maybe he was
ubatz
, but sometimes he swore she talked back. Not as a disembodied voice echoing through their dark bedroom or anything as crazy as that—it was more a coincidence thing.

Just the other week he’d lamented to Ang how he wasn’t sure what christening gift to get for his cousin Gemma’s new baby girl, Maeve. The next day, a Baby Gap catalog arrived in the mail. Some people might think it was nuts to believe the dead could influence the postal service, but since Ang died, Anthony found stuff like that happening all the time.

“Did I tell you about Mikey?” Anthony shook his head ruefully as he geared up to talk about his little brother, Michael, who had just retired from his career as a professional hockey player for the New York Blades. “Get this: he’s going to stay home and be a full-time dad while Theresa goes back to work.” Anthony snorted.

His gaze was pulled back to the mausoleum. The old ladies had slipped inside; he could picture them sitting on a glossy teak bench, staring at the smooth marble wall behind which their loved ones were interred. Sometimes he wished he’d chosen a mausoleum for Ang, if only because sitting out here when it rained or snowed was a big pain in the neck. Even so, he hadn’t missed a Sunday yet. It was the least he could do for the woman snatched from his arms too soon, the angel who’d shown him there could be more to his life than his restaurant.

He continued chatting in between bites of his sandwich, catching Angie up on both family and restaurant gossip. He liked concluding by sharing with her his ideas for shaking up the menu in the week to come. “I’m thinking of doing some kind of pork special this week, but I have to talk to Dom over at Santoro Brothers first.”

Santoro Brothers! How could he have waited until now to share the most interesting piece of neighborhood gossip he’d heard in months? “I almost forgot! You know the old candy store next to Cuccio’s, across the street from the restaurant? The one that’s been for sale since Old Man Garlasco died? Well, according to Dom, someone bought it and is planning to turn it into a restaurant. Insane, right? Just what we need: another trattoria in Bensonhurst.” He drained his coffee cup with a chuckle. “Good luck to them is what I say. They’re about to enter the big leagues, eh,
cara
?”

“Can’t you picture
it? Couples staring dreamily into each other’s eyes over a bottle of Bordeaux? The scent of apple
tartin
as it bakes? Oh, Natalie, it’s going to be wonderful!”

Vivi Robitaille hugged herself tight, giving a small twirl in the center of the empty candy store she and her half sister planned on turning into a small bistro. All her life she’d dreamed of cooking in her own restaurant. Now it was going to happen—and in America!

Vivi dropped her arms and danced over to Natalie, who had yet to respond to her giddiness. “What? You can’t imagine biting into a piece of my baguettes with creamed butter? Or ordering a bowl of my
bouillabaisse de poulet
?”

“Not as strongly as you can, obviously.” Eyeing her surrounds critically, Natalie strolled the perimeter of the empty store, her high heels punching measured beats on the scuffed wooden floor. Unlike the high-spirited Vivi, Natalie was pragmatic, some might even say detached. Vivi was not surprised when Natalie concluded her stroll by asking, “Remind me again why we chose to open a restaurant in Brooklyn rather than Manhattan?”

“You know why,” Vivi reminded her. “We—”

“You—”

“—wanted a small, intimate local place that would serve peasant food to regular people, not some fancy
haute
restaurant catering to Manhattan’s rich.”

“You have something against the rich?” Natalie asked wryly.

Vivi blushed. “You know what I meant.” She regarded Natalie with unabashed appreciation. “I could never do this without you. You know that.”

Natalie cracked a small smile. It saddened Vivi to think it, but sometimes she wasn’t sure whether she liked her half sister at all. Now they’d embarked on a foreign adventure together, Natalie putting up the lion’s share of the money for Vivi’s restaurant. Amazing. Some would say that was only fair, since Natalie had received the lion’s share of their papa’s inheritance. But Vivi never felt entitled. Instead, she felt lucky to have Natalie there with her, both as a business partner and a friend, even though there were times a certain wariness could spring up between them. Vivi’s mother claimed the beautiful, aloof Natalie was just running from her failed love affair, but Vivi knew better. Natalie wasn’t running from, but toward. Both sisters wanted to reinvent themselves. What better place to do that than New York?

Still pensive, Natalie moved to look out the large front window, the one Vivi could picture with her own name stenciled across it in white script. Natalie’s gaze remained critical as she peered up and down the street. “Not the most—how shall we say?—upscale area.”

Vivi bristled. “That’s the point.”

“It’s very bourgeois,” Natalie continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Very
American
bourgeois,” she concluded with a small sniff.

“What’s wrong with that?” Vivi said. The disdain many of her fellow French had for America puzzled her. She loved the place! Her aunt Solange had moved to New York when Vivi was a child, and every other summer, Vivi and her mother came to visit. America always left her dizzied—not only by the sheer scale of the place, but the energy, the inventiveness. Some of her countrymen saw Americans as crude, but not Vivi. She found them spirited and comfortable in their own skins; a people willing to take risks and dream big. This was
exactly
the place she—and Natalie—needed to be.

Natalie sighed. “I suppose if we fail, it’s better to fail here than in Manhattan.”

“We’re not going to fail.”

Natalie eyed her with measured affection. “I’m amazed by your—what’s the American expression?—pluck.”

“You know what a great cook I am, Natalie. And you know how thoroughly I did my research.”

“Just because this place is filled with ‘average’ people doesn’t mean they’ll want your food.” She pointed out the window to the large, red brick restaurant across the street called Dante’s Ristorante. “
That’s
what they want: spaghetti, big fat meatballs…bah.” She turned away in disgust.

“They’ll want what I make, too,” Vivi insisted stubbornly. “And if they don’t, then the food will be good enough to draw people from Manhattan. I’m not worried. People want good, home-cooked food at reasonable prices. They want to sit down and relax over a simple, hearty meal at the end of the day.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am.”

Natalie studied her nails. “I still don’t see why you insisted on renting an apartment here rather than in Manhattan with me.”

“I want to live where I work, Natalie,” said Vivi, tired of having to explain again. “I want to know the names and faces of my neighbors and future customers, and I want them to know me. Besides, getting into the city won’t be a problem. I’ll just hop on the Metro.”

“Subway,” Natalie corrected. “And it’s filthy, by the way.” She shuddered.
“Degoutante.”

“What are you saying?” Vivi teased. “That you’re only going to travel by cab? Or hire a limo, perhaps?”

“Now there’s an idea…”

Vivi furrowed her brows, worried that Natalie might be serious. Natalie caught her expression and chuckled.

“Don’t worry. You concentrate on getting this place up and running, and making Vivi’s the best it can be. I’ll worry about the dollars and cents.”

“If you say so.”

Vivi took another tour of the space. The sweet smell of candy still lingered, bringing back pleasant memories of childhood. She’d been a happy little girl, never more so than when
maman
let her help out in the kitchen. Even as a small child, standing on a step stool beside the old gas stove, stirring potato soup under her mother’s watchful eye, she knew she was destined to be a chef. Some people likened the clang of pots and pans to a headache, but not Vivi. To her, it was like church bells pealing in her ears, reminding her of her calling.

“Quick!” Natalie called from the window. “Come look!”

Vivi hustled to join her. Together they watched as a broadly built, dark haired, handsome man unlocked the door of the restaurant across the street, slipping inside.

“The owner,” Natalie deduced.

“No doubt.” Vivi tugged Natalie’s sleeve and began pulling her toward the door. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”

Natalie looked appalled. “What,
now
?”

“Yes, why not?”

“Let’s wait half an hour or so. Otherwise, it will look like we were standing here spying on him.”

“We were!”

The sisters laughed.

“Half an hour, then,” Vivi agreed. Then she’d get to meet the first of her neighbors. She couldn’t wait.