Just a Taste (29 page)

His question hung in the dark quiet between them. Anthony took another sip of coffee, waiting.

“Yes, I want you to come,” Vivi eventually murmured. “Of course I do.”

“Then I’ll come.”

They resumed walking. Anthony pulled his ham and egg sandwich out of the bag, handing her half.

“What is this?” Vivi asked, looking at the sandwich distrustfully.

“Just eat it. Trust me.”

He watched as Vivi took a bite. She always ate so delicately, so carefully, fully appreciating every bite. “Delicious,” she concluded. “But the roll is a bit soggy.”

“It’s supposed to be soggy.”

“If you say.” She took another careful bite, nodding appreciatively. “Mmm. Not good.”

“Not bad,” Anthony corrected.

Vivi gave an embarrassed little laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m still learning.”

“It takes time. You need to be patient.”

The use of the word “patience” made the molecules in the air around them freeze. Anthony wondered if Vivi thought he was sending her some kind of veiled message. That wasn’t his intent, but if she took it that way, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.

“I’m low on patience,” she confessed with a weary sigh. “Natalie is living with me, and with Vivi’s opening…” She shook her head apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m very distracted these days.”

“You’ll feel better once the bistro opens. Don’t worry.”

“I hope you’re right.”

This time he looked at her as she searched his face. A thin band of dawn was creeping over the rooftops, enough light for him to really look into her eyes. What he saw there gave him hope. There was concern. Genuine care, even.

Vivi lightly touched his wrist. “How are you feeling these days?”

“I’m feeling okay,” he said, which for the most part was true, though the tingling spot on his wrist where she’d just touched him was somewhat distracting.

“The dreams…?”

“Gone,” he said curtly.

Vivi blew out a breath. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

Glad enough to reconsider your decision?
Anthony wondered as a lukewarm breeze swept the street, sending an empty soda can rolling into the gutter.
Glad enough to realize you still care about me?
They lingered there on the sidewalk, both at a seeming loss for words. He knew he couldn’t touch her the way he longed to. Yet he couldn’t escape the feeling that here was his chance to say something.
Do
something, even if it made him look like a fool. The next time he saw her, she’d be surrounded by admirers at her bistro’s opening. This was his shot—here, in the midst of the mundane, where real life happened, the two of them drinking too-hot coffee and splitting a runny egg sandwich.

“I miss you, Vivi.” The words came out hoarse, as if his lips didn’t want to surrender them.

Vivi looked down at the sidewalk. Long, agonizing seconds passed before she finally tilted her face to his. “I should go,” she said softly.

He watched as she walked across the street and opened the door to her restaurant, silently slipping inside. Did she go because she felt the same way, but couldn’t tell him? Or because she didn’t feel the same way but didn’t want to hurt him? He’d lost his ability to read her. Maybe he’d never really had it.

He made a vow to himself right there on the sidewalk: never again. Screw Gemma and her woo-woo predictions. Screw his brother and sister-in-law telling him to be patient. From now until the day he was too old to clutch a sauce ladle in his hand, Dante’s would be his life.

V
ivi’s lack of
response set the tone for Anthony’s day. The seafood delivery was late. Worse, the produce wasn’t up to par. This was getting to be a pattern. Today it was droopy lettuce, last week it was bruised tomatoes. He sent the driver back with a blistering note and the lettuce to boot, making a mental note to call the offices of the distributor later in the day. Dante’s had contracted with them for years, but contracts could be broken.

At ten thirty, his sous chef, Sam, called to tell him he had the flu and couldn’t come in. Though it left him shorthanded, Anthony preferred Sam take the sick time rather than come into work and risk infecting the rest of the staff, not to mention the customers.

Finally, Aldo walked in hours before his shift, puffing on his trademark off-hours cigarillo. Anthony worried that he might be going senile.

“What’s up, old man?” Anthony boomed over the chatter of the kitchen staff, who were already working away.

“I want a raise,” Aldo declared loudly.

The kitchen fell silent. Anthony put down the mezzaluna he was using to chop hazelnuts and, taking the old man gently by the elbow, steered him out into the dining room.

“What are you talking about? You just got a raise six months ago. You’re probably pulling down more than Mayor Bloomberg at this point.”

Aldo looked petulant. “I need more. Or I’ll quit. For real.”

Anthony peered at him with concern. “You in some kind of trouble? You’re not in bed with those bookies again, are you?”

Anthony had bailed Aldo out once, and he knew for a fact his own father had bailed him out a couple of times. If Aldo was into the Murphy brothers again for a fat sum of dough, Anthony would kill him.

“Of course not.” Aldo’s nostrils flared with insult. “I was talking to Pietro.” Pietro was Aldo’s oldest friend, another waiter who worked for a restaurant called Michael’s in Sheepshead Bay. “He’s been working two years less than me and he gets two dollars an hour more than me! You think that’s right?”

“I’m sure you get more in tips.”

“A man has to eat, Anthony!”

Anthony squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He needed this today like he needed a hole in the head. “Let me think about it, okay?”

Aldo pointed a bony finger at him. “Don’t you forget how long I’ve worked here. I helped build this place with your father.”

“Broke his balls is more like it.”

Aldo took a long, deep drawl on his cigarillo, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth like a gangster. “I want an answer now or I quit.”

Since Aldo quit at least once, if not twice, a month, Anthony called his bluff.

“Okay, quit,” he told him, heading back toward the kitchen. “Just don’t be late for your shift tonight.”

But Aldo didn’t show.

T
he next morning,
Anthony tried calling him, but he got no answer. He’d managed to get another one of his waiters, Tommy, to fill in for the ornery old bastard, but it wasn’t the same. While competent, Tommy didn’t have the same panache as Aldo, nor was he a Bensonhurst legend the way Aldo was. Since Aldo had always had a soft spot for Michael, Anthony decided it might be best if his brother tried to cajole the old fool back to work.

When Michael asked Anthony on the phone if he was okay, Anthony became suspicious. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied.

There was an uncomfortable silence. “Why don’t you meet me in the schoolyard behind Saint Vincent’s in about fifteen minutes? I’m taking Angel there to play.”

“No offense, Michael, but I don’t have time to go traipsing around the playgrounds of Brooklyn.”

“You told me you don’t want me hanging around Dante’s, and I’m trying to respect your wishes,” Michael snapped.

Anthony reluctantly agreed to meet him.

The playground was within walking distance of the restaurant; it was a small square of green, a quarter acre in size, if that. Anthony was shocked—gone were the metal monkey bars and sturdy jungle gyms of his childhood. Today’s kids had colorful plastic forts atop soft rubber padding to play on, no chance of anyone falling and cracking their skull on the open blacktop the way it had been when he was a kid. Only the rubber-seated, chain metal swings of his childhood remained, and those were now anchored in sand.

Benches lined three sides of the park, empty strollers lined up before each like parked cars. Michael was the only man there amongst seven women, most of them foreign. Nannies, Anthony assumed. Michael caught sight of Anthony and waved, crouching down to Angelica to point her uncle out to her. She looked up, waving in imitation of her father, the sight of her small, chubby hand slicing the air making Anthony smile.

“It’s good for you to get out, get some fresh air once in a while,” said Michael as he hugged Anthony in greeting.

“I get fresh air all the time,
gavone
. I’ve just started running again.”

Michael looked at him enviously. “I wish I could join you, but as you know, my knees are shot.”

“Likely excuse.”

Michael gave Angelica some giant, red furry creature to grapple with, placing her at his feet to play with it as he sat on the nearest bench. Anthony sat down beside him, in no mood to exchange pleasantries.

“Why did you ask on the phone if I was okay?”

“I thought you might have seen this already.” Michael leaned forward, pulling out a copy of today’s
Sentinel
from the mesh pocket in the back of Angelica’s stroller. Anthony noticed the corner of one page was bent down, the page Michael opened to as he handed Anthony the paper and suddenly became very interested in his daughter playing at his feet.

The paper was open to the “Fine Dining” page. Among reviews of two other restaurants—one in the meatpacking district, one in Queens—there was a review of Dante’s. The headline said, “Mama Mia! Some Things Never Change.”

Anthony sighed deeply and plunged into the review. It said his meals were “deliciously predictable,” that Dante’s was like “a faithful friend you could count on always to be there, even if they’re not as exciting as your newer pals,” that the restaurant was becoming “a victim of its own nostalgia.” It concluded with the backhanded compliment that if you were seeking basic Italian food, Dante’s was the place to go, but more adventurous palates might want to explore any number of little bistros beginning to spring up in the outer boroughs instead.

Anthony folded the paper and thrust it back at his brother. “Fuck him. I don’t get it. Wasn’t ‘basic Italian food’ the whole point of the PR campaign when we renovated? To make it the place you go to when you
want
comfort food?”

Michael scratched his head. “Yeah. But I think the reviewer is also saying, uh, that we’re getting kind of stale.” He flipped open the paper and skimmed the review. “It’s really not that bad of a review, Ant, if you think about it.”

“Then why were you worried I wouldn’t be okay?”

“Because I know how hard you take this stuff to heart.”

“You shouldn’t have even shown it to me.”

“You would have seen it eventually, or someone would have mentioned it to you.”

“Oh, yeah, don’t I know it,” Anthony snorted. “Vivi probably cut it out and has it hanging on her kitchen wall as we speak.” He shook his head. “I can’t win. I’ve been doing gourmet crap for years, Mikey, in addition to the old favorites.”

“Yeah, and then you retooled the menu a few months ago and went completely basic, remember?”

Anthony said nothing, preferring not to reflect back on the menu changes he’d made that were driven by a sense of competition against a restaurant that didn’t even exist yet. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” his father always used to say. He should have listened, rather than letting his ego get in the way.

The happy cries of children pierced the air, an ironic counterpoint to the shame he was feeling inside. Dante’s was his life. It was his pride and joy. The idea that anyone could find it subpar or mundane mortified him. Anxiety was taking root, but he couldn’t give in to it, lest he really shoot himself in the foot. He needed to think things out. Slowly. Carefully.

As if reading his mind, Michael said, “We can fix this.”

“First things first. We need to get Aldo back.”

“I’ve called twice, still no answer. I’ll shoot over to his place tonight before Vivi’s opening.”

Vivi’s opening. Fuck a duck. Anthony glanced skyward.
Why don’t you just hit me with a bus and get it over with?
he silently asked God. Anything would be better than this slow failing by degrees.

“You’re going, right?” Michael asked uneasily.

“Sure, why not? It’s always been my dream to go to a restaurant opening the same day my own establishment gets a mediocre review. It’ll be fun—especially when I open the Sunday paper and see
her
place get a glowing review.”

“Maybe it won’t.”

“It will,” Anthony muttered. “She’s a fantastic cook.”

“Well, so are you. Look, it’s one review. We’ll add a few items back to the menu, and we’ll be back on top.”

For the first time in a long time, Anthony didn’t begrudge his brother the use of the word “we.” The success of Dante’s meant as much to Michael as it did to him. Keeping it going, making sure it remained excellent, was a point of pride for both of them. They owed it to their parents’ memory.

Anthony glanced down at his niece, playing in her own world at her father’s feet. Her world was simple and uncomplicated. His life used to be that way, too, or at least it felt that way, until Angie died, and Vivi came along to reawaken him, only to snatch the light back from him.

He stared into the distance. “You’re right. We can fix it.”

At least there was something in his life he could fix.

“T
his food is
fantastic!”

Vivi smiled nervously at Michael Dante’s compliment as her eyes slowly scoured the bistro, reading people’s faces. After almost a year of hard work, her day had finally arrived: Vivi’s was open. Theresa had told her there were a few food critics on hand, but Vivi begged her not to point them out, as it would make her too nervous.

She watched as Natalie and their other waiter circled the room, taking orders and delivering food. Vivi had wanted to hire someone else to work the opening so that Natalie could help her mingle and talk the bistro up, but Natalie insisted it was only right that she should be waiting tables since Vivi was going to be working so hard in the kitchen. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but Natalie actually seemed to be enjoying herself. She had a big smile on her face as she handed Vivi the latest order.

“They’re loving it,
cherie
.” Her eyes glistened with happy tears as she squeezed Vivi’s hand tightly. “The food, the atmosphere—I heard one woman say she felt like she was in Paris!”

Vivi put her hand to her chest. “Oh, thank God.”

“Please don’t tell me the chef is having a heart attack.”

Quinn O’Brien smiled roguishly as he approached Vivi and Natalie, his blue eyes flashing with friendliness. “How’s it going, ladies? Thanks so much for inviting me.”

“It was her idea, not mine,” Natalie grumbled.

“I had to come over here and give you my compliments,” Quinn continued. “The food is outrageously good, Vivi. You’ll be seeing me in here a lot.”

“God help us,” Natalie muttered under her breath.

“
Mademoiselle
Natalie.” Quinn gave a small bow as Vivi suppressed a smile of amusement. “I notice you’re helping to serve tonight. Can I assume your role in the restaurant now extends beyond mere investor?”

Natalie scowled, then walked away.

“Look how she loves me,” Quinn said to Vivi with a lovesick sigh.

“Must you tease her so?”

“I can’t help it,” Quinn answered with a shrug. “She’s such an easy target—and way too pretty to be that uptight.”

“Perhaps you can cure her of that.”

“Curing cancer might be easier.” He gave her shoulder a convivial pat. “I’m under deadline, so I have to run.”

Vivi swallowed. “You’re not one of the reviewers, are you?”

Quinn laughed. “Me? No. But trust me, the one critic I know is here is gushing to her companions, and she usually hates everything. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“Thank you. See you soon,” Vivi called after him as he threaded his way through the densely packed room. Not only was every table filled, but people were also standing, balancing small plates filled with hors d’oeuvres in their hands as they clustered in small groups. Theresa was “working the room,” as she put it, talking to this one and that. She seemed to be lingering a particularly long time with Bernard Rousseau. Their heads were close together, and when they turned simultaneously to look at Vivi with admiration, she blushed deeply. She could tell what they were thinking—Vivi’s was going to be a success. Perhaps not overnight (success never really happened overnight, despite what people said), but in good time. Thank God for Bernard, for his loan and for his willingness to accept that she wanted nothing more than a platonic relationship. It would have complicated things immensely had he lobbied for more.

She walked back into the kitchen—
her
kitchen, she thought with mild shock—and checked to see if the leek tart had finally started to brown, its lovely, oniony aroma tickling her nostrils as she tipped open the oven to peek inside. Everything she’d worked for her whole life was within these four walls. All those years of cooking for those she loved, of sweating her way through the fierce competition of Le Cordon Bleu, of apprenticing in kitchens under demanding sexist chefs…it had all paid off. She was the head chef and proprietor of Vivi’s. It was a stunning achievement.

And yet, she felt a tiny tug of melancholy. She wished her father were still alive to see the success she’d become. She wished her mother had come over from Avignon to share in her big moment. Vivi had invited her, but
maman
’s back was acting up again and she didn’t want to exacerbate it by flying, and Vivi was not about to force her. She wished Anthony were here. Whatever else had happened between them, he was the one person she knew who could appreciate the sweat and toil that had gone into this labor of love. His absence bothered her. In fact, it bothered her more than her mother not being present, which was unsettling. He said he would come. So why wasn’t he here?