Vivi batted her eyelashes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a cow’s ass?” she asked sweetly.
“Besides you? No. And the expression is ‘a horse’s ass,’ by the way.”
“Well, excuse moi.” She rose. “I won’t be a moment.”
Vivi disappeared, giving Anthony a chance to check out her apartment. It was small and relatively spartan: a couch, a coffee table piled high with cookbooks, a small bistro table for two pushed up against a far window. But there were lots of plants, which gave it a homey feel—a feel his home used to have, before he let all the plants wither and die. He couldn’t be bothered after Ang died.
Curious, he picked up a small black binder from the nearest pile of cookbooks and flicked it open. It contained page after page of handwritten recipes, some relatively new, some old and faded. Anthony knew from experience that those pages on the verge of tatters, covered in unidentifiable food stains, were her favorites. He didn’t know much French, but he did know that beurre meant “butter,” and that a helluva lot of the recipes in this book called for a helluva lot of beurre. Simple food my ass, he thought, recalling the conversation he and Vivi had that day in the candy store. French food thrived on butter; there were no two ways around it. If Vivi wanted to claim French cooking wasn’t rich, that was her delusion.
“I see you’ve found my little black book,” Vivi called out as she walked back into the living room, bamboo tray in hand upon which sat two coffee cups, a milk creamer, a sugar bowl, plates, and forks.
Anthony closed the binder. “Some of the recipes look pretty old.”
“A lot of them were my grandmother’s,” Vivi said fondly.
“I have a book like that, too, full of recipes passed down from my grandparents. There are even a few from my great-grandparents in the old country,” Anthony revealed, taking the liberty of clearing away some of the cookbooks to make space on the coffee table for the tray.
“It’s good to keep tradition alive, don’t you think?” Vivi sat down beside him. “Please, help yourself to some of my awful coffee.”
Vivi’s robe was tied loosely, and as she leaned forward to prepare a cup of coffee for herself, Anthony caught a fleeting glimpse of the top of one of her breasts. Flushed with embarrassment, he averted his eyes, waiting until she had leaned back before grabbing a coffee cup for himself. “So, where’s your sister?”
“In the city.”
“She doesn’t live here with you?” Anthony asked, hoping she didn’t notice him loading his small cup with five lumps of sugar.
Vivi erupted into peals of laughter. “Natalie wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this. It’s too shabby.”
“It’s not shabby. It’s just a little spartan right now, that’s all.”
Vivi gave a small nod of approval. “I like your attitude.”
“As long as the kitchen’s up to snuff, that’s all that matters.”
“Exactly. The kitchen here is small, but the stove is gas. Electric is horrible, no?”
“The worst.”
“I actually chose this apartment precisely because of that,” Vivi continued. “Imagine, trying to cook on an electric stove!”
“It’s insane!” Anthony agreed.
Vivi’s expression turned thoughtful. “When did you know?” she asked.
“What, that I wanted to be a chef?”
Vivi nodded.
“Always. From the time I watched my mother cooking.”
“Me, too. The smells, the tastes…” She put her hand over her heart and sighed. “It was like heaven.”
“A calling.”
Vivi’s eyes flashed with recognition. “Exactly! It’s so nice to talk to someone who understands.”
Anthony’s eyes held Vivi’s for a long moment before they both looked away. Anthony reached for the creamer, pleasantly surprised to find it indeed filled with cream, not the skim milk Ang used to insist he have in his coffee. So much for watching his waistline, he thought as he poured a smidgen into his coffee. He held his breath and took a sip. It was drinkable—just.
“You’re not choking,” Vivi observed wryly. “Perhaps you’ve seen the error of your ways.”
“Let’s not jump the gun here.” He took another sip.
Vivi raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“Still awful,” Anthony said cheerfully.
Vivi sighed. “You’re very predictable.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It depends.”
“We’ll see how predictable I am. Break out the fritters.”
Vivi opened the container, dishing three fritters onto each plate.
“Tell me they don’t smell delicious,” Anthony challenged, removing the honey he’d brought with him from the paper bag. “Tell me the mere scent of these fried beauties doesn’t make you want to swoon.”
Vivi passed her plate under her nose. “Lemon peel?”
“A little.”
“I thought so.”
Anthony passed her the small squeeze bottle of honey. “Drizzle them with this.”
Vivi took the honey and proceeded to drown the fritters rather than drizzle them.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Anthony pointed out.
“I believe in seasoning liberally,” was Vivi’s retort.
Anthony held his tongue and watched as she cut into the first fritter with her fork and put the first bite into her mouth. A brief look of ecstasy streaked across her face before she squelched it.
“They’re all right,” she pronounced mildly.
“Oh, please!” Anthony snorted. “I saw your face! Your eyes wanted to roll up in your head from sheer bliss!”
Vivi blushed. “All right, you’ve got me. They are tres magnifique.” She took another bite and this time, to Anthony’s satisfaction, she did let her eyes roll back. The sight of it brought an unexpected flash of heat to his body. Swallowing, he helped himself to the honey, drizzling his own fritters before taking a lusty bite. Oh, yeah, baby, these weren’t just good, they were great.
“Guess I outdid you,” Anthony observed.
“Not quite,” said Vivi, giving a small moan as she speared another piece of fritter and put it in her mouth. “You can’t compare fritters to a tart. They’re two different beasts.”
“Hey, you didn’t hear me moaning when I ate your tart, did you?”
“I didn’t moan.”
“Yeah, you did! Just now, when you put that piece into your mouth. You gave a small moan!”
Vivi shrugged. “Well, if I did, I was unaware of it.” She finished the first fritter and began working on the second. The sight pleased Anthony immensely. He loved knowing his food gave others pleasure. It was also nice to see a woman who wasn’t shy about enjoying eating. But then, he’d heard that about the French, how serious they were about their food.
“My brother and I used to eat them with our hands when we were kids,” Anthony revealed.
“What fun!” Vivi enthused. She held her plate close to her chin, picking up a fritter with her free hand and biting into it lustily. A small trickle of honey ran down her chin.
“Oh!” she said with embarrassment, quickly licking honey from her fingers. “I’m such a slob.”
“Not a big deal.”
Without thinking, Anthony leaned over and tenderly wiped the honey from her chin with his thumb. Vivi glanced up at him shyly through her lashes as time seemed to hold its breath. Anthony knew he should take his thumb away, but some unseen force was keeping it there, the same force now whispering in his ear, urging him to kiss her. Slowly, Anthony put his lips to hers. Vivi put her plate down, returning his kiss as she closed her eyes.
The sweet taste of her mouth conspired with the enticing scent of her perfume to make Anthony’s senses tumble. For the first time in over a year, he was aware of himself as a man. The realization quickly transformed itself into apprehension. Who was this guy, kissing a French woman in her robe on a cloudy Sunday afternoon? And who was she, her mouth pressing again
st his with equal pressure, her hands lightly anchoring themselves on his shoulders?
Anthony stood up. “I should go,” he said gruffly.
“Good idea,” Vivi agreed quickly. She rose, tightening her robe, not quite looking at him. “I have a lot of things to do today.”
“Me, too.”
She escorted him to the door. “Au revoir. Thank you for stopping by,” Vivi said stiffly.
“Yeah, au revoir to you, too. I guess I’ll see you around the neighborhood.”
“Yes.”
She closed the door, leaving Anthony standing in the hallway. He checked his watch; his nephew would be at his house in an hour for the first of his “cooking lessons.” Anthony bounded down the apartment house steps and back outside into the murky sunshine, grateful for something to do.
Chapter 7
“You listening?”
Anthony gently tapped the side of the saucepan with a wooden spoon to get Little Ant’s attention. They were in Anthony’s home kitchen, and he had just finished chopping all the vegetables and herbs needed for the gravy while Little Ant looked on. He dumped them into the saucepan, where they now sizzled, sending up a mouthwatering aroma. Little Ant stood on a step stool beside his uncle, listening avidly as Anthony explained why heating the olive oil to just the right temperature was crucial. But somewhere between explaining the difference between browning onions and merely letting them wilt, Little Ant’s attention seemed to wander.
“You hear me?” said Anthony.
“Sorry.” Little Ant snapped back to attention. “Can I stir?”
“Of course.” Anthony handed him the spoon. “You bored?”
“No.”
“Because we don’t have to do this if you’re bored.”
“I’m not bored,” Little Ant insisted. His expression turned pouty. “Hockey is what’s boring. Not this.”
Anthony looked away with a grimace, unsure of how to respond. When Theresa had swung by to drop Little Ant off, she’d made a point of telling her son to have fun, as if it were something the kid had forgotten how to do. The second Little Ant was out of earshot, Theresa had turned to Anthony with pleading eyes. “You have to talk to Michael. He’s insane. The other night after Little Ant finished his homework, Michael sat down at the kitchen table with him to go over ‘strategy.’”
“Can’t you talk to him?” Anthony asked. Going mano a mano with his brother was not one of Anthony’s favorite activities, especially since it tended to feature yelling as well as the occasional piece of dinnerware going airborne.
“He won’t listen to me,” Theresa insisted, her expression mirroring the distress in her voice.
“He doesn’t listen to me, either, Theresa. But I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.” Theresa gave Anthony’s shoulder a heartfelt squeeze before leaving.
“Why do you say hockey’s boring?” Anthony asked casually, pleased to see how intently Little Ant was studying the ingredients in the saucepan.
“Because it is,” Little Ant insisted, sounding like the seven-year-old he was. “It’s stupid.”
“Tell me why.”
“It sucks.” Little Ant swallowed. “I suck.”
Anthony jostled his shoulder. “You don’t suck! I saw your first game, remember? You were awesome!”
“You’re just saying that because you’re my uncle,” Little Ant muttered.
“No, I’m saying that because you were awesome.” He stilled Little Ant’s hand. “Don’t stir too much, okay?”
“Okay.” Little Ant slowed the wooden spoon’s momentum. “Is that okay?”
“Perfect.”
Anthony leaned over the saucepan and took a deep breath. “Smells good, don’t you think?”
“When do we dump in the wine and stuff?” Little Ant asked eagerly.
“Soon. How many times have I told you: Being a chef is all about being patient.”
“I know,” Little Ant murmured, glancing around the kitchen. “Uncle Anthony, can I ask you a question?”
“You can ask me anything.”
“Do you ever get lonely, living here without Aunt Ang?”
“Sometimes.” He thought about the question. Right after she died, it was close to unbearable. But now he was used to it.
“Do you ever, like, feel her ghost?”
Anthony felt his chest tighten. “Not in the way you think.” He tousled the boy’s hair, trying to divert him. “What are you talking about ghosts for? You’re going to scare yourself.”
“Dad says there’s no such thing.”
“Well, there you go.” Anthony glanced around the kitchen, really seeing it for the first time in a long time. One of the first things Angie had done when she’d moved in was to redecorate the house completely, ridding the kitchen of the drab olive green and gold tones of the 1970s. She’d replaced the linoleum on the floor with beautiful handmade tiles. The nicked green Formica countertop was just a memory thanks to the pristine white Corian, which perfectly offset the cornflower blue of the cabinets she’d painted. Anthony had balked at first, but in the end, even he had to concede it looked great. The whole house looked great—not that he’d noticed much over the past year. But now, viewing it with a fresh eye, he knew it was a home any man would be proud of.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Little Ant pressed.
“Nah.”
Little Ant seemed to consider this. “Me, neither,” he said eventually.
“Great minds think alike,” Anthony teased.
“Do you ever get mad at God for taking Aunt Angie away?”
Anthony swallowed. “Sad stuff happens sometimes. You can’t blame God.”
Little Ant nodded thoughtfully. Please, let the kid be done with the questions. It was kicking up a lot of emotion, much of it confusing. That kiss with Vivi…what the hell was that about? If ever there was a testament to how lonely he felt sometimes, it was that. Or maybe it was testament to their mutual love of food. Start discussing gas stoves versus electric and the next thing you know, you’re in a lip lock. Talk about scary.
“Do you think you’ll ever get married again?”
Anthony coughed into his balled fist. He should have seen that one coming. “I don’t know,” he said, sounding curter than he meant to be. “I haven’t really thought about it.” He wondered if Little Ant was driven to ask by his own curiosity, or if he’d overheard his parents talking about how it was time for Anthony to move on. “Why do you ask?”
Little Ant shrugged. “I dunno. I just think it would be cool to have a new aunt and stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” Anthony turned down the heat under the saucepan. “You ready to add the vino?”
“Vivi hurried down Twentieth Avenue, intent on one thing and one thing only: dropping off Anthony’s plastic container at Dante’s undetected. Ever since his visit to her apartment a week earlier, her emotions had been in an uproar. No matter how many times she reminded herself that he was arrogant, was less than thrilled to have her as a neighbor, and had insulted her more than once, her mind could not let go of the kiss. She couldn’t lie to herself; she’d enjoyed it. But so what? She didn’t have time for a romance. More importantly, he was the last man on earth she wanted to have a romance with.
They’d been avoiding each other all week, that much was clear. She’d seen him on the street a number of times, but not once had his head turned in the direction of the candy store, even with the DiDinatos finally beginning construction. That was fine with Vivi. She wasn’t exactly breaking her neck to scurry across the street to his place, either.
She knew from observing Anthony that he usually left Dante’s around eight a.m. to pick up a newspaper and chat with the men up at Cuccio’s Pork Store, who were obviously longtime friends. He usually returned to the restaurant around eight thirty or so. Vivi checked her watch—ten minutes after eight. Perfect. She’d drop off the container with the kitchen staff and be out and back across the street before he even knew she was there.
She shouldn’t have been surprised when she tried the front door to the restaurant and found it locked. Undeterred, she walked around to the back. The kitchen door would probably be unlocked, and even if it wasn’t, she was certain there’d be staff in the kitchen who’d let her in if she knocked.
She was gratified to see the kitchen door was indeed open. She could see people moving around through the screen door as the sounds of voices and laughter rose above the tinny sound of a radio. She was in luck.
The door gave a small squeak as she opened it, popping her head inside. “Hello?” she called out tentatively. “It’s Vivi from across the street.”
“Vivi.” Anthony’s brother came toward her, a pleasant but puzzled look on his face.
“Hello, Michael. Is Anthony here?” What a fraud you are, Vivi thought to herself. You know damn well he isn’t.
“Actually, he just ran up to the deli to pick up the paper. What’s up?”
Vivi thrust the container at him. “Can you give this back to him?”
“Sure.” Michael took the container, but the puzzled expression remained on his face. “You borrow it?”
“No. He made me fritters and I’m just returning it.”
Michael’s eyes widened with surprise. “Anthony made you fritters?”
“Yes.”
“And he brought them to your house?”
Vivi hesitated, confused by the excited look in Michael’s eyes. “Yes.”
Michael’s excitement was now elation. “Oh my God, that’s great! Do you know how great that is?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“What do you think I think?”
“You think your brother and I are romantically involved. It’s not so,” Vivi said very quietly. She knew the kitchen staff was listening to every word being said, restaurant kitchens being a hive of gossip. She wanted to think the radio might be muffling some of the sound of her and Michael’s voices, but you never knew.
Michael regarded her skeptically. “You made him an apple tart just for the hell of it?”
Vivi was taken aback. “How do you know about that?”
“Because I devoured half the damn thing!” Michael’s eyes shone with admiration. “That was the best apple tart I ever tasted in my life, Vivi. Seriously.”
Just a Taste Page 7
