Just a Taste

by Deirdre Martin

  “How the hell do you know?”

  “Because I know.”

  “Fine. Then what’s the harm in going to dinner with her, if you’re so sure your heart’s locked away all nice and tidy for the next fifty years of your life? Hmm?”

  “I guess you’re right,” Anthony agreed uneasily.

  “You don’t sound so sure.”

  “No, I’m sure.” He wasn’t sure at all.

  “How ’bout this?” Michael adopted his parental problem-solver voice as he wiped caked oatmeal off Angelica’s face and lifted her out of her high chair. “What if Theresa and I go along with the two of you? That way, you won’t feel like it’s a date. There won’t be all this pressure on you to talk and be witty and all that crap. We can help you out if conversation grinds to a screeching halt and both of you are silently thinking, ‘I’m in hell.’”

  Anthony was not amused. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

  “I know I’m funny, pal,” Michael chortled. “Talk to Vivi, and I’ll talk to Theresa, and we’ll figure out a night that’s good.” He balanced Angelica on his hip, bouncing her happily as he taunted his brother. “Daddy and Mommy are going to go out on a date with Uncle Anthony and his new girlfriend, cara. What do you think about that?”

  “I love your jacket.”

  The admiration in Theresa Dante’s voice made Vivi glad she’d chosen to wear the velvet blazer Natalie had given her. She’d been pleased when Anthony had agreed to accompany her into the city to try this new restaurant, Zusi’s, though admittedly surprised when he added that his brother and sister-in-law would be joining them. Her immediate thought was, He doesn’t want to be alone with me. Ever since cooking her poulet basquaise for him a week earlier, her mind kept circling back to the hug they’d shared. On the surface, it was simply a good-hearted man comforting a distressed woman. But the words he’d said (“I’m glad you exist, Vivi”) and the tender look in his eye as he held her tight and made her feel wanted, led her to think it was more than sympathy. There was more; she’d felt it in her own bones when she’d looked at him. The question was what to do about it.

  Getting involved with a widower was one thing. But a relationship with another chef—who happened to be right across the street? Would it distract her when she needed absolute focus on the bistro? One minute Vivi thought the attraction between them would only be a nuisance, the next she was ready to surrender to whatever Eros might have in store. The only thing she knew for certain was that despite his typical culinary egotism, she liked him.

  Even though Zusi’s was booked months in advance, as an established chef, all Anthony had to do was pick up the phone and a table for four was magically reserved. Walking into the restaurant, Vivi was struck by the subdued atmosphere. Sky blue fabric covered the walls and the cushions on the bentwood chairs, smooth jazz played softly in the background. It was a nice, relaxing space in which to eat. Vivi loved catching bits and pieces of people’s conversations as they were led to their table: “I can’t finish this”; “They’re in Sardinia, I think”; “She’s just starting chemo now.” All these disparate souls, gathered in one place for one pure purpose: the sanctity of a wonderfully prepared meal. It never failed to leave Vivi humbled and renew her joy in being a chef.

  Vivi smiled at Theresa as they were seated. “Thank you for your compliment. My sister bought me the jacket.”

  “She has good taste.”

  Expensive taste, Vivi thought. She felt a twinge of guilt about not inviting Natalie along to dine with them, but she wanted to be able to relax and not have Natalie dissecting every little thing she and Anthony said and did.

  She glanced up into Anthony’s handsome face with gratitude as he pulled out her chair for her. He looked very handsome tonight in his sports jacket and crisp, pressed white shirt. He smelled wonderful, too, very refreshing and woody. She liked men who wore cologne, men who took care with their appearance and toilette. It showed they cared about keeping themselves attractive.

  “So, Vivi, are you enjoying Brooklyn life?” Theresa asked.

  Vivi nodded. “Oui, very much.” Though Vivi initially found Theresa’s dark-haired beauty intimidating—the woman was truly stunning—it only took a few seconds for her to see Theresa was very down to earth.

  “I can’t wait for your restaurant to open,” Theresa continued. “Bensonhurst needs some new culinary tricks, if you ask me.” She winked playfully at Anthony, who rolled his eyes. Vivi could tell the two of them got along well and enjoyed needling one another.

  “You know, Theresa does PR,” Michael told Vivi. “She helped put Dante’s on the map, so to speak.”

  “Dante’s was already on the map, Mike,” Anthony grumbled.

  “You know what I mean,” said Michael. “She helped us get to the next level,” he clarified for Vivi. “Expand interest in us beyond Brooklyn.”

  “Do you have one of your cards with you?” Vivi asked Theresa politely.

  “Yes, of course.” Theresa dipped into her small beaded bag and pulled out a card, handing it to Vivi.

  “Thank you.” Here was a task she could pass on to Natalie, a project to help keep her occupied and involved.

  Vivi glanced around eagerly. She couldn’t wait to get hold of the menu so she could deconstruct it. She could tell Anthony was thinking the same thing; he seemed a little antsy and preoccupied. In fact, when their eyes met over the bread basket, they shared a knowing little smile, each perfectly attuned to the source of the restlessness in the other. She was glad she’d been bold and asked him to accompany her here. He understood. He—

  “Do you have a boyfriend back in France, Vivi?”

  Michael Dante’s question punctured the carefree bubble Vivi was trying to create for herself tonight. It seemed a deeply private question, and for a split second, she feared Natalie might be right after all about Americans being rude.

  Vivi smiled politely. “Non.”

  “Michael.” Theresa seemed deeply embarrassed. “You have to excuse my husband, Vivi. He can be a little rude sometimes.” She flashed Michael a look that could split rock. Perhaps rudeness was a Dante issue, not an American issue.

  “It’s all right,” said Vivi, stealing a glance at Anthony, who seemed distinctly ill at ease. When their waiter appeared with the menus, Vivi virtually snatched hers out of his hand. By the time they’d all ordered drinks, Anthony was already studying his menu with the intensity of an archaeologist trying to decipher the Rosetta stone.

  “Black bass and sea urchin roe on a crisp potato pancake,” Anthony read aloud. “Hmm.” He looked at Vivi. “Thoughts?”

  Vivi thought about the ingredients, their individual flavors, how they might meld or complement each other. “Could be interesting.”

  “Or a little too precious.”

  “True.” Vivi’s eyes scoured the menu. “Ooh! Spinach-stuffed veal chop with tomato polenta! That sounds like something worth trying.”

  “Or stealing,” said Michael, nudging Anthony in the ribs playfully.

  Vivi turned to him in offense at the same time Anthony did. “Good chefs don’t steal.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth, Vivi,” said Anthony as he looked coldly at Michael.

  “Geez.” Michael cringed as he reached for his martini. “I was just making a joke.”

  “You mustn’t joke about that,” said Vivi. Anthony nodded in agreement.

  Michael exhaled with exasperation as he cracked open his menu. “Yeah, this is gonna be a fun night.”

  “You are absolutely wrong about the chocolate glaze on these pears,” Vivi insisted. “Shortening was used, not butter.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s butter.”

  Anthony struggled to hold back the verbal torrent threatening to explode from his lips. All night long, he and Vivi had been disagreeing about the food at Zusi’s. When he noted that the curried oysters didn’t have enough curry, she said there was too much. When he observed that the marjoram sauce accompanying the
baby pheasant wasn’t really a reduction as the menu claimed, she insisted it was. More frustrating than her constant countering of his expert observations were her own off-base pronouncements. Vivi ordered leeks in creamy chive sauce, then declared they’d skimped on the chives. Wrong! The amount of chive used was perfect. Her first mouthful of grilled scallop in lobster sauce was accompanied by, “The sauce is too salty.” Again she was wrong; just the right amount of salt had been used. They’d been passing plates around the table all night, and only once had they agreed, and that was on the cognac sugarplums Theresa has ordered for dessert.

  Vivi was still shaking her head insistently. “I’m telling you, it’s shortening.”

  “You two are scary,” said Theresa.

  “Anthony’s been frightening all night,” Michael added, flashing his brother a penetrating look that Anthony had no idea how to interpret.

  What? Had he been talking too much? Not enough? Anthony rotated his palms upward, shrugging his shoulders in a gesture of confusion. Michael just rolled his eyes. Anthony fought a smile as he thought back to Michael’s suggestion that he and Theresa come along in case he and Vivi lapsed into silence. Vivi’s mouth had been in motion from the minute they’d arrived. In fact, she wasn’t letting the shortening versus butter issue go.

  “Are you finally agreeing? It’s shortening?”

  “Butter,” said Anthony with a small yawn.

  Vivi took a spoonful of the sinfully delicious dessert and held it up to him. “Here. Taste again.”

  She guided the spoon between Anthony’s lips. For a split second, he thought nothing of it, then he caught the look of significance that passed between Michael and Theresa. What was going on between him and Vivi was more intimate than he realized. He cleared his throat nervously and then swallowed, the creamy sweetness of the chocolate lingering long after it had left his mouth.

  “Well?” Vivi prodded, the superior tilt of her head telling him she fully expected to be vindicated.

  “I still say butter.”

  Vivi’s expression was incredulous as she regarded Michael and Theresa. “Not only is he stubborn, he’s wrong.”

  “Hey!” said Anthony. “Who copped to there being too much garlic in her chicken after I pointed it out, huh?”

  “You’ve cooked for each other?” Theresa asked coyly.

  Anthony and Vivi both nodded.

  Theresa licked powdered sugar off her fingers. “And who’s better?”

  “I am,” Anthony answered without hesitation.

  Vivi’s jaw dropped. “You are so rude!”

  “No, I am so truthful.” Anthony knew it was mean, but it was kind of fun getting her all riled up.

  Vivi ignored him, concentrating her attention on Michael and Theresa. “Anthony is an excellent chef, but if I may use my own leaf blower—”

  “Blow your own horn,” Anthony corrected with a chuckle.

  “I am better,” Vivi concluded with a huff, dabbing her mouth with her napkin before settling back in her chair.

  Mischief crept into Theresa’s eyes. “Well, there’s only one way to find out for sure who’s better.”

  “What’s that?” asked Anthony suspiciously.

  “You have to have a cook-off and invite other people to judge.”

  “A cook-off!” Vivi’s eyes lit up. “That’s a wonderful idea!”

  “It’s a horrible idea.” Anthony glared at his sister-in-law. “When in the name of hell am I supposed to find time to have a cook-off?”

  Theresa looked unruffled. “We could set it up as a charity event, Anthony, except those invited would get to vote on the food. It’d be fun, and great publicity for both businesses.”

  “It’d be work,” Anthony griped, but his mind was already beginning to put together possible menus.

  “You could keep it simple,” Theresa continued, her voice growing in enthusiasm. “You’d each be responsible for making an appetizer, a main dish, and a dessert.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Anthony asked. Theresa didn’t get it. She’d never gotten it—how time-consuming and grueling being a chef was. He remembered all the cockamamie suggestions she’d come up with when she was initially doing PR for Dante’s. Running certain specials during the Santa Rosalia Festival. Putting together summer picnic baskets. And now, just whip up some food for a cook-off. It ticked him off.

  “C’mon, Ant.” As usual, Michael’s voice was cajoling. “It’ll be fun. Think of it as Iron Chef Bensonhurst.”

  “You gonna help?” Anthony retorted.

  “No, but Little Ant will,” Theresa put in quickly. “He’d love it.”

  “That’s true,” Anthony agreed slowly. “Little Ant could be a big help.” Seeing the look of perplexity on Vivi’s face, he added, “Little Anthony is my nephew.”

  “Our son,” Theresa clarified further in a proud voice.

  “Ah,” said Vivi. “It’s good to start them young if they’re serious about cooking.”

  “I agree,” Theresa said, locking eyes with her husband.

  “He can play hockey and cook,” Michael said mildly. “No one ever said he couldn’t.”

  Anthony took a sip of his espresso, trying to slow his thoughts. A cook-off. What a huge pain in the neck. Then again, if it was for a good cause…and it would give him the chance to try out some new dishes…and remind the locals why Dante’s was the culinary landmark while generating some publicity, it could be worth it. He stole a surreptitious glance at Vivi, whose excitement as she chatted with Theresa lit up the subdued dining room. A cook-off meant Vivi would have to use his kitchen. Again. In fact, they’d more or less be cooking side by side. The thought made his teeth grind, but he supposed he could endure it, as long as certain ground rules were set.

  “Are we going to do this thing or what?” Anthony asked grumpily.

  “I’m willing,” Vivi answered without hesitation. “Though I do worry about how you will save face when I best you in your own kitchen.”

  “Ouch!” said Michael with a stage cringe. “Cross check to the ego!”

  Anthony gave a low chuckle and smiled. “You’re a damn good cook, Vivi, but I can out-chef you with one hand tied behind my apron. And I intend to prove it.”

  Chapter 13

  “Where were you last night, Vivi? I called and called.”

  Natalie looked mildly irritated as she joined Vivi on the small couch in Vivi’s apartment. After coming home from the dinner at Zusi’s, Vivi had spent the night jumping in and out of bed, jotting down her thoughts for the cook-off. Tired as well and slightly cranky, she was in no mood for Natalie’s peremptory manner.

  “I was out to dinner.”

  “With—?” Before Vivi could answer, Natalie groaned, “Oh, God.”

  “Oh, God nothing. It’s not what you think.”

  Vivi calmly stirred her chamomile tea, trying to not to feel guilty at the accusation in Natalie’s voice. She hadn’t seen her half sister since their night at Plutonium, when the spilled contents of Natalie’s purse revealed the bill from Saks Fifth Avenue. Determined to bring her up to date on things, Vivi filled Natalie in on cooking her poulet basquaise for Anthony, omitting the part where she cried in his arms. She told Natalie about going out to dinner with him and his brother and sister-in-law, then tried to change the subject by asking Natalie how her week had been.

  Natalie didn’t answer, peering at her in mystification instead. “You like him, don’t you? Anthony Dante.”

  “Yes.” Vivi saw no point in lying about it.

  Natalie looked apprehensive. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing.” Vivi had never been one for active pursuit, and she’d decided there was no reason to change her ways now. She liked Anthony, but she was not going to go out of her way to make something happen. If the spark between them burst into flame, then she would consider embracing it, but only after she thought long and hard about whether being involved with another chef, who also happened to be widowed, was something she co
uld handle. If the spark didn’t catch, well then, at least she had made a friend in the neighborhood who understood her passion about food, even though he was so often wrong about it. She just hoped they could remain friends if her business wound up cutting into his.

  “Did I tell you about the cook-off?” Vivi asked abruptly, in another effort to change the subject. She explained the idea behind it, how ostensibly it would put to rest forever the debate over who was a better cook, and how fun it might be. The idea seemed to intrigue Natalie momentarily.

  “How many people will be invited? Or will you just be asking whatever diners come in to vote?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to speak with Anthony about it.”

  “I can bring someone who will definitely vote for you,” said Natalie.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Papa’s good friend, Bernard Rousseau?”

  Vivi smiled tersely. “I don’t know who that is, Natalie. I never knew any of Papa’s friends, remember?”

  “Of course.” Natalie looked embarrassed. “But you did meet him once. At the funeral. He’s very nice. About forty, I think, and very elegant. He rang me when he got to New York a few days ago. He’s going to be here for at least a year, working at the UN. I’ll bring him to the cook-off.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Vivi took another sip of tea, wondering if their father had been a very social man, or if he was more of a homebody, the way he was with Vivi’s mother. There were so many gaps in her knowledge about Papa she would love to have filled in. Butterflies in her stomach, she turned to Natalie.

  “Did Papa have a lot of friends?” she asked hesitantly.

  Natalie considered the question. “Yes. He and my mother used to entertain a lot.” Natalie’s expression turned pensive. “Did Papa and your mother entertain a lot?”