Just a Taste

by Deirdre Martin

  “My God,” he marveled in French. “I’d forgotten how much you resembled your father.”

  Vivi blushed. “People usually think I resemble my mother.” She didn’t dare look at Natalie for fear Bernard’s observations somehow pained her.

  “Well, perhaps you do,” Bernard allowed, making Vivi wonder if he’d ever met her mother. “But you also resemble your father, very much.”

  “Thank you so much for coming,” Vivi said in a raised but sincere voice, wanting to make sure she was heard over the din of the restaurant crowd. Around her, the voices of the patrons seemed to swell and recede, like the tide. It was a sound she loved. Others might find ecstasy in silence, or in their favorite piece of music; Vivi found it in the bang and clatter of the kitchen, and in the cacophony of a full dining room.

  “I cannot wait for your restaurant to open,” Bernard told her.

  “Nor can I.”

  When Theresa had first shown her the invitations she’d had printed up for the cook-off, Vivi had nearly fainted with pleasure at the line reading, “Dishes prepared by Chef Vivi Robitaille of Vivi’s, coming to Bensonhurst in spring 2008.” For some reason, the printed words made her dream feel real in a way it hadn’t yet, despite the checks being written and the handiwork of the DiDinatos, who promised they’d be done with the interior by the New Year. It was really going to happen. She was really going to have her own restaurant.

  She squeezed Natalie’s arm. “I hate to be rude, but I really do need to get back into the kitchen.”

  “Of course. Just one more thing.” Natalie pulled Vivi slightly away from Bernard. “Whoever arranged the seating has put Bernard and me with that oaf of a journalist, Quinn O’Brien,” she hissed. “Can you see about getting our seats switched?”

  “Natalie, I don’t really have time to deal with this.” Vivi’s eyes scoured the crowd for Theresa. She pointed her out to Natalie. “That’s who you should speak with. Have you phoned her yet about PR?”

  “I will, I will.”

  Vivi frowned at her unhappily before turning back to smile at Bernard Rousseau. “It’s been very nice to see you, Bernard. I appreciate your coming, so much.”

  “Once Natalie told me about it, I wouldn’t have dreamed of missing it.” Bernard shook Vivi’s hand warmly. “I will see both you and your sister soon, yes?”

  What a nice man, Vivi thought. “Yes, of course.”

  Vivi was shocked when Natalie took her hands in her own, and held them tightly. “Relax,” Natalie commanded. “You’re going to win.”

  “Yes.” Vivi hadn’t realized the tension she was feeling showed on her face. She squared her shoulders and stood up tall. “I can knock their corpses over, no problem, right?”

  Natalie looked too confused to disagree. “Er, yes. Of course. You’re a wonderful cook. And it’s really all just for fun, remember?”

  Vivi snorted. Fun. She’d try to remember that as she made her way back to Anthony’s kitchen.

  “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

  Anthony’s voice was a clap of thunder echoing off the kitchen’s white tile walls, startling his staff into overdrive or cowering, depending on their personalities. As he watched the waitstaff carry plates of his glorious arrosticini abbruzzesi out to the waiting crowd alongside plates of Vivi’s pedestrian gratin, he couldn’t resist stealing a look at her. Her porcelain smooth face was glistening with a thin film of sweat. Her long blonde hair was twisted back in a braid. Michael was right, she was beautiful. Already feeling victorious with the departure of the appetizers, he couldn’t resist the chance for a little fun.

  “Your gratin looks a little burnt around the edges, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “I refuse to listen to you,” Vivi sniffed. “You’re just trying to upset me.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t serve those pieces around the edge, that’s for sure.”

  “What do you know?” Vivi retorted. “You expect people to be dazzled by lamb kebabs. Tell me: is this an Italian restaurant or a Greek taverna?”

  Scowling, Anthony turned away just in time to see his brother and Little Ant stroll into the kitchen. “What the hell…?” Anthony muttered to himself, hustling over to them. “I told you,” he said to his brother in a controlled voice. “I don’t want Little Ant in here while we’re going crazy.”

  “Please, Uncle Anthony?” Little Ant pleaded. “I won’t get in the way.”

  Jesus help me, Anthony thought. The kid was looking at him with such desperate puppy dog eyes, it was heartbreaking. “Fine,” Anthony capitulated gruffly, pointing to the back door of the kitchen. “You can go stand there and don’t you dare move. If anyone needs to use the door, you jump right out of the way. Got it?”

  Little Ant’s face lit up. “Thank you, Uncle Ant.”

  “As for you,” Anthony said to Michael, “get out there and schmooze. Talk up the dishes I’ve prepared as if your life depended on it.”

  “What’ll I get in return?”

  “I won’t kick your ass for constantly getting underfoot. Now go.”

  Desperate for a small breather, Vivi peeked her head out of the kitchen doors. Anthony was going from table to table, talking to patrons. Merde. She should do the same. He looked like he was running for office, so smooth was his smile. What if he won? He’d taunt her endlessly; she knew it.

  Her gaze lit on Natalie, who motioned for her to come over. Vivi hesitated, then headed toward the table.

  “How is everything?” Vivi asked the table at large.

  “Tres magnifique!” Quinn O’Brien replied with gusto clearly designed to irk Natalie. It worked; Natalie made a disgusted face, as if she couldn’t believe she was sitting next to such an idiot.

  “It’s wonderful,” Bernard Rousseau assured her.

  “Which?” Vivi couldn’t resist asking. “The gratin or the lamb kebabs?”

  “Both,” said Bernard.

  Well, which one is better? Vivi longed to ask, but knew she couldn’t.

  Seated to Bernard’s left was a large, handsome man whispering in the ear of a curvy, red-haired woman. Vivi edged toward the couple. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Vivi Robitaille. I’ll be opening a bistro across the street in a few months.”

  The woman extended her hand. “I’m Gemma, Anthony and Michael’s cousin. And this is my husband, Sean.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Vivi. Michael and Anthony’s cousin, she thought. And her husband. That was two votes for Anthony right there.

  Gemma’s husband, Sean, jerked a thumb at Quinn. “I’m responsible for turning this guy on to Dante’s.”

  “Don’t worry, Vivi,” Quinn assured her. “I can’t wait for Vivi’s to open so I can check that out, too. Natalie has promised to be my date the first night it opens, haven’t you, Nat?”

  Natalie gave a bored yawn, then turned her body away from him completely, which only made Quinn laugh.

  Vivi’s thoughts crept back to Anthony’s cousin, Gemma. She wondered if Anthony knew how lucky he was to have so much family nearby. The woman didn’t resemble either Anthony or Michael, but that didn’t mean anything; Vivi and Natalie looked nothing alike. Vivi was disconcerted, though, by the appraising way Gemma was looking at her.

  She excused herself to go back to the kitchen. On her way, she crossed paths with Anthony, their shoulders brushing. “If you’d like, I’ll help you with your socializing skills as a consolation prize,” he said with a smirk.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Vivi huffed, steaming through the kitchen doors. Honestly, it was a pity such a handsome man was such an arrogant ass.

  “How’s everyone doing?”

  Finishing up his rounds in the dining room, Anthony saved the Blades’ table for last. Michael and Theresa sat there with the team’s coach, Ty Gallagher, and his wife, Janna. With them was their latest hotshot player, Jason Mitchell, with his cute but meek-looking girlfriend.

  Michael tapped his fork against his plate. “Vivi’s gratin is exceptional.”
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br />   “But so is your lamb,” Theresa added.

  “Which is better?” Anthony demanded.

  Michael winced apologetically. “I’d have to say it’s a tie.”

  “Tie,” Theresa agreed.

  Anthony frowned. “Thank you. That was very helpful.” He pointed to his brother. “Ever think of luring this guy out of retirement?” he asked Ty Gallagher. “I don’t think playing househusband is his forte.”

  “Judging by the number of take-out boxes in the fridge, I’d have to agree with you,” said Theresa.

  Ty regarded Michael with amusement. “You wanna be our stick boy?”

  Michael twisted around in his seat, looking at Anthony like he wanted to pop him one. “I think I’ll stick with diapers and dishes for just a little while longer, thank you.”

  Anthony decided to wrap up his visit to the table, not wanting to leave Vivi to her own devices in the kitchen for too long; the ruthless gleam in her eye was beginning to worry him. “Please, if there’s anything I can do to make your dining experience more pleasant, let me know,” he concluded with a small bow.

  “What he really means is, vote for him,” said Michael.

  The table laughed.

  Vivi stole a quick look out of the corner of her eye as Anthony, working not two feet away from her, put the finishing touches on his stuffed flank steak. It was an interesting dish, but she’d be damned if she’d ask for a preview. She didn’t want to pump up his already oversized ego. Besides, he hadn’t asked to taste anything of hers.

  “Go!” Anthony barked to the kitchen’s tournant, who hurried to bring the first of the dinner platters to the waiting waiters.

  “You’re being quite an ass tonight, you know,” she informed him mildly.

  “To you? Or in general?”

  “To me.”

  Anthony wiped his hands down the front of his apron. “Competition is competition. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. Literally.”

  “Another one of your American phrases, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  She tensed as he came closer to her, watching as she spooned cider vinegar over the poached fish she’d prepared.

  “Did Hugo warm the dinner plates for you as you requested?” asked Anthony.

  “Do you really care?”

  “When junior staff are asked to do something in this kitchen, I want to make sure they’ve done it.”

  “In that case,” said Vivi, hating the thought of getting someone in trouble, but knowing she had to be honest, “the answer is no.”

  “Hugo!” Seconds later, a skinny, frazzled boy who looked to be about twenty presented himself to Anthony. “Yes, chef?”

  “Vivi asked you to warm these plates for her and you forgot.”

  Hugo looked stricken. “I meant to. It’s just that I was helping Rocco—”

  “Don’t care,” Anthony barked, cutting him off. “You’ll be emptying the grease traps tonight. Got it?”

  “Yes, chef,” Hugo said glumly, skulking away.

  Anthony turned back to Vivi. “Are the warmed plates crucial? Or is the quality of the dish sufficient to endure room temperature flatware?”

  Bastard, Vivi thought. Don’t let him rattle you or make you doubt yourself. Be strong.

  “The plates could be fresh from the freezer and this turbot would be outstanding,” Vivi informed him. She told the staff they could start serving the turbot. With that, she sashayed past him to begin preparing the flan.

  Anthony couldn’t believe how tense he felt as the votes were being counted. Dessert was done, the patrons were lingering over the coffee, and at the bar, two volunteer diners, both unknown to Anthony and Vivi personally, were tabulating the paper votes. He was dying for a glass of Sambuca to quell his nerves, but he didn’t want to distract the vote counters.

  Exhaustion had worked its way into every bone in his body, but it was the good kind that comes with working hard and completing a job well done. He looked at Vivi, sitting at her sister’s table. The imperious manner she’d assumed all evening in the kitchen was gone, replaced by a mild anxiety that mirrored his own. His eyes caught his cousin Gemma’s and she smiled, pointing discreetly to Vivi then giving him a subtle thumbs-up. Anthony scowled back at her in disbelief. His own cousin, the same one he’d given endless piggyback rides to as a kid, telling him she’d voted for the competition! Real nice.

  The seconds seemed to crawl by. “What do you think?” Anthony asked Aldo, the ancient waiter hovering faithfully by his side.

  “It could go either way,” said Aldo noncommittally.

  “Thank you for not quitting tonight.”

  Aldo just shrugged. There’d been a few nights over the past couple of weeks that Aldo hadn’t torn off his apron and stormed outside to puff furiously on a cigarillo like some kind of sulky, wrinkled teenager. Perhaps the old man was mellowing as he entered his seventh decade.

  Restless, Anthony’s eyes scanned the dining room again. He did a double take; there was Insane Lorraine and her mother, Mrs. Insane Lorraine, sitting at a table with two of his aunts, Millie and Betty Anne. The twosome must have slipped in late, well after he’d made his rounds of the tables. The sight of Lorraine sitting with members of his family made his guts flip, though both Millie and Betty Anne were batshit crazy, so maybe they all had a lot to talk about.

  “We’ve got a winner.”

  The dining room hummed with low, excited murmurs as Anthony leaned forward stiffly in his chair, awaiting the verdict. The man making the announcement, portly with a moustache so thick it looked like he’d glued a squirrel to his upper lip, waited for the room to quiet. “The winner of the cook-off—by one single vote!—is Miss Vivi Robitaille.”

  One vote. Anthony fought the urge to slump in his chair. He couldn’t believe it. She was a great cook; just not as great as him. Vivi was hugging herself, crying. The win meant she had a ready-made crowd of admiring customers for her bistro when it opened in the spring. He tried not to think about it.

  The crowd was chanting for a speech. Vivi turned to Natalie, looking dazed. Though it hurt to lose, Anthony found a small measure of comfort in being beaten by a worthy opponent. He’d been in cooking competitions before; there was nothing worse than losing to some slick jackass who dazzled with presentation but didn’t know a crepe from a canapé. At least Vivi had talent.

  Knowing it was the right thing to do, Anthony rose to go congratulate her. He just hoped she wouldn’t gloat too much in public.

  “Congratulations.” He leaned over to kiss her cheek.

  Vivi stood up and looked at him with wide eyes. “Thank you. I’m shocked I won.”

  “Bullshit,” he whispered. “You thought you were going to win, just like I thought I was going to win.”

  Vivi laughed softly. “You’re right.” She indicated the diners. “They want me to say something, I think. But you and I will talk alone later, yes? After the kitchen is cleaned up?” She leaned toward him, putting a hand on his arm. “Do you have any cigarettes lying around? I would love one later, after everyone has gone.”

  “I think I may have an old pack somewhere in the kitchen. I’ll try to find it. You give your speech.”

  Vivi nodded, clearing her throat. She thanked Anthony for giving her the opportunity to use his kitchen, as well as thanking everyone who voted. But Anthony was only half listening as he stopped by the bar to pour himself that much-needed Sambuca and gather the ballots so he could burn the evidence of his failure.

  Chapter 15

  “Benedict Dante! It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Anthony shook a handful of crumpled ballots in Michael’s face as the two adjourned to the restaurant’s un-heated back office for some privacy. He couldn’t resist carefully tallying the votes himself before he burned them. He and Vivi had tied on the appetizer and the main dish, and it was the dessert vote that tipped the scale. That’s when it dawned on him: Their mother’s pudding. Raisins versus currants. His brother.

  �
��It was me what?” Michael asked, his eyes shifting away guiltily.

  “You know what! You voted for Vivi’s flan over my pudding, didn’t you?”

  Michael looked caught. “I’m sorry, Ant. I told you, you should have made it the way Mom used to.”

  Anthony couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “So, you had to vote against me? You couldn’t just—”

  “Lie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t think it was right to do that, and if you’re honest with yourself, you wouldn’t have wanted me to lie, either.”

  “No, in this case it would have been okay.”

  Michael edged toward the office door. “Does it really matter who won? This was all in good fun, right?”

  “I suppose,” Anthony muttered. “You’ve created a monster, though. Did you see Vivi out there? Preening and so graciously accepting everyone’s congrats?”

  “Like you wouldn’t do the same!”

  “She’s going to be unbearable now.”

  “What do you care? I thought you were just friends.” Michael crossed his arms. “Minghia, you ever think of putting a space heater back here? When Dad ran things—”

  “Did you let Insane Lorraine and her mother in?”

  “They bought tickets like everyone else, Anthony.” Michael smiled uneasily. “They seemed to be having a nice conversation with Aunt Millie and Aunt Betty Anne.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. I’m sure Lorraine was telling them about our imaginary upcoming nuptials.”

  “Cut her some slack. She’s been doing better with the hostessing, hasn’t she?”

  “I guess.”

  To be honest, Anthony hadn’t really noticed. When he was in the front of the house, it was usually to speak with patrons. He hadn’t received any complaints about her, so he supposed she was doing all right.

  “Can I go now?” Michael asked. “My nuts are about to freeze and crack off.”

  “For someone who spent so much time on the ice, you’re certainly a wuss when it comes to the cold.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not around the ice that much anymore, am I?” Michael said bitterly. “Except at my son’s games.”