Just a Taste

by Deirdre Martin

  “Seafood is always a good choice,” Michael said authoritatively.

  What the hell do you know? Anthony almost said, until he reminded himself he was the one who sought his brother’s input.

  “What else?” Michael asked.

  “More basic pasta dishes, in keeping with our rep as a homestyle family restaurant that serves comfort food. Cut out the fancy schmancy.”

  “You mean, make it more basic than it already is? Like a bistro might be?”

  Anthony stared at him stonily. “You trying to insinuate something?”

  “Nope,” said Michael, but Anthony could see he was fighting a smirk.

  “I also think we should do away with the holiday specials,” Anthony continued. “You know I hate doing Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday dinner here, too. Those are times for family, and I want to be with mine.”

  “Let’s think about that,” Michael said cautiously.

  Anthony grimaced. “Come on, Mike. Wouldn’t you rather be at my house this year scarfing down lamb chops scottodito and stuffing yourself with coffee custard?”

  “Well, yeah,” Michael admitted. “But there are lots of people who come for those holiday specials every year. We could be creating an opening for someone else.” He wiggled his eyebrows significantly.

  “She’s not gonna be able to fit more than thirty people in there at a time,” Anthony snapped. “And I’d keep doing New Year’s Eve.” It was time to broach the topic of Little Ant. He feigned looking off into space distractedly. “When is Easter this year? Do you know?”

  “April, I think.” Michael took another sip of water. “Why?”

  “The kids get a week off, don’t they? Maybe Little Ant could do some cooking with me.”

  “He’s going to be at hockey camp.”

  “Yeah?” said Anthony. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  Michael looked annoyed. “Don’t start with me, Anthony.”

  “I just want to point one thing out to you.”

  Michael frowned. “What?”

  “Remember when we were growing up, and Dad was always on our asses to play bocce ball but we hated it, because we thought it was stupid and boring?”

  “It is stupid and boring,” Michael snorted.

  “Well, what if Dad had forced us? What if he said you couldn’t play hockey, and made you go to bocce camp instead? You would have been pissed, right? You would have been resentful about him making you do something he wanted you to do, not something you wanted to do.”

  Michael was silent.

  “Well, that’s what you’re doing to Little Ant.”

  “You don’t understand. If he’d just give it a chance—”

  “He hates it, Mike. Period. He thinks it’s stupid and boring, like we thought about bocce. Here, I want to show you something.” He pulled the worksheet out of his back pocket and handed it to his brother, careful not to watch him read it, because he didn’t want to see the pain on Michael’s face. Michael silently folded up the worksheet, putting it in his own back pocket.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked quietly.

  “Theresa. She asked me to talk to you about this. She said you wouldn’t listen to her. Dad let us be ourselves even though what he wanted was for us to be bocce boys! He let me cook, and he encouraged you in hockey. Don’t you want to do the same for Little Ant?”

  “Yes. No.” Michael looked pained. “God, I miss it so much, Anthony.”

  “I know that, bro.” Anthony reached across the table to give his brother’s arm a consoling pat. “But it’s not right to try to live vicariously through him. You know?”

  Michael pulled his face from his hands. “Can I confess something to you?”

  Anthony shrugged. “Sure.”

  “This stay-at-home dad stuff? It’s not for me. I’m going nuts.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Something might be going on at Met Gar that could change things. But I’m not at liberty to talk about it right now.”

  “Not even to your wife? She’s worried sick about you, Mike. She thinks you’re losing your mind. She’s even worried that you’re having an affair, with you creeping into the city all the time.”

  Michael laughed. “Me? She’s got to be kidding!”

  “Well, set her straight.” Anthony paused. “What’s the big mystery?”

  “I can’t tell you, Ant. Seriously. I don’t want to say anything to anyone until I know for sure.”

  “Well, whatever it is, I hope it comes through for you, because Christ knows you’ve been a pain in my ass since you’ve been Mister Mom.”

  Michael looked contrite. “Yeah, sorry about that. I just suck at not being around lots of people, you know?”

  “Mike, if you let Little Ant be who he wants to be, he’ll love you for it.” He gestured at the four walls surrounding him. “He loves it here, Mike. Dante’s could all be his one day, if he wanted. We’d be able to keep it in the family. Hockey isn’t the only Dante legacy.”

  Michael hesitated. “I’m just afraid of him getting picked on at school. Being called a ‘fag’ because he likes to cook.”

  “He’ll survive. Believe me, I know. They won’t be calling him a ‘fag’ twenty years from now when he’s got his own successful restaurant. He could be a great chef, Mike. If you let him.”

  Michael tilted back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.

  “I feel like an asshole.”

  “You are an asshole. Now go home and tell your wife you’re not cheating on her, and let me finish these menus.”

  All Theresa’s talk of press kits, “generating buzz,” and getting reviews was making Vivi’s head spin as she sat opposite Theresa in her office, watching her get more and more enthusiastic as she herself got more and more anxious.

  Yesterday the artist had finished the sign on the front window. It looked gorgeous, the swirling script very romantic. Anthony was wrong, wrong, wrong about the color. The white looked classy, not boring. As if he were the arbiter of good taste—his restaurant filled with fading pictures of priests and amateur paintings of gondolas.

  Vivi liked railing against him in her head. It helped her not to miss him. Sometimes she felt sad when she looked across the street at Dante’s and realized there would be no more cooking contests, no more passionate exchanges about food—no more passionate exchanges, period. But whose fault was that?

  “One of the things we need to do,” Theresa was saying, “is make sure we invite some French people to the opening, just to give it that extra dash of authenticity and panache. I’ll come up with a list, but off the top of your head, can you think of anyone French besides you and Natalie?”

  “Bernard Rousseau.”

  “Bernard Rousseau,” Theresa repeated back thoughtfully. “That name sounds vaguely familiar.”

  “He’s an ambassador to the UN.”

  “Wow.” Theresa looked impressed. “How do you know him?”

  “He worked with my father.” Were it not for Bernard, I’d be back in Avignon, a heartbroken failure, soaking my mother’s blouse with tears.

  “You sound fond of him,” Theresa noted.

  “I am. My father adored him. I don’t know him as well as my sister does, but he’s a very nice man. Very generous. I definitely want him at the opening.”

  “Will he have a plus-one?”

  Vivi looked at her in confusion. “A…?”

  “Does he have a wife or girlfriend he might want to bring?”

  “I don’t think so.” Her mind flashed back to his lips on hers at the restaurant. “No.”

  Theresa gave her an oddly satisfied look. “Then we’ll put him on the list as a solo.” She paused. “Obviously, as your publicist, I’ll be at the opening, and Michael wants to come, as well. I was wondering, how do you feel about inviting Anthony?”

  “Anthony?” Vivi hadn’t really thought about it.

  “Whatever else may have happened, you two are neighbors. It would be a show of goodwill
.”

  “Of course he can come, then.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, of course, of course,” said Vivi, even though the more she thought about it, the more fluttery her stomach felt. No, she told herself, it would be good for him to be there. She wanted him to walk into her beautiful little bistro and hear people raving about her cooking; she wanted him to see her in her own restaurant kitchen.

  “Terrific.” Theresa scribbled something on the notepad on her lap. “You know,” she murmured casually, head still bent over her writing, “he’s made an appointment to go talk to someone about those dreams he was having.”

  “I see.” So, his whole family knew the details of their breakup. She wondered if they knew about the “incident at the bedroom door,” as she referred to it in her mind.

  Theresa looked up at her. “He loves you, Vivi. He really does. You were so good together.”

  “We were terrible together,” Vivi scoffed. “Bicker, bicker, bicker over spices and sauces and this and that.”

  “That was foreplay, or haven’t you figured that out yet?”

  Vivi blushed. She wondered if it would be inappropriate to ask Theresa a question about Angie. Well, why not? They were supposedly having a business meeting and Theresa had ventured into personal territory. Why couldn’t she do the same?

  “Do you think Anthony is over Angie?”

  “Yes, I do,” Theresa answered without hesitation. “If you’d asked me that six months ago, I might have hesitated. But you gave him back his spark. I would really hate to think of the two of you never working things out.”

  Vivi studied the beautiful woman before her. “You’re very pushy, aren’t you?”

  Theresa laughed appreciatively. “Yes, I am. That’s why I’m so good at my job.”

  Vivi laughed back. “I can identify with that.”

  “Think about what I said. About Anthony.” Perhaps sensing Vivi’s discomfort, Theresa’s gaze turned sympathetic. “Shall we go back to discussing business?”

  “Yes, please,” said Vivi. Business was always better. Business was safe.

  “What do you think?”

  Vivi could barely keep from bouncing off the walls as she ushered Natalie over the threshold into Vivi’s. The window sign was painted, the floor had been redone in wide, rugged planks of pine, and the bistro tables had arrived, though Vivi had yet to figure out which would go where. Just to annoy Anthony, she’d put a large sheet across the front window so he couldn’t look inside. She wanted him to be as surprised as everyone else when Vivi’s finally opened.

  Natalie slowly walked the perimeter, nodding her head. “It’s going to look fantastic.”

  “I know.” Vivi grabbed Natalie’s hand and pulled her toward a small table for two. “Sit down. No more folding chairs!”

  Natalie’s gaze continued sweeping the walls as she took a seat. “This place is going to be a success. I know it.”

  “I think I can get by with just two assistants in the kitchen and two wait persons on the floor. Maybe even one.”

  “Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that.” Natalie’s head was bent in a posture of submission as she looked up at Vivi through her lashes. “I want you to hire me as a waitress, Vivi.”

  Vivi gaped at her. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” Natalie said earnestly. “It’s not right that you should do all the work. I want to help make Vivi’s a success, too, by working just as hard as you in what way I can. My waitressing would be cheaper than hiring someone from outside—and we’d be able to pay off Bernard that much faster.”

  Natalie was right, of course. But Natalie as a waitress? Since she’d been going for “retail therapy” and had joined Shopaholics Anonymous, Natalie had been a lot more even tempered and relaxed. But Vivi could still imagine someone asking her for some more bread and Natalie dumping the breadbasket on their head and huffing off. Not exactly good for business.

  “Cherie, don’t you think it would be better if you looked for a job in your chosen field?” Vivi asked carefully.

  “Yes, of course. But until I find one, I desperately need to bring money in. You know that.”

  Vivi fell silent. After the great debt debacle, the time for awkwardness between them should have been past. And yet, Vivi found herself unable to say what was on her mind, which was that Natalie was a bit too haute for the bistro. Then again, waitressing might be good for her newly burgeoning humility.

  “Natalie, have you ever waited tables before?”

  “Believe it or not, yes.” There was a proud cast in her eye. “When I was at university. Papa insisted. He didn’t want me to be completely spoiled, he said. And”—Natalie glanced away uncomfortably—“I was in debt, just like I am now. He made me work it off.”

  “I see.” Vivi ran her index finger back and forth slowly across her lower lip, contemplating what to do. “Were you any good?”

  “I was. I made so much in tips I was able to pay Papa off much faster than anticipated.”

  “Hmm.”

  Vivi noticed her sister was sans jewelry, and was more simply dressed than usual in jeans, boots, and a low-neck sweater. Natalie hadn’t said as much, but Vivi deduced she must have sold off a great deal of her designer wardrobe. “If I say yes, do you promise you won’t turn around and quit on me after a few weeks?”

  “I promise.” Natalie looked at her imploringly. “I want to do this, Vivi. I want to make it up to you. I want us to work together to make the restaurant a success.”

  “All right,” Vivi agreed. How could she say no? Natalie was really trying to make amends. Everyone deserved a second chance—maybe even a third or a fourth if they wanted it badly enough. Vivi believed Natalie did.

  “Thank you.” Natalie appeared relieved as she pulled a cigarette out of her purse and lit it. Cigarettes are expensive! Vivi thought, but held her tongue. It was a small pleasure compared to Natalie’s past indulgences.

  “I need to ask you one more favor,” Natalie continued, looking nervous.

  “What’s that?”

  Natalie hesitated. “Can I move in with you? Just temporarily,” she added quickly, “until I find my own place. I can’t afford the rent on the apartment in the city anymore.”

  Vivi pictured herself and Natalie. They’d be at each other’s throats like crazed cats after two days. Living together, working together—it would be too much. Still, it if was just temporary…

  “Of course you can stay,” said Vivi. “But I’ll give you an advance on your waitressing salary, so you can start looking right away.”

  “Can’t stand the thought of living with me, eh?” Natalie joked quietly.

  “No. Not in an apartment that small. As it is you’ll have to share my double bed with me.”

  “That’s all right,” Natalie assured her. “As long as you don’t kick in your sleep.”

  “No one has ever said so.”

  “You know, when I was little, I used to pray for a sister to share my room with,” Natalie revealed shyly. “I used to imagine us in twin beds close enough for us to reach out and hold hands, exchanging secrets and giggles in the darkness. Sometimes I hated being an only child.”

  “Me, too. But we’ve got each other now, don’t we?”

  “Yes,” Natalie whispered, getting teary. “And we have this.” She gestured at the four walls surrounding them. “It’s more than enough.”

  Chapter 27

  “If you three stoogettes don’t leave my kitchen, so help me God, I’m going to send you home without a morsel to eat.”

  Anthony knew he was bellowing, but he couldn’t help it. For the past half hour, his Aunts Connie, Millie, and Betty Anne had been hovering in his kitchen offering unsolicited advice while he prepared Easter dinner. Millie was the worst. Always had been. Sometimes he wondered if they were really his mother’s sisters; his mom had been very gentle and relatively sane.

  Millie pointed to the oven with the cigarette that was permanently soldered to her hand.
“You put too much marjoram on the lamb. Your mother always used it sparingly,” she noted in her gravelly voice.

  “I’m not my mother,” Anthony pointed out, amazed a woman who subsisted on Parliaments and hot dogs had the coglioni to say anything to him about cooking. He must have been glaring, because Aunt Betty Anne, timid in the best of circumstances, was backing toward the kitchen doorway. Aunt Connie, like her bossy, tobacco-addicted sister, was still sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

  “We’re just saying,” she sniffed defensively.

  “Saying what?” Anthony retorted. “I run a restaurant, remember? I know what I’m doing.”

  Millie rolled her rheumy eyes and tapped Connie on the arm. “C’mon, let’s go out into the living room and leave Mister Touchy alone.”

  “Thank you,” Anthony said in an exaggerated voice. “And put that damn cigarette out! I told you, no smoking in the house!”

  Millie pretended not to hear him.

  He sighed and wondered what the hell he’d been thinking when he’d decided to close Dante’s for Easter Sunday and cook dinner for his family instead. When he had brought it up to his brother months ago, it seemed like a good idea. He loved to cook, they loved to eat, and it had been years since he’d been able to sit at a table with everyone and just relax. But now that they were all here under his roof, making more noise than a Met Gar crowd and invading his kitchen uninvited, he was beginning to doubt the soundness of his decision.

  He stood in the center of the kitchen, savoring the scents swirling around him and admiring his own handiwork. There was still a hint of the rosemary lingering in the air from the Pan di Ranerino rolls he’d made earlier that morning, and the succulent smell of the lamb basted in herbs wafting from the oven smelled exactly the same as his mother used to make, if not better. Christ only knows what Millie was talking about with the marjoram. He couldn’t smell the coffee custard cooling in the fridge, obviously, but the orange cake sitting on the counter was spongy to the touch, just as it should be, and smelled as fragrant as an orange grove. If one more person opened their mouth to question or criticize, he’d show them the front door.