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.
“This 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?
“You got everything under control?”
Anthony’s staff nodded, which was not the answer he wanted. He wanted to be told that they couldn’t afford for him to step out for even a few minutes, thus giving him an excuse not to go to Vivi’s opening. They were on night two sans Aldo. Anthony wondered if Michael had gotten the chance to stop by Aldo’s as promised. He hoped so. He also hoped the old man was just trying to bust his chops about the raise. Anthony’s fear was that he was into the bookies in a big way, and that right now, Aldo’s body was lying at the bottom of Jamaica Bay, weighed down by chains.
He took off his apron, tossing it into the laundry hamper in the staff locker room before heading to the restroom to change out of his chef whites and clean up a bit. His heart was heavy with guilt and dread. Even though he knew it was the right thing to do, he did not want to go across the street and congratulate Vivi. All he could imagine was walking through the door and people whispering behind their hands as they stared at him in pity. There’s Anthony Dante. Did you read that awful review of his restaurant in the Sentinel? It sounds like it’s really going downhill. He should give it up.
Then there was Vivi herself. She wouldn’t bring up the review to his face, but he knew she’d know about it, and she’d be gloating inside. What chef didn’t when their competition slipped a little? Worse, seeing her would lead to a chain reaction in his heart. Longing would lead to depression that he could easily turn into anger if he didn’t watch himself. Christ, if only he could just stay put and cook.
Five minutes, he promised himself as he splashed cologne on his face and neck. He’d pop in, he’d congratulate her, and leave.
He grabbed his jacket, heading out through the back door and onto the street. He could see through Vivi’s front window; the place was packed. He was about to step off the curb when he paused mid-stride to slap himself on the forehead, and turn back.
Chapter 29
“You traitorous old bastard.”
The minute Anthony clapped eyes on Aldo waiting tables at Vivi’s, the temptation to strangle his skinny neck was strong. How could he? No, wait, how could she? He could forgive Vivi a lot of things, but stealing his longtime headwaiter wasn’t one of them.
Aldo breezed past him, his noble Roman nose in the air, pretending not to hear as he deposited four bowls of French onion soup at a table of lively older women. But when the old man started back in the direction of the kitchen, Anthony and Michael zeroed in on him from opposite sides, forcing him to stop in his tracks.
“Yes?” Aldo sniffed imperiously.
Michael was goggle-eyed. “What the hell are you doing here, Aldo? You work for us!”
“Not anymore.” Aldo folded his arms smugly across his chest, accusing eyes pinning Anthony. “I told you I quit, but you didn’t believe me. Maybe now you’ll believe.”
Anthony’s hands curled into fists. “You quit at least twice a month, Aldo. How the hell was I supposed to know you meant it this time?”
“You gotta come back,” Michael pleaded. “Dante’s isn’t Dante’s without you. You know that.”
Aldo raised an eyebrow, his eyes still burrowing into Anthony’s. “Well?”
“Fine!” Anthony said loudly. A woman sitting nearby gave him a dirty look. “Shit,” he muttered to himself. He felt as if everyone’s eyes were on him, including his brother’s.
“You okay?” Michael asked Anthony pointedly.
“Yeah.”
“He’s come to kill me,” Aldo stated matter of factly. He pointed at the paper bag Anthony was holding in his left hand. “What have you got in there? A gun?”
Anthony snorted. “You really think I’d waste a bullet on you, old man?” Aldo scowled as Anthony tried to ignore the delectable scents wafting his way from the nearest table, that of perfectly cooked tomato and zucchini gratin, and soft, chewy French bread piping hot from the oven. Damn Vivi to hell.
Michael, meanwhile, was still looking at him with concern. “You sure you’re okay, big guy?”
Anthony gritted his teeth. “Yes.”
“My raise?” Aldo prompted, smoothing the front of his white waiter’s jacket with care.
“You can have your raise,” Anthony grumbled. “But you have to come back to work tomorrow. Capisce?”
“Capisce,” Aldo agreed, the faintest smile of triumph on his face.
“Ballbuster,” Anthony growled as his eyes followed Aldo into the kitchen.
“Smart ballbuster,” Michael said with a touch of admiration. His eyes fell to the bag Anthony was holding. “Whatcha got there?”
“An opening night gift for Vivi.” When his brother began to grin, Anthony growled, “I’m just being polite.”
“So you’re not planning on shooting anyone?” Michael double-checked.
Anthony scowled. “Apart from you? No.”
�
�Glad to hear it.” He patted Anthony on the back, and then went to join Theresa, who was hovering over a table of well-known, hand-selected foodies. Speaking of whom…Anthony went to join his brother and sister-in-law, tapping Theresa on the shoulder to get her attention. “Which one is Bernie boy?”
Theresa discreetly cocked her head in the direction of a dapper, handsome man speaking Italian to Aldo. Show-off, Anthony thought. “Over there,” Theresa said. “And you don’t have to worry, he and Vivi aren’t romantically involved at all. But you don’t care anymore about that, right?” she needled.
“That’s right.” He moved, turning when he heard someone growl, “Excuse me,” behind him.
Vivi’s pinch-faced sister was glaring at him. He’d never met someone who frowned so much. It was too bad, because she was a good-looking woman.
“What are you playing at?” she hissed. “How dare you show up here?”
“Your sister invited me,” Anthony answered smugly, trying not to bare his teeth at her.
She jerked her head at the bag in his hand. “What’s in there?”
Jesus Christ, hadn’t anyone here ever seen a paper bag before? “It’s an opening night gift. For your sister.”
Natalie held out her hand. “I’ll give it to her.”
“My ass you will.”
Natalie looked appalled at what he said, which pleased Anthony immensely. “I’m going into the kitchen now to say hello.”
“Aldo tells me you’ve come to shoot him.”
Vivi couldn’t resist a barb as Anthony strolled toward her, his entire body tense. Perhaps it was because Natalie was right behind him, smug and officious as if she couldn’t wait for him to make some kind of mistake. When the sisters’ gazes met, Vivi cut her eyes quickly to the kitchen door, indicating Natalie should go. Natalie let out a small puff of exasperation, but she did as Vivi requested.
Just a Taste Page 30
