Espresso Shot cm-7

by Клео Коул

  “My God, did you contact the police?”

  “That’s what the Brits suggested, but I explained that my husband had done this a few times before, and I knew from experience that I had to wait forty-eight hours to file a missing persons report. I went home with Joy alone. Thirty-six hours later, Matt showed up at the Blend.”

  Roman blinked. “Why didn’t you call him?”

  I almost laughed. “This was long before cell phones.”

  “So where was he?”

  “He’d run into ‘a friend’ at the concession stand, and the two of them took off on a cocaine-fueled bender.” I met Roman’s eyes. “I suspected the ‘friend’ was female, but he never admitted it.”

  Roman shook his head. “So what did you do?”

  “I divorced him—eventually. It took a few more years.”

  “Good heavens, why?”

  “Because even though Matt acted like a grade-A jerk during our marriage, most of the time he’d been supportive and caring, a passionate lover, and a besotted father; he loved Joy more than anything. But finally, I got tired of forgiving the eternal boy crap and found the strength to leave.” I gestured to the lighted baseball stadium. “ ‘The great beginning had seen a final inning,’ you know?”

  Roman smiled. “Who can argue with an Ira Gershwin lyric? ‘The Man That Got Away,’ right?”

  I laughed. “You’re the one who said I reminded you of Garland in A Star Is Born.”

  “It’s the outfit, sweetie. Retro-adorable. So what happened to you and Matt after that?”

  “I moved to Jersey, and he hit bottom. He went into rehab, straightened out, relapsed, straightened out again.” I touched Roman’s arm. “Don’t get the wrong idea, okay? Matt’s worked hard since then to turn his life around, and I honestly think he’s going to be fine. He has no interest in becoming an addict again.”

  “I understand.” Roman folded his hands over his belly. “But, you know, Clare, there’s something else on my mind, now that you’ve brought up your marriage to Matt.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s clear that you and he are still close—two snow peas in a tenderly steamed pod, if you will. When I see you two together, it’s as if your marriage never ended.”

  “It ended, Roman, trust me on that.”

  “So the last inning’s played then? The game’s over? There’s nothing between you?”

  Roman’s phrasing made me shift on my plastic seat. Nothing between me and Matt? That wasn’t true. There was a living, breathing daughter between us; a vital coffee business; an important family relationship with his mother; a long-standing friendship; and the residual affection that didn’t just evaporate after years of sharing a life. But that answer was far too nuanced for what Roman wanted to hear. So I adjusted the $300 skirt that Breanne was nice enough to buy me and cleared my throat.

  “There’s no chance of our marrying again,” I said firmly. “And Matt wants to move on with his life, you understand?”

  “Yes. But, sweetie, here’s the million dollar question: Do you?”

  “Yes, of course. I have only one reservation about Matt getting married again.”

  Roman sat up a little straighter. “Do tell.”

  “Matt strayed during his ten-year marriage to me. And he led a pretty wild life in the decade after we parted. If he starts to feel restless, he may stray on Breanne, too. Does she understand that possibility is more likely than not?”

  Roman actually laughed. “Breanne’s no fool. Matt’s been a playboy for years, and she’s ready to endure his extracurricular activities. Unlike you, Clare, Breanne understands that there are at least as many types of marriages in the world as cultural cuisines.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning...” He shrugged. “Not everyone believes one should marry for love.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And what do you believe?”

  The Puckish smile returned. “ ‘What fools these mortals be... ’ ”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Lovers deceive and are deceived, Clare. It’s been that way for centuries. Look at you and Matt. You imagined your love to be firm and constant, but it wasn’t. He strayed, and you lost faith in him.”

  Oh, God. “I never really thought of it that way.”

  “Injured parties never do. They’ve been injured, after all. But your ex-husband still wants you back, doesn’t he?”

  I sat motionless for a moment. It was true: Matt did want me back. The man’s taxicab confession outside of Fen’s had implied exactly that. But I didn’t like the way Roman asked the question, and I hadn’t forgotten bridezilla’s fitting room fit. Breanne specifically ordered Roman to find out whether or not I wanted Matt back.

  Well, the food critic was a good interrogator, I had to give him that. But I was no slouch, either, so I simply replied, “Matt and I are over. He knows it as well as I do. That’s why he proposed to Breanne in the first place.”

  Roman nodded, appearing pleased with that answer. “Breanne’s getting up in years. She doesn’t want to remain single for a lot of reasons. She and Matt have been linked in the public eye, and their nuptials will silence the gossips in the tabloids. I sense Matteo has his own reasons for wanting to link himself with Breanne, as well, reasons that have nothing to do with the sentimentalities to which you still subscribe.”

  “Don’t be condescending, Roman. Just because I believe in the virtue of fidelity doesn’t make me a fool.”

  “Forgive me, Clare. I don’t mean to be rude.”

  “So what are you saying? Breanne and Matt are marrying for convenience, both of them?”

  “You of all people should know why. Love is fleeting. But a partnership where two people thoroughly understand each other? Well, that can last forever.”

  We sat in silence after that, and I considered Roman’s words. The train lurched suddenly and then began to move. With mixed feelings, I watched the dark tennis center fade from view. My past with Matt was fading, as well. And yet—if I wanted to admit the truth to myself—something more than friendship did still quietly burn between us.

  I considered that reality as the train rolled out of Flushing Meadows Park and into Willets Point, land of auto grave-yards. Stacks of dead cars had been dumped here for years. In the evening shadows, the sprawling heaps of smashed-up chassis looked like a depressing installation of modern art.

  It was hard to remember that the rusted, twisted metal had once been shiny and new. I thought about the people who’d ridden around in those vehicles: the first dates and shopping trips, Sunday drives and passionate kisses. But now every last one was junked, useful to the scrap man, maybe, but of little value to the people who’d once cherished them.

  For years I’d treasured the old, applauded the preservation of the historic. Now I thought about the history between Matt and me. Up to now, I’d been treating his wedding as just another party to cater. Sure, I’d been telling myself it would be okay, but the mind and the heart were two very different organs.

  I didn’t want Matt back—that wasn’t the issue. But the man had been my first lover, my passionate bridegroom, the father of my only child. Would I really be able to see him commit to another woman without feeling an emotional impact?

  I had no answer to that question, and there was no more time to consider it. The train plunged us underground once more, and a short black tunnel blotted out my elevated view. A few moments later, steel wheels squealed to a halt in the station, and the conductor put the brakes on my musings.

  “Main Street, Flushing. End of the line.”

  Seventeen

  The subway doors opened, and the mob shuffled out. Roman took my arm and led me onto the concrete platform. The newly renovated Queens station had a high ceiling and walls overlaid with tiles of radiant white, interrupted by black mosaics spelling out Main Street.

  “Okay, Roman, this whole underground restaurant thing is new to me. What do we do next?”

  He waggled his black eyebrows. “N
ow the intrigue begins.”

  “I don’t need intrigue. I just want to nail Neville Perry to the wall.”

  “Come on then, sweetie. Follow me.” Roman led me to a forty-foot escalator. We boarded with the other commuters and slowly rode up.

  “Don’t be nervous about the area, Clare,” Roman whispered. “Just pretend we’re on a clandestine rendezvous in an exotic foreign city. Someplace really strange. Istanbul, perhaps. Or Cleveland. And speaking of strange—”

  Roman pulled a baseball cap out of his pocket and placed it over his thick black hair.

  “We have to blend in with the populace,” he said when I gave him the fish eye. He pointed to my clothes. “In that Fen original, you resemble the elegant Asian businesswomen you’ll see up on the avenues. In this hat, I look like one of the wastrels who roam the side streets.”

  “I doubt very much the street wastrels around here wear Abercrombie & Fitch safari jackets, powder-pink chinos, or the hot new line of Hush Puppy casuals—never mind the Yankees cap. I guess you didn’t notice: Queens is Mets country.”

  Roman threw up his pudgy hands. “Mets? Yankees? What’s the difference? A bunch of sweaty men hitting little white balls with sticks. Or is that golf? Well, never mind, my wardrobe will have to suffice.”

  We exited the escalator beside Macy’s Flushing store on Lippman Plaza and walked right into a fog of noxious fumes emitted by a parade of idling MTA buses. The stench was punctuated by the roar of a passenger jet descending overhead, and I remembered LaGuardia’s tarmac was only a few miles away.

  We turned onto Main Street next, and I understood why Roman regarded Flushing as some sort of exotic frontier. The intersection of Roosevelt and Main, once a Dutch neighborhood, had become the city’s center for Chinese culture and small businesses. This Chinatown had a size and scope that dwarfed the Manhattan original. English was not a common language on the street. Even the billboards and neon signs that advertised American products—Verizon, Crest toothpaste, and Chase Manhattan Bank—were printed in Chinese characters.

  “A few years ago, this whole area was dominated by Korean businesses,” Roman told me. “But since 2007, most of the Koreans have moved on, and Chinese concerns have taken their place.”

  We strolled past shops catering to an Asian clientele, with names like Singapore Optical, Tai Pan Bakery, Hong Kong Clothing, and Lucky Bamboo Flower Shop. A dealer of ginseng and herbs displayed outdoor stalls stocked with mushrooms of every shape, size, and color. One clear cellophane bag contained black flakes identified as Fungus from the Mountains.

  “Are these medicinal herbs or culinary ingredients?” I asked Roman.

  “Both.”

  Roman pointed down the block. “Along here, you can dine on a marvelous selection of Chinese, Japanese, Korean, or Malaysian fare, and end the night swilling warm sake in an authentic Japanese-style karaoke bar. I know, because I’ve done it, although I prefer to come to Flushing for the underground restaurants. They’re so much more interesting.”

  “If these restaurants are underground, how do you even find out about them?”

  “Oh, there are lots of ways. Foodie networking mostly; chefs and friends of chefs; amateur reviewers; and, of course, the local blogs. If you throw a little money around, waitstaffs will usually clue you in on their neighborhoods’ culinary secrets.”

  “Is that how you got in tonight? Throwing money around?”

  “Tonight’s meal is a bargain, believe me,” Roman said. “A hot young chef named Moon Pac wants to open a restaurant and needs financial backers. If he dazzles the right people, he might get his sugar daddy, so he’s been throwing this dinner once a week for the last two months. I was invited by e-mail. Other influential New York foodies and restaurateurs received the same invitation.”

  We hiked past St. George’s Episcopal Church and finally reached a mixed residential block that paralleled Northern Boulevard. We stopped under the glow of an ornate, Victorian-style streetlight.

  “According to my e-mail,” Roman said, “we’re to wait here at the Friends Meeting House for our connection to arrive.”

  With its simple lines and dowdy appearance, the landmark Quaker building more resembled a colonial farmhouse than a place of worship. The structure was separated from the sidewalk by an old stone wall. I turned to watch the traffic flow along Northern in a slow but steady pace.

  “I don’t see why we couldn’t have taken a cab here. What’s the point of the long subway ride and a rendezvous on a darkened street?”

  “Cabs bring attention and unwanted scrutiny. Too much traffic can be the death of an underground eatery. It’s happened before. For instance...” Roman pointed to a gas station down the block. “Once upon a time you could park in front of that station, make a cell phone call to an unlisted number, and in a few minutes an order from the famous dumpling speakeasy would be delivered to your car or cab—”

  “Excuse me, did you say ‘dumpling speakeasy’?”

  “Best dumplings I’ve ever eaten outside of Shanghai. Sadly, the cab and car traffic caused too much attention. Word leaked to the local supermarket sheets. It hit the bigger papers, then New York 1, and that was that!”

  “What happened? Did the Department of Health descend?”

  “More like the tax man. An underground restaurant is an unlicensed business. That’s one reason for the secrecy.”

  It certainly felt secretive enough loitering there, I decided. At eight thirty in the evening, the traffic on Northern was heavy. There were a lot of police cars around, too, but the sidewalks were pretty empty, except for a trio of men hanging out just like us at the end of the block, in front of the Taiwan Cultural Center. One of the youths wore a black jacket with an elaborate dragon design on the back. He noticed me looking and glanced away.

  I wondered if they were coming to the secret dinner party, too. I considered asking them when I felt someone grab my elbow. I whirled to find black eyes staring at me from under the shadows of a dark hooded jacket. I broke away from the stranger, ready to scream, when the man pulled back his hood and said, “Are you with Roman Brio?”

  “Right here! Party of two!” Roman waved his chubby hand as if we’d been waiting for our table at Babbo’s bar.

  “So nice to meet you, Mr. Brio,” the young man said with a slight accent. He had dark, almond-shaped eyes and a shy smile, which he flashed as he gestured us forward. “Please allow me to seat you.”

  I noticed a waiter’s black pants and white apron under the young man’s jacket. “So he’s our waiter?” I whispered to Roman. “This is his job?”

  “I’m sure he’s a waiter at a real restaurant,” Roman replied. “Tonight’s probably his night off, and he’s getting paid cash to moonlight for this event.”

  The young man led us across Northern. We passed the huge redbrick Town Hall and turned onto a residential block filled with newly built two- and three-family town houses. But we weren’t going to those houses. We turned abruptly instead into a narrow alley that ran behind the Town Hall.

  Tiny weathered clapboard houses lined both sides of this short, shadowy block. The buildings were so close to each other, they muffled the noise of the traffic on Northern. For a moment, given the age of the structures and the abrupt quiet, I felt as though I were back in my own Village neighborhood.

  Roman sniffed the air. “Charcoal.”

  The smell tickled my nose, too, along with the scent of hot sesame oil, garlic, and ginger.

  “I think we’re getting warm,” Roman said with a quaver in his voice.

  Halfway down the block we stopped in front of a small, gray-shingled house with a gambrel roof like an old barn. A single, tiny window covered with scarlet curtains faced the alley.

  While the youth opened the unlocked front door, I glanced up the block and spied the men who’d been loitering in front of the Taiwan Center. Were they fellow dinner guests?

  I was about to ask our waiter but never got the chance. He hustled us into a foyer, and a wave
of cooking scents washed over us: Indian and Asian spices, seared meat, and a peppery smell that woke up my tear ducts.

  “Positively delightful!” Roman closed his eyes and waved his hands like a parfumeur experiencing a riot of new scents.

  We were ushered into a cozy living room with powder-blue walls covered with family photos. Floor lamps gave the space a soft glow. At the far end of the room was a nook of a dining space. A long, narrow table started in that small room and flowed out of it, reaching well into the living room. It was set for ten. Three couples were already seated, sipping wine and speaking with a stocky man who stood over them. As we entered, the well-dressed group turned in their seats to greet Roman, who seemed to know them all.

  “This is Clare Cosi, everyone. She’s the manager of the Village Blend.”

  In a rush, everyone shouted their names. They were all Caucasian and appeared to be prosperous professionals in their thirties and forties. One man stood out, however. Younger than the rest, I recognized him from the uncannily accurate caricature on his Web site.

  “Chef Perry!” Roman said, “Clare’s been dying to meet you.”

  Ack. So much for subtlety.

  Neville Perry stood up. I quickly stepped forward and offered my hand. He shook it firmly.

  “I’m flattered to meet a fan.”

  Wearing a Levi’s jacket over a loose Hawaiian shirt, the chef was no older than thirty. His spiky hair was platinum blond (obviously bleached, since his goatee was dark brown), and I noticed the glint of a silver loop in his ear. The striking contrast of perfectly even white teeth against a salon-perfect tan screamed Hollywood. So did the way his shirt was open at the neck to flaunt as much bronzed flesh as possible.

  His eyes were the pale-green color of honeydew melon, and they checked me out so quickly from head to toe I would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching.

  “So, Clare...” He smiled. “Were you a fan of my canceled reality show, my defunct restaurant, or my Prodigal Chef blog?”