Just a Taste (10 page)

Natalie peered down her nose at him. “I don’t believe that’s any of your concern.”

Quinn chuckled softly. “
Now
I remember the one thing I didn’t like about Paris.”

Natalie’s lips pursed in disapproval. “What’s that?”

“Parisians.”

Vivi giggled, prompting Natalie to fix her with a glare. Perhaps the wisecrack didn’t bother Vivi because she wasn’t actually from Paris. Or maybe it was that she could see Quinn was just teasing Natalie, trying to get her to relax a little. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to be working.

“How terribly rude you are!” Natalie hissed.

Quinn flashed a devilish smile. “I wanted you to feel at home.”

“Parisians might be rude, but at least we aren’t overweight like most of you Americans,” Natalie retorted.

“That’s because you burn so many extra calories dodging the dog shit on the sidewalks.”

Vivi snorted and covered her mouth.
Oh my,
she thought,
this Quinn O’Brien is very sharp and very funny.
She liked him immediately. Natalie raised her menu so it was in front of her face.

Quinn turned to Vivi apologetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your meal.”

“Au contraire,”
said Vivi, “it was very nice meeting you. We love the American sense of humor, don’t we, Natalie?”

Natalie said nothing. Quinn tipped the menu forward. “Sorry to bug ya, Nat. Hope to see you around.”

“Oh!” Natalie looked scandalized as she pulled the menu back to her face.

“I’m going to check out your restaurant when it opens, Vivi. And that’s a promise,” said Quinn.

“Please do.”

Quinn returned to reading his book. This time it was Vivi who pulled Natalie’s menu from her face—pulled it completely from her hands, as a matter of fact.

“You can come out now,” Vivi whispered. “The big, bad American man is gone.”

“I don’t believe you!” Natalie hissed. “How could you laugh when he said those things to me?”

“He was teasing you, Natalie. He didn’t mean it. He was just trying to get you to lighten up, as they say here.”

“What is it with these Americans, asking one’s name, what one does—”

“Natalie.” Vivi’s voice was low and placating. “Those questions are not considered rude here. You should know that by now.”

“A journalist,” Natalie continued disdainfully as if she hadn’t heard. “The lowest of the low.”

Vivi ignored the criticism. “He’s very handsome, don’t you think?”

“For a swine.”

Sometimes there was no talking to Natalie. Once she got an idea fixed in her head, it was etched in stone. Vivi supposed she could understand Natalie’s aversion to anyone in the press; it was the French media, after all, who revealed her affair with the cabinet minister, in effect destroying both her personal and professional life. But Natalie really needed to accept that when it came to social mores, Americans were different. Not better, not worse, just different. Vivi opened her own menu with a sigh. Hopefully, Natalie would relax once dinner was ordered and a bottle of wine brought to the table.

“G
arcon—I mean,
waiter—can we have the check, please?”

Vivi’s smile was polite as she hailed the faithful Aldo. She and Natalie had had a wonderful meal. The rosemary and pork–filled chicken cutlets were a
little
heavy on the rosemary, but other than that, she had no real complaints, which bothered her a little bit.

“What did you think?” she asked her sister.

“Good,” Natalie allowed reluctantly. “You’re better.”

Vivi laughed. “Of course.”

Aldo’s expression was solemn as he appeared at the table. “The meal is compliments of the chef.”

Vivi couldn’t hide her surprise. “Excuse me?”

“A professional courtesy.”

“Oh.” Vivi perked up in her seat. “How lovely.” So, Anthony did think of her as a professional. How gratifying.

“Thank him for us,” Natalie told Aldo.

“Actually,” said Vivi, “would it be possible to thank him in person?”

Natalie heaved a put-upon sigh. “Do we have to? The last thing I want to do is be stuck here while you two get all excited over chicken breasts and Lord knows what else.”

“It will only take a minute,” Vivi assured her as she rose. “In fact, you stay here and finish your coffee. I’ll go back and extend my compliments.”

“O
kay, what didn’t
you like?”

Vivi tried to hold on to the goodwill she was feeling as she approached Anthony where he sat outside on the kitchen steps, puffing on a cigarette. Here she’d come to compliment him—to the degree she could—and immediately he had to put her on the defensive. She’d prove to him she was a bigger person than that by not stooping to his level.

“Actually, I’m here to thank you for the free meal.”

“You’re very welcome,” said Anthony, throwing his cigarette to the ground and stamping it underfoot. “Nasty habit,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “I only do it occasionally.”

“I used to do it all the time,” Vivi confessed.

“No more?”

“They crucify you in America if you smoke, yes?”

“Pretty much. You saying you stopped when you came here?”

Vivi hesitated. “Yes. To save money. Plus, like you said, it’s a nasty habit.”

“Who wants to smell like an ashtray, right?”

“Right.”

Anthony folded his arms across his chest. Vivi was struck by how tan and muscled his forearms were. Alain, the last man she had dated back in Paris, over seven months ago, had been thin and pale, in no way robust. Odd, to think of Alain at this moment.

Anthony was eyeing her with disbelief. “You expect me to believe that as another chef, you’ve got absolutely no criticism of the meal?”

“Well…”

Anthony shook his head, laughing to himself. “Man, I knew it. Hit me. Go ahead.”

Vivi blinked, alarmed. “You want me to hit you?” Perhaps Natalie was right, and Americans
were
rude in a way Vivi was just now experiencing.

Anthony ran his hand over his mouth. “‘Hit me’ is an American expression. It means, let me hear it, don’t hold anything back. Understand?”

“Yes, yes,” Vivi said enthusiastically.
Hit me.
She liked that. It sounded tough, swaggering. Perfect for the braggart standing before her. “Shall I hit you?”

“Yeah, I bet you’d love to. Go on.”

“I think there was a little too much rosemary in the chicken. A
soupcon
would have been better.
Soupcon
means—”

“I know what a
soupcon
is. And I disagree.”

“It overpowered the pork filling.”

“It helped accentuate the pork’s natural flavors,” Anthony maintained.

“Well, I beg to differ, but of course, you’ll never admit I’m right.”

“You think you could do better?”

“Of course.” Vivi put a hand on her cocked hip. “Are you challenging me to another cooking contest?”

Anthony held up a hand. “Whoa, let’s get our facts straight here, lady. You challenged me last time around, remember?”

“Yes, you’re right. You thought you could do better than my tart. And you were wrong.”

Anthony shook his head. “Sad, the way you twist reality to make yourself feel better.” He turned around, taking a quick look to make sure everything was okay in the kitchen. “You game?” he asked Vivi as he turned back to her.

Vivi looked at him blankly.

“See if you can figure that one out,” Anthony urged.

“Does it mean, am I willing to meet your challenge?” Vivi asked uncertainly.

“Exactly.”

“Of course I am,” said Vivi.

An uncomfortable moment passed between them. Vivi wondered if he, like she, was thinking of the kiss they had shared at her apartment.

“Shall we have it here?” Vivi said tentatively.

Anthony looked reluctant. “I guess.”

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic.”

“It’s just a pain in the ass—” He stopped, looking apologetic. “Pardon my F—Never mind.”

“No. What were you going to say?”

“I was going to say, ‘pardon my French,’ which is another American expression. It’s something we say when we curse.”

Vivi scowled. “Why? Because we French are so foulmouthed?”

“Hey, don’t blame me! I didn’t come up with it.”

“It’s a very derogatory phrase.”

“Try being called a guinea or a wop or a dago. Then you’ll know derogatory.” Anthony glanced back at the kitchen, obviously itching to get back inside. “You really want to have it here?”

“I would love it,” Vivi said longingly.

“My house might be better.”

Vivi narrowed her eyes. “You don’t want me in your precious restaurant kitchen, do you?”

“Would you want me in yours?”

“Only if I had to,” Vivi admitted, glancing behind her.

Anthony sighed. “All right, look: I can see you’re dying to be let loose inside. Why don’t you meet me here Sunday morning and you can cook your little heart out.”

“That would be wonderful—if you promise not to breathe down my neck.”

“This is my kitchen, Vivi. I can do what I want.”

Vivi shrugged. “Fine. Sunday it is, then.”

“By the way,” said Anthony, giving a small stretch as he yawned, “I’m expecting to be dazzled. Think you can manage it?”

“In my sleep,” Vivi shot back at him, using one of the few American expressions she’d learned. “See you on Sunday.”

A
nthony was always
the last one to leave Dante’s and lock up for the night. He loved standing alone in the silent kitchen after the staff had left, admiring the rows of gleaming pots and pans, knowing tomorrow would bring another day of joyous chaos. From there he’d move on to the dining room, where just a few hours before, the tables had been full of customers stuffing themselves with his delicious food. A sentimental man, Anthony never ceased to marvel at how his parents had built this place up from the ground, first as a pizzeria serving by the slice, then gradually expanding to a well-respected restaurant. He and Mikey had taken it a step further a few years back, enlarging the space and updating the menu, but deep down, Anthony still thought of Dante’s as a humble Italian joint serving “good gravy and macaroni,” as his old man liked to say. Anthony had always hoped that one day he’d be able to keep tradition going by handing over the reins to his own son or daughter, but Angie’s death had forced him to reconfigure his dreams. Little Ant was his next best hope. Not that he’d ever force the kid to follow in his footsteps, unlike someone else in his family.

“Anthony?”

Startled, Anthony paused in the darkened dining room, trying to place the voice calling out to him. “Who’s there?”

“Lorraine.”

King of heaven and all the damn saints,
thought Anthony. He should have known this was coming.

“What are you doing sitting in the dark, Lorraine?” asked Anthony as he moved to flick on the lights.

“I was waiting for you.”

“You could have waited with the lights on.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, you succeeded on that score.”

Lorraine was sitting at a table for two near the kitchen door, her hands folded primly in her lap. She looked much the same as she did in high school—same chin-length black hair, same dark circles beneath the hangdog eyes. Anthony could picture her sleepwalking. He could also picture her in her underwear, doing the hokey pokey in front of Mr. Leotardo’s blackboard. Insane Lorraine. Goddamned Michael.

“What can I do for you, Lorraine?”

“I just wanted to thank you for hiring me, Anthony. I really, really, really appreciate it.”

“No problem.” Anthony swallowed, feeling guilty since God knows he’d only done so under duress. Maybe Mikey was right; maybe he was being a little hard-hearted. People like Lorraine needed compassion. He felt bad about making fun of her in high school along with everyone else, but then again, that’s what kids did; they preyed on the weak to make themselves feel better. He had been on the receiving end of a few jokes back in the day, some guys calling him a “fag” because he liked to cook. Of course, the difference between them was that when Lorraine was taunted, she would snap like a strand of uncooked spaghetti, whereas Anthony could crush a tormentor’s head like a walnut if he so chose.

Lorraine’s gaze traveled anxiously around the empty dining room. “I think I did good tonight.” Her voice was flat, a tin can that had been repeatedly run over in the road.

Anthony masked a grimace. “Did Mike talk to you about perking up your voice a bit? Smiling at the customers when they come in and all that stuff?”

“Uh-huh,” Lorraine said flatly. “I’m pretty sure I can do it.”

“Good, good.”

Lorraine abruptly turned to Anthony in wonder. “Whoever thought Michael would have so many kids, huh?”

“Yeah, well, you meet the right woman…”

Fuck! Why did he say that?

“I heard about your wife,” Lorraine droned. “You have my sympathy.”

“Thank you. I was sorry to hear about your dad.”

“What can you do? When it’s your time, it’s your time.”

Anthony didn’t agree, but he held his tongue. “Whatcha been up to, Lorraine? You kind of…just disappeared after high school, you know?”

Lorraine shrugged, looking down at her raggedy nails, bitten down to the quick. “This and that. You know.”

No, I don’t know,
thought Anthony,
nor do I really want to. I’m just trying to be nice and make conversation.

Lorraine twisted her hands in her lap. “Look, Anthony, I need to talk to you about something.”

Shit,
Anthony thought, bracing himself.
Here comes the part where she confesses there are five bodies buried beneath an old house upstate.

“Ma and I would love it if you could come over for dinner one night. Nothing formal, just a nice way to thank you for hiring me.”

“You don’t have to do that, Lorraine. Your mother must have a lot on her plate right now with, uh, her grieving and all.”

“Not really. All she does is light novena candles and watch
Judge Judy
.”

Sounds like a great time.
“It’s tough for me to get away from the restaurant, you know?”

“It’s just one night,” Lorraine said accusingly.

Anthony sighed. He looked at her sitting there, thought of the courage it must have taken her to ask him, and felt more pity than annoyance. Would it kill him to break bread with her and her mother one night, just to get her off his back?

“Let me see what I can do,” Anthony said.

Lorraine’s expression turned eager. “How about Sunday?”

“I gotta cook on Sunday, remember? The restaurant’s open.”

“Sunday lunch, maybe.”

“I
can’t
,” Anthony said gently but firmly.

“What, you got a brunch date or something?” Lorraine snapped.

Perhaps compassion was something Anthony needed to work up to, since his first instinct was to bark, “It’s none of your business.” But that sounded like he was covering something up, so he just said, “No, family stuff, that’s all.”

This seemed to pacify Lorraine, who abruptly stood up. “I need a ride home,” she announced.

“Of course you do,” Anthony muttered under his breath. He rattled the keys in his pocket. “C’mon, I’ll run you home.”

“You always were sweet, Ant.”

“Yeah, I’m a living doll. Let’s go.”

“I
thought we
were going to a restaurant, Natalie.”

“They serve food here.”

Vivi smiled tersely as Natalie gulped down the remainder of her third cocktail, a sky blue concoction that looked like glass cleaner. After their positive dining experience at Dante’s a few nights before, the sisters agreed it was Vivi’s turn to come into the city to eat. Knowing Natalie to have refined tastes, Vivi assumed they’d be dining at a fine restaurant recommended via word of mouth or through the trusted Zagat guide. Instead, Vivi found herself in a futuristic-looking bar called Plutonium.

The warehouse-sized space was illuminated entirely by dim blue neon, the white plastic furniture inflatable and squishy. The spacey music being pumped through the sound system made Vivi feel like nodding off—an impossible feat since their waitress, a young woman clad in a silver cat suit, kept stopping by their table every two minutes to ask if Natalie needed another refill on her “Jupiter Juice.” If she came by one more time, Vivi was prepared to politely ask her to find another solar system to inhabit.

“Let’s pay the bill and find somewhere real to eat,” Vivi urged.

“Nooo,” Natalie whined. “We can eat here. C’mon, Vivi! Don’t be such a bore.”

“Fine,” Vivi capitulated with a sigh. There seemed little point in reminding Natalie that their agreement was to get together to dine, not drink themselves into oblivion. Vivi, always careful about alcohol consumption, had ordered one glass of chardonnay that she’d been nursing for the past hour, despite Natalie’s exhortations to do otherwise.

Vivi looked around at the studiedly bored faces of her fellow patrons. Never in a million years would she come to a place like this on her own. It was all surface, no substance; a place where people yearned to be seen. She opened up her rocket-shaped menu and perused the food offerings. In the end she decided on a cheese platter, the only item that didn’t have a space name attached to it.

“So,” said Natalie, swaying slightly, “when are you going to admit your crush on Chef Dante?”

“Never,” said Vivi. She checked her watch; it was close to eleven. Her plan had been to have a nice meal with Natalie, then head back out to Bensonhurst to get a good night’s sleep. She wanted to be at her absolute best when she cooked for Anthony tomorrow. But judging from Natalie’s motioning to the waitress for another drink, it was going to take a crane to lift her out of her seat.

“I
know
you like him,” Natalie continued, not seeming to acknowledge Vivi’s answer. “And I know he likes you, too. I just wish someone liked me,” Natalie said, the last word transforming itself into a sob.

“Oh,
cherie
.” Vivi put her arm around her sister. “You’ll find love again. You will.”

“Will I?” Natalie wept. “Here? In America?”

“Of course, of course,” Vivi soothed. “Didn’t you see the way that journalist we met the other night was looking at you?”

“Yes, like I was a bitch!”

“Well, you weren’t very polite to him,” Vivi pointed out.

“I know!” Natalie lamented. “But I don’t mean to be like that! It just happens. I wish you’d known me before, when we were girls.” Natalie sniffled. “You would have really liked me. I was nice.”

“I like you now,” Vivi said.

“Men are such brutes, aren’t they?”

“Some can be, yes.”

“Thierry was,” Natalie continued bitterly. She put her head in her hands. “God, the idiocy…” Her purse fell to the floor, spilling its contents. “Damn!”

“I’ll get it.” Vivi crouched down to pick up Natalie’s bag. That’s when she saw the credit card receipt from Saks for three thousand dollars. Stifling a gasp, she shoved the receipt back into Natalie’s purse, along with her keys, a tube of lipstick, and a crumpled wad of one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Here you go.” Vivi’s voice was brittle as she handed Natalie her bag. Any sympathy she’d felt mere seconds ago for Natalie and her wounded heart was rapidly being swallowed up by anxiety. What on earth was Natalie doing, spending that kind of money? What on earth was Natalie
doing
, period?

“Natalie, what do you do all day?”

“What do you mean?” Natalie wiped a tear from her cheek.

“I mean, what do you do all day?” Vivi prodded. “Tell me. I’m curious.”

Natalie seemed perplexed by the question, so much so that it took her a while to speak. “I shop. Sometimes I meet old friends from Paris who are here on business. I oversee the cleaning woman who comes to the apartment because, really, she does an awful job. I watch TV. I go out at night and—”

“Go to horrible places like this and drink too much?”

Tears began seeping from Natalie’s eyes. “You don’t understand, Vivi. It wasn’t only my heart that was destroyed by Thierry, it was my career, as well. I’m trying to do what I can to pull myself back together, but it’s very, very hard.”

“Well, drowning your sorrows in drink and shopping isn’t going to help. If anything, it’s making things worse. You need to work, Natalie.”

“Work?”

“Yes. You need a purpose, something to give shape to your days,” Vivi said firmly. “Why don’t you help me? We could work together on getting everything ready for the restaurant. I need to start finding out about publicity. Maybe that’s something you could take care of.”

“Hmm.” Natalie seemed taken by the idea. “Maybe I could.” She appeared to cheer up a bit. “What if I come out tomorrow and we sit down and make up a plan?”

“I can’t tomorrow,” Vivi said evasively.

“Why not?”

“I’m going to be busy.”

“Cooking?”

“Yes.”

“For yourself, or for whats his name?”

“As it so happens,” Vivi said, trying not not to sound defensive, “when I went into the kitchen to speak with him after our meal, I took the liberty of giving him some advice on how he might improve his pork and rosemary stuffed chicken.”

“And…?”

“And in typical, arrogant male chef fashion, he dared me to do better. So tomorrow, I’m going to do just that.”

Natalie snorted. “In
your
poky little kitchen?”

“No,” said Vivi, ignoring her jibe, “in the kitchen at his restaurant.”

Natalie’s mouth fell open. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

Natalie’s face arranged itself into a scowl. “I don’t understand how you can insist there’s nothing going on when, clearly, there is.”

“Yes, a shared passion for food,” said Vivi, tired at having to once again explain the obvious.

“Yes, and what if that passion spills over from the stove to the two of you lying on top of one of the tables in the dining room? What then?”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Vivi scoffed, though that very image flashed in her mind, bringing an unanticipated rush of heat to her body.

Natalie wagged a warning finger in Vivi’s face. “He’s damaged goods, Vivi.”

“We’re all damaged goods!” said Vivi, pushing her sister’s hand away. “You, me, Anthony, Thierry—anyone who has ever loved and lost is damaged goods!”

Natalie considered this. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am right, but that’s beside the point. I just want to
cook
,” said Vivi, struck by the yearning in her own voice. “And until my own place opens, I have to grab my chances when and where I can find them. Tomorrow’s chance just happens to be in Anthony Dante’s kitchen, and I’m taking it. Now finish up your Jupiter Juice so we can find a proper place to eat.”