Just a Taste (3 page)

“She was okay,” Anthony allowed.

“The accent was kind of sexy, too,” Michael continued in an insinuating voice. “Ooh la la.”

“Ooh la listen to me, you pain in the ass,” Anthony retorted. “Not. Interested.”

Michael ignored him. “I think you should at least be neighborly.”

“‘Neighborly’?” Anthony repeated with irritation. “What do you mean?”

“Pop in to say hello if you see her across the street. Whatever.”

“Mike, the woman never met me before in her life, and has the
coglioni
to challenge me on my sauce, not to mention the fact that she and her sister are opening a competing restaurant right across from ours. Why the hell would I want to be neighborly?”

“You took her home address when she offered it,” Michael pointed out.

“I was being polite.”

“Let me see it.”

Anthony pulled the slip of paper from his left back pocket and handed it to his brother, who eagerly unfolded it. “She’s living here in Bensonhurst,” Michael noted, nodding with approval. “Three blocks away on Twenty-third Avenue, as a matter of fact.”

“That’s nice.”

“I’d bet my right nut the stuck-up sister isn’t living with her,” said Michael. “You see that watch? And those clothes? She looks like she stepped out of the pages of
Vogue
.”

“You got that right. At least Fifi—”

“It’s Vivi, Ant.”

“At least Vivi was dressed like a normal woman.” He took back the piece of paper with her address on it. He contemplated tossing it in the trash, but that seemed cold, so he just shoved it back in his pocket. “Pushy, though.”

“Reminds me of someone.”

“Excuse me?”

“How many times have you marched into my kitchen and told Theresa what you think she should be doing?”

“That’s different! For one thing, Theresa is my sister-in-law. For another, I’m a friggin’ chef!”

“So’s Vivi.”

“So she says,” Anthony scoffed.

“Well, they’re not going to go away, so we may as well try to get along with them.”

“As long as she doesn’t come barging into my kitchen, things will be fine.” Anthony’s fingers were itching to
do
something. Picking up his favorite knife, he helped himself to some onions in the prep area and began dicing. “I didn’t get a chance to ask you, Mike: what the hell are you doing here?”

“Just stopping by to say hi.”

Anthony nodded uneasily. The day he had always dreaded had finally arrived—his brother had retired from pro hockey. Michael had promised to keep out of Anthony’s hair, but the fact was, Michael was half owner in the restaurant, and he’d always enjoyed popping in and schmoozing. Anthony worried the occasional schmooze was going to turn into a full-time presence. They’d nearly come to blows years before when expanding the place, with Michael throwing his weight around even though he didn’t know a damn thing about the business. In the end, Michael conceded that Dante’s was Anthony’s domain, but Anthony had never forgotten Michael’s comment that he’d been so invested in Dante’s success because this was where he was “going to end up” when his hockey days were done. If Michael thought that he could come in here and start making executive decisions just because he’d hung up his skates, he was sorely mistaken.

“Shouldn’t you be home with Theresa and the kids?” Anthony prodded.

“In a minute.” Michael looked stricken. “I can do this stay-at-home dad thing, right?”

“Sure. How hard could it be?”

“Right. I mean, I get Dominica and Little Ant off to school, and then it’s just me and the baby hanging out for the rest of the day. Pick up the kids, take Little Ant to hockey practice, Dominica to tap class, start dinner…piece of cake, right?”

“Definitely. Theresa excited about going back to work tomorrow?”

“She can’t wait, though she’s worried about being rusty.”

“Ah, she’ll be fine. She’s a trouper.”

Though their relationship had been rocky at the beginning, Anthony was now a big fan of his sister-in-law, both personally and professionally. Personally, she’d kept his
ubatz
brother sane and had created a nice life for him, with a great family. Professionally, she’d been one helluva publicist. He had no doubt that once she was back in the groove, she’d be unstoppable. It was thanks in part to Theresa that the restaurant’s renovation a few years back was such a smashing success.

Anthony finished with the onions, adding them to the growing mound in the prep area. “You taking off soon?”

“Real subtle,” Michael quipped. He locked Anthony in a big bear hug. “Maybe we’ll stop by for dessert tonight, after dinner at my mother-in-law’s.”

“Sounds good. Hey, give Theresa’s mom my love, will you? Hang on a minute.” Knowing Theresa’s mother loved his olive oil cake, he cut a big slab for her and wrapped it up for his brother.

“Tell her compliments of the chef.”

“Too bad she’s not thirty years younger,” Michael teased. “You two would be a good match: Italian, widowed, both can cook…”

“Get of out here, Mikey. Before I toss you out.”

“Later,” Michael called as he left the kitchen, leaving Anthony shaking his head in amusement. Jesus, his brother was one pushy SOB. He returned to the stove to take another taste of the gravy. Perfect. Leaning against one of the kitchen’s long, stainless steel tables, he pulled the pen from his apron to jot down his ideas for tomorrow’s specials. Looking for scrap paper, he reached into his pocket and took out the sheet with Vivi’s address and cell number. He was about to make notes on the blank side, but changed his mind, reaching instead for the small notepad lying on a nearby counter. He folded up the paper and put it back in his pocket. His father always said you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer. That’s exactly what Anthony intended to do.

A
nthony preferred thinking
he was on a reconnaissance mission rather than a social call. A week and a half had passed since Vivi and her sister had come barging into Dante’s. Since then, he’d planned to follow his brother’s advice and be “neighborly,” but every time he casually strolled by to see what was up, Natalie was there, dressed to the teeth like she was still in gay Paree. Anthony decided to wait until he could catch Vivi alone. Today was his lucky day; crossing the street from Dante’s to the old candy store, he could see Coco Chanel was nowhere in sight.

Anthony gently rapped on the window, startling Vivi where she sat in a folding chair frowning over some papers. She seemed surprised to see him, even hesitating a moment before getting up to let him in.

“Bonjour,”
she said politely as she ushered him inside. “How nice of you to come and say hello.”

Anthony smiled sadly. He couldn’t believe the candy store was gone. It had been a fixture of his childhood. How many Saturday afternoons had Nonna Maria given him, Mikey, and their cousin Gemma money to go buy sweets?
Lazzaroni
dark chocolate,
torrone
…thinking about it still made his mouth water. It didn’t help that there was still the faintest hint of chocolate in the air.

“I used to come here to buy candy when I was small,” he told Vivi.

Vivi nodded sympathetically. “It’s sad when a neighborhood business closes its doors.” She unfolded a chair for him opposite hers. “We were told the old man died and the son didn’t want the store?”

“Something like that,” said Anthony, sitting down. He’d love to know how much Vivi and her sister paid for the space. His gaze traveled the room, though now it wasn’t with nostalgia, but with a competitor’s shrewd eye. Even with the shelves, counters, and bins removed, the space still wasn’t big enough to fit more than seven or eight small tables, if that. Did Vivi realize that?

“Coffee?” Vivi offered, picking up the thermos at her feet. Her voice echoed slightly off the empty walls. Anthony nodded, looking up. The ceilings were high. She was definitely going to need fans if she wanted to keep the place at a decent temperature in both the summer and winter.

“Coffee sounds great. Where’s your sister?” he asked casually.

“Running some errands in Manhattan. She’ll be here this afternoon.”

Anthony accepted the coffee-filled thermos lid from Vivi and took a sip.
Madonn’.
This was not coffee. This was brown water. Should he tell her? That would be rude. But she needed to know, didn’t she? He decided to wait and see how their chat went.

“So, your ‘gravy,’” Vivi began with a mischievous look. “Was I right? Was it done?”

“Not quite.”

“But I was close,” she insisted.

“I’ll give you that,” Anthony conceded reluctantly. He pointed to the papers in her hand. “Secret recipes?”

“Estimates from contractors.” She frowned. “Dollar sign after dollar sign.” She hesitated. “Is there someone you would recommend?”

Anthony could see it was hard for her to ask. She seemed proud, someone who would do everything herself if she could. He was torn. What if he gave her the name of the contractor who’d done the expansion on Dante’s, and she was displeased with the results? He didn’t want to be accused of sabotage. On the other hand, it was always good to do unto your neighbors as you would have them do unto you. But in this case, couldn’t it be viewed as aiding and abetting the enemy?

Anthony held out his hand. “Here, let me see those,” he said authoritatively. Vivi handed over the estimates. “Tony and Bob Mineo,” he said, scanning the first estimate. “Totally overpriced, shoddy work.” He slid the piece of paper to the bottom of the pile. “Jackson Morgan—it’ll take you two years to get this place done if you’re lucky. Forget him.” Jackson went to the bottom of the pile with the Mineos. “Tippy Mottola. He does decent work.” He picked up the next sheet of paper. “Ricky and Joey DiDinato. They’re good, too.” He handed the sheaf of papers back to her. “I’d go with either Tippy or the DiDinatos. You already had an architect in here, right?”

Vivi looked mildly insulted. “Of course. The whole time Natalie and I were getting ready to move, the plans were being prepared.”

“Smart.” Wanting to be polite, Anthony forced himself to take another sip of awful coffee and studied the delicate woman sitting across from him. He had a hard time imagining her commanding a restaurant kitchen, but you never knew. Sometimes the mildest mannered individuals turned into dictators once they put an apron on. God knows she had no problem giving her opinions. “You and your sister never really explained why you chose Bensonhurst.”

Vivi considered the question carefully. “I wanted to be part of a close-knit community, with people who would appreciate good food.”

“Have you ever even been out here before?”

“Yes. My aunt lived in New York, and a few times when I came to visit, we came out here to go to the Santa Rosalia Festival.”

“Then you know the kind of people who live here.”

Vivi’s gaze hardened. “So?”

“They might not go for fancy French food.”

“It’s not going to
be
fancy,” Vivi replied with mild irritation. “It’s going to be simple. And affordable.”

Anthony looked her straight in the eye. “You mean like Dante’s.”

“Simpler,” Vivi insisted without blinking an eye. “Your restaurant is very large, Mr. Dante—”

“Please, call me Anthony—”

“And mine will be very small. You can accommodate large families and cater affairs. I won’t be able to. My clients will be couples, small parties, who just want to relax over a bottle of wine and some good food.”

“They can do that at Dante’s, too, you know.”

“Well, now they’ll have two places to choose from,” Vivi replied airily, though there was no mistaking the touch of challenge in her voice. “Variety is the spice of life. Don’t you agree?”

No, he didn’t. There was one restaurant around here that covered simple, affordable, family, single, parties, whatever, and it was his. Though if she served her coffee to customers, he might not have a problem.

Anthony forced a smile, wondering if he should choke down another sip. Vivi’s gaze seemed locked on his hands.

“What?” Anthony asked, feeling self-conscious. “What are you looking at?”

“Your hands. Real chef hands.”

“That’s because I’m a real chef.”

Vivi gave a small laugh. “Oh, and I’m not?” She held her own hands out for his inspection. She was right; though her fingers were long and delicate, there was some scarring. He nodded and said nothing.

“That’s new,” Vivi continued, pointing to his wedding ring.

“I take it off when I cook.”

“Ah.”

“You married?” Anthony asked, trying to imagine what kind of man could be attracted to someone so stuck up.
Variety is the spice of life, wouldn’t you agree?
Gimme a break.

“Why do you ask?” Vivi replied coolly.

Anthony yawned. “Just making conversation.”

“As it so happens, I’m not married, unless one can be married to their work.” She gazed reverently at the bare walls surrounding them. “It’s going to be beautiful in here when I’m done! Just wait and see.”

Anthony smiled, squelching a feeling of envy. He tried to recall if he’d ever felt that kind of enthusiasm about Dante’s. His situation was different, of course—Dante’s had been family-owned and-run from the beginning—but he did remember how good it felt when his mother turned the kitchen over to him completely. He’d worked hard for it, and deserved it. “So, how are you adjusting to life here?” he asked curiously.

“I love it here,” Vivi gushed. He must have given her an odd look, because she added, “Really! I do!”

“Most Americans think the French are snobs.”

“Most French think Americans are rude. But I don’t.”

“Always a plus when you’re opening a restaurant in the States.”

They shared a laugh, and for a minute, Anthony felt like they could be friends.

“It’s amazing to me you didn’t formally train to be a chef,” she said with a cool, appraising eye. “In France—”

“You’re not in France,” Anthony said tersely, abandoning the notion of friendship as quickly as it had appeared.

Vivi chuckled softly.
“Touche.”

“Here’s what I don’t get.” Anthony was earnest as he leaned forward in his chair. “As a chef, why would you choose to leave the country that’s supposedly the gastronomical capital of the world? Isn’t France the place where the culinary
crème de la crème
strut their stuff?”

Vivi traced the top of her coffee mug with her finger. “Women don’t get the same respect in France for cooking as men do. It’s seen as a man’s province. There are very,
very
few female chefs in France who have their own restaurants. I wanted to open a restaurant and be judged by the quality of the food, not my sex. So I chose America.”

“Interesting,” Anthony murmured. She had to be tough as nails. Not everyone could just pull up stakes and move to a foreign country. That took real guts. “And your sister?” he ventured. “She here for the same reasons?”

Vivi shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “She’s also here to reinvent herself.”

“What was she before?”

Vivi’s gaze darted away.

“I’m sorry. Is that a rude question?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to tell me?”

Vivi looked at him. “I shouldn’t.”

“But you want to.”

Vivi smiled enigmatically. “There are lots of things I want to do. That doesn’t mean I pursue them all.”

“Tell you what,” Anthony cajoled slyly. “You tell me what the deal is with your sister, and I’ll tell you who renovated Dante’s.”

Vivi’s jaw dropped. “That’s blackmail!”

“No, that’s what we call a quid pro quo. Come on.”

Vivi clucked her tongue. “Honestly, you Americans are such gossips.”

“Just spill it.”

“‘Just spill it,’” Vivi repeated, sounding delighted. “I like that phrase.”

“Here’s another: quit stalling.”

Vivi took a deep breath. “Natalie is—was—an official in the foreign ministry back home. She”—Vivi hesitated—“had an affair with a cabinet minister in the government. He told her he was in the process of divorcing his wife, but it wasn’t true.” She paused for a sip of coffee, and Anthony fought a wince. How could she drink that stuff? “Anyway, the affair became public knowledge, and it wrecked her career. She knew she’d never be judged on her own merits again. If she advanced, people would always suspect it was because she was sleeping with someone in a position above her.”

“No pun intended.”

Vivi looked confused. “What?”

“Never mind. Go on.”

“Like me, she knew America is a place where there are no obstacles to one’s ability to advance.” She gave a shrug. “So, here we are.”

Anthony couldn’t hide his admiration. “You’ve both got guts, I’ll give you that. But if you don’t mind my saying, the similarity seems to end there.”

Pink sprang to Vivi’s cheeks. “We’re very different, it’s true.” Vivi reached down to unscrew the thermos and refill her coffee cup. “Mmm, perfect,” she said after taking a sip.

“Actually it’s not,” Anthony said politely. “No offense.”

Vivi was taken aback. “What are you talking about? It’s fine. You’ve been drinking it, haven’t you?”

“To be polite.”

Vivi’s jaw clenched. “I made it myself this morning. It’s delicious.”

“If you’re French, maybe. But we Italians like our joe a little more robust.”

Vivi huffed indignantly. “Excuse me, but it’s the French who are known for their coffee making expertise, and this coffee is perfect.”

“I’m just telling you for your own good. If this is what you plan to serve in your bistro, you’re going to hear some complaints. This is an Italian neighborhood, and Italians like their coffee strong.”

“French coffee is strong. It’s just not bitter.”

“Italian coffee isn’t bitter!”

“It’s bitter, burnt-tasting sludge!”

“Speak for yourself!”

“I am.” Vivi thrust out her hand. “If you’re too much of a philistine to enjoy fine coffee, give it back to me. I don’t want it wasted.”

“Drink up,” said Anthony, handing the thermos top back to her.

“I have work to do,” Vivi snapped, gathering up her papers on the floor.

Anthony rose. “Sorry for interrupting you. Enjoy the rest of your day.” He started toward the door, stopping to turn when Vivi sharply called out his name. “Yes?”

“I certainly hope you’re nicer to your wife about her coffee than you were to me!”

Anthony swallowed, trying to beat back the feeling of being punched in the chest. “My wife is dead.”

“H
e insulted your
coffee? What a clod! I don’t see why you served him any in the first place.”

Vivi said nothing as she followed Natalie into the kitchen. It was her first time visiting her half sister’s apartment in Manhattan, and she was stunned. Not only was the place huge, but Natalie seemed to have spared no expense in furnishing it. Had their father really left
that
much money to Natalie? Enough for her to finance the restaurant and live this luxuriously? Vivi tried not to think about it, because if so, it meant their father had truly left her a pittance in comparison, and that hurt. Still…

“This place is so big,” Vivi marveled, running her fingertips across the marble counters enviously. “Did it come furnished?”

“Of course not,” Natalie scoffed, pouring a cup of coffee for each of them. “You think someone else would have such good taste?”

Vivi smiled uneasily as she accepted the coffee from her sister. “It must have cost a lot.”

“It did, but so what? Honestly, Vivi,” said Natalie as she flipped her long dark hair back over her shoulder, “your attitude toward money is so provincial sometimes.”

That’s because I’ve had to count every penny,
Vivi thought angrily,
whereas you—

She stopped herself, taking a deep breath. She should be grateful toward Natalie, not resentful. Still, it was hard. Natalie seemed to take her wealth and privilege for granted, whereas Vivi took nothing for granted. Perhaps she was being too touchy.