Just a Taste (4 page)

“I told you before,” Natalie continued, motioning for Vivi to follow her into the plush living room, where a brand new white leather sofa dominated, “I don’t understand why you insist on living out in Brooklyn and not here with me. Think of the fun we’d have as roommates.” Natalie smiled fondly.

Generous and playful one moment, critical the next—it was so hard to read Natalie sometimes. So hard not to envy her, as well. She was so beautiful and composed, where Vivi was excitable and, if she was being generous, average looking. At least, that’s how Vivi saw herself. It probably would be fun to live together. But truthfully, Vivi couldn’t see herself here at all.

The size of the place struck her as ridiculous. Why would two people need so much space? Besides, her decorating taste was the opposite of Natalie’s. Natalie favored a look that was elemental yet high tech—chrome, glass, leather, marble. Vivi liked fat, plump sofas with soft pillows, and windows filled with hanging plants. And a homey kitchen where something delicious was always baking in the oven. If this made her provincial, so be it. That’s who she was.

She sat down on the couch beside her sister, carefully balancing the coffee mug on her lap. It was probably unwise to have told Natalie about Anthony’s visit. But she couldn’t help it; she wanted confirmation that her reaction to Anthony’s criticism wasn’t out of proportion. She still couldn’t believe he’d had the gall to insult her to her face. Who did he think he was? It made her teeth grit.

“He’s widowed, you know. The Italian.”

Natalie clucked her tongue in exasperation. “We’re back to him again, are we? Vivi, why do you care?”

“I don’t! It’s just…I embarrassed myself.”

“How?”

“I saw he had a wedding ring on, and as he was leaving, I yelled, ‘I hope you’re nicer to your wife about her coffee than you were to me!’ He turned around and told me his wife was dead.”

Natalie gave a small wince. “Well, you didn’t know.”

“I know, but still.”

Thinking about it made Vivi feel mortified all over again. But how was she supposed to know his wife had passed on? Still, the look on his face—the deep pain that swam to his eyes—revealed a sensitive man, at least when it came to matters of the heart. It was a pity he was such a fool when it came to food.

“Maybe I should apologize to him,” Vivi thought aloud.

“What?” Natalie said indignantly. “If anything, he should apologize to you, flinging your hospitality back in your face!”

“I know, I just hate getting off on the wrong foot with our neighbors. It’s not good.”

“You should have thought of that before you challenged him in his own kitchen. Maybe that’s why he made those comments about your coffee; he was swiping back at you.”

Could someone be so petty? The answer, of course, was yes. Chefs could be a petty and vindictive lot. She’d seen grown men throw punches at each other over the correct way to prepare béchamel sauce. Being a chef was all about creativity and perfection. If he genuinely believed her coffee was subpar, then he wasn’t out of line telling her so, but rather merely following the edicts of his calling—just as she’d been doing that day in his kitchen.

Vivi shielded her eyes from the bright morning sun flooding the apartment. One wall of the living room was pure glass, revealing a soaring landscape of skyscrapers. It was an impressive view. Even so, Vivi preferred the small apartment she’d rented in a five-story walk-up in Bensonhurst. She liked old places, places with a history. This steel and glass hothouse of Natalie’s was a bit too
moderne
for her taste.

“I wonder how long the wife has been dead,” Natalie mused. “A month? Five years? Either way, it’s odd that he still wears his ring.”

“I don’t think so,” Vivi disagreed, shifting so the sun wasn’t in her eyes. It didn’t seem to be bothering Natalie at all. In fact, with the morning sun shining on her face, Vivi could see how flawless Natalie’s complexion was. “If I were married and my husband died, I’d keep wearing my ring.”

“How romantic,” Natalie said dryly.

“I do have a romantic streak.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t get it from Papa.”

Vivi didn’t respond. In fact, she thought the opposite. Her father was always buying little gifts for her mother, leaving little love notes for her around the house. Was it possible Natalie had never seen this side of his personality?

Natalie was regarding her sternly. “Promise me you won’t let yourself get too close to that Dante. We can’t have you distracted, Vivi. All our focus needs to be on getting the restaurant up and running.”

All
our
focus?

“Stop worrying, Natalie. I’m here to cook, not find myself a new romance.”

“Good. Who needs romance, anyway?” Natalie sneered.

The bitterness in Natalie’s voice brought Vivi up short. She’d been so selfish, worrying about money and prattling on about the Italian, that she hadn’t even stopped to think how Natalie was faring.

Vivi reached out to take her hand. “It still hurts, doesn’t it,
cherie
?”

Natalie’s eyes quickly filled with tears. “I was so stupid…”

“You were human and you made a mistake.”

“A mistake that cost me my career.”

“You’ll begin a new career. Here,” Vivi replied with absolute conviction. “You just need time to heal.”

“And you need to learn not to listen to ignorant widowers who criticize your coffee!”

“You’re right,” Vivi agreed with a sigh. But she still felt badly about causing him pain.

“Y
ou got company.”

Anthony looked up from chopping basil with his mezzaluna to see Aldo—headwaiter, and the bane of his existence—scowling at him from the kitchen doorway. It was three thirty in the afternoon, which to Anthony’s mind could only mean one thing: Vivi and her sister were launching another ambush.

Anthony frowned at the old man impatiently. “You can’t handle it?”

“Asked for you,” Aldo replied with a yawn.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Anthony muttered, putting down the curved steel blade in his hand. “How we doin’ with that eggplant?” he asked Sam on his way out.

“Sliced, diced, and ready to go,” Sam replied cheerfully.

“Sounds like you’re describing your fingers rather than the eggplant,” said Anthony. Sam grinned, which Anthony took as a good sign. Some people thought they wanted to be chefs, but the minute you gave them the grunt work, they gave up, not realizing the pecking order in a restaurant was a ladder to be scaled. Others were glad to do the work, but never quite got the hang of using the knives or coping with the nerve-shattering pace. Those were the ones that broke Anthony’s heart—the ones who were willing to do what it took, but lacked the coordination or temperament.

He squared his shoulders, preparing for a face-off with Vivi. She’d been on his mind ever since their coffee brewing battle. He knew he’d taken a cheap shot at her. The polite thing would have been for him to pause and explain that his wife was dead, rather than storm out, leaving her sitting there with her face turning the color of a beet. But he was still steaming over her insults about Italian coffee. The woman wouldn’t know a decent cup of joe if it came up and bit her on the
derriere
.

He pushed through the doors of the kitchen. It wasn’t Vivi waiting there for him, but his seven-year-old nephew, Anthony, known in the family as “Little Ant.” Though he and his nephew were close, Little Ant had never shown up at the restaurant on his own before, even though his elementary school was within walking distance. Something was wrong.

“Hey, big guy.” Anthony tousled his nephew’s dark curly hair while throwing Aldo a dirty look. “You couldn’t tell me it was my nephew?” he called to him. “You had to act like it was a friggin’ mystery?”

“I quit!” Aldo shouted as headed toward the banquet room, muttering a stream of Italian curses in his wake.

“Pain in my ass,” Anthony growled as he watched the old man disappear. “You want a Coke or something?” he asked Little Ant.

Little Ant nodded. “Did Aldo really just quit?” he asked nervously.

“He quits every day,” said Anthony as he went behind the bar to fetch the boy his soda. “Don’t worry about it.” The kid was the spitting image of Anthony’s brother, Michael, though father and son differed greatly in temperament. At seven, Michael had been a rambunctious little bastard, whereas Little Ant was a bit more studious and quiet.

Anthony handed his nephew the Coke and took a seat opposite him. “Where’s the old man?”

“Home with the baby.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“No.” Little Ant slumped miserably in his chair. “He thinks I’m at hockey practice.”

From the time Little Ant was born, Michael had started counting down the years until his son would be able to play youth hockey and carry on the “Dante legacy.” Now the time had arrived, and Little Ant didn’t look too thrilled.

“And you’re not at practice because…?” Anthony prodded.

“I hate it! I don’t want to play hockey.” Little Ant dipped his head shyly. “I want to learn to cook like you.”

Anthony swallowed, surprised to find himself getting choked up. He and Angie had been trying to have a kid of their own when she died. Anthony had always loved hanging out with his nieces and nephew, now more than ever since it seemed likely they’d be the only children in his life. He and Little Ant were especially close. Not only did the kid love to eat, but he also loved knowing
how
the food he ate was made. From the time Little Ant could talk, it was “What’s in this?” and “How do you make that?”

“Have you told your mom and dad you don’t want to play?”

Little Ant looked tearful as he cracked an ice cube between his teeth. “I told Mom. She said I should at least give it a try.”

“That sounds like good advice.”

“But I hate it, Uncle Anthony. It’s stupid.” The agonized way he drew the word out—“stoooopid”—didn’t bode well.

“Maybe you just hate watching it,” Anthony offered, knowing the boy had been watching his father play at Met Gar from the time he was small. “Maybe you’ll feel different once you start playing yourself.”

“I won’t,” Little Ant insisted miserably. “I’ll never be as good as Dad, so why even try? I hate when he talks about me growing up and being on the Blades! Everyone on the team is like, ‘Oooh, your dad is Michael Dante,’ like they think I should play great or something. What if I mess up?”

“What if you do?”

“Dad’ll get upset. He’ll think I’m a loser.”

“No, he won’t,” Anthony assured him, though he wasn’t sure his words were helping. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the pressure Little Ant had to be under with Michael as his father. He doubted Michael was in any way pressuring Little Ant on purpose. Michael worshipped the ground Little Ant walked on. But he also knew Michael had high hopes that his son might follow in his footsteps. How was the kid supposed to tell him he’d rather make meatballs?

“You want me to talk to your dad?” Anthony offered. “See if I can explain to him that hockey isn’t your thing?”

Little Ant nodded vigorously. “Would you?”

“It’s why you’re here, right?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Tell you what: You go back to hockey practice, and the next time I see your dad, I’ll see what I can do.”

Little Ant jumped up from the table. “Yippee! I can quit!”

“Hey!” Anthony said sharply. “No one said anything about quitting. Your mom’s right; you need to at least give it a try. Have you even played a game yet?”

Little Ant’s face fell. “No.”

“Wait until you’ve played a few, and then we’ll see what happens. In the meantime, I’ll float the idea by your dad to let you hang out with me and learn to cook a few things.”

“You think he’ll let me?” Little Ant asked hopefully.

“’Course he will,” said Anthony. He saw some of himself in Little Ant’s eagerness, recalling how he’d hounded his father until he showed him how to properly assemble lasagna. And the first time his mother let him help with the gravy…
Madonn’
, it felt like Christmas. Cooking was in the Dante genes.

“What’s the first thing you want to learn to make?”

“The gravy,” Little Ant said reverently. “The family gravy.”

“’Atta boy,” said Anthony, patting him proudly on the back. “Now scootch and get back to practice before your father finds out you went AWOL.”

“Thanks, Uncle Anthony!” Little Ant threw his arms around Anthony’s waist, hugging tight.

“Anytime,” Anthony assured him. “Don’t worry; we’ll have you stirring the sauce in no time.”

“V
ivi found herself
having second thoughts as she walked into Dante’s bearing her trademark
tarte aux pommes
. Perhaps she was crazy, seeking Anthony out after he’d had the audacity to criticize her coffee. But it bothered her that they’d parted on such strained terms. Plus, he’d promised to give her the name of his contractor if she told him about Natalie. The apple tart was an enticement to remind him to keep his word. It would also put to rest any doubts he might have about her culinary expertise.

The restaurant was in the early stages of springing to life before opening for dinner. God, how she missed that! The hustle, the bustle, the anticipation.
Patience,
she told herself.
You’ll be back in the soup soon enough.

“Can I help you?” A very old man with regal bearing slowly approached her.

“I’m here to see Anthony.”

The old man’s eyes flicked critically to the foil-covered pie tin in her hand. “Are you looking for a job of some sort? In the kitchen?”

“I’m a friend,” Vivi fibbed, knowing she was using the term very loosely.

“Who should I tell him is here?” the old man asked irritably.

“Vivi. You’re the headwaiter, yes?” It was a rhetorical question. She’d worked in enough restaurants to know the type immediately: peevish, territorial, and loyal to the chef unto death.

“I’m Aldo,” the old man said, extending his hand for a shake. “And yes, this is my restaurant.”

His restaurant
. Oh, he was the top dog, all right. He asked Vivi to wait a moment as he went to fetch Anthony. His absence gave Vivi a chance to peruse her surroundings, and she found herself befuddled by the way Dante’s was decorated. There seemed to be lots of autographed photos of priests, as well as photos of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and some other men Vivi didn’t recognize, but whom she assumed were Italians of note. The paintings weren’t very enticing, either: watery reproductions of starry-eyed gondoliers punting Venice’s canals, even a bad etching of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The decor was—how should she put it?—
collant
. Tacky. Lacking in class. Perhaps this was supposed to be part of its charm?

“Well, this is a surprise.” Anthony’s tone was dry as he approached her. Vivi immediately began grinding her teeth. He couldn’t open with a simple hello? He had to be sarcastic right from the start?

“Is this a bad time?” she asked, thinking,
Of course it is
. What a stupid idea this was.

“It’s a restaurant. It’s always a bad time.”

They shared a chuckle as Vivi held the tart out to him. “A peace offering. I’m sorry we parted badly the other day.”

“That was my fault.”

“Yes, it was. What you said about my coffee wasn’t very nice.”

“I wasn’t referring to the coffee,” Anthony replied testily. “I was referring to the thoughtless way I told you my wife was dead.”

“No, the thoughtlessness on that count was mine. I—”

“You didn’t know,” Anthony interrupted, clearly uncomfortable with the subject.

Vivi longed to know more, but sensed she had to tread carefully. “Has she been gone long?” Such polite euphemisms people used when speaking of death, she thought. Gone. Departed. Crossed over. But what was the alternative? To say, “Has she been
dead
long?” That sounded awful. Heartless.

“She died a little over a year ago,” said Anthony.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Vivi murmured.

Anthony glanced away. “Yeah, it was a shock.”

Vivi held her breath, hoping he would elaborate further, but he didn’t. A shock…well, that ruled out battling a long illness. Vivi was itching to ask him how she died, but if ever there was a rude question, that was it.

For a second, he seemed lost in thought…lost to
her
, his wife. But then he seemed to remember where he was, giving the pie plate in his hand a little shake. “What have we got here?”

“Apple tart. My own recipe.”

“Oh yeah?” Anthony seemed intrigued. “Can I try it now?”

“After you tell me what contractor you used when you renovated Dante’s,” Vivi reminded him sweetly.

Anthony frowned. “Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. You owe me in exchange for my telling you about Natalie, remember?”

“It’s the DiDinato brothers.”

It was Vivi’s turn to frown. “Their estimate was the highest.”

“Do you want the best or not?”

“Of course I do,” she bristled.

“Then the double Ds are the go-to guys.” He pointed to the pie plate. “May I?”

“Of course.” Vivi couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face when he took the first bite and his eyes glazed over with sheer pleasure. And sheer envy.

“Let me just grab a plate.”

Vivi nodded, sitting down at a nearby table as Anthony fetched a plate and some cutlery. By the time he joined her, her heart was restless in her chest, obeying its own beat.

“Looks great,” said Anthony, peeling back the foil and cutting into the pie. The sweet aroma of apples and sugar rose up. “Smells great, too.”

Vivi watched as he cut a piece of pie for each of them. “No, none for me,” she said quickly. She was actually nervous, so much so that she wasn’t sure she could manage even the smallest bite. But Anthony wasn’t having it.

“My mother always told me, ‘Never trust a cook who won’t sample their own creation in front of you.’”

Seeing no way out, she accepted the plate he slid across the table to her. “You first,” she insisted.

“If you say so,” said Anthony, taking a forkful of pie. Vivi’s breath froze as she watched him chew slowly and deliberately, savoring the taste before swallowing. “Nice.”

Vivi snorted. “‘Nice’?”

“Nice,” Anthony repeated mildly. He broke off a piece of the pastry, studying it. “This is really good. Sweet. How do you make it?”

“How do you think I make it?” Vivi shot back. Nice indeed.

Anthony popped the pastry into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “There’s sugar in it.”

“What kind?” Vivi pushed, folding her arms across her chest. He thought he was Mr. Hot Chef? Let’s see how good he was at pinpointing ingredients in French pastry.

“Confectioner’s sugar.”

Bastard.

“Very good.” She tensed as he took another bite of pie. “How’s that piece you’re chewing on now?” she asked tartly. “Nice?”

“Very nice. But I think it would be better if you used a little more brown sugar, you know?”

Vivi contemplated picking up the pie plate and marrying it to his face. Instead, she picked up her fork and speared a bite of pie from his plate. “What you’re saying is, you can do better.” She popped the morsel into her mouth, raising an eyebrow. “Right?”

“Well…”

“Go on, then. I dare you. I dare you to do better.”

Anthony reared back in his chair. “You’re challenging me?” He seemed affronted. He
was
a raving egomaniac!

“Yes, I am,” Vivi replied fiercely. “Bake me something better. Bake me a pie that will leave me drooling and begging you to share the recipe. I’ll bet you can’t.”