Just a Taste (6 page)

“I’m kind of excited about a little French place opening in the neighborhood,” Theresa confessed.

“Of course you are,” said Anthony. “Anything to drive a stake through my heart.”

Theresa jostled his shoulder. “Lighten up, Ant. No one’s food compares to yours.”

Anthony bowed his head in mock humility. “Thank you. That was the right thing to say.” They both laughed.

Theresa glanced sideways at her husband with a look laced with both exasperation and affection that Anthony had seen many times before. Michael and Theresa might argue with fervor, but their love for each other was never in doubt. They were solid, the same way he and Ang once were. Anthony felt envious.

As if reading his mind, Theresa said, “You still going to the cemetery?”

“Yup.”

For the first time since arriving at the arena, Michael seemed to be listening to his wife and brother’s conversation. “Who are you, Joe DiMaggio?” he sniggered.

“Mind your business, Mike,” Anthony warned.

“I think Michael’s right,” Theresa said carefully. “We just want to see you happy again, Anthony. You’re such a great guy. Maybe it’s time to move on?”

Anthony stared down at the ice. “I have moved on.”

“Visiting your wife’s grave once a week isn’t moving on,” Michael countered. “It’s unhealthy.”

Anthony turned to his brother angrily. “Tell you what, Mike—when Theresa dies years before she’s supposed to, then you can tell me what’s healthy or not. Until then, zip it.”

“G
ood morning, cara.”

Anthony set up his small folding chair beside Angie’s headstone and sat down with a grimace. The day before, he’d noticed as he emerged from the shower that he was beginning to put on a little weight, always a hazard when one works in a kitchen. Determined to drop a few pounds before all the pasta he consumed started to do some serious damage, he’d gone for an early morning run. Not only had it left him winded, but it also felt as though someone had taken a hammer to his kneecaps. He had no idea whether standing for hours in the restaurant kitchen would make it feel better or worse. He supposed he’d find out.

“Guess what, Ang? Little Anthony wants to learn to make the gravy! Mikey’s going to drop him off at the house for a few hours. It’ll be fun, don’t you think? He’s a good kid.”

Anthony sipped his coffee, pleased that Al at the deli had remembered how he liked it. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Vivi, and their coffee incident.

“Remember I told you about those two sisters who were opening the
bistro
”—he spat the word contemptuously—“across the street? Well, the one who’s the cook is a real piece of work. Not only can she not make coffee to save her life, but she also showed up with an apple tart one day, and when I didn’t bow down and tell Her Highness it was the greatest thing since sliced bread, she dared me to make something better! You believe that?”

He shook his head, imagining Angie’s response. She’d agree with him that anyone thinking they could outcook Anthony was crazy. “Actually, you’d probably like this woman if you met her,” Anthony continued after a pause. “She reminds me of that lieutenant friend of yours—you know, Maggie, the one with the long blonde hair and the sassy mouth?”

His voice seemed overly loud to his ears. He took a quick glance around, feeling conspicuous. He was the only one there, save for two guys, about fifty feet away, noisily digging a grave with a backhoe. A familiar heaviness settled on his chest and he found himself wondering, for the first time ever, whether coming here was such a great idea. Maybe Michael and Theresa were right; maybe his visits were proof he hadn’t really “moved on.” Confusion engulfed him—he who was usually so resolute, viewing the world in black and white. What was going on?

A
nthony stood on
the sidewalk, staring at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand bearing Vivi’s address. Leaving the cemetery, he’d headed straight for Dante’s, where he’d whipped up a double batch of his mouthwatering ricotta fritters. They were best served hot, but still outstanding even when warm, which was why Anthony was glad he could still feel some heat emanating from the bottom of the plastic container. If Vivi failed to be impressed with the fritters, then she was just busting his balls for the sake of busting his balls. No other explanation was possible.

He knew these streets like the back of his hand, and Vivi’s was no exception. It was right off Scarangella Park, where he and his dad used to throw a baseball around. Bensonhurst was still predominantly Italian, but there were lots of new immigrants coming in to fill up the two-family semidetached brick and stucco houses. Most of the newcomers were Chinese and Russian—and now French, too, he supposed, though as far as he could tell, Vivi was at the spearhead of that movement.

He’d called her cell number, but when it asked him to leave a message, he chickened out for some reason. He’d grown up in an atmosphere where it was okay for people to drop in on one another for a visit. Maybe it was that way in France, too, for all he knew. But the fritters were made, and he was determined she’d eat them today, even if it meant coming back later on.

He was surprised to find himself looking at an old five-floor walk-up, just like the one on Cropsey Avenue that his grandparents lived in before they saved up enough to buy a house. Anthony loved these old buildings, the feel of history behind them. You could almost see the generations of immigrants moving up and out as they made a life for themselves, making room for the next wave. It was comforting somehow.

He climbed the front steps and went to press the buzzer, then hesitated. Maybe just showing up was stupid. What if she wasn’t there? Or worse, what if she was there and wasn’t in the mood for a culinary showdown in the middle of the day? Well, she’d just have to deal with it. God knows she’d ambushed
him
more than once.

He shoved the paper into the back pocket of his jeans and rang her buzzer. Nothing. He waited a second or two, and then rang again. Nothing. “Figures,” he muttered to himself, turning away. That’s when Vivi’s disembodied voice crackled over the intercom.

“Yes, who is it, please?”

“The best chef in Bensonhurst.” Anthony heard her laugh. “I have a dessert here that’s going to make you cry uncle.”

“Uncle?” Vivi replied, puzzled.

“It’s an expression. Never mind. You going to let me up or what?”

“Of course. You and your uncle can come right up.”

He walked the four flights of stairs to her apartment. Vivi was waiting for him in the open doorway, her slim body swathed in a short, brightly patterned silk kimono. Her damp hair was pinned up, her flushed face amused. Uncomfortable, Anthony looked away.

“I’m sorry. Did I drag you out of the shower?” he asked, wishing he
had
called ahead. This felt awkward, with her standing here in her robe.

“Bath.”

Anthony tried to remember the last time he had had a bath. It had to be when he and Mikey were little kids. Their mother would throw them into a tub together, killing two birds with one stone. He could still remember her vigorously cleaning his ears with a washcloth, the way she impatiently manhandled the two of them. As soon as they were old enough, they started taking showers.

“Don’t you have a shower?” Anthony asked as she ushered him inside.

“I do,” said Vivi, motioning for him to sit down on the plump couch, “but I prefer to take baths when I can. They’re much more relaxing.”

“Understandable.” Anthony knew if
he
took a bath on a Sunday morning, he’d wind up becoming so relaxed he’d crawl back into bed and sleep. Vivi sat down beside him, the faint hint of floral scent wafting from her body.

“What have we here?” she asked, tapping the top of the container.

“Ricotta fritters. Freshly made less than an hour ago.” Anthony shook the small paper bag in his hand. “I brought honey, too. You have to drizzle them in honey.”

“Interesting.” Vivi glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “I’d offer you some coffee, but since you seem unable to appreciate a decently made cup of French roast, I don’t see the point.”

As a matter of fact, Anthony was dying for a cup of coffee. “I think I can manage to gag down a cup, as long as I can douse it in milk and plenty of sugar.”

Vivi batted her eyelashes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a cow’s ass?” she asked sweetly.

“Besides you? No. And the expression is ‘a horse’s ass,’ by the way.”

“Well, excuse
moi
.” She rose. “I won’t be a moment.”

Vivi disappeared, giving Anthony a chance to check out her apartment. It was small and relatively spartan: a couch, a coffee table piled high with cookbooks, a small bistro table for two pushed up against a far window. But there were lots of plants, which gave it a homey feel—a feel his home used to have, before he let all the plants wither and die. He couldn’t be bothered after Ang died.

Curious, he picked up a small black binder from the nearest pile of cookbooks and flicked it open. It contained page after page of handwritten recipes, some relatively new, some old and faded. Anthony knew from experience that those pages on the verge of tatters, covered in unidentifiable food stains, were her favorites. He didn’t know much French, but he did know that
beurre
meant “butter,” and that a helluva lot of the recipes in this book called for a helluva lot of
beurre
. Simple food my ass, he thought, recalling the conversation he and Vivi had that day in the candy store. French food thrived on butter; there were no two ways around it. If Vivi wanted to claim French cooking wasn’t rich, that was her delusion.

“I see you’ve found my little black book,” Vivi called out as she walked back into the living room, bamboo tray in hand upon which sat two coffee cups, a milk creamer, a sugar bowl, plates, and forks.

Anthony closed the binder. “Some of the recipes look pretty old.”

“A lot of them were my grandmother’s,” Vivi said fondly.

“I have a book like that, too, full of recipes passed down from my grandparents. There are even a few from my great-grandparents in the old country,” Anthony revealed, taking the liberty of clearing away some of the cookbooks to make space on the coffee table for the tray.

“It’s good to keep tradition alive, don’t you think?” Vivi sat down beside him. “Please, help yourself to some of my awful coffee.”

Vivi’s robe was tied loosely, and as she leaned forward to prepare a cup of coffee for herself, Anthony caught a fleeting glimpse of the top of one of her breasts. Flushed with embarrassment, he averted his eyes, waiting until she had leaned back before grabbing a coffee cup for himself. “So, where’s your sister?”

“In the city.”

“She doesn’t live here with you?” Anthony asked, hoping she didn’t notice him loading his small cup with five lumps of sugar.

Vivi erupted into peals of laughter. “Natalie wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this. It’s too shabby.”

“It’s not shabby. It’s just a little spartan right now, that’s all.”

Vivi gave a small nod of approval. “I like your attitude.”

“As long as the kitchen’s up to snuff, that’s all that matters.”

“Exactly. The kitchen here is small, but the stove is gas. Electric is horrible, no?”

“The worst.”

“I actually chose this apartment precisely because of that,” Vivi continued. “Imagine, trying to cook on an electric stove!”

“It’s insane!” Anthony agreed.

Vivi’s expression turned thoughtful. “When did you know?” she asked.

“What, that I wanted to be a chef?”

Vivi nodded.

“Always. From the time I watched my mother cooking.”

“Me, too. The smells, the tastes…” She put her hand over her heart and sighed. “It was like heaven.”

“A calling.”

Vivi’s eyes flashed with recognition. “Exactly! It’s so nice to talk to someone who understands.”

Anthony’s eyes held Vivi’s for a long moment before they both looked away. Anthony reached for the creamer, pleasantly surprised to find it indeed filled with cream, not the skim milk Ang used to insist he have in his coffee. So much for watching his waistline, he thought as he poured a smidgen into his coffee. He held his breath and took a sip. It was drinkable—just.

“You’re not choking,” Vivi observed wryly. “Perhaps you’ve seen the error of your ways.”

“Let’s not jump the gun here.” He took another sip.

Vivi raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Still awful,” Anthony said cheerfully.

Vivi sighed. “You’re very predictable.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It depends.”

“We’ll see how predictable I am. Break out the fritters.”

Vivi opened the container, dishing three fritters onto each plate.

“Tell me they don’t smell delicious,” Anthony challenged, removing the honey he’d brought with him from the paper bag. “Tell me the mere scent of these fried beauties doesn’t make you want to swoon.”

Vivi passed her plate under her nose. “Lemon peel?”

“A little.”

“I thought so.”

Anthony passed her the small squeeze bottle of honey. “Drizzle them with this.”

Vivi took the honey and proceeded to drown the fritters rather than drizzle them.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Anthony pointed out.

“I believe in seasoning liberally,” was Vivi’s retort.

Anthony held his tongue and watched as she cut into the first fritter with her fork and put the first bite into her mouth. A brief look of ecstasy streaked across her face before she squelched it.

“They’re all right,” she pronounced mildly.

“Oh, please!” Anthony snorted. “I saw your face! Your eyes wanted to roll up in your head from sheer bliss!”

Vivi blushed. “All right, you’ve got me. They are
tres magnifique
.” She took another bite and this time, to Anthony’s satisfaction, she did let her eyes roll back. The sight of it brought an unexpected flash of heat to his body. Swallowing, he helped himself to the honey, drizzling his own fritters before taking a lusty bite. Oh, yeah, baby, these weren’t just good, they were great.

“Guess I outdid you,” Anthony observed.

“Not quite,” said Vivi, giving a small moan as she speared another piece of fritter and put it in her mouth. “You can’t compare fritters to a tart. They’re two different beasts.”

“Hey, you didn’t hear me moaning when I ate your tart, did you?”

“I didn’t moan.”

“Yeah, you did! Just now, when you put that piece into your mouth. You gave a small moan!”

Vivi shrugged. “Well, if I did, I was unaware of it.” She finished the first fritter and began working on the second. The sight pleased Anthony immensely. He loved knowing his food gave others pleasure. It was also nice to see a woman who wasn’t shy about enjoying eating. But then, he’d heard that about the French, how serious they were about their food.

“My brother and I used to eat them with our hands when we were kids,” Anthony revealed.

“What fun!” Vivi enthused. She held her plate close to her chin, picking up a fritter with her free hand and biting into it lustily. A small trickle of honey ran down her chin.

“Oh!” she said with embarrassment, quickly licking honey from her fingers. “I’m such a slob.”

“Not a big deal.”

Without thinking, Anthony leaned over and tenderly wiped the honey from her chin with his thumb. Vivi glanced up at him shyly through her lashes as time seemed to hold its breath. Anthony knew he should take his thumb away, but some unseen force was keeping it there, the same force now whispering in his ear, urging him to kiss her. Slowly, Anthony put his lips to hers. Vivi put her plate down, returning his kiss as she closed her eyes.

The sweet taste of her mouth conspired with the enticing scent of her perfume to make Anthony’s senses tumble. For the first time in over a year, he was aware of himself as a man. The realization quickly transformed itself into apprehension. Who was this guy, kissing a French woman in her robe on a cloudy Sunday afternoon? And who was she, her mouth pressing against his with equal pressure, her hands lightly anchoring themselves on his shoulders?

Anthony stood up. “I should go,” he said gruffly.

“Good idea,” Vivi agreed quickly. She rose, tightening her robe, not quite looking at him. “I have a lot of things to do today.”

“Me, too.”

She escorted him to the door. “
Au revoir
. Thank you for stopping by,” Vivi said stiffly.

“Yeah,
au revoir
to you, too. I guess I’ll see you around the neighborhood.”

“Yes.”

She closed the door, leaving Anthony standing in the hallway. He checked his watch; his nephew would be at his house in an hour for the first of his “cooking lessons.” Anthony bounded down the apartment house steps and back outside into the murky sunshine, grateful for something to do.