A Little Bite of Magic (Little Magic) (2 page)

After that, and some very extensive cleaning, he’d painted the walls a soft, warm color somewhere between a haystack and a ripe autumn pumpkin that reminded him of his grandmother Vallerand’s chateau in Avignon. Frankie had done a bit more fudging on his self-imposed rules where his magic was concerned when he’d decided he wanted a mural of grapes, flowers, and vines along the west wall. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t paint like that, at least not with his hands. The mural looked fantastic, anyway, by the time he finished. The afternoon sun hit it just right. The walls would help transport his customers from urban San Francisco to a golden late summer’s day in Tuscany.

Perfect.

He’d found old, scarred maple flooring at an antique materials warehouse, some mismatched but homey tables, and filled the room with fabrics in wine, purple, and green. His last project was the kitchen—his kingdom. Even though it had looked atrocious at first sight, it had surprisingly required the least work. The oven functioned perfectly, and the rest of the mess was solved rather easily with some screws and of course more cleaning. There always seemed to be more cleaning. His kitchen passed inspection, along with the dining area, and all the required licenses had been filed and paid for. Right about then, Frankie’s stomach began to flutter. It was nearly time.

The only thing left to do was to plan the first menu. Since he’d been revising it over and over practically since birth… Well, that just left panicking. And he had plenty of time to do that.

* * * *

L’Osteria opened with little fanfare and even fewer customers. Frankie had expected it—hoped for something different, but expected it all the same. His menu was a robust mushroom stew his grandmother used to make filled with herbs and wine, paired with chewy freshly baked rosemary and olive Tuscan-style bread. He had a nice selection of wines to offer and vanilla custard with blackberries for dessert. He also had a ton of leftovers by the time he closed his doors that evening. The few patrons who’d come in had raved about the fare. Frankie hoped the raves turned into recommendations. His Vallerand money would only last so long.

* * * *

Over the next few weeks, while Frankie experimented with soups and sandwiches, desserts, pastas, and quiches, his dining room slowly grew more crowded. The noise of happy customers rang cheerily through the doorway into his kitchen. Frankly, he was relieved. There was no way he could ever crawl back to his family in failure.

On a rainy Wednesday, close to a month after he’d first opened his doors, Frankie finally had his first full house. His newly hired waiter, sweet but bumbly Owen, had his hands full running big earthenware bowls of potato soup back and forth from the kitchen to the diners. Frankie had baked loaves of cheddar-topped focaccia to go with it earlier, and the whole place smelled like cheese and bread and home. Exactly like he’d always wanted.

Owen came bustling back into the kitchen with an empty tray. He nearly tripped on a raised section of flagstone but managed to right himself. Frankie made a mental note to have the flagstone fixed.

“Three more soups, two cobblers, and the woman at table eight wants to know how much a loaf of bread is to take home.”

“Coming right up!” Frankie turned and placed two of the individual peach cobblers on a rack in the brick oven to warm. He tried not to notice that Owen nearly tripped again but managed to save himself from disaster at the last moment. The poor guy was doing far better than when he’d first started. Truthfully, Frankie had always had a soft spot for strays, and Owen had had lost puppy written all over him.

He removed the cobblers from the oven, topped them with a dollop of cinnamon whipped cream, and gave them to Owen, who’d just returned from delivering the soup.

“Tell the woman on eight it’s four dollars for a loaf, and if she wants, I can bag it at the end of her meal so it’s still warm when she leaves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Frankie,” he corrected.

“Um, Frankie.”

“Hey, what do you think of eggplant parm tomorrow with a chicken Caesar and chocolate almond mousse?”

“Everything you make is good, sir.”

“Frankie.”

Owen cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“How old are you, Owen?”

“Twenty-two.”

Owen did enough lip biting and foot shuffling to make even Frankie nervous.

“Well, I’m twenty-five, so I’m way too young to be ‘sir’ to you. Frankie is perfectly fine.”

“Okay.” Owen looked at the ground.

“Hey, Owen, you’re fine. Just no more ‘sir.’ And here’s another cobbler. Didn’t you say table six wanted one to share?”

Owen’s face blanched a bit. “Um, no. I was going to, but…”

Oops
. “I must have overheard. These walls are so thin.”

The walls were brick, and he knew it. Pretty sure Owen knew it as well. His hapless employee took the proffered cobbler and escaped.

* * * *

“Are we going to meet Jim and Lacey at The Golden Orchid tonight?”

Julia sounded hopeful, not necessarily because she wanted to do something with Addison but because she wanted to parade him around her friends like she always did. He was exactly the kind of man she’d planned on marrying someday, or so she said when they’d first met.

“Jules, you know I get tired of eating out. I have to do it so often for work.” Even through the phone he could imagine he saw her eyes widen. He hated that fake angelic look. It made him want to cringe. “Maybe you should have another boyfriend for public appearances.”

“Addie, that’s not fair—and don’t say boyfriend. You’re my fiancé.”

Has she been hanging out with my mother?
“Fine. Is seven okay?”

“Yes, it's great. I’ll see you at the restaurant.”

He rarely picked Julia up, even more rarely saw the inside of her apartment. She never ever came to his condo. He’d found an unbelievably great deal on a gorgeous place with cherry floors and a big bay window, which just happened to be a block off Castro Street. Neither Julia nor his mother approved of “that neighborhood.” He didn’t really care one way or another about what went on in his neighborhood. At least his mother and Julia left him alone more often than they would if he lived somewhere else. In his mind, that was one of the top selling points of the property.

“I’ll see you at seven at the restaurant.” Addison hoped he didn’t sound too resigned. He felt resigned.

“Oh, Addie?”

“Addison,” he sighed. No more lunch dates with his mother for Julia. They rubbed off on each other too much.

“Yes, of course. Addison. Will you please wear your navy sports coat tonight? It looks so nice with your eyes—oh, and the sky-blue button-up underneath.”

Navy sport jacket, check. Blue shirt, check. On display for perfect Julia’s perfect friends… Yeah, check that off too. Addison looked in the mirror and ruffled his hair from its neat side part. A tiny rebellion perhaps, but it felt good. He had to admit the blue shirt did look nice with his eyes. Julia was always going on and on about how they looked perfect together—two blue-eyed blonds. Sometimes it seemed like appearances were all he and Julia had in common.

* * * *

He sat at The Golden Orchid with Julia, who’d annoyingly worn a blue sweater thingy that matched his shirt almost perfectly, and listened to Julia babble with Jim and Lacey, who also matched in that “couples who end up looking like siblings” kind of way. He didn’t pay attention to their conversation. He picked at his dinner, which Julia had ordered for him, and thought of what he’d seen the night before.

In his neighborhood, there'd always been no shortage of, well, interesting things to see. He’d watched men kiss, women kiss, sometimes groups of them walking down the street cuddling and holding on to each other. Interesting. But what he’d seen the other night…that was far beyond interesting. He’d gone to sleep dreaming of it and woken up hard as a rock.

There had been nothing different, nothing particularly special about them, just two young men clearly on a first date. They were perched on the stoop next to his, kissing. It wasn’t just the kissing, though, that had caught his attention, although that was enthralling in itself; it was the touching, the way the guys didn’t even notice him standing there with his eyes superglued to them. It was the overwhelming feeling that there hadn’t been another soul in the universe for either of them in that one perfect moment. And it had hit Addison in the gut. Hard.

He’d never felt that way about anyone before—certainly not about Julia. There'd never been room in his neat little world for something that all-consuming. As he sat there in the upscale restaurant with his matching girlfriend (no, fiancée) who, well, to be honest, he didn’t want any more than the Burmese noodles he picked at, Addison wondered if he could handle that kind of passion.

Yes, he decided. He could handle it. Even more than that, he wanted it. Addison wanted to feel that intoxicating delicious want just one time before he signed up for an easy but boring life filled with matching sweaters and dinner parties with the Laceys and the Jims who would fill his world.

All I want is just one perfect kiss.

Chapter Two

“Hey, Albright, I want you to check out this new hole-in-the-wall place over in Cole Valley today.”

Addison looked up from the review he'd been in the middle of. He tried to make his column funny, if typically not very favorable. The snark had started because he didn’t care for a lot of the overwrought food he ate at the trendy eateries around town. It had continued because he’d become controversial, known as the critic who was impossible to please. The readers loved it. His editor loved it. People, apparently, looked forward to laughing behind their hands at whatever successful restaurant The Phantom Foodie had currently shoved down the proverbial drain. He didn’t get it, but like he’d said to himself a million times, it was a job.

“I thought I was going to that seafood place down on the Fisherman’s Wharf.”

Doug dropped an index card on his minuscule desk. “Here. Le Oyster something or other.”

“Oysters?” Addison’s stomach clenched.

“No. It’s some Italian word. It’s one of those places where they only make one meal a day, and everyone comes and eats it anyway.” His editor snorted. “Lemmings.”

“No choices?” He felt the indigestion starting already. Addison opened his desk drawer and pulled out a huge bottle of Tums. Looked like it was going to be one of those days.

* * * *

The place was right off Cole Street, and hole-in-the-wall was an apt description—although a rather pleasant hobbit hole, it seemed.
L’Osteria di Pomodoro
. The name sounded fancy, but Addison knew an osteria was more like a family place. Casual. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Pregnant bursts of steam wafted out into the late-spring air from the open front door. Addison read the chalk-drawn menu:
Salad with garlic bread. Garlic bread
…ahhh, yes, that's what he smelled. And pumpkin tortellini in a rosemary-lemon Alfredo sauce. Addison inhaled and was pleasantly accosted with herbs, butter, cream, and the salty tang of garlic and Parmesan. The smell ended with the mellow sweetness of cooking pumpkin. Odd, but for once he actually wanted to eat.

“Please choose a seat, sir.”

A young woman with a curly strawberry-blonde bun gestured to the room. There weren’t very many empty seats. He chose one by the window. It was plush and velvety with a lovely view of the shady sidewalk. A rather awkward young man came to fill his drink order and asked which items he’d like from the day’s menu. Addison ordered both the salad and the pasta and also a slice of the lemon-raspberry torte they'd listed for dessert. He always had to order something from every course. Usually he dreaded it.

L’Osteria di Pomodoro was different. He looked around. It didn’t strike him as pretentious, trying too hard to be hip, wrapped up so tightly in image that the love of food was lost forever. Instead, it was a place where he’d like to relax, sit back with a book and a room full of pleasant smells, and just…
be
. Addison hadn’t been anywhere like that in a long time. He took in the aged gold walls, the mismatched but perfectly fitting furniture, the gorgeous mural that transported him to another place and time. He sighed, but instead of his usual resignation, it was…satisfaction? Yes, that was it. Addison had never been so content to sit in a restaurant and just bask in its atmosphere.

The awkward waiter brought him his pasta and a crisp salad along with a thick slab of herbed garlic bread that Addison couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into. The top of the pasta bubbled up gooey and cheesy, and the sauce smelled like fresh lemony heaven. The salad was bright green, and the bread, oh, the garlicky goodness. Addison didn’t know which to try first—a dilemma he wasn’t used to. Everything about the food was full of flavors and textures and overwhelming smells, things he usually didn’t like. But the food was captivating—like that kiss he’d witnessed.

Grinning with anticipation, Addison lifted his fork and took his first flavorful bite, and oh it was everything it had promised to be. The pasta melted on his tongue, silky and creamy with a rounded citrus bite. The salad was perfectly dressed, the bread chewy, and his dessert—fruity and creamy with a crumbly butter crust—sent chills rushing up and down his spine.

It was heaven. Pure heaven.

* * * *

“I loved it, Doug,” he announced the next morning. “The food was gorgeous; the atmosphere was simple and homey. Here’s my write-up.”

His editor looked nonplussed. “You never love anything anywhere. You don’t really like food, food.”

“You knew that?” Addison had been trying to hide that weird quirk of his since he’d been hired.

Doug chuckled. “Of course. It makes you the perfect food critic. We seem discerning, and restaurants are scrambling to figure out our secret—it’s the recipe for great sales.”

Addison couldn’t help feeling used. “Well, I liked this place.” He dropped the document on Doug’s desk. In the age of e-mail, his editor still liked to get a hard copy in his hand.