Authors: Meredith Mileti
Aftertaste (35 page)
“Jake's pretty much full-time at Il Vinaio. He's hardly ever at Grappa now, you know,” he says. “With the pay cuts, there's been a lot of staff turnover as well. Freddo's long gone. Zoe, too,” Tony says, shaking his head.
“Zoe? We hired her right out of cooking school! She was there six years.” Zoe was one of the line cooks at Grappa, a tall, healthy-looking kid from the Midwest who worked the grill. Her kind of loyalty, not to mention longevity, was a rare thing in the restaurant business. I'd had a run-in with her shortly before I left the city. It was on one of the last days I'd worked. I was tired and stressed, and I can't even remember what it was about; I just remember yelling at her, as she stood, towering over me, struggling not to cry.
Tony shrugs.
“What happened?” I ask, taking a bite out of the shaved artichoke and Pecorino salad the waiter has just set down in front of me.
For some reason, my question has surprised Tony, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Just as I think he's finally about to answer me, the waiter brings his steak and sets it in front of him. Tony leans back and allows the waiter to rearrange our table to accommodate the huge plate. At first, I think he's just being circumspect. The New York culinary world is a notoriously gossipy one, and I assume he doesn't want the waiter to hear what he's about to say. But after the waiter leaves Tony cuts a piece of his steak and spears it with his fork. He raises it midway to his mouth where it remains, poised in midair, dripping blood.
He still doesn't say anything.
“What happened, Tony?”
“Nicola made her life a living hell. That's what,” Tony says quietly.
“Why?”
“I swear I thought you knew. I figured Renata would have told you.”
“Knew what?”
Tony exhales, a slow, painful-sounding wheeze. “About Zoe and Jake.”
I stare at Tony, not really understanding.
“What about Zoe and Jake?”
Tony lays down his knife and fork, carefully arranging them on his plate before answering me. He does not meet my eye. “They had a thing a few months back,” he says.
The waitress sets down Tony's second martini, and I take a sip, welcoming the burn in my throat as I digest this fascinating morsel. Six months ago, fiveâhell, maybe even two months ago news like this would have filled me with hope. Now, I'm not sure what to feel.
“It was when Nicola was away. In Vegas.” Tony says.
“What happened?”
Tony stops eating, his knife and fork poised limply over his dish. He drops his utensils and pushes his plate away.
“Jesus, what does Jake have that I don't have, you know? Women going wild over this guy, I just don't get it, but whatever. Nicola's back about fifteen minutes before she figures it out. Big showdown in the kitchen. Right in the middle of service she tells Zoe to pack up and get the hell out. Zoe looks at Jake, who just stands there, his mouth hanging open like a fucking steamed clam. Zoe yells back that she isn't going anywhere; she'll sue their asses if they fire her. Then, Nicola drags the both of them back into the office, and they're in there for about a half hourâcompletely quietâwhile we're down two cooks and the rest of us are trying to keep the line moving. It was a hell of a night. Next thing you know,” Tony says, picking up his fork and knife, “Zoe's gone, Marcus and Jasper show up, and plans for Il Vinaio are spread out all over the back room.”
“Where did Zoe go?”
“I heard she went back to Chicagoâprobably with a nice severance package.”
“So are they . . . okay, Jake and Nicola?”
It's the first time I've said her name, and I can't help wincing. Tony watches me carefully. Finally, he shrugs. “I don't know, Mira. Like I said, Jake isn't around much. Both of them are at Il Vinaio most of the time now.” Tony leans forward and lays a beefy hand on mine. “Look, Jake doesn't have a clue how to fix Grappa, Mira. You do. Forget about him. He's not in your league anymore. Never was, in my opinion.” Tony wipes his mouth delicately and deposits his napkin on the table as he turns and signals for the check.
“Come back, Mira,” Tony says.
“I'm thinking about it, Tony.”
chapter 30
I spend a good chunk of Sunday afternoon going through my storage space in the basement of my old apartment building on Perry Street. Most of it is stuff that I never should have saved in the first place: boxes of old cooking magazines, irrelevant now that everything is available online; mismatched mugs and dishes; two broken vacuums; and a wardrobe of size four jeans that will never be worn by me again in this lifetime.
There's also a ton of Jake's stuff.
After the police had carted me away in handcuffs the night I discovered them
in flagrante
, Jake had come home and packed a single duffle bag of clothes before moving in with Nicola. At some point, I'd expected him to ask me for something, anythingâhis electric toothbrush, a razor, his fleece slippers when the weather turned coldâbut he never did. Apparently, anything that had been in our apartment and shared by me was tainted and needed to be abandoned posthaste, like nuclear waste or anthrax-tainted stationery.
in flagrante
, Jake had come home and packed a single duffle bag of clothes before moving in with Nicola. At some point, I'd expected him to ask me for something, anythingâhis electric toothbrush, a razor, his fleece slippers when the weather turned coldâbut he never did. Apparently, anything that had been in our apartment and shared by me was tainted and needed to be abandoned posthaste, like nuclear waste or anthrax-tainted stationery.
When I finally realized Jake wasn't coming back, I'd packed up every trace of him, his books, tools, high school yearbook, childhood photos, the boutonniere from his senior prom (he'd taken Lindsay, a mousy blonde), even his high school track jersey, half intending to put it out on the curb with the trash, but I never had the guts to follow through. At the time, the fact that he could walk away from years of accumulated memories both amazed and horrified me, but now, knee-deep in the murky basement, where, in the pauses in my work, I think I hear ominous scurrying coming from the deep recesses of the storage unit, abandonment definitely seems like the better part of valor.
Hope invites me in for coffee around two o'clock and offers me a sandwichâbologna and cheese, which I thought nobody ate anymoreâand I eat it sitting at my own dining table, which Hope has covered with a red and white plastic-coated picnic cloth. In all the disruption surrounding Richard's accident, I'd never arranged to have it shipped.
“I suppose you're going to want this back,” she sighs, lifting the corner of the tablecloth to reveal a provocative flash of sleek, walnut table leg. I've just finished telling her about my meeting with AEL and the likelihood that Chloe and I will be moving back soon. Understandably, she's skittish about my being back in the apartment; I know she's afraid I'm going to want to cancel our sublet agreement.
“I'm not sure,” I tell her. “You can keep it for a while.”
“My subletters can't move out before the end of the summer,” she finally says, offering me a plate of fudge stripe cookies.
“I know,” I tell her.
After lunch I cart the boxes to the dumpster in the alleyway. I've saved only the two boxes of Jake's stuff and one box of old
Gourmet
magazines, thinking they might be collector's items one day. I'll tell Jake tonight that he has one last chance to reclaim his memories or they will be gone with the next trash. I take the stairs, trudging up the four flights to place the key into Hope's itching palm. “Here,” I tell her, taking her hand and closing it tightly around the key. “It's yours. Stay as long as you like,” and for the first time all day, Hope's face relaxes into a smile.
Gourmet
magazines, thinking they might be collector's items one day. I'll tell Jake tonight that he has one last chance to reclaim his memories or they will be gone with the next trash. I take the stairs, trudging up the four flights to place the key into Hope's itching palm. “Here,” I tell her, taking her hand and closing it tightly around the key. “It's yours. Stay as long as you like,” and for the first time all day, Hope's face relaxes into a smile.
And I mean it. Chloe and I will find a new place to live. A pretty, light-filled apartment in a different neighborhood, a place to make a fresh start. Together, Chloe and I will find a new favorite coffee bar, a dry cleaner, a grocery store, and especially a happy day care center. I haven't accumulated too much in Pittsburgh; other than the apartment, which shouldn't be too hard to sell now that all the other units are taken, there really isn't much to tie me there. My dad can visit of course, and soon Richard will be mobile again, back to his own house and his work. For the first time, I understand something like the sense of freedom Jake must have felt at walking away from everythingâvoluntarilyâand starting over.
I take my time heading back to the hotel, winding in and out of the streets of the West Village, scoping apartments, writing down the phone numbers of rental agencies, and taking notes on which sections to avoid. The phone rings in my bag. It's Ruth.
“Hey. Everything okay?”
“Where are you? Didn't you get our message? Can you believe it?”
“What message?” I look down at my phone and see the tiny sealed envelope icon on the bottom of the screen. “I was in the basement all afternoon. No cell reception. I haven't listened to it yet,” I tell her.
“Big news. Fiona and your dad brought Chinese over to your apartment for lunch, you know, to keep Richard company, and when I dropped Chloe off there, they invited me to stay. So, we're all sitting around eating, and Carlos and Chloe are playing on the floor, and suddenly Chloe pulls herself up on the coffee table, grabs a fortune cookie, and
walks
back over to Carlos. She took like, five steps all by herself, until she noticed we were all staring, at which point she fell down, crushed the fortune cookie, and started crying. But hey, she's officially taken her first steps! Go, Chloe!”
walks
back over to Carlos. She took like, five steps all by herself, until she noticed we were all staring, at which point she fell down, crushed the fortune cookie, and started crying. But hey, she's officially taken her first steps! Go, Chloe!”
I stop short in the middle of Christopher Street, stunned. Chloe had taken her first unaided steps, and I had missed them. I'd worried about her being late to walk, had trekked untold miles with my fingers caught in her tightfisted embrace. But whenever she sensed I'd been about to disengage myself, she'd tightened her grasp, pulling me closer, lower, nearer to her. Now she's done it. And I missed it.
I can picture them all sitting in my living room watching her. Did Chloe look around for me? Did she wonder where I am?
“Oh, shit,” Ruth finally says. “Mira, I'm so sorry. We called you right away and left a message. I can't believe I've been so insensitive,” she sighs. “I guess it's just that I've had to reconcile myself to the fact that Carlos sat up and rolled over and got his first tooth before I adopted him, and maybe I've conditioned myself into believing it's not that big a deal. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to upsetâ”
“No, no, it's okay. Go, Chloe! Plus, I love the fact that she was going after a fortune cookie,” I tell her, but my voice breaks, and I know Ruth is not convinced. Neither of us is.
“Okay, no more walking until you get home. I will glue her booties to the floor if I have to,” Ruth says.
I hang up and then listen to the message, which is from all of themâFiona, Richard, my dad, Ruth, Carlos screeching in the background. Richard tells me not to worry, he's managed to capture it on video with his phone. Fiona adds that she's going to buy Chloe her first pair of dancing shoes, and I can tell from her breathless voice and Chloe's muffled giggles that she's dancing with her around the apartment. Then, she presses the phone to Chloe's ear and says, “Tell Mama hello,” and Chloe, expecting to hear my voice, coos expectantly into the other end. Poor Chloe, who will now have to get used to my not being there for ballet recitals, school plays, orthodontist appointments, and teacher conferences because I'm too busy managing my restaurant empire.
I'm not due at Grappa until eight, so on my way back to the hotel I stop at the grocery store and buy a half bottle of wine. I intend to soak away the afternoon of grime I've accumulated, not to mention the heaps of maternal guilt, while sipping a glass of wine in the tub. I'm also hoping it will relax me. I'm nervous about tonight. Not just about being alone with Jake, but about being at Grappa. I haven't set foot in there since Jerry escorted me out the back door and drove me to the courthouse to turn myself in. I wonder if it's possible to have some sort of post-traumatic stress reaction the instant I set foot in the place. What if I start foaming at the mouth or writhing in psychic agony?
I take a deep breath and swallow, remembering all at once something that Dr. D-P told me early on in our therapy. It was after I first saw the blurb in
Bon Appétit
about Il Vinaio, and Dr. D-P had coached me through the exercise in the bathroom mirror. At our next session, she'd suggested that whenever I found myself in a tight spot emotionally, I should try to consider myself “an anthropologist on Mars.”
Bon Appétit
about Il Vinaio, and Dr. D-P had coached me through the exercise in the bathroom mirror. At our next session, she'd suggested that whenever I found myself in a tight spot emotionally, I should try to consider myself “an anthropologist on Mars.”
“A what?” I'd asked her.
“An anthropologist is a personâ”
“I know what an anthropologist is.”
She looked at me like she was considering asking me for a definition.
“What's your boss's name again?” she asked, trying another tack.
“You mean Enid Maxwell?”
“Yes, Enid. Pretend you're writing a report of what you're observing, editing out all the extraneous details. Just give her the facts, not the emotions. I think you'll find it a useful technique for helping to keep your feelings under control in difficult situations.”
So, I practice all the way to Grappa, taking note of the precise hue of the yellow cabs, which really are more orange than yellow, the bent street sign at the corner of Leroy Street, the man dressed in a clown suit swinging an expensive briefcase, his cell phone pressed to his ear.
I stop short on the corner of Bedford and Grove. From here I can see Grappa, which is in the middle of the block. The black and white awning looks freshly scrubbed, and pots of blooming hibiscus trees flank the front door, which, as I move cautiously closer, I see has been replaced; the worn wooden one I'd painted with glossy paint by mistake has given way to a deeply stained chestnut one. The restaurant looks dark. I linger at the top of the steps, gathering the courage to venture down the three steps and try the front door.
Jake must have come up through the alley, because suddenly he is behind me. I can feel him even before he speaks; the hair at the back of my neck prickles as I catch the familiar scent of his cologne. I turn around, and there he is, dressed in jeans and a blue button-down shirt that looks as if he's napped in it, an apron slung low on his hips.
“Around back,” he says, smiling at me. I follow him down the alley, where he pulls out a key dangling from a chain underneath his apron, and watch as he unlocks Grappa's back door. He holds it open for me and allows me to enter first. I walk past the office, which mercifully is dark, and down the hallway, pausing just at the entrance to the kitchen. The summer sun, on the verge of setting, casts ribbons of golden light through the wrought iron bars on the half-windows, bathing the kitchen in a luminous glow. Apart from that, it looks almost exactly the same as it did on the day I left.
“Philippe and his crew left things more or less the same in here,” Jake says, taking my sweater and hanging it on top of his jacket on the hook by the door. “The dining room, not so much. You won't like it. That's why we came in through the back,” he tells me, simply.
“I know,” I whisper. “I've seen it. On the Web site.” Jake nods.
He places a light hand on my arm as he moves past me into the kitchen.
Jake has set the corner of the workstation with a crisp white cloth and two tall candlesticks, a small vase of tulips between them.
“Prosecco?” he asks. I'm about to decline; after all, this is supposed to be a business meeting, not to mention the fact that I've already drunk a half bottle of wine in the tub. But before I can even answer, Jake opens the walk-in, pulls out an already opened bottle of Prosecco, and pours two glasses. He hands me one. “Mind if I put you to work?” he asks.
“Not a bit,” I tell him, grateful for something to do.
He smiles at me. “Okay, how about a salad?” Without even thinking about it, I reach to pluck a head of garlic from the braid by the prep station, the small whisk from the jar of utensils by the grill, and next to it, the salt box, everything, incredibly, exactly where I'd left it.
I whisk the vinaigrette together in the bottom of the wooden salad bowl, top it with assorted greens from the walk-in, and shave a few shards of Parmigiano-Reggiano over the top.
I turn around, but Jake's gone. I hear him in the office, and seconds later, the opening bars to
Gianni Schicchi
begin filtering through the sound system; on his way back in, he stops to check something in the oven. “Okay, what next?” I ask.
Gianni Schicchi
begin filtering through the sound system; on his way back in, he stops to check something in the oven. “Okay, what next?” I ask.
“Nothing. Everything else is done. I'm just finishing,” he says, busying himself at the pasta station, where he unveils two perfect mounds of pizza dough resting on the marble block.
“Demeter's breasts,” Jake says with a wicked grin. He raises his glass of Prosecco. “To Demeter, goddess of grain. No, seriously,” he says. “To a fruitful and successful partnership. Thanks for coming, Mira,” he adds, softly. I raise my glass and take a seat across from Jake at the pastry station. I watch as he takes one of the two mounds and caresses it into a perfect round pizza with nothing more than a couple of flicks of his wrists. I do my best to conjure Dr. D-P's anthropologist, but she is no longer on Mars; she is right here in this kitchen, watching, mesmerized as the muscles twitch beneath Jake's shirt, the bones of his wrists rotate smoothly in their sockets. He slips the dough onto a peel and slides it into the pizza oven.
With the slam of the oven door, the reverie is broken. I suddenly wish I'd kept my last appointment with Dr. D-P. How foolish not to have told her I was going, not to have left a lifeline, a trail of psychic breadcrumbs back to the land of rationality. I've left myself with little choice; I'm on my own.
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