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Authors: Meredith Mileti

BOOK: Aftertaste
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chapter 5
That evening after Chloe falls asleep, I dig out the last two years' worth of
Chef's Technique.
Comfortably ensconced on the couch with a glass of Barolo, I pore over Arthur Cole's articles, trying to get the measure of a man who makes eleven different attempts in search of the perfect spinach salad and writes, in excruciating detail, about each one.
As a person who eschews written recipes, I don't dwell on the obvious irony that I have at least five years' worth of back issues of
Gourmet, Bon Appétit, Saveur,
and, of course
, Chef's.
The more recent issues I keep on shelves in the kitchen; the rest are in carefully marked boxes, with the index of each issue taped to the box top. I don't attempt to analyze this behavior. All I know is that it is somehow comforting to know that if I ever have to whip up some bibimbap (
Gourmet,
August 2004) on short notice for visiting Korean dignitaries, I can. I also know that I probably shouldn't begrudge Mr. Cole his obsessions.
On Saturday afternoon, during Chloe's afternoon nap, I finally get around to thinking about what I will wear on my date and find that my wardrobe is a complete disaster. I haven't been shopping in months, practically since Chloe was born. Jake's drawstring chef's pants and either a chef's tunic or a big white shirt had gotten me through most of my pregnancy, and I had borrowed the rest, a party dress, a winter coat, and a couple of jumpers (which I hated). It wasn't the pregnancy, though, that kept me out of the stores. In the restaurant business you learn very quickly the value and comfort of the uniform. And pretty soon it becomes a way of life.
I finally choose a pair of black crepe pants and a black cashmere sweater. I consider heeding Renata's advice about leaving my hair down, but somehow I don't think long hair will be a turn on for Arthur. Someone that compulsive would surely be made uncomfortable by untamed hair. I settle for a simple chignon.
Gabriella, with Michael and Renata in tow, arrives precisely at seven, and from the instant they step into the room, Chloe begins to cry. Her whole body stiffens as she locks me in a death grip. Michael is the one who finally takes charge, removing Chloe from me and placing her in Gabriella's waiting arms. Then, Michael, to whom I've barely been introduced, gently but firmly maneuvers me out of the door and into the elevator. Once we are settled in the cab, he gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“She stopped crying before we even made it into the lobby, you know. They do that just to torture us, a conspiracy among babies everywhere.”
“I feel like a wretch for leaving her. She doesn't know Gabriella and she's not used to being left with a babysitter at night.”
“It's your own fault, Mira,” says Renata. “You should have been doing this months ago. She'd be used to it by now.”
“Ha,” laughs Michael, giving me a knowing look. “They never get used to it.”
Renata quickly steers the conversation clear of children, and we chat about what we're planning to eat, and laugh over the fact that none of us has eaten all day in preparation for tonight. This allows me an opportunity to sneak a look at Renata's husband who, I decide, isn't at all what I expected. For starters, he's much older than I imagined. He looks to be somewhere in his mid-fifties, making him roughly a decade older than Renata. He isn't a handsome man; his nose is too large and his eyes too small, but they're a lovely blue, soft and friendly. He's got a nice full head of dark hair, going silvery at the temples, and a small, neatly trimmed beard, black and flecked with gray. But what makes him not seem Renata's type is that he's a comfortable man, rumpled and slightly squishy around the edges, the sort whose preference might run toward flannel and gabardine instead of silk and cashmere. The kind of man who might own, and occasionally even wear, a sweat suit.
Compared to the few male friends of Renata's I've met on previous occasions, all of whom were younger than she, handsome, and impeccably groomed, Michael seems less sophisticated. But Renata seems different, too, softer than usual and more relaxed. She's taller than Michael, and the way he drapes his arm around her shoulders is awkward, yet occasionally he gives her an affectionate squeeze. A trace of a giggle escapes her as he whispers something inaudible, something, I imagine, so silly and tender that I glimpse, for an instant, the girl she'd once been. Already I like Michael and think Renata's lucky. There simply aren't enough men who can make women giggle, or who even care to try.
Le Bernadin is one of only a handful of Manhattan restaurants—including La Grenouille, the Four Seasons, and Café des Artistes—that has endured, almost unaltered, since its opening. Within months of its New York debut in January 1986,
Gourmet
magazine bestowed upon Le Bernadin and its chefs/owners, Gilbert and Maguy Le Coze, an unprecedented four-star rating, a historic event in the restaurant world. Now, a quarter of a century later, it has become one of New York's grande dames. If Le Bernadin were a woman, as I think most restaurants are, she would be Grace Kelly—beautiful, elegant, and understated.
The bar is crowded, and at first I don't see Arthur Cole, whom I think I'll recognize from the miniscule photograph that appears above his byline in
Chef's.
Michael spots him instantly. He's sitting with his back to the door, engaged in conversation with the bartender, probably interviewing him about how to make the perfect mai tai. When Michael taps him on the shoulder, he turns and, with one fluid movement, flips his notebook closed. “Now, Arthur, you are officially off duty tonight. You'll make me look bad,” Michael says with a trace of a smile, gesturing to the notebook that Arthur is in the process of thrusting into his breast pocket. They shake hands, and Michael gives him a small pat on the arm. Arthur's hair is longer than in his picture in
Chef's,
and he's not wearing glasses, which in the picture are small and round.
“Mira, is it?” he says, turning to me and offering his hand. “It's lovely to meet you.”
His smile is automatic, revealing a set of even, white teeth. He's immaculately groomed, and his hands look as if they are regularly manicured, making me instantly conscious of my own short, trimmed nails and workman's hands, ruddy and rough-skinned, which I have no choice but to offer in return.
Renata, who had been waylaid by a friend on the way to the bar, joins us, and Michael completes the introductions. Arthur quickly summons the bartender, and we order our drinks. I order myself a glass of Prosecco.
“Ah, Prosecco, a wonderful choice! It's great to see this previously little known aperitif is finally getting its due,” Arthur says excitedly. “Of course, I mean outside of Italy,” he adds, nodding in deference to Renata. “Are you familiar with this vineyard?” Arthur asks. As it turns out, I am, but Arthur doesn't wait for me to answer. Instead, he turns to Renata and Michael and says, “Do you mind? Why don't we order a bottle? Mira here has made a wonderful suggestion.”
“I think you'll like it,” I say. “It's a wonderful vintage from a small winery in the north of Italy. In Fruili.” Why do I feel as if I'm in the midst of a job interview? “We stock it in the cellar at Grappa.”
“Grappa?”
“Yes, our—my restaurant,” I tell him, my tone a little more proprietary than I'd intended.
A flicker of recognition passes across Arthur's well-mannered face. I wonder if he's heard something and is only now putting two and two together. “Ah, yes, of course,” he says. I can only hope that he has heard the short version of my sordid story and not the longer, assault and battery one. But, judging from his embarrassed look, and the way his eyes flit quickly toward the door, I suspect the latter. He has already decided that I'm an incalculable risk and is wondering just how quickly he can make an exit.
“Mira, my apologies,” says Michael. “Renata has so many customers, and I couldn't recall the name of your restaurant when I told Arthur about you.”
“I'm afraid I've never eaten there,” Arthur says, with no trace of apology.
“Well, then you must come sometime.”
“It's really a wonderful restaurant, Arthur,” Renata pipes in. “Mira and her ex-husband started it on a shoestring, not unlike Le Bernadin. It's quite a success story.” I chafe at the mention of Jake, my “ex-husband,” and my leg accidentally bumps Renata's under the table.
I'm relieved when the Prosecco arrives and even more relieved when the maître d' approaches us with the news that our table is ready. Arthur balances his glass of Prosecco with one hand, and rests his other hand on my elbow as we make our way to the dining room. He leans into me, veering me slightly off course and, as I struggle to realign myself, I catch him sneaking a peek down my sweater. “So, what started you cooking, Mira?”
“My mother, actually. She was a chef.”
“Oh? How interesting! Where did she train?”
“In Paris,” I tell him, “at the Cordon Bleu.”
“Really? Impressive for a woman of your mother's generation. Where did she cook?”
“Well, when I knew her, she cooked at home. Just for our family.” The truth was my mother had never really made use of her impressive French pedigree, something she'd always regretted. While studying there she met my father, who was in the army and on leave in Paris. She was just finishing up her two-year course in French gastronomy; they married as soon as his tour of duty was up.
“In Manhattan?”
“No, in Pittsburgh. I grew up in Pittsburgh.”
“In Pittsburgh?” Arthur says, a small snort escaping him. “An unlikely place for a classically trained chef.”
“People have been known to eat in Pittsburgh, you know,” I tell him, with a backwards glance as he pulls out my chair. The man is a snob.
“Well, of course they do. I just meant that, well, even today, it's not exactly the bastion of haute cuisine. Twenty, thirty years ago, forget it. In fact, can you remember the last time a Pittsburgh restaurant was featured in
Bon Appétit
?”
Touché. In fact, the only time I can remember a Pittsburgh restaurant being mentioned in a national magazine was several years ago when
Gourmet
mentioned Primanti Brothers in an interview with Mario Batali (who'd eaten there on a recent trip and enjoyed it). For the uninitiated, the Primanti sandwich is a cheesesteak sub, served on thick slabs of crusty Italian bread and topped with very well-done grease-still-glistening French fries, coleslaw, and, if you're really a traditionalist, a fried egg. Apparently, it has become the signature food of Pittsburgh. I do not remind Arthur Cole of this fact.
The bread basket is presented to us—warm, crusty, French farmhouse rolls with an herb and goat cheese spread. We study our menus, considering the delights within. I look over at Renata, who I can see is already mapping out how we can best cover the most ground. This, of course, involves sharing.
Some people are funny about that, and I'm betting Arthur Cole is one of them. You can tell a lot about a person by how liberal he is about sharing his food. That was one of the first things that had attracted me to Jake. I first met him when we were both waiting for a table at a little roadside trattoria in Piacenza. We were each overjoyed to find someone who could speak English and decided to share a table. During that first meal together he casually reached over and speared a piece of my calamari, delicately grabbing it by the ring with a single tine of his fork. It was an intimate gesture, and one that might have shocked me had I not already decided to sleep with him—which I did, immediately following dessert and espresso.
“Oh, look,” says Michael, “fresh sardines.”
“I'm looking at the spiny lobster with cepes risotto,” says Renata, her nose buried in the menu.
“Imagine, pairing the most delicate of shellfish with such a strong fungal flavor,” offers Arthur, wrinkling his nose. “Interesting, if he can pull it off.” He sounds doubtful.
The subject of our dinner conversation is the demise of the American restaurant, a not-quite-open forum conducted in sotto voce by Arthur, who has emerged from his research on culinary history finding America's traditions wanting.
“There simply are no traditions. Everything has been imported. There's nothing originally American, except perhaps corn.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Not even the hamburger can we claim as our own!” he says with a sneer, as if anyone would want to.
When no one picks up the gauntlet Arthur has so conspicuously thrown, he continues unabashed. “Why then,” he says, suddenly turning to me and folding his arms across his chest, “did your mother study in France? Why did you study in Italy? Which I presume you did because you know as well as I do that no culinary education is considered complete without an international apprenticeship.” His voice is smug, his mouth curled in a half smile.
“Wait a minute,” I say, feeling suddenly compelled to defend American culinary tradition (not to mention my own expensive and, in my opinion, extremely comprehensive education at the Culinary Institute of America). “I studied in Italy because I cook Italian food. My mother studied in France because in the late 1960s there was no other option. But that certainly doesn't mean that there isn't a rich and varied culinary tradition in America today. Stop at a roadside barbeque in Texas, eat a lobster roll in Bangor, Maine, order a fried egg on your Primanti sandwich in Pittsburgh, for heaven's sake!” I look over at Michael, who is humming the national anthem, his right hand on his heart, his left raised in mock salute. The moment dissolves into laughter, all of us, except perhaps Arthur, slightly embarrassed to have taken ourselves so seriously.

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