Just a Taste (13 page)

“You know what I mean,” said Michael. “She helped us get to the next level,” he clarified for Vivi. “Expand interest in us beyond Brooklyn.”

“Do you have one of your cards with you?” Vivi asked Theresa politely.

“Yes, of course.” Theresa dipped into her small beaded bag and pulled out a card, handing it to Vivi.

“Thank you.” Here was a task she could pass on to Natalie, a project to help keep her occupied and involved.

Vivi glanced around eagerly. She couldn’t wait to get hold of the menu so she could deconstruct it. She could tell Anthony was thinking the same thing; he seemed a little antsy and preoccupied. In fact, when their eyes met over the bread basket, they shared a knowing little smile, each perfectly attuned to the source of the restlessness in the other. She was glad she’d been bold and asked him to accompany her here. He
understood
. He—

“Do you have a boyfriend back in France, Vivi?”

Michael Dante’s question punctured the carefree bubble Vivi was trying to create for herself tonight. It seemed a deeply private question, and for a split second, she feared Natalie might be right after all about Americans being rude.

Vivi smiled politely.
“Non.”

“Michael.”
Theresa seemed deeply embarrassed. “You have to excuse my husband, Vivi. He can be a little rude sometimes.” She flashed Michael a look that could split rock. Perhaps rudeness was a Dante issue, not an American issue.

“It’s all right,” said Vivi, stealing a glance at Anthony, who seemed distinctly ill at ease. When their waiter appeared with the menus, Vivi virtually snatched hers out of his hand. By the time they’d all ordered drinks, Anthony was already studying his menu with the intensity of an archaeologist trying to decipher the Rosetta stone.

“Black bass and sea urchin roe on a crisp potato pancake,” Anthony read aloud. “Hmm.” He looked at Vivi. “Thoughts?”

Vivi thought about the ingredients, their individual flavors, how they might meld or complement each other. “Could be interesting.”

“Or a little too precious.”

“True.” Vivi’s eyes scoured the menu. “Ooh! Spinach-stuffed veal chop with tomato polenta! That sounds like something worth trying.”

“Or stealing,” said Michael, nudging Anthony in the ribs playfully.

Vivi turned to him in offense at the same time Anthony did. “Good chefs don’t steal.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth, Vivi,” said Anthony as he looked coldly at Michael.

“Geez.” Michael cringed as he reached for his martini. “I was just making a
joke
.”

“You mustn’t joke about that,” said Vivi. Anthony nodded in agreement.

Michael exhaled with exasperation as he cracked open his menu. “Yeah, this is gonna be a fun night.”

“Y
ou are absolutely
wrong about the chocolate glaze on these pears,” Vivi insisted. “Shortening was used, not butter.”

“I’m telling you, it’s butter.”

Anthony struggled to hold back the verbal torrent threatening to explode from his lips. All night long, he and Vivi had been disagreeing about the food at Zusi’s. When he noted that the curried oysters didn’t have enough curry, she said there was too much. When he observed that the marjoram sauce accompanying the baby pheasant wasn’t really a reduction as the menu claimed, she insisted it was. More frustrating than her constant countering of his expert observations were her own off-base pronouncements. Vivi ordered leeks in creamy chive sauce, then declared they’d skimped on the chives. Wrong! The amount of chive used was perfect. Her first mouthful of grilled scallop in lobster sauce was accompanied by, “The sauce is too salty.” Again she was wrong; just the right amount of salt had been used. They’d been passing plates around the table all night, and only once had they agreed, and that was on the cognac sugarplums Theresa has ordered for dessert.

Vivi was still shaking her head insistently. “I’m
telling
you, it’s shortening.”

“You two are scary,” said Theresa.

“Anthony’s been frightening all night,” Michael added, flashing his brother a penetrating look that Anthony had no idea how to interpret.

What? Had he been talking too much? Not enough? Anthony rotated his palms upward, shrugging his shoulders in a gesture of confusion. Michael just rolled his eyes. Anthony fought a smile as he thought back to Michael’s suggestion that he and Theresa come along in case he and Vivi lapsed into silence. Vivi’s mouth had been in motion from the minute they’d arrived. In fact, she wasn’t letting the shortening versus butter issue go.

“Are you finally agreeing? It’s shortening?”

“Butter,” said Anthony with a small yawn.

Vivi took a spoonful of the sinfully delicious dessert and held it up to him. “Here. Taste again.”

She guided the spoon between Anthony’s lips. For a split second, he thought nothing of it, then he caught the look of significance that passed between Michael and Theresa. What was going on between him and Vivi was more intimate than he realized. He cleared his throat nervously and then swallowed, the creamy sweetness of the chocolate lingering long after it had left his mouth.

“Well?” Vivi prodded, the superior tilt of her head telling him she fully expected to be vindicated.

“I still say butter.”

Vivi’s expression was incredulous as she regarded Michael and Theresa. “Not only is he stubborn, he’s wrong.”

“Hey!” said Anthony. “Who copped to there being too much garlic in her chicken after
I
pointed it out, huh?”

“You’ve cooked for each other?” Theresa asked coyly.

Anthony and Vivi both nodded.

Theresa licked powdered sugar off her fingers. “And who’s better?”

“I am,” Anthony answered without hesitation.

Vivi’s jaw dropped. “You are so rude!”

“No, I am so truthful.” Anthony knew it was mean, but it was kind of fun getting her all riled up.

Vivi ignored him, concentrating her attention on Michael and Theresa. “Anthony is an excellent chef, but if I may use my own leaf blower—”

“Blow your own horn,” Anthony corrected with a chuckle.

“I am better,” Vivi concluded with a huff, dabbing her mouth with her napkin before settling back in her chair.

Mischief crept into Theresa’s eyes. “Well, there’s only one way to find out for sure who’s better.”

“What’s that?” asked Anthony suspiciously.

“You have to have a cook-off and invite other people to judge.”

“A cook-off!” Vivi’s eyes lit up. “That’s a wonderful idea!”

“It’s a horrible idea.” Anthony glared at his sister-in-law. “When in the name of hell am I supposed to find time to have a cook-off?”

Theresa looked unruffled. “We could set it up as a charity event, Anthony, except those invited would get to vote on the food. It’d be fun, and great publicity for both businesses.”

“It’d be work,” Anthony griped, but his mind was already beginning to put together possible menus.

“You could keep it simple,” Theresa continued, her voice growing in enthusiasm. “You’d each be responsible for making an appetizer, a main dish, and a dessert.”

“Oh, is that all?” Anthony asked. Theresa didn’t get it. She’d never gotten it—how time-consuming and grueling being a chef was. He remembered all the cockamamie suggestions she’d come up with when she was initially doing PR for Dante’s. Running certain specials during the Santa Rosalia Festival. Putting together summer picnic baskets. And now, just whip up some food for a cook-off. It ticked him off.

“C’mon, Ant.” As usual, Michael’s voice was cajoling. “It’ll be fun. Think of it as Iron Chef Bensonhurst.”

“You gonna help?” Anthony retorted.

“No, but Little Ant will,” Theresa put in quickly. “He’d love it.”

“That’s true,” Anthony agreed slowly. “Little Ant could be a big help.” Seeing the look of perplexity on Vivi’s face, he added, “Little Anthony is my nephew.”

“Our son,” Theresa clarified further in a proud voice.

“Ah,” said Vivi. “It’s good to start them young if they’re serious about cooking.”

“I agree,” Theresa said, locking eyes with her husband.

“He can play hockey and cook,” Michael said mildly. “No one ever said he couldn’t.”

Anthony took a sip of his espresso, trying to slow his thoughts. A cook-off. What a huge pain in the neck. Then again, if it was for a good cause…and it would give him the chance to try out some new dishes…and remind the locals why Dante’s was
the
culinary landmark while generating some publicity, it could be worth it. He stole a surreptitious glance at Vivi, whose excitement as she chatted with Theresa lit up the subdued dining room. A cook-off meant Vivi would have to use
his
kitchen. Again. In fact, they’d more or less be cooking side by side. The thought made his teeth grind, but he supposed he could endure it, as long as certain ground rules were set.

“Are we going to do this thing or what?” Anthony asked grumpily.

“I’m willing,” Vivi answered without hesitation. “Though I do worry about how you will save face when I best you in your own kitchen.”

“Ouch!” said Michael with a stage cringe. “Cross check to the ego!”

Anthony gave a low chuckle and smiled. “You’re a damn good cook, Vivi, but I can out-chef you with one hand tied behind my apron. And I intend to prove it.”

“W
here were you
last night, Vivi? I called and called.”

Natalie looked mildly irritated as she joined Vivi on the small couch in Vivi’s apartment. After coming home from the dinner at Zusi’s, Vivi had spent the night jumping in and out of bed, jotting down her thoughts for the cook-off. Tired as well and slightly cranky, she was in no mood for Natalie’s peremptory manner.

“I was out to dinner.”

“With—?” Before Vivi could answer, Natalie groaned, “Oh, God.”

“Oh, God nothing. It’s not what you think.”

Vivi calmly stirred her chamomile tea, trying to not to feel guilty at the accusation in Natalie’s voice. She hadn’t seen her half sister since their night at Plutonium, when the spilled contents of Natalie’s purse revealed the bill from Saks Fifth Avenue. Determined to bring her up to date on things, Vivi filled Natalie in on cooking her
poulet basquaise
for Anthony, omitting the part where she cried in his arms. She told Natalie about going out to dinner with him and his brother and sister-in-law, then tried to change the subject by asking Natalie how her week had been.

Natalie didn’t answer, peering at her in mystification instead. “You like him, don’t you? Anthony Dante.”

“Yes.” Vivi saw no point in lying about it.

Natalie looked apprehensive. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.” Vivi had never been one for active pursuit, and she’d decided there was no reason to change her ways now. She liked Anthony, but she was not going to go out of her way to make something happen. If the spark between them burst into flame, then she would
consider
embracing it, but only after she thought long and hard about whether being involved with another chef, who also happened to be widowed, was something she could handle. If the spark didn’t catch, well then, at least she had made a friend in the neighborhood who understood her passion about food, even though he was so often wrong about it. She just hoped they could remain friends if her business wound up cutting into his.

“Did I tell you about the cook-off?” Vivi asked abruptly, in another effort to change the subject. She explained the idea behind it, how ostensibly it would put to rest forever the debate over who was a better cook, and how fun it might be. The idea seemed to intrigue Natalie momentarily.

“How many people will be invited? Or will you just be asking whatever diners come in to vote?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to speak with Anthony about it.”

“I can bring someone who will definitely vote for you,” said Natalie.

“Who’s that?”

“Papa’s good friend, Bernard Rousseau?”

Vivi smiled tersely. “I don’t know who that is, Natalie. I never knew any of Papa’s friends, remember?”

“Of course.” Natalie looked embarrassed. “But you did meet him once. At the funeral. He’s very nice. About forty, I think, and very elegant. He rang me when he got to New York a few days ago. He’s going to be here for at least a year, working at the UN. I’ll bring him to the cook-off.”

“That’s a good idea.” Vivi took another sip of tea, wondering if their father had been a very social man, or if he was more of a homebody, the way he was with Vivi’s mother. There were so many gaps in her knowledge about Papa she would love to have filled in. Butterflies in her stomach, she turned to Natalie.

“Did Papa have a lot of friends?” she asked hesitantly.

Natalie considered the question. “Yes. He and my mother used to entertain a lot.” Natalie’s expression turned pensive. “Did Papa and your mother entertain a lot?”

“Not at all. It was usually just the two of them. Or, if I was around, the three of us.”

Natalie looked pained. “Did they fight a lot?”

“Not that I can recall.”

Natalie looked away. “He and my mother fought all the time.” There was a long pause. “I think, in the end, your mother was the one he loved.” Natalie turned back to her. “I don’t care, of course,” she said breezily. “I mean, what is love, anyway? I would much rather have money than love any day.”

Vivi didn’t know what to say. Her impulse was to put her arm around Natalie’s shoulders, tell her she needn’t get defensive. Vivi
knew
that her parents had loved one another, and her, but that didn’t mean Papa didn’t love Natalie. She was struck by the irony that while Natalie was the one who grew up with every comfort, the child of a true two-parent household, she was the one who’d known a calm, loving atmosphere, despite her parents’ unconventional arrangement.

“I have something for you,” she told Natalie, hurrying to get Theresa’s card from where she’d left it in her purse.

“I have something for you, too.” Natalie dug into her large leather shoulder bag and held out a small wrapped box to Vivi.

“Natalie.” Vivi’s voice was reproachful and she didn’t care.

“I felt awful about the other night at Plutonium. Drinking too much and getting maudlin and all that. I wanted to apologize.”

“The words ‘I’m sorry’ will suffice perfectly well. You didn’t have to buy me a gift.”

“But I wanted to,” Natalie said softly. “You’re my sister.”

Tears filled Vivi’s eyes. “Then you’ll understand why I’m refusing.” She took Natalie’s hand. “You don’t have to buy my affection. You already have it. Nor do you have to feel guilty about how I grew up. I turned out perfectly fine, didn’t I? Please, Natalie.”

Natalie was silent as she stuffed Vivi’s gift back in her bag.
Oh, God, have I insulted her?
thought Vivi nervously. But when their eyes briefly caught, Vivi could see Natalie wasn’t upset, she was moved. Vivi’s words were the most honest they’d ever exchanged. It was a relief for her say them, and it seemed it was a relief for Natalie to hear them, too.

“What’s your present for me?” Natalie asked, breaking into a smile. Vivi handed her Theresa’s card. “What’s this?”

“Anthony’s sister-in-law runs a PR firm. They did publicity for Dante’s a while back. Remember we chatted a bit about this at Plutonium? About you and I working together more closely on getting the restaurant ready?”

“I seem to remember something about that,” Natalie said evasively.

“Good. Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind calling her and finding out what they might be able to do for us?”

“Of course.” Natalie regarded the card distastefully as she slipped it into her purse. “Anything else?”

“I was going to go down to the candy store to see how the DiDinato brothers’ work is coming along. Do you want to come?”

Natalie rose. “To be honest, Vivi, I’m not feeling very well. Would you mind terribly if I just went home?”

“Of course not,” Vivi answered, concerned. “Is there anything I can do?”

“
Non, non
. I just feel a little cold coming on, is all.” She kissed Vivi on each cheek. “I’ll phone you later tonight; we can talk about ‘coordinating our efforts’ then, all right?”

“Of course.”

Watching Natalie leave, Vivi couldn’t shake a sense of unease. All was not well, that much was obvious. But until Vivi knew what the trouble was, there was nothing she could do to fix it.

“V
ivi!”

Vivi had just rounded the corner of Twentieth Avenue and was walking toward her bistro-in-progress when she heard her name called. She glanced across the street. Michael Dante was standing behind a baby stroller, waving at her. Vivi hurriedly crossed to him, smiling down at the curly haired little cherub who seemed so content to just be sitting still, looking out at the world.

“Hello, Michael.” Vivi kissed him on both cheeks, beaming down on the baby. “I thought this angel might be yours. I remember seeing her in the playpen in Dante’s once.”

Michael looked mildly embarrassed by her recollection. “I forgot about that.” He smiled down at his daughter. “This is Angelica.”

“Appropriate name,” Vivi noted.

“Not last night it wasn’t.” They both chuckled.

“You are the one who stays home with the children?” Vivi asked curiously.

“Yeah,” Michael said, almost sounding apologetic. “Like I told you once before, I was a professional hockey player, but once your skills diminish to a certain point, it’s best to retire.”

“Athletes retire so young,” Vivi observed. “I’ve always wondered about that. About them having to reinvent themselves.”

“We wonder about it, too, believe me,” Michael said ruefully. He jerked a thumb behind him at Dante’s. “I’m half owner, you know. I plan on getting more involved in the day-to-day operation.”

“Anthony will appreciate that, I’m sure.” She felt envious that Michael actually wanted to help his brother out.

Michael gestured toward the candy store, where a symphony of saws and hammers colored the air. “They do good work, the DiDinatos.”

“They did your expansion, yes?”

“Yeah. Anthony screamed about the money, but—” He stopped. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s not cheap, it’s just—”

“Believe me, I understand,” Vivi interrupted. “My sister was displeased because they were so much more expensive than the other bids. But your brother told me they were worth it, so…” She shrugged.

“Theresa and I had a good time with you and Anthony the other night.”

“Yes, it was a wonderful time,” Vivi agreed. “Your wife is lovely.”

“She is. Works too hard, but what are you gonna do?” Michael looked upward, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. “So, you like my brother?”

Vivi puffed up her cheeks, exhaling softly. There it was again, that Dante rudeness. “He’s very nice.”

Michael looked down at her, his gaze unnervingly direct. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

“What you’re asking is not appropriate, I think,” Vivi replied politely.

“I’m being pushy, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m sorry.” Michael looked contrite as he absently pushed the stroller forward and back over the same patch of sidewalk. “It’s just that I think Anthony likes you, but he’s not the most aggressive guy in the world when it comes to these things, you know?”

“He’s certainly aggressive with his opinions,” Vivi snorted.

Michael looked amused. “You both are.”

“Yes, well, it comes with the territory, I suppose.”

“If you like him, you might have to nudge a little, know what I’m saying?”

“Nudge,” Vivi repeated to herself.

“Yeah. He’s a little gun-shy.” Michael groaned. “Ugh. Bad choice of words,
cafone
,” he muttered to himself.

Vivi cocked her head questioningly. “I don’t understand.”

“Anthony’s wife was a police officer. She was shot and killed,” Michael explained quietly.

“How awful!”

“It was. A drug bust gone wrong.” Michael’s eyes began getting glassy. “She kissed him good-bye, went to work, and two hours later he gets a phone call she’s been killed. Shouldn’t have happened.” Michael pulled a pair of gloves out of his coat pocket. “Ant was pretty much toast for about a year.”

Vivi wrinkled her nose in confusion. “Making toast helped his grief?”

“No, no,” said Michael, the sad look on his face lifting. “What I meant was, he was devastated by her death.”

“Of course.”

“But now, enough time has passed, and he seems ready to get back on the horse—I mean, get on with his life, not, you know, rent a horse and ride it around so he doesn’t get sad.”

“I see,” said Vivi, even though she really didn’t.

“I guess what I’m trying to say, Vivi, is that he’s a great guy. Don’t let his gruffness or bullheadedness put you off; underneath, he’s a pussycat. And like I said, I can tell he likes you.”

Vivi nodded and said nothing, thinking back to Anthony holding her in his arms. She already knew he was “a pussycat.” A pussycat whose wife was killed. Dear God, it was beyond awful. No wonder he was so tightlipped about it. Every time he thought of her death, his mind must have been in an agony of “What if?” Poor Anthony.

“How long has she been dead?” Vivi asked, just out of curiosity.

“A little over a year.”

“Was she beautiful?”

“Um…” Michael seemed surprised by the question. “I’m not really sure how to answer that. She was earthy. Do you know what I mean by ‘earthy’?” Vivi shook her head. “She was very strong. Big hips, big—you know. Big laugh. Maternal.”

In other words, nothing like me,
Vivi thought. “Could she cook?”

Michael laughed uproariously. “God, no, she sucked in the kitchen! I think that’s one of the reasons Anthony enjoys talking shop with you, Vivi. For the first time in his life, he’s spending time with a pretty, vivacious woman who actually
cares
as deeply as he does about the issue of butter versus shortening.”

Vivi smiled with pleasure, more at Michael’s description of her as pretty and vivacious than anything else. “That’s an
important
question, Michael.”

“Apparently.” A breeze kicked up, and Michael leaned over to zip up his daughter’s jacket. “Well, I should run along.” He gave Vivi a friendly peck on the cheek. “We’re glad you came to Bensonhurt, Vivi. All of us.”

“L
et me guess,
the baby wants some leftover
scungilli
on top of her Cheerios.”

Anthony knew Michael would turn up at Dante’s at some point after the Zusi’s dining experience. He just didn’t expect it to be the next day. Yet there Michael stood in the dining room, grinning like a circus clown, with little Angelica in her stroller right next to him. Jesus, his brother was predictable.

“I just saw Vivi on the street,” Michael informed him as he unstrapped Angelica from the stroller. Pulling up the nearest chair, Michael put her on his lap, unzipping her out of her jacket.

“Gee, that’s surprising. She has no business in this part of town,” Anthony said dryly.

“She said she had a good time last night.”

“That’s great, Mike.”

“Theresa and I had a good time, too. We like her a lot.”

“That’s great.”

“You had a good time last night, right, Ant?”