Just a Taste (14 page)

Anthony slowly ran a hand down his face. “Is this why you’re here? To talk about last night?”

“Pretty much. And a few other things.”

Anthony pulled up a chair for himself. “Let’s get it over with.”

“You can deny it all you want, but I’m sorry, last night the vibe between the two of you at the restaurant was intense. Just ask Theresa.”

“We’re both chefs, Mikey. Intensity is a given.”

“Oh, so you’d let Lenny Dinuzzi from Lucatelli’s in Sheepshead Bay feed you from his spoon? Is that a given?”

Anthony felt a deep heat flash to his face. “That didn’t mean anything.”

“Bullshit, Anthony. It shows how comfortable you are with each other.”

“I don’t need you explaining this stuff to me, okay? I know how it works,” Anthony said gruffly.
Madonn
’.

“She likes you.”

Anthony just shrugged.

“Look, you
cafone
, she’s smart, she’s sweet, she’s pretty, she cooks, she’s got a cool accent…How long do you think it will be before someone else figures out she’s a catch? Go for it now, Ant.”

“I’ll think about it,” Anthony grumbled. Michael made it sound like Vivi was a prize to be won. It didn’t surprise him that a jock like his brother would think in those terms, but that wasn’t Anthony’s MO. Still, he had never thought about the possibility of someone else pursuing Vivi.

“What else did you want to talk about?” Anthony asked his brother. He was itching to get back into the kitchen, where he belonged.

“Do you have any ideas for the cook-off?” Michael asked eagerly.

“A few.” Anthony didn’t like the chirpiness in his brother’s voice.

“Like what?”

Mother o’ God, did his brother have concrete for brains or what? “Mike, I don’t really have time to sit here and go over menu choices with you, all right? I have a restaurant to run.”

“It’ll take two minutes.”

Knowing his relentless brother was not going to leave until he’d gotten what he’d come for, Anthony resigned himself to sitting in the empty dining room and being interrogated.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Anthony began. “For the appetizer?
Arrosticini abruzzesi
—marinated, skewered lamb tidbits.”

Michael nodded slowly, a smile of approval spreading over his face. “Go on.”

Surprisingly, Anthony found himself warming to the topic. “For dinner, stuffed flank steak with a side of mushroom
timballo
.”

Michael licked his lips. “Is that the steak you make with the roasted red peppers and prosciutto inside?”

“Yup.”

“Perfetto,”
Michael murmured dreamily. “And for the grand finale?”

“Hazelnut risotto pudding.”

“That’s the one Mom made, with the raisins, right?”

“Yes, it’s Mom’s. But I use dried currants, not raisins.”

“Mom always used raisins.”

Anthony felt his temper coming on. “It’s better with dried currants.”

“I hate to tell you this, Ant, but it’s better with raisins.”

Anthony glowered at him. “You’re saying my pudding sucks?”

“No.” Michael’s voice was resolute. “I just think the way Mom made it was better.”

“Excuse me, but who’s the chef here?”

“That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

Anthony just stared at him. His brother wanted to talk to him about
chef
stuff? Oh, this was gonna be good. He couldn’t wait to hear this.

Anthony lifted his eyebrows expectantly. “Yes?”

“I’m gonna help you cook this sucker.”

“Excuse me?” Anthony leaned forward so the baby could grab his nose, which she’d been reaching for. “Say that again?”

“I’m going to help you in the kitchen during the cook-off.”

Anthony gently removed the baby’s hand from his face. “Um, no.”

“What do you mean, no?” Michael seemed offended. “My kid can help you out, but I can’t?”

“Exactly. Your kid has an interest in cooking. You don’t. It’s gonna be bad enough sharing the kitchen with the competition. I don’t want you in there, too, putting in your two cents where it doesn’t belong. You’re going to be out here in the dining room, doing what it is you do best: schmoozing the guests, encouraging them to vote for me.
Capisce
?”

“But—”

“This issue is closed, Mike.”

“You know—”

“Zip it,” Anthony warned with a glare. “And just so you know, there’s no way Little Ant is going to be in the kitchen while dinner is in full swing. It’s too dangerous. He can help me prep stuff, but that’s it.”

“I’m sure that’ll be fine with him,” Michael muttered.

“Anything else?”

“Do you have any idea what Vivi is planning to cook?” Michael asked uneasily.

“Nope.” Anthony kissed Angelica on the top of the head. “But we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

V
ivi stared into
one of the mirrors in the ladies’ room, trying to decide whether her wide-eyed “I’m shocked I won” face or her humble “This is a great honor” face would be better. In five minutes, she and Anthony would each begin their cook-off. Every table at Dante’s was filled with eager patrons who had paid for the privilege to vote, the proceeds going to Loaves and Fishes, a charity responsible for feeding the poor. Vivi had no doubt her tomato and zucchini gratin appetizer would eviscerate Anthony’s lamb kebabs, regardless of whatever fancy name he’d chosen to give them. From that point on, the issue of who was the superior chef would never be in doubt.

Vivi knew she’d made the right menu choices. After days of agonizing indecision, she’d settled on the gratin appetizer, turbot in cider vinegar sauce with a side of roasted red pepper for the entrée, and for a real dazzler of a finish, fresh pineapple flan. Vivi was annoyed when she learned Anthony was also making some kind of pudding for dessert, but then she realized this could actually work to her advantage; the similarity in concept and texture would make the superiority of her flan’s flavor all the more obvious.

“Vivi?”

Startled, Vivi turned. Natalie had poked her head in the ladies’ room door. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I just needed to collect myself.” She prayed Natalie hadn’t seen her making faces at herself in the mirror.

“Bernard Rousseau is here. He would like to meet you. Do you have a moment?”

In truth, Vivi didn’t. She really should get back to the kitchen. She was also mortified by the thought of meeting a friend of her father’s in her already spattered chef’s whites, no makeup on her face and a plain blue bandanna twisted around her head to keep her hair back. Still, she could tell from the hopefulness in Natalie’s voice this was important to her.

“Yes, of course,” said Vivi, following her sister out of the restroom as she tightened her apron, which had gone slack. “I would love to meet Bernard. But I can only stay for a moment.”

“V
ivi.”

Now that she had Bernard Rousseau standing right in front of her, Vivi indeed recognized him from her father’s funeral. He was tall, swarthy, and handsome enough to be egotistical about it, yet she got the sense he wasn’t. His smile was warm as he embraced her, his delight in seeing her genuine.

“My God,” he marveled in French. “I’d forgotten how much you resembled your father.”

Vivi blushed. “People usually think I resemble my mother.” She didn’t dare look at Natalie for fear Bernard’s observations somehow pained her.

“Well, perhaps you do,” Bernard allowed, making Vivi wonder if he’d ever met her mother. “But you also resemble your father, very much.”

“Thank you so much for coming,” Vivi said in a raised but sincere voice, wanting to make sure she was heard over the din of the restaurant crowd. Around her, the voices of the patrons seemed to swell and recede, like the tide. It was a sound she loved. Others might find ecstasy in silence, or in their favorite piece of music; Vivi found it in the bang and clatter of the kitchen, and in the cacophony of a full dining room.

“I cannot wait for your restaurant to open,” Bernard told her.

“Nor can I.”

When Theresa had first shown her the invitations she’d had printed up for the cook-off, Vivi had nearly fainted with pleasure at the line reading, “Dishes prepared by Chef Vivi Robitaille of Vivi’s, coming to Bensonhurst in spring 2008.” For some reason, the printed words made her dream feel real in a way it hadn’t yet, despite the checks being written and the handiwork of the DiDinatos, who promised they’d be done with the interior by the New Year. It was really going to happen. She was really going to have her own restaurant.

She squeezed Natalie’s arm. “I hate to be rude, but I really do need to get back into the kitchen.”

“Of course. Just one more thing.” Natalie pulled Vivi slightly away from Bernard. “Whoever arranged the seating has put Bernard and me with that oaf of a journalist, Quinn O’Brien,” she hissed. “Can you see about getting our seats switched?”

“Natalie, I don’t really have time to deal with this.” Vivi’s eyes scoured the crowd for Theresa. She pointed her out to Natalie. “That’s who you should speak with. Have you phoned her yet about PR?”

“I will, I will.”

Vivi frowned at her unhappily before turning back to smile at Bernard Rousseau. “It’s been very nice to see you, Bernard. I appreciate your coming, so much.”

“Once Natalie told me about it, I wouldn’t have dreamed of missing it.” Bernard shook Vivi’s hand warmly. “I will see both you and your sister soon, yes?”

What a nice man,
Vivi thought. “Yes, of course.”

Vivi was shocked when Natalie took her hands in her own, and held them tightly. “Relax,” Natalie commanded. “You’re going to win.”

“Yes.” Vivi hadn’t realized the tension she was feeling showed on her face. She squared her shoulders and stood up tall. “I can knock their corpses over, no problem, right?”

Natalie looked too confused to disagree. “Er, yes. Of course. You’re a wonderful cook. And it’s really all just for fun, remember?”

Vivi snorted. Fun. She’d try to remember that as she made her way back to Anthony’s kitchen.

“L
et’s go, let’s
go, let’s go!”

Anthony’s voice was a clap of thunder echoing off the kitchen’s white tile walls, startling his staff into overdrive or cowering, depending on their personalities. As he watched the waitstaff carry plates of his glorious
arrosticini abbruzzesi
out to the waiting crowd alongside plates of Vivi’s pedestrian gratin, he couldn’t resist stealing a look at her. Her porcelain smooth face was glistening with a thin film of sweat. Her long blonde hair was twisted back in a braid. Michael was right, she was beautiful. Already feeling victorious with the departure of the appetizers, he couldn’t resist the chance for a little fun.

“Your gratin looks a little burnt around the edges, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“I refuse to listen to you,” Vivi sniffed. “You’re just trying to upset me.”

“Well,
I
wouldn’t serve those pieces around the edge, that’s for sure.”

“What do you know?” Vivi retorted. “You expect people to be dazzled by lamb kebabs. Tell me: is this an Italian restaurant or a Greek taverna?”

Scowling, Anthony turned away just in time to see his brother and Little Ant stroll into the kitchen. “What the hell…?” Anthony muttered to himself, hustling over to them. “I told you,” he said to his brother in a controlled voice. “I don’t want Little Ant in here while we’re going crazy.”

“Please, Uncle Anthony?” Little Ant pleaded. “I won’t get in the way.”

Jesus help me,
Anthony thought. The kid was looking at him with such desperate puppy dog eyes, it was heartbreaking. “Fine,” Anthony capitulated gruffly, pointing to the back door of the kitchen. “You can go stand there and don’t you dare move. If anyone needs to use the door, you jump right out of the way. Got it?”

Little Ant’s face lit up. “Thank you, Uncle Ant.”

“As for you,” Anthony said to Michael, “get out there and schmooze. Talk up the dishes I’ve prepared as if your life depended on it.”

“What’ll I get in return?”

“I won’t kick your ass for constantly getting underfoot. Now go.”

D
esperate for a
small breather, Vivi peeked her head out of the kitchen doors. Anthony was going from table to table, talking to patrons.
Merde
. She should do the same. He looked like he was running for office, so smooth was his smile. What if he won? He’d taunt her endlessly; she knew it.

Her gaze lit on Natalie, who motioned for her to come over. Vivi hesitated, then headed toward the table.

“How is everything?” Vivi asked the table at large.

“Tres magnifique!”
Quinn O’Brien replied with gusto clearly designed to irk Natalie. It worked; Natalie made a disgusted face, as if she couldn’t believe she was sitting next to such an idiot.

“It’s wonderful,” Bernard Rousseau assured her.

“Which?” Vivi couldn’t resist asking. “The gratin or the lamb kebabs?”

“Both,” said Bernard.

Well, which one is better? Vivi longed to ask, but knew she couldn’t.

Seated to Bernard’s left was a large, handsome man whispering in the ear of a curvy, red-haired woman. Vivi edged toward the couple. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Vivi Robitaille. I’ll be opening a bistro across the street in a few months.”

The woman extended her hand. “I’m Gemma, Anthony and Michael’s cousin. And this is my husband, Sean.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Vivi. Michael and Anthony’s cousin, she thought. And her husband. That was two votes for Anthony right there.

Gemma’s husband, Sean, jerked a thumb at Quinn. “I’m responsible for turning this guy on to Dante’s.”

“Don’t worry, Vivi,” Quinn assured her. “I can’t wait for Vivi’s to open so I can check that out, too. Natalie has promised to be my date the first night it opens, haven’t you, Nat?”

Natalie gave a bored yawn, then turned her body away from him completely, which only made Quinn laugh.

Vivi’s thoughts crept back to Anthony’s cousin, Gemma. She wondered if Anthony knew how lucky he was to have so much family nearby. The woman didn’t resemble either Anthony or Michael, but that didn’t mean anything; Vivi and Natalie looked nothing alike. Vivi was disconcerted, though, by the appraising way Gemma was looking at her.

She excused herself to go back to the kitchen. On her way, she crossed paths with Anthony, their shoulders brushing. “If you’d like, I’ll help you with your socializing skills as a consolation prize,” he said with a smirk.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Vivi huffed, steaming through the kitchen doors. Honestly, it was a pity such a handsome man was such an arrogant ass.

“H
ow’s everyone doing?”

Finishing up his rounds in the dining room, Anthony saved the Blades’ table for last. Michael and Theresa sat there with the team’s coach, Ty Gallagher, and his wife, Janna. With them was their latest hotshot player, Jason Mitchell, with his cute but meek-looking girlfriend.

Michael tapped his fork against his plate. “Vivi’s gratin is exceptional.”

“But so is your lamb,” Theresa added.

“Which is better?” Anthony demanded.

Michael winced apologetically. “I’d have to say it’s a tie.”

“Tie,” Theresa agreed.

Anthony frowned. “Thank you. That was very helpful.” He pointed to his brother. “Ever think of luring this guy out of retirement?” he asked Ty Gallagher. “I don’t think playing househusband is his forte.”

“Judging by the number of take-out boxes in the fridge, I’d have to agree with you,” said Theresa.

Ty regarded Michael with amusement. “You wanna be our stick boy?”

Michael twisted around in his seat, looking at Anthony like he wanted to pop him one. “I think I’ll stick with diapers and dishes for just a little while longer, thank you.”

Anthony decided to wrap up his visit to the table, not wanting to leave Vivi to her own devices in the kitchen for too long; the ruthless gleam in her eye was beginning to worry him. “Please, if there’s anything I can do to make your dining experience more pleasant, let me know,” he concluded with a small bow.

“What he really means is, vote for him,” said Michael.

The table laughed.

V
ivi stole a
quick look out of the corner of her eye as Anthony, working not two feet away from her, put the finishing touches on his stuffed flank steak. It was an interesting dish, but she’d be damned if she’d ask for a preview. She didn’t want to pump up his already oversized ego. Besides, he hadn’t asked to taste anything of hers.

“Go!” Anthony barked to the kitchen’s tournant, who hurried to bring the first of the dinner platters to the waiting waiters.

“You’re being quite an ass tonight, you know,” she informed him mildly.

“To you? Or in general?”

“To me.”

Anthony wiped his hands down the front of his apron. “Competition is competition. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. Literally.”

“Another one of your American phrases, yes?”

“Yes.”

She tensed as he came closer to her, watching as she spooned cider vinegar over the poached fish she’d prepared.

“Did Hugo warm the dinner plates for you as you requested?” asked Anthony.

“Do you really care?”

“When junior staff are asked to do something in this kitchen, I want to make sure they’ve done it.”

“In that case,” said Vivi, hating the thought of getting someone in trouble, but knowing she had to be honest, “the answer is no.”

“Hugo!” Seconds later, a skinny, frazzled boy who looked to be about twenty presented himself to Anthony. “Yes, chef?”

“Vivi asked you to warm these plates for her and you forgot.”

Hugo looked stricken. “I meant to. It’s just that I was helping Rocco—”

“Don’t care,” Anthony barked, cutting him off. “You’ll be emptying the grease traps tonight. Got it?”

“Yes, chef,” Hugo said glumly, skulking away.

Anthony turned back to Vivi. “Are the warmed plates crucial? Or is the quality of the dish sufficient to endure room temperature flatware?”

Bastard,
Vivi thought.
Don’t let him rattle you or make you doubt yourself. Be strong.

“The plates could be fresh from the freezer and this turbot would be outstanding,” Vivi informed him. She told the staff they could start serving the turbot. With that, she sashayed past him to begin preparing the flan.

A
nthony couldn’t believe
how tense he felt as the votes were being counted. Dessert was done, the patrons were lingering over the coffee, and at the bar, two volunteer diners, both unknown to Anthony and Vivi personally, were tabulating the paper votes. He was dying for a glass of Sambuca to quell his nerves, but he didn’t want to distract the vote counters.