Still pensive, Natalie moved to look out the large front window, the one Vivi could picture with her own name stenciled across it in white script. Natalie’s gaze remained critical as she peered up and down the street. “Not the most—how shall we say?—upscale area.”
Vivi bristled. “That’s the point.”
“It’s very bourgeois,” Natalie continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Very American bourgeois,” she concluded with a small sniff.
“What’s wrong with that?” Vivi said. The disdain many of her fellow French had for America puzzled her. She loved the place! Her aunt Solange had moved to New York when Vivi was a child, and every other summer, Vivi and her mother came to visit. America always left her dizzied—not only by the sheer scale of the place, but the energy, the inventiveness. Some of her countrymen saw Americans as crude, but not Vivi. She found them spirited and comfortable in their own skins; a people willing to take risks and dream big. This was exactly the place she—and Natalie—needed to be.
Natalie sighed. “I suppose if we fail, it’s better to fail here than in Manhattan.”
“We’re not going to fail.”
Natalie eyed her with measured affection. “I’m amazed by your—what’s the American expression?—pluck.”
“You know what a great cook I am, Natalie. And you know how thoroughly I did my research.”
“Just because this place is filled with ‘average’ people doesn’t mean they’ll want your food.” She pointed out the window to the large, red brick restaurant across the street called Dante’s Ristorante. “That’s what they want: spaghetti, big fat meatballs…bah.” She turned away in disgust.
“They’ll want what I make, too,” Vivi insisted stubbornly. “And if they don’t, then the food will be good enough to draw people from Manhattan. I’m not worried. People want good, home-cooked food at reasonable prices. They want to sit down and relax over a simple, hearty meal at the end of the day.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am.”
Natalie studied her nails. “I still don’t see why you insisted on renting an apartment here rather than in Manhattan with me.”
“I want to live where I work, Natalie,” said Vivi, tired of having to explain again. “I want to know the names and faces of my neighbors and future customers, and I want them to know me. Besides, getting into the city won’t be a problem. I’ll just hop on the Metro.”
“Subway,” Natalie corrected. “And it’s filthy, by the way.” She shuddered. “Degoutante.”
“What are you saying?” Vivi teased. “That you’re only going to travel by cab? Or hire a limo, perhaps?”
“Now there’s an idea…”
Vivi furrowed her brows, worried that Natalie might be serious. Natalie caught her expression and chuckled.
“Don’t worry. You concentrate on getting this place up and running, and making Vivi’s the best it can be. I’ll worry about the dollars and cents.”
“If you say so.”
Vivi took another tour of the space. The sweet smell of candy still lingered, bringing back pleasant memories of childhood. She’d been a happy little girl, never more so than when maman let her help out in the kitchen. Even as a small child, standing on a step stool beside the old gas stove, stirring potato soup under her mother’s watchful eye, she knew she was destined to be a chef. Some people likened the clang of pots and pans to a headache, but not Vivi. To her, it was like church bells pealing in her ears, reminding her of her calling.
“Quick!” Natalie called from the window. “Come look!”
Vivi hustled to join her. Together they watched as a broadly built, dark haired, handsome man unlocked the door of the restaurant across the street, slipping inside.
“The owner,” Natalie deduced.
“No doubt.” Vivi tugged Natalie’s sleeve and began pulling her toward the door. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”
Natalie looked appalled. “What, now?”
“Yes, why not?”
“Let’s wait half an hour or so. Otherwise, it will look like we were standing here spying on him.”
“We were!”
The sisters laughed.
“Half an hour, then,” Vivi agreed. Then she’d get to meet the first of her neighbors. She couldn’t wait.
Chapter 2
“Hello. Can I help you?”
Vivi smiled at the handsome, rugged man standing in the doorway of Dante’s Ristorante. He seemed slightly shorter than the man they’d seen enter just half an hour before. His expression was typically American: open and friendly. She felt reassured that her decision to open a bistro here rather than Paris, or even back home in Avignon, was the right one.
Vivi shot a quick sideways glance at Natalie to see if she wanted to field the man’s question, but it was obvious from Natalie’s ramrod posture that Vivi would be the one doing the talking. She was glad. Natalie could come across as imperious at first. Better she handle the initial introductions.
“My name is Vivi Robitaille, and this is my ha—my sister, Natalie.” She pointed across the street. “We purchased the old candy store, and we just wanted to introduce ourselves.”
The man looked delighted. “You’re French, right?”
“Oui,” said Vivi.
“I love your accent.” The man extended his hand. “My name’s Michael Dante. I’m half owner of this place with my brother, Anthony.”
Vivi hesitated slightly. “Is he the tall man who arrived earlier?”
Michael laughed. “Yeah, that’s Ant, all right. He’s the head chef.”
“I’m a chef, too!” Vivi said excitedly. “I would very much love to speak with him!”
“Come on in,” said Michael, holding the door open wide. The inside of the restaurant surprised Vivi; it was much larger than it appeared from the outside. There were various-sized tables and a long, sleek wooden bar. Beyond the sea of tables was yet another dining room, probably used for private parties. Vivi took it as a good sign that a restaurant this large was thriving in the neighborhood. Natalie would say it was because it served Italian food in an Italian enclave, but Vivi had been working in restaurants long enough to know there was more to it than that. For a place this large to do well year in, year out, the food had to be outstanding.
Michael pointed to an empty table for four. “Have a seat. I’ll go get my brother.”
“Actually, could I see the kitchen?” Vivi could feel Natalie’s eyes chastising her for being so pushy, but she didn’t care.
“Sure, no problem. Just don’t be surprised if Anthony’s got his head stuck in a pot of sauce and he’s less than cordial. He can be a little intense sometimes.”
“All chefs are,” Vivi said.
Michael looked thoughtful. “I guess you’re right. You couldn’t even talk to our father when he was in the middle of ‘mangia making,’ as he used to call it. He’d either bite your head off, or give you a chore and tell you to get busy.”
Vivi laughed. “Sounds familiar.”
Michael smiled, motioning for Vivi and her sister to follow him. Vivi ventured another quick glance at Natalie, who was clearly displeased that they weren’t remaining in the dining room.
“Ten minutes,” Natalie whispered in a warning voice. “That’s it. I know how rapturous you get at the sight of industrial-sized gas ranges and Sub-Zero freezers! I don’t want to be here all day!”
“We won’t be,” Vivi promised, though nothing would make her happier. She could feel the anticipation building inside her as Michael nudged open the swinging stainless steel doors of the kitchen with his hip. Vivi held her breath, her mouth falling open at the sight of the huge, well-lit, well-ventilated kitchen. It was as though Saint Peter had just permitted her to pass through the gates into heaven.
“Company, Ant,” Michael announced.
The large man Vivi and Natalie had seen enter the restaurant earlier looked up from where he stood at the stove, peering into a large, stainless steel pot of sauce as
if scrying. Vivi closed her eyes a moment and inhaled deeply, trying to pinpoint the individual ingredients making the sauce smell so inviting. Fresh garlic…basil…carrot…perhaps the slightest hint of nutmeg? Interesting.
“This is Vivi and Natalie,” Michael continued as Anthony wiped his hands on the front of his apron. “They’re the ones who bought Old Man Garlasco’s candy store.”
At the mention of the candy store, Vivi thought she saw a small smirk play across Anthony’s lips. Arrogant, she thought, though on a certain level, she understood completely; all chefs were wary of new competition. Out of habit, her gaze was drawn to Anthony’s hands. They were beautiful in the way a chef’s hands should be: strong and scarred. Her eyes traveled back to his face. He was handsome, and judging from the slight upward tilt to his head, proud. She stole a quick glance at the prep cooks assembled in the kitchen, all of whom had greeted her and Natalie with pleasant smiles when they walked in. They seemed happily focused on their tasks. Of course, it was still early in the day. She knew that by the time the restaurant opened, nerves would be a bit frayed and a mild frenzy would prevail. She also knew that the minute she and Natalie left, they’d be back to chatting and gossiping, using the foulest words they could find where appropriate. Restaurant kitchens were not for the faint of heart, especially when it came to pressure and indelicate language.
Anthony joined the semicircle where Vivi, Natalie, and Michael stood by the kitchen door. “I hear you’re opening a restaurant.” His voice had a deep, rich timbre. He sounded self assured, and a little too cocky for Vivi’s taste.
“Yes,” Vivi answered, giving her head the same proud tilt as his. “A bistro.”
“A bistro,” Anthony repeated stonily. “Now there’s an original concept.”
“Anthony,” Michael murmured under his breath, sounding embarrassed.
“You are afraid of some competition, maybe?” Vivi purred, teasing out the words slowly for maximum effect.
Anthony tilted his head a fraction higher. “I’ve got no competition. I’m peerless.”
“Egocentrique,” Natalie sniffed.
“And damn proud of it.”
The enticing smell of the sauce on the stove was driving Vivi crazy. She had to know what, exactly, was giving it that wonderful tang. “Excuse me, is there nutmeg in that sauce?”
Anthony looked surprised—and impressed. “A little.”
“Chianti, too, yes?”
Anthony frowned. “Of course there’s Chianti. Who ever heard of making gravy without Chianti?”
Vivi and Natalie exchanged glances. “Gravy?”
“It’s Italian slang for pasta sauce,” Michael explained.
Anthony, meanwhile, seemed to be appraising Vivi suspiciously. “So, you’re the chef, huh?”
“Yes,” Vivi said. She glanced at the kitchen again in wonder. “This is a beautiful kitchen! So much room!”
“It started out strictly as a pizza joint,” Anthony began to explain proudly, “and my folks built it up from there—”
“To the friggin’ headache it is today,” Michael joked.
Vivi blinked. Friggin’? A curse word?
“Speak for yourself,” Anthony told Michael.
“Where did you train?” Natalie asked Anthony.
Anthony looked confused. “Train?”
“What cooking school did you go to?” Vivi clarified. She was glad Natalie asked, since she, too, was curious.
“You want to know where I trained?” Anthony pointed to the bank of stoves behind him. “Right there.”
Vivi covered her surprise. “You didn’t go to cooking school?”
“I didn’t need to go to cooking school. Good cooking comes from here”—he tapped his chest over his heart—“not here.” He tapped his forehead twice.
Against her better judgment, Vivi found herself impressed. “I guess…if one is nurtured young…cooking school isn’t strictly necessary.”
“Then why did you let Papa send you to Le Cordon Bleu?” Natalie snapped.
Vivi was dumbstruck. What business was it of Natalie’s whether their father paid for her culinary education? Perhaps sensing the tension, Michael Dante smiled brightly and asked, “When are you ladies hoping to open?”
“About nine months from now,” said Vivi.
“Why Bensonhurst?” Anthony asked.
“Why not?” Natalie retorted.
Vivi stared at her sister, wide eyed. Why was she being so rude? First the egocentrique comment, now this. Was she trying to show these brothers they weren’t two fluffy little mademoiselles? Vivi was interested in making friends, not enemies. Anthony’s wariness toward them seemed to grow with each of Natalie’s waspish comments.
Vivi smiled at Anthony. “Maybe you could recommend some contractors to us? What suppliers you use?”
“Maybe.”
“Of course we will,” Michael said graciously, shooting his brother an annoyed look, which Anthony pointedly ignored.
Vivi gestured toward the stove. “Your sauce is done, I think. It smells done.”
This time Anthony didn’t hide his smirk. “It does, huh?”
“Yes,” Vivi maintained primly.
“I’m pretty sure it’s got five minutes or so to go before all the flavors have peaked.”
Vivi shrugged. “It’s your kitchen.”
“That’s right.”
“But I still think it’s done,” she insisted. She could hear her mother’s scolding voice in her head: “Don’t be such a know-it-all when it comes to food, Vivi!” But she couldn’t help it. Food was her passion, preparing it perfectly her obsession. Judging by the look of begrudging respect mingled with annoyance that flashed across Anthony Dante’s face, he understood exactly where she was coming from, even if he didn’t like it.
“Tell you what,” Anthony challenged. “When it’s your kitchen and you’re making the gravy, you can decide how long it cooks. Capisce?”
Vivi regarded Anthony politely. “I’m sorry if you feel I insulted you. It’s just important to me that things turn out right.”
“I’ve been making the gravy since I was ten,” Anthony replied. “I think I know when it’s done.”
“And I think—”
“Oh, my.” Natalie looked at her Cartier watch and began nudging Vivi toward the door. “Look at the time. We’ve got to get going.”
It was the last thing Vivi wanted. She wanted to wait and see whether she’d been right about the sauce. She wanted to chop, peel, flambé, roast, sear, blanch, fry, boil, bake, mix, blend, simmer. But most of all, she wanted to make it clear to Anthony Dante that she knew her way around a kitchen just as well as he did, if not better. Men! They always thought they knew better, they always thought—
Natalie began dragging her toward the doorway. “Au revoir, neighbors, au revoir.”
Vivi shook Natalie off. “Perhaps we can talk sometime,” she said to Anthony.
He looked dubious. “About what?”
“Food.” Bold though she knew it was, she plucked the pen held in place at his waist by the drawstring at the front of his apron. “Here’s my address and cell phone number,” she said, rummaging through her purse for a piece of scrap paper, upon which she scribbled furiously.
“Look, you can stop in here anytime you want,” Michael offered graciously. This time it was Anthony who looked irked, not the other way around.
“I don’t want to be a pest,” said Vivi, holding out the paper with her address and phone number on it to Anthony. Their eyes locked. For a split second, it looked as if he might refuse, prompting a surge of anger within her. But then he reached out and took it, folding the paper into a careful square before tucking it into the back pocket of his pants.
“Au revoir,” Natalie trilled desperately one final time, practically dragging Vivi by the hair.
“Nice meeting you,” said Michael. “Right, Ant?”
“I’ve gotta go check the gravy, Mikey,” is all Vivi heard as Natalie propelled her thro
ugh the kitchen doors. Vivi smiled to herself. He was second-guessing himself, worried that perhaps she was right. Which she was, of course.
“She likes you.”
Anthony ignored his brother’s comment as he lifted a large wooden spoon to his lips to sample the gravy. Ha! That obnoxious French woman was wrong; it still had a minute or two to go before the wine had completely evaporated. Still, she was in the ballpark, which was impressive, especially for someone who clearly didn’t know her ass from her elbow when it came to Italian food.
He moved to check the progress of his new sous chef, Sam, who was busy dicing a small mountain of vegetables. Things seemed to be on schedule. Maybe tonight’s typical Sunday rush wouldn’t be too insane after all. Not that he really minded.
“Did you hear me?”
Anthony turned to Michael, who had taken a small spoon and was dipping it into a bowl of cannoli filling with alarming regularity, much to the annoyance of Anthony’s pastry chef, Rocco. “If you want to keep all your fingers, Mikey, I suggest you stop what you’re doing right now,” Anthony warned.
Michael looked up guiltily into Rocco’s scowling face and put down the spoon. “Sorry,” he mumbled. Rocco grunted something unintelligible and picked up the next cannoli shell to fill.
“Did you hear me?” Michael repeated, annoying as a mosquito that wouldn’t stop buzzing around your ears.
“I heard you,” Anthony replied. “She’s not my type.”
“Why? Because she’s alive?”
Anthony ignored the wisecrack and returned to the stove to reduce the heat under the gravy. The minute the first anniversary of Angie’s death passed, Michael started riding his ass about dating, as if there were a statute of limitations on grief. You’ve mourned her a year! Time to go out and find a new wife. What Mikey didn’t get was that Anthony was fine with his life as it was. He had his family, his restaurant, his friends; he didn’t want to take another shot at love. Everyone knew lightning didn’t strike twice, so why bother?
“You have to admit,” Michael continued undeterred as he sidled up beside his brother at the stove, “she was kind of cute.”
Just a Taste Page 2