“Ladies.” Anthony gave a small bow. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Natalie looked him over. “Is it?”
Vivi shot a look of warning across the table. She was not here to antagonize; why did Natalie always seem to turn disagreeable around Anthony, when all the man did was greet them?
To his credit, Anthony ignored her. “Would you like to hear tonight’s specials?”
“Of course,” said Vivi, finding it hard to hold his gaze. Each time their eyes met, one or both of them would look away.
“Our appetizer special tonight is crisp fried zucchini blossoms.”
“Only the male blossoms, correct?” Vivi questioned.
Anthony looked insulted. “Of course.”
Natalie looked at both of them in alarm. “There are male and female zucchini blossoms?”
“Yes,” Vivi and Anthony answered simultaneously.
“Please,” Anthony said to Vivi with the faintest tone of condescension in his voice, “feel free to explain the difference to your sister.”
“I’m confident you could do a better job.”
“As you wish,” said Anthony with exaggerated politeness. He regarded Natalie. “Only the male blossoms, which are found on the stem, are edible. The female, attached to the zucchini itself, are mushy and bitter.”
“Fascinating,” Natalie drawled sarcastically. “Next?”
Anthony leveled her with an irritated stare before continuing. “Our pasta special tonight is tortellini with fish stuffing.”
Natalie wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t sound very enticing.”
“Then don’t order it,” Anthony said under his breath.
“I would very much like to hear what’s in it,” Vivi piped up, giving Natalie a small kick beneath the table.
Anthony actually looked appreciative of her interest. “The tortellini is, of course, homemade, while the filling is sea bass mixed with fresh spices, wine vinegar, and heavy cream.”
“Sounds very interesting,” Vivi murmured.
“I recommend it highly.”
“It’s not soggy, is it?”
“Sogginess is in the mouth of the beholder,” Anthony replied coolly.
Vivi looked down at the table to hide her smile. She had to admit, she enjoyed their verbal sparring just a little bit. She could see he did, too. The hardness in his eyes when he spoke with Natalie disappeared, replaced by a look guarded but a little more sportive.
“Our other special is chicken breast with pork and rosemary filling,” Anthony continued.
“You don’t need to hear what’s in that, do you, Vivi?” Natalie clucked impatiently.
Anthony and Vivi exchanged looks. Natalie just didn’t understand, did she?
“Aldo will return shortly to take your orders.” Anthony disappeared back into the kitchen.
“What on earth is going on?” Natalie demanded as soon as Anthony was gone.
Vivi sipped her ice water. “I don’t understand.”
“The energy between the two of you was almost embarrassing.”
“It’s called antagonism, Natalie.”
“We’ll see,” said Natalie, unfolding her napkin with a snap.
“Excuse me.” A handsome man with dancing blue eyes and thick, lustrous salt-and-pepper hair sitting at the next table leaned toward Vivi and Natalie. “I couldn’t help but noticing your accents. You’re French?”
“Oui,” said Vivi.
“Paris is one of my favorite places.” The man extended his hand. “Quinn O’Brien.”
“I’m Vivi Robitaille, and this is my…sister, Natalie Bocuse.”
“Pleased to meet you. You here on vacation?”
“No, we moved here,” Vivi explained, shooting a look at Natalie, whose face was frozen in disapproval. Vivi was baffled; the man was being very nice and friendly, what was wrong with that?
Quinn looked impressed. “For work?”
“Yes,” said Vivi. “I’m opening a restaurant across the street shortly.”
“Yeah?” Vivi loved the man’s accent; it was real “New Yawk,” like the accent she’d heard on so many TV shows and movies. “I’ll have to check it out. This is my turf.”
“You’re a policeman?” Vivi asked politely.
“God, no.” Quinn seemed to find the notion amusing. “I’m a reporter for the New York Sentinel. But a lot of my beat is here in Brooklyn.” He turned to Natalie. “What about you? You opening the restaurant with her?”
“I’m an investor, yes,” Natalie said primly.
“Professional?”
Natalie peered down her nose at him. “I don’t believe that’s any of your concern.”
Quinn chuckled softly. “Now I remember the one thing I didn’t like about Paris.”
Natalie’s lips pursed in disapproval. “What’s that?”
“Parisians.”
Vivi giggled, prompting Natalie to fix her with a glare. Perhaps the wisecrack didn’t bother Vivi because she wasn’t actually from Paris. Or maybe it was that she could see Quinn was just teasing Natalie, trying to get her to relax a little. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to be working.
“How terribly rude you are!” Natalie hissed.
Quinn flashed a devilish smile. “I wanted you to feel at home.”
“Parisians might be rude, but at least we aren’t overweight like most of you Americans,” Natalie retorted.
“That’s because you burn so many extra calories dodging the dog shit on the sidewalks.”
Vivi snorted and covered her mouth. Oh my, she thought, this Quinn O’Brien is very sharp and very funny. She liked him immediately. Natalie raised her menu so it was in front of her face.
Quinn turned to Vivi apologetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your meal.”
“Au contraire,” said Vivi, “it was very nice meeting you. We love the American sense of humor, don’t we, Natalie?”
Natalie said nothing. Quinn tipped the menu forward. “Sorry to bug ya, Nat. Hope to see you around.”
“Oh!” Natalie looked scandalized as she pulled the menu back to her face.
“I’m going to check out your restaurant when it opens, Vivi. And that’s a promise,” said Quinn.
“Please do.”
Quinn returned to reading his book. This time it was Vivi who pulled Natalie’s menu from her face—pulled it completely from her hands, as a matter of fact.
“You can come out now,” Vivi whispered. “The big, bad American man is gone.”
“I don’t believe you!” Natalie hissed. “How could you laugh when he said those things to me?”
“He was teasing you, Natalie. He didn’t mean it. He was just trying to get you to lighten up, as they say here.”
“What is it with these Americans, asking one’s name, what one does—”
“Natalie.” Vivi’s voice was low and placating. “Those questions are not considered rude here. You should know that by now.”
“A journalist,” Natalie continued disdainfully as if she hadn’t heard. “The lowest of the low.”
Vivi ignored the criticism. “He’s very handsome, don’t you think?”
“For a swine.”
Sometimes there was no talking to Natalie. Once she got an idea fixed in her head, it was etched in stone. Vivi supposed she could understand Natalie’s aversion to anyone in the press; it was the French media, after all, who revealed her affair with the cabinet minister, in effect destroying both her personal and professional life. But Natalie really needed to accept that when it came to social mores, Americans were different. Not better, not worse, just different. Vivi opened her own menu with a sigh. Hopefully, Natalie would relax once dinner was ordered and a bottle of wine brought to the table.
“Garcon—I mean, waiter—can we have the check, please?”
Vivi’s smile was polite as she hailed the faithful Aldo. She and Natalie had had a wonderful meal. The rosemary and pork–filled chicken cutlets were a little heavy on the rosemary, but
other than that, she had no real complaints, which bothered her a little bit.
“What did you think?” she asked her sister.
“Good,” Natalie allowed reluctantly. “You’re better.”
Vivi laughed. “Of course.”
Aldo’s expression was solemn as he appeared at the table. “The meal is compliments of the chef.”
Vivi couldn’t hide her surprise. “Excuse me?”
“A professional courtesy.”
“Oh.” Vivi perked up in her seat. “How lovely.” So, Anthony did think of her as a professional. How gratifying.
“Thank him for us,” Natalie told Aldo.
“Actually,” said Vivi, “would it be possible to thank him in person?”
Natalie heaved a put-upon sigh. “Do we have to? The last thing I want to do is be stuck here while you two get all excited over chicken breasts and Lord knows what else.”
“It will only take a minute,” Vivi assured her as she rose. “In fact, you stay here and finish your coffee. I’ll go back and extend my compliments.”
“Okay, what didn’t you like?”
Vivi tried to hold on to the goodwill she was feeling as she approached Anthony where he sat outside on the kitchen steps, puffing on a cigarette. Here she’d come to compliment him—to the degree she could—and immediately he had to put her on the defensive. She’d prove to him she was a bigger person than that by not stooping to his level.
“Actually, I’m here to thank you for the free meal.”
“You’re very welcome,” said Anthony, throwing his cigarette to the ground and stamping it underfoot. “Nasty habit,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “I only do it occasionally.”
“I used to do it all the time,” Vivi confessed.
“No more?”
“They crucify you in America if you smoke, yes?”
“Pretty much. You saying you stopped when you came here?”
Vivi hesitated. “Yes. To save money. Plus, like you said, it’s a nasty habit.”
“Who wants to smell like an ashtray, right?”
“Right.”
Anthony folded his arms across his chest. Vivi was struck by how tan and muscled his forearms were. Alain, the last man she had dated back in Paris, over seven months ago, had been thin and pale, in no way robust. Odd, to think of Alain at this moment.
Anthony was eyeing her with disbelief. “You expect me to believe that as another chef, you’ve got absolutely no criticism of the meal?”
“Well…”
Anthony shook his head, laughing to himself. “Man, I knew it. Hit me. Go ahead.”
Vivi blinked, alarmed. “You want me to hit you?” Perhaps Natalie was right, and Americans were rude in a way Vivi was just now experiencing.
Anthony ran his hand over his mouth. “‘Hit me’ is an American expression. It means, let me hear it, don’t hold anything back. Understand?”
“Yes, yes,” Vivi said enthusiastically. Hit me. She liked that. It sounded tough, swaggering. Perfect for the braggart standing before her. “Shall I hit you?”
“Yeah, I bet you’d love to. Go on.”
“I think there was a little too much rosemary in the chicken. A soupcon would have been better. Soupcon means—”
“I know what a soupcon is. And I disagree.”
“It overpowered the pork filling.”
“It helped accentuate the pork’s natural flavors,” Anthony maintained.
“Well, I beg to differ, but of course, you’ll never admit I’m right.”
“You think you could do better?”
“Of course.” Vivi put a hand on her cocked hip. “Are you challenging me to another cooking contest?”
Anthony held up a hand. “Whoa, let’s get our facts straight here, lady. You challenged me last time around, remember?”
“Yes, you’re right. You thought you could do better than my tart. And you were wrong.”
Anthony shook his head. “Sad, the way you twist reality to make yourself feel better.” He turned around, taking a quick look to make sure everything was okay in the kitchen. “You game?” he asked Vivi as he turned back to her.
Vivi looked at him blankly.
“See if you can figure that one out,” Anthony urged.
“Does it mean, am I willing to meet your challenge?” Vivi asked uncertainly.
“Exactly.”
“Of course I am,” said Vivi.
An uncomfortable moment passed between them. Vivi wondered if he, like she, was thinking of the kiss they had shared at her apartment.
“Shall we have it here?” Vivi said tentatively.
Anthony looked reluctant. “I guess.”
“You don’t seem very enthusiastic.”
“It’s just a pain in the ass—” He stopped, looking apologetic. “Pardon my F—Never mind.”
“No. What were you going to say?”
“I was going to say, ‘pardon my French,’ which is another American expression. It’s something we say when we curse.”
Vivi scowled. “Why? Because we French are so foulmouthed?”
“Hey, don’t blame me! I didn’t come up with it.”
“It’s a very derogatory phrase.”
“Try being called a guinea or a wop or a dago. Then you’ll know derogatory.” Anthony glanced back at the kitchen, obviously itching to get back inside. “You really want to have it here?”
“I would love it,” Vivi said longingly.
“My house might be better.”
Vivi narrowed her eyes. “You don’t want me in your precious restaurant kitchen, do you?”
“Would you want me in yours?”
“Only if I had to,” Vivi admitted, glancing behind her.
Anthony sighed. “All right, look: I can see you’re dying to be let loose inside. Why don’t you meet me here Sunday morning and you can cook your little heart out.”
“That would be wonderful—if you promise not to breathe down my neck.”
“This is my kitchen, Vivi. I can do what I want.”
Vivi shrugged. “Fine. Sunday it is, then.”
“By the way,” said Anthony, giving a small stretch as he yawned, “I’m expecting to be dazzled. Think you can manage it?”
“In my sleep,” Vivi shot back at him, using one of the few American expressions she’d learned. “See you on Sunday.”
Chapter 10
Anthony was always the last one to leave Dante’s and lock up for the night. He loved standing alone in the silent kitchen after the staff had left, admiring the rows of gleaming pots and pans, knowing tomorrow would bring another day of joyous chaos. From there he’d move on to the dining room, where just a few hours before, the tables had been full of customers stuffing themselves with his delicious food. A sentimental man, Anthony never ceased to marvel at how his parents had built this place up from the ground, first as a pizzeria serving by the slice, then gradually expanding to a well-respected restaurant. He and Mikey had taken it a step further a few years back, enlarging the space and updating the menu, but deep down, Anthony still thought of Dante’s as a humble Italian joint serving “good gravy and macaroni,” as his old man liked to say. Anthony had always hoped that one day he’d be able to keep tradition going by handing over the reins to his own son or daughter, but Angie’s death had forced him to reconfigure his dreams. Little Ant was his next best hope. Not that he’d ever force the kid to follow in his footsteps, unlike someone else in his family.
“Anthony?”
Startled, Anthony paused in the darkened dining room, trying to place the voice calling out to him. “Who’s there?”
“Lorraine.”
King of heaven and all the damn saints, thought Anthony. He should have known this was coming.
“What are you doing sitting in the dark, Lorraine?” asked Anthony as he moved to flick on the lights.
“I was waiting for you.”
“You could have waited with the lights on.”
“I wanted to
surprise you.”
“Well, you succeeded on that score.”
Lorraine was sitting at a table for two near the kitchen door, her hands folded primly in her lap. She looked much the same as she did in high school—same chin-length black hair, same dark circles beneath the hangdog eyes. Anthony could picture her sleepwalking. He could also picture her in her underwear, doing the hokey pokey in front of Mr. Leotardo’s blackboard. Insane Lorraine. Goddamned Michael.
“What can I do for you, Lorraine?”
“I just wanted to thank you for hiring me, Anthony. I really, really, really appreciate it.”
“No problem.” Anthony swallowed, feeling guilty since God knows he’d only done so under duress. Maybe Mikey was right; maybe he was being a little hard-hearted. People like Lorraine needed compassion. He felt bad about making fun of her in high school along with everyone else, but then again, that’s what kids did; they preyed on the weak to make themselves feel better. He had been on the receiving end of a few jokes back in the day, some guys calling him a “fag” because he liked to cook. Of course, the difference between them was that when Lorraine was taunted, she would snap like a strand of uncooked spaghetti, whereas Anthony could crush a tormentor’s head like a walnut if he so chose.
Lorraine’s gaze traveled anxiously around the empty dining room. “I think I did good tonight.” Her voice was flat, a tin can that had been repeatedly run over in the road.
Anthony masked a grimace. “Did Mike talk to you about perking up your voice a bit? Smiling at the customers when they come in and all that stuff?”
“Uh-huh,” Lorraine said flatly. “I’m pretty sure I can do it.”
“Good, good.”
Lorraine abruptly turned to Anthony in wonder. “Whoever thought Michael would have so many kids, huh?”
“Yeah, well, you meet the right woman…”
Just a Taste Page 10