On weekends, street vendors crowd the sidewalks, selling beaded necklaces, used CDs, bandanas in exotic colors, cheap, plastic running shoes, and Steelers paraphernalia by the ton. It’s a loud, jostling, carnivalesque experience and one of the best things about Pittsburgh. There’s even a bakery called Bruno’s that sells only biscotti—at least fifteen different varieties daily. Bruno used to be an accountant until he retired from Mellon Bank at the age of sixty-five to bake biscotti full-time. There’s a little hand-scrawled sign in the front window that says, GET IN HERE! You can’t pass it without smiling.
It’s a little after eight when Chloe and I finish up at the Pennsylvania Macaroni Company where, in addition to the prosciutto, soppressata, both hot and sweet sausages, fresh ricotta, mozzarella, and imported Parmigiano Reggiano, all essential ingredients for pizza rustica, I’ve also picked up a couple of cans of San Marzano tomatoes, which I happily note are thirty-nine cents cheaper here than in New York.
I’m planning a feast. Today my father and I will cook Italian peasant food, fried, heavy, greasy stuff. We will make Chloe a fried pizza with plain tomato sauce. She’ll get it all over her face and love it. Kid food. It will take all day, and the smell of garlic, oil, and the fried dough will hang in the air for a week. I can already feel my spirits begin to lift.
There’s already a line at Bruno’s coming out the door and snaking its way along Penn Avenue. Chloe and I join the line, which, this particular Saturday morning, looks to be made up of mostly the well-heeled sipping their Starbucks lattes while waiting for the biscotti flavors of the day.
Bruno’s opened years ago, when I was still in high school. I used to come here often then, mostly to do my homework on the worn wooden tables, sipping lattes and nibbling the biscotti ends, the burnt, crusty little bits that Bruno sold for a dollar a bag because they were too small and too well-done for most people to want them.
I’m sure Bruno won’t remember me. After all, it’s been over twenty years, and even if Bruno is still around, he’ll be well over eighty. Chloe and I brave the long line anyway and are finally rewarded a good fifteen minutes later with a black pepper biscotti for me and a vanilla one for Chloe. We are waited on by a young woman who has a thick hoop running through her top lip and another at the top of her ear. No sign of Bruno. Although I’m tempted to ask about him, I don’t.
When we arrive home, my father is sitting in the kitchen, the newspaper open in front of him, putting the finishing touches on the crossword. “Good morning, ladies,” he says with a smile.
Chloe strains in her stroller, arching her back and reaching for me to release her. Seeing my hands are full of groceries, my father moves to free her. “Watch out, Dad, she’s a mess. She’ll spoil your sweater.” Chloe’s hands are greasy from the sausage and the biscotti, which she has managed to completely dissolve by gumming it into a glutinous paste, most of which is now smeared all over her face.
“Ah, I see you’ve been to Bruno’s,” my father says, dampening a paper towel and handing it to me.
“Yes,” I tell him, wiping Chloe’s face and hands. “We brought you some. Black pepper and cornmeal are still my favorites.” I put the packages down. “We didn’t see Bruno, though. Is he—”
“Retired. Or semi anyway. I see him there every once in a while. His family, a son and a couple of grandkids, run the business now.”
“Hey,” I say, fishing around in the groceries for the bag from Bruno’s. “I got the fixings for pizza rustica. Want to help?”
“Well, okay, but I’ve got a few things to do this morning,” he says, studying his watch. “If you start the dough, I’ll help you when I get back.”
Once my father leaves, I finish putting away the groceries, taking inventory, as I do, of the contents of his refrigerator. As a cook I generally believe that you can tell a lot about people by what they keep in their refrigerators. What comforts them, what they need to have on hand to sustain them. Bon Appétit magazine publishes an interview with a different famous person each month, and often the interviewer will ask the celebrity to name three things that can always be found in his or her refrigerator. The answers are generally too finely crafted to be believable. “A bottle of Stoli, fresh raspberries, and beluga caviar,” or, “San Pellegrino, fresh figs, and key limes.”
Doesn’t anyone else in the world have the wizened carrots and limp celery, the perpetually moldering Tupperware container with last month’s leftovers? The kind you finally throw away, unopened, because the contents are simply too disgusting to deal with? It has been a point of honor with me that every professional refrigerator I’ve been in charge of has always been scrupulously clean, but my home fridge, well, that’s another story. It had been one of the bones of contention between Jake and me. I have trouble letting go of things. I hold on to them until they rot. Not a pleasant thing to admit about oneself and probably, in Jake’s defense, not an easy thing to live with either. If I’m ever interviewed by Bon Appétit magazine, will I have the courage to admit to my own bulging Tupperware? Certainly not. “A bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé, Niçoise olives, and a wedge of camembert,” I’ll gamely respond.
My father, however, belies what I refer to as the Tao of the Fridge. He’s a scientist, which, I suppose, explains the neatly stacked rows of Tupperware containers in the freezer, labeled with the contents and the date in clear, block printing. But he’s also a cook, though you might not know it from examining the contents of his refrigerator: a carton of skim milk, two lemons, a container of low-fat cottage cheese, an unidentifiable cheese wrapped in several thicknesses of plastic wrap, a loaf of Jewish corn rye, a large bottle of kimchee hot sauce (for the Chinese takeout), and, in the door, a bottle of red nail polish.
He has lived alone for eighteen years and has gotten used to cooking for himself. From the many years of living with my mother he learned to shop the European way, going to the market every day. Buy only enough lettuce for the evening’s salad, only enough bread for tonight and perhaps tomorrow’s breakfast. Buy fresh herbs only when you need them. This explains everything currently in his refrigerator. Except the red nail polish.
I work for the next couple of hours while Chloe plays on the floor by my feet. I spread out a blanket and put out some toys. I talk to her as I cook, describing the ingredients and what I’m doing with them in that foolish, unnaturally high-pitched voice mothers use. When the dough for the pizza has risen, I retrieve Chloe from under the kitchen table where she has settled and sit her on my knee. Together we punch down the dough, burying our fists in its luxurious folds.
We stop for a snack, a couple of slices of prosciutto, some cheese, and the heel of a loaf of Italian bread. Because I’m training Chloe to have a sophisticated palate, I do not heed the butcher’s maxim that prosciutto di Parma shouldn’t be wasted on someone who has no teeth. Besides, she has four. Not that she needs them, anyway. The meat really does melt in your mouth.
Sometime later, there’s a knock at the back door. It’s Richard, holding a small potted palm and a little, stuffed teddy bear. I fling open the door and throw my arms around him.
“Welcome home, sweetie! Careful,” he says into my neck, where I’ve imprisoned him in a hug, “or you will squish these expensive silk leaves. I knew better than to get you a live plant. And this,” he says, holding out the teddy bear and stepping into the house, “is for la diva. I’m sure she has forgotten me by now, so I have decided to bribe my way back into her heart. Where is she?”
Richard follows me into the kitchen where Chloe is again playing under the table. He gestures for me to be quiet as he pulls out one of the chairs and sits down, dangling the teddy bear in between his knees. To Richard’s delight, it takes Chloe about five seconds to crawl over and reach for the bear, and when she does, he leans down, puts his head under the table and smiles at her.
“Hello, you. Remember me?” Chloe gives him a tentative half smile and tugs gently on the bear’s leg. It seems that the measure of her response will be dependent on how q
uickly Richard will release the bear into her custody. He lets go at once, and she gives him a smile showing all four of her new teeth.
“Settling in?”
“Yes, well enough. Dad set us up a nice little apartment on the third floor. Decorated it and everything. He hung some pictures and polished my old bedroom furniture. Really nice.”
For as long as I could remember, the third floor had been my father’s haven, filled with all his books, his drafting table, and other assorted tools of his trade. I was touched to find he’d converted my old bedroom on the second floor into his new office and taken great pains to set up a little apartment for Chloe and me on the third. There are two rooms, one a little sitting area with an old couch he dragged up from the basement and a couple of bookshelves which he emptied for me. He put my old bedroom furniture in the adjacent bedroom. Nice Danish Modern stuff that I’d thought hopelessly faddish when I was growing up, but which now had taken on a kind of chic mid-century patina. He’d also borrowed a crib from somewhere—he was vague about it when I asked where it had come from—complete with (used, but clean) Winnie the Pooh quilt and bumpers.
“But you know I won’t really feel settled until I cook something. So,” I say, gesturing to the dough into which I have just again sunk my hands, “pizza rustica.”
“Mmm. Sounds great. I’m starving.”
“Well, you better have a little snack or something, because this won’t be ready for a while. Dad must have gone into the office. He left hours ago. I kind of thought he would enjoy helping me make it.”
“Since when does your father decorate?” Richard says, standing up and brushing away a line of flour from his trousers. “This I’ll have to see. And what does he think of his divine granddaughter?”
“He thinks she’s great. You know, he’s acting silly and talking to her in this cute little voice. And he bought her a ton of toys. She’s going to get spoiled.” I pause. I suddenly feel tired, and my eyes begin to sting. “Really, he’s been wonderful.”
Richard passes behind me and gives my arm a gentle squeeze. Then, he reaches around me and absently rattles the lid of the sugar bowl, trying to fit the cover back on. “What we really could use is something to nibble.” He gets up and begins randomly opening cupboards, in search of a distraction. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here with a chef so incredible that Gourmet has written about her and there’s nothing to dip in my coffee.” He opens the refrigerator door and turns to look at me with an expression of mock horror on his face. “Starvation rations in here! I don’t know that I’ve ever seen this refrigerator so empty,” he says, leaning in and pulling out one of the white, butcher-wrapped packages.
“Hey, go easy on that. It’s for the pizza,” I say, which earns me a scowl from Richard. “Take some biscotti from that bag on the counter. But while you’re in there, check out that red nail polish in the door of the fridge.”
“In the door, eh?” he repeats.
“Uh-huh. In the butter compartment.” Richard opens the compartment, takes out the polish, and, reaching into the breast pocket of his shirt, pulls out his half-moon glasses in order to inspect the bottle more closely.
“Christian Dior, Flame. Expensive stuff.” He unscrews the cap and pulls out the brush, holding it up to the light. “On the right person, a great color. Not for everyone, a red like this.” When I don’t say anything, he continues with his analysis. “She’s neat, too. The bottle is half-empty, but there’s no clumpy, dried gunk on the rim,” he says, showing me. Richard screws the cap back on and looks over his glasses at me.
“A scintillating analysis, Richard. If the antique business ever goes bust, I think you could make a go of it in the field of nail polish forensics.”
“This,” he says, as if taking my comment seriously, “this is the choice of a confident woman. And one who has lots of experience with makeup. Only the most sophisticated of cosmetics consumers know that you extend the life of your polish by keeping it in the fridge.” He sits down, takes off his glasses, and places the bottle on the table between us.
At that moment, as if on cue, we hear the front door open and seconds later voices in the front hall: my father’s deep baritone and another—softer, higher. My father enters the kitchen, and on his heels is a small, neat woman with blond, tightly permed hair. She’s wearing an aquamarine pantsuit with a plunging décolletage, revealing a large expanse of artificially tanned skin.
“Richard,” my father exclaims, with an air of forced joviality, as if he had rehearsed a certain script but has suddenly found himself forced to ad-lib. “How nice to see you!” He strides a couple of steps toward him and offers his hand, which Richard takes and shakes. The woman, now standing behind him, softly clears her throat.
“Oh, forgive me. I’ve brought someone along, a fan of pizza rustica and well, in fact, of all things Italian. Mira, Richard, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Miss Fiona O’Hare.”
Fiona smiles sweetly. “Richard, I’ve had the pleasure of shopping in your lovely store, but we’ve never been formally introduced.” As she extends her hand, first to me and then to Richard, we can’t help but notice that her two-inch nails are painted, what else? Flame.
chapter 14
Fiona, it turns out, is a picky eater, making my father’s comment about her being a lover of things Italian either inaccurate or, given my father’s Tuscan ancestry, vaguely creepy. Take your pick. She pokes around at the pizza rustica, saying that she thought we were having pizza. When I bring out the salad, she asks for more dressing and seems totally flummoxed when I bring out the oil and vinegar—surprised, I imagine, to find that it didn’t come out of a prepackaged bottle made by Kraft and featuring the word zesty.
Richard, bless him, makes it easier.
“So,” he asks, “how did you two meet?” Fiona looks to my father, who is busy pouring himself another glass of wine, leaving Fiona to field the question.
“Well,” she says demurely, “we’ve known each other for years, but it wasn’t until I signed up for an Italian conversation course that we actually got to know each other socially.” She looks over and smiles at my father, whose lips twitch in response.
“Fiona’s a secretary in the chemistry department,” he says, without looking at her. “We have been passing each other in the Science Hall for years.”
“Che bello! Che interessante! Ci sei mai andata?” I ask.
“What, dear?” she asks, leaning toward me and brushing aside a lacquered curl.
“To Italy,” I repeat, this time in English. “Have you ever been there?”
“Me? Oh, my goodness, no.” She laughs as if I’ve just said something incredibly amusing. “But last year for my birthday, my sons sent me to the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas, and ever since then I’ve wanted to go and ride a real gondola. Came home and signed up for Italian lessons with the money I won playing keno. Have you ever been there?”
I look at her and then at my father. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I lived in Italy for several years,” I say, thinking it funny that my father wouldn’t have mentioned it.
“Oh, I know you lived in Italy, but have you ever been to Las Vegas?”
When I tell her no, she says, “Too bad. If you had you could tell me how the Grand Canal in the Venetian compares to the one in Italy. In case I never get there,” she sighs.
After lunch, Fiona offers to help clean up. I make the espresso while I watch Fiona empty the dishwasher. I can’t help but notice that she seems to know where everything goes. While we work, Fiona chatters on about the various trips she has taken. “Isn’t it terrible what has happened to the airline industry since 9/11?” she asks, pausing before adjusting the Cling Wrap over the leftover salad. “When I flew to Las Vegas, they confiscated my knitting needles right out of my purse! What a nuisance. Speaking of knitting, maybe I’ll knit that precious Chloe a little something. It will be fun to have someone to knit for. I have only one grandchild, who I hardly ever see,” she says, her mouth set in a ha
rd line. I’m about to ask her why, but perhaps anticipating my question she says, “Families are complicated.” This strikes me as the most insightful thing anyone has said all afternoon.
Later, after Dad leaves to take Fiona home, Richard tells me I should be ashamed of myself.
“For what?” I ask him.
“For rolling your eyes when she mentioned her Vegas trip, for one thing. Your disdain was palpable.”
Richard continues on, suggesting that I’ve underestimated Fiona’s intelligence. “Not everyone is good at languages,” he explains, and I think for a minute he’s going to remind me of the D I got in high school French. “You,” he says in a supercilious tone, “are a snob.”
This, from a man who wears Prada sneakers and has his shirts hand tailored, facts I lose no time in pointing out. “Listen, what makes you sure she’s so smart? What did you do, give her an IQ test while I was changing Chloe?”
Richard snorts.
“Well, maybe she’s an idiot savant,” I say, thinking about her insightful comment about families, which I don’t mention to Richard, so as not to concede the point.
I really don’t know what bothers me about Fiona. Yes, she’s different from my own mother, but there was a time when that was the chief criterion necessary to secure my friendship. Chloe had warmed to Fiona right away, fascinated by her dangling plastic earrings and bangle bracelets, which Fiona quite generously allowed her to gnaw upon.
And why should I care who my father dates? I know it’s selfish, but part of what bothers me is that I’d rather not have to deal with anyone else’s relationship at the moment. Also, it’s difficult when your father, who has been a widower for the last eighteen years, suddenly starts strutting his stuff like some randy peacock.
The real problem, I finally decide, is that I’ve come back to a place I thought I knew, only to find it different. I’d visited, of course, but I haven’t lived here for almost twenty years, and the last time I did, my mother had been alive. I’ve felt her pull all these years, as if some vestige of the woman she was, a woman who had filled our lives for better or worse, still lingered in these walls, in the fabric of the curtains, or in the chipped china teacups in the kitchen cabinets. But now her presence has gone cold, just like that. And if I’m disconcerted to find that her ghost has dissipated, it’s due as much as anything to the fact that it has been chased away by someone as banal and mild-mannered as Fiona O’Hare.
Aftertaste Page 14