You shouldn’t buy a loft because the real estate agent is an annoying jerk who doesn’t take you seriously. You also shouldn’t buy a loft because the woman who’s about to make an offer is loudly insisting on putting totally impractical marble countertops in what you are now thinking of as your kitchen.
I write a number on a piece of paper and slide it over to Skip. He pushes it out of the way without even looking at it. I push it back. “Hang on a second,” he tells Ms. Moneybags.
“What’s this?”
“I thought you were a real estate agent. It’s an offer. To buy this place.”
“An offer from whom?”
“From me.”
I’ve offered the asking price, which is considerably higher than the offer Ms. Moneybags is proposing. It also represents a significant chunk of my divorce settlement, but for the first time in almost a year I can envision, even if it’s only the tiniest glimpse, a life without Jake. I can see myself making a cup of espresso in my little stove-top macchinetta, my vintage Italian posters hanging against the old exposed brick, Chloe playing contentedly in the cozy space under the stairs, her toys and books filling the long, low shelves. Intoxicated by the vision, I’m suddenly willing to spend whatever it takes to make it mine.
“I’ll call you back,” Skip tells Ms. Moneybags.
chapter 24
By the time the paperwork is done it’s almost noon. I’m ravenous, so Ben, Chloe, and I go across the street to Primanti Brothers. We order two Primanti specials, mine with extra coleslaw, Ben’s with extra fries and a fried egg on top. When the waitress puts the overflowing red plastic basket in front of me, the sandwich topped with glistening French fries, I dig in with both my hands.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Ben says. “I propose a toast. To a masterful negotiation and a wise investment.”
I respond with a groan. “I don’t think the deal I made would qualify as either masterful or as negotiating,” I tell Ben, swallowing painfully. “After all, I paid the asking price. Who does that?”
“No, no, it was masterful. You were masterful. And actually, you paid five thousand dollars more than the asking price.” Unfortunately, Ben is correct. After I offered the asking price, Ms. Moneybags quickly countered with an offer a thousand dollars higher.
“You had to once she matched your offer. That jump plus your big down payment is what got Skip on board and killed the prospect of an extended bidding war. And the look on his face.” He laughs and swipes at his beard. “I’ve known the guy twenty years and I’ve never seen that look!” he says, a string of cheese hanging from his mouth.
I have to admit I had enjoyed Skip’s sudden about-face. He’d gone from being a condescending finger snapper to someone respectful, deferential, and subservient as soon as I whipped out my checkbook. Someone who took me seriously. Since giving up Grappa I’ve become accustomed to people not taking me seriously, and I relished Skip’s rapt attention as he chatted amiably about my new neighborhood, how up and coming it was and how it took a real New Yorker, someone as sophisticated and savvy as myself, to recognize the true value of this investment.
“I, ah,” I start to speak, but no words come out. The bottom line is I have no job and only one slim prospect. I have a child to raise, and I’ve just bought an impractical penthouse apartment in a city where, until an hour ago, I had no future plans.
Ben puts his sandwich back in the red plastic basket and wipes his mouth. “Come on. It’s a good investment. You’re a successful businessperson. I’ll bet you would have had to pay five times as much for a similar place in Manhattan.”
“Ten times, more like,” I tell him.
“See, you’ve made a wise business decision. These loft apartments are going to take off, you watch.” Ben shakes a fry at me to emphasize his point. “You’re just not thinking down the road. I’ll bet you make a bundle.”
“I can’t believe that I’m taking long-term investment advice from you.” I look up at the ceiling of the restaurant, open wooden rafters stained to a dark patina from years of grease and smoke. Light a match, and the whole place would probably go up in flames.
Ben looks hurt. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
I gesture to the sandwich, the second half of which is already poised in Ben’s hands. “Anybody who eats this stuff is clearly not thinking long-term.”
He smiles at me, the lines around his eyes, which I hadn’t noticed before, making tiny craggy creases underneath his lids. He covers his mouth, disguising a delicate belch, and gestures to the waitress for some more water. She pretends not to see him.
“You’re one to talk,” he says, his mouth full of sandwich.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you did just buy a three hundred thousand dollar apartment on impulse. Good investment or not, that’s not exactly planning ahead.”
I’m not sure if it’s the Primanti sandwich or the beginnings of buyer’s remorse, but I have a pain in my stomach, a burning sensation that’s begun to radiate down my left arm. I take a deep breath, and the pain shifts from my arm to deep in my esophagus. I remember reading somewhere that heart attacks begin like this.
“I’ve always wanted to live in a loft,” I tell him, my voice sounding hollow and unconvincing. I put a hand to my chest. “Who am I kidding—I don’t even have a job! I have no idea what I was thinking.” Ben leans forward and looks concerned. He reaches into the pocket of his work shirt and pulls out a roll of Tums. He unravels the package, hands me two, and takes two for himself.
“Look. You misjudged me,” he says, waving the Tums. “I planned on having lunch at Primanti’s today. Who says I don’t think ahead?”
Between several calls to and from Skip, not to mention my financial advisor, Avi Steiner, in New York, I spend most of the afternoon on the phone, with each call becoming more deeply entrenched in the Pittsburgh real estate market and the inexorable march toward home ownership. I’ve exhausted my supply of Tums, having consumed the rest of Ben’s, plus another entire roll that I bought on the way home from lunch. When the heart palpitations begin, I shut off my phone and lie face down on the bed and try to think quieting thoughts. Can you die from an overdose of Tums?
I’m too nauseous to eat dinner, but I sit with Chloe while she happily devours her chicken and peas. Eventually, I pour a glass of wine, hoping it will calm me enough to listen to the messages that have accumulated while my phone was off. Eight missed calls.
Two each from Avi and Skip, the substance of which is that my money has been transferred and the remaining paperwork completed; one from the contractor supervising the finishes on the building, Ben’s boss, who wants to set up a meeting with me to discuss paint, flooring, and fixtures; one from Ben calling to check on me and to tell me to put in a good word for him when I meet with his boss. And one from Ruth.
“Mira, listen. I’m sorry I was so horrible. I know you were trying to help. It’s not your fault that Neil likes you. You can hardly blame the guy. You’re pretty and funny and a great cook. Besides, I must have been a real ass to think that playing mah-jongg with Leah Hollander was going to get me anywhere. I have a Jewish mother, and I would no more take dating recommendations from her than I would from my cat. Anyway, tomorrow is Gymboree day, and I wanted you to know that I hope you’ll come.”
The final message is from Neil, telling me he is looking forward to seeing me at Gymboree tomorrow and wondering if I have plans for Saturday night. The sound of his voice, so earnest and hopeful, fills me with panic, and I delete the message without even listening to the rest of it, then wish I had.
Ruth answers on the first ring. “Mira, thank God! I was beginning to think that I’d totally blown it and that you’d completely given up on me. I’m sorry.”
“Me too. I really wasn’t trying to steal Neil.”
“I know, I know. You only left me about eight messages.” Ruth sounds like she’s been crying. “I talked to my therapist and realized what an idiot I was being
. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Of course, if you can forgive me.”
“Done.” For the first time since Sunday, my stomach has stopped churning. It’s nice to have my friend back.
“Hey, guess what?” Ruth says, sounding more cheerful. “I made my mother’s brisket recipe—the one with the Coke in it. It wasn’t quite as good as I remembered. I was worried that if you stopped being my friend I was going to have to learn to cook! Thank God that’s over.” Then she asks, “So what have you been up to?”
“I bought a loft.”
“Wow. Congratulations! You didn’t even mention you were looking,” she says.
“I wasn’t,” I tell her. Ruth is silent. Stunned no doubt. “Come on,” I tease. “Haven’t you ever bought something on impulse?”
“A pair of shoes, yes. Real estate, no.”
“So, did I completely screw up? I still can’t believe I—” I exhale sharply; the palpitations have started again.
“No, not necessarily,” Ruth says, quickly. “It’s a good time to buy. I’ll bet you got a great deal.”
I change the subject.
“About Gymboree tomorrow, I can’t make it. I’ve got an interview at one forty-five with Enid Maxwell, the food editor at the Post-Gazette. I’ve got to spend the morning assembling my dossier.”
“Good for you! What are you going to wear?” Ruth asks.
Wear? I haven’t even thought about it. It’s been a good ten years since I’ve interviewed for a job, and never once have I been interviewed in an office setting, so I’m unsure of the protocol.
“A suit’s a must, understated makeup, no open-toed shoes. And stockings—it doesn’t matter if it’s eighty degrees outside. Stockings are standard job interview protocol,” Ruth counsels. I never wear makeup, so understated is, well, an understatement. The only suit I own is the one I wore to my meeting with Ethan Bowman and later, my arraignment, so I consider it bad luck. Ruth offers to lend me one of hers.
“Come on over before the interview. I’ll get you dressed. I’ve got a beige crepe suit that will look great on you. I’ll watch Chloe. It’s actually easier with two.”
“Great. I’ll bring lunch,” I offer.
“Don’t bother. We can have brisket sandwiches,” Ruth says.
“My treat. I insist.”
“Chicken,” Ruth mutters.
“Good idea,” I reply.
I’m on my way out Ruth’s front door the next afternoon, in a pair of her high-heeled pumps that are a half size too big. “Go get ’em!” she calls, tossing a tube of sheer pink lipstick to me. “Just a dab. You look great,” she says, balancing Chloe on her hip. I smile and flash an enthusiastic thumbs-up before picking my way down Ruth’s cobblestone walk. I feel shaky on my feet—and it isn’t just the big shoes. It’s been ages since I’ve wanted anything this badly and, for a moment, I don’t recognize the sensation, the gnawing at your insides, the quavering hunger that comes from sheer want. Or perhaps it’s the residual effects of yesterday’s indiscriminate expenditure. Tucking Ruth’s lipstick into my briefcase, I pull out a fresh roll of Tums and stuff a few in my mouth on the way to the bus.
Enid Maxwell is a small, neat woman with expensively cut and carefully styled short hair, the color of a brightly buffed and polished nickel. When the secretary knocks on the wall of the cubicle, Enid stands, offers me a cool, manicured hand, and instructs me to have a seat. Before sitting down herself, however, she stands on her tiptoes, settles her glasses atop her nose, and surveys her domain. Apparently satisfied by the bustling chaos outside her cubicle, she sits back down, rests her forearms on the desk, and says, “Well, Mira.”
I’ve brought along a copy of my résumé and several copies of my restaurant review in a thin leather portfolio I’ve borrowed from my father. I pull out a copy of the review and prepare to slide it across the desk at her, but she shakes her head at me.
“I’ve got them. Don’t bother,” she says.
From a file folder on her desk Enid pulls a copy of my résumé, along with the Gourmet review and a couple of other things I’m pretty sure I didn’t send her. “Well, well, Mira,” Enid says again, readjusting her glasses. “You are quite a talented chef. Gourmet, Bon Appétit, Saveur, Food and Wine,” she says, leafing through the file on her desk. Enid, apparently, has done some research on me. “Grappa has been mentioned in every one of them, mostly quite favorably.” She leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, “By the way, I have it on good authority that Grappa has suffered in your absence. A friend at the Times, who I called while assembling my dossier on you, let it slip. You might watch the food section in the next few weeks.” She sits back in her chair, studying me, waiting for a reaction.
Ever since my phone call with Renata and hearing the news that Jake was jumping ship to Il Vinaio, I’ve dreaded hearing news of Grappa. But there’s still a part of me that is secretly thrilled by the knowledge that Grappa has suffered in my absence. I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help it. Public affirmation that I had mattered to Grappa. I wish I didn’t need it, but I do. I want nothing more than to pump Enid for the details, but of course this isn’t exactly the time. I swallow hard and do my best to return Enid’s speculative gaze with a level one of my own.
Once again she reaches into the manila folder, this time removing a photocopy of a newspaper column. “But even before Grappa, you were noticed. This,” she says, looking over her glasses at me, “you may recall from New York magazine, February 1995. ‘Under the direction of talented chef Francis Barberi and creative sous-chef Mirabella Rinaldi, Il Piatto has reopened to rave reviews.’ ”
Il Piatto was, in fact, the last job I’d interviewed for. I left there after five years to open Grappa. It was also the first time I’d seen my name in print, and I feel strangely nostalgic and unexpectedly touched that Enid has ferreted out this small, mostly insignificant, accolade. I’m impressed that she has so thoroughly researched my career, but more than a little puzzled.
“In fact, ever since you graduated from the Culinary Institute you’ve done well for yourself. You apprenticed in Abruzzo and then in Bologna, where undoubtedly, you perfected la cucina Italiana . You’ve amassed an impressive set of credentials thus far in your relatively short career,” she says, rifling through the file once more. I think for a moment that Enid will pull out my third grade report card, but instead, she gathers the papers, puts them back into the folder, and sets them aside.
“Look, Mira, Ruth Reichl, Barbara Fairchild, Frank Bruni, even me,” she says, with a slight, self-deprecating inclination of her head, “all of us are passable cooks. We can all give a damn good dinner party, but we don’t have the gift that you have. And, by the way, you don’t have the gifts they have, either, but that’s beside the point. So the question is,” Enid says, swiveling in her desk chair and chewing thoughtfully on the earpiece of her glasses, “why would someone like you want to become a food writer?”
“I didn’t get to where I am in the food world without having a well-developed palate. I know—”
Enid holds up her hand. She wasn’t really asking me. “I know, I know. You’ve already told me that. But that isn’t the real reason. You want to be a food writer because it is convenient. Do you know how many people apply for a job like this? Some are writers who think they would like to be paid to go out to dinner, but couldn’t identify celeriac in a lineup of root vegetables. Some people are foodies with no writing skills who think their knowledge of the food world is enough for them to get by. I’ve actually hired some of those—but I’m getting too old to rewrite their columns.”
“Look, Ms. Maxwell—”
“My point, Mira, is that cooks need to cook. You won’t be happy writing for a living, and you won’t get rich either.” Enid sits back in her chair and gives me a speculative look. She appears to be considering something. She hesitates before continuing. “You think I don’t understand what it takes to be a chef? I was at the CIA a couple of years ago. Took a two-week course
for business people who want to become restaurateurs. I know how hard it is. I could never have cut it. The difference between those of us in the fake course and the kids we saw running themselves into the ground, besides a whole lot of talent, is the drive to cook. They need it. The threat of a bad review of Grappa in the Times bothered you. I could see it in your face. A restaurant like Grappa gets into your blood. You don’t go from that to this,” she says, gesturing to the papers on her desk and the short walls of the cubicle. “Face it, you’ve missed it.”
“Missed it? The eighteen-hour days on my feet? Dealing with suppliers and linen sales people on my ‘off’ time? Replacing line cooks on a weekly basis? There’s a lot more to the restaurant business besides cooking. Loving to cook isn’t nearly enough.” My voice is rising to an uncomfortably high pitch. Despite Ruth’s perfectly tailored suit and a liberal dose of Bare Naked lip gloss, I’ve somehow gotten off on the wrong foot here. Before I’d even walked in the door, Enid seems to have made up her mind that I’m not cut out to be a food writer. So why bother interviewing me? “And besides, what makes you think I don’t cook? I cook every day. For my family. Real cooks find ways to cook.”
Enid holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Yes, you’re right. That is precisely what I’m suggesting, Mira. Listen, I don’t know how much time you’ve spent looking at our food section since you’ve been back in town, but it’s in the process of undergoing a much needed transformation. We’re trying out a bunch of new ideas. Maybe you noticed a couple of weeks ago we did a feature article on ‘Five Ingredient Wonders’? We’re considering continuing something like that once a week, publishing a few recipes on a theme: “Beat the Heat with Easy Summer Meals in Minutes.” She gestures as she speaks, blocking out chunks of the title with her hands, as if it’s written on a billboard.
Aftertaste Page 26