Aftertaste

by Meredith Mileti

  “Mira, this is Marcus Drexler, head of the AEL Syndicate, and his partner, Jasper Hilliard. Marcus, Jasper, I’d like you to meet Mira Rinaldi,” Jake says, “my ex-wife.”

  “Mira, what a pleasure. Thanks for coming,” Marcus says, extending his hand. His manner is easy, as if we were meeting at a cocktail party, which, given the fact we are all holding crystal champagne flutes at ten o’clock in the morning, we might as well be. Once the introductions are complete, Marcus ushers us into the living room where he gestures for me to have a seat.

  “Welcome home, Mira. I trust you were comfortable last night?”

  “Yes, of course,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

  “Nice little spread we have here, isn’t it?” he asks, gesturing around me into the room. “Arthurs E. Lybrant has its accounting offices in the financial district, of course, but we actually prefer to meet with clients and potential investors here, where the atmosphere is more casual and intimate. We believe that food is a very personal issue and that each restaurant in our syndicate is a unique member of the AEL family.”

  Marcus then gestures to Jasper, who dims the lights and flicks a switch, which triggers the release of an overhead screen behind me. Jasper hands me a slick brochure, along with a leather portfolio containing a pad and a pen, in case, he tells me, I want to take some notes during the video.

  The presentation is an expensively produced, half-hour montage with a music overlay and beautiful panoramic shots of the syndicate’s various restaurant venues, only a few of which—Il Vinaio being one—are open yet. The theme, that our upscale restaurants will be successful in these exciting venues, is persuasive. I try not to sneak too many looks at Jake.

  Once the video is over, Jasper appears behind me and flips through the brochure he has given me, pointing out the various restaurant “concepts,” complete with floor plans, chefs’ resumes, and proposed menus. It’s impressive. Clearly they have been getting advice from industry professionals, people who understand Grappa’s market—at least from the logistics end.

  “Mira,” Marcus says, standing up. “Let’s sit and discuss some of the particulars over a little breakfast, shall we?” Suddenly, he is at my elbow. Jake walks ahead of him to the sideboard where he begins filling a plate.

  “Please,” Marcus says. “Help yourself.”

  “It’s rather intimidating feeding chefs, you know, but we’ve done our best,” Jasper says, with a self-deprecating smile.

  And they have. Eggs Benedict, served in perfectly steamed artichoke hearts, with slices of thick-cut, grilled pancetta and a hollandaise sauce the color of a Cézanne sunrise; lush, tender strawberries with clotted cream and muscovado sugar; warm croissants; handcured smoked salmon; and coffee in heated mugs.

  I’ve already eaten, but I fill a plate anyway, just to be polite. I take a seat across from Jake. I am instantly reminded of the last time I sat across from him at such a table—the day I lost Grappa. I push my plate away.

  “We hope you’ll have a chance to stop into Il Vinaio while you are in the city. The pictures in the video really don’t do it justice,” Jasper says, balancing a forkful of eggs.

  I can feel Jake’s eyes on me. “Great. I’ll be sure to drop by,” I tell him.

  “Mira,” Marcus begins, “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how difficult it is to run a successful restaurant these days, particularly in this challenging economy. There is an operating side to it where you and Jake are the experts—and there is also a business and marketing side. What our group does is remove the burden of business and marketing, and minimize the risks. Part of our job—what we feel we do best—is to identify the talented operations people, people like you and Jake, and make it easy for you to do what you do best. We organize the financial aspects. We buy restaurants, retool and reorganize, and identify potential investors, all with the goal of generating additional capital to invest in alternate ventures in untapped or unsaturated markets. Since we bought Grappa at the end of last year, its profits have increased substantially.”

  “Really, how interesting. I’ve heard—” I begin.

  Jasper smiles. “I know, I know. You’ve seen the review in the Times. Look, Marcus told you part of what we do is retool and reorganize. It’s a process not without its share of growing pains. The bottom line is that when you normalize the numbers by taking out the nonrecurring setup and organizational expenses, we’ve been able to increase Grappa’s profit margin. Here,” he says, opening a packet of papers in front of me. “Take a look at the normalized first-quarter earning statements; see for yourself.”

  I look at the highlighted portions of the spreadsheet, which shows a profit margin of forty-three percent.

  “A ten-percent increase in profits in the first quarter. That’s impressive,” I tell him—and it is.

  “And first-quarter profits, particularly in the restaurant business, are, as you know, typically the lowest, reflecting the post-holiday slump,” Jake interjects.

  Of course I’d known that. Who does Jake think taught him that? I stare at him, my eyes flashing. I’m also piqued because I now know where Jake got the money to buy me out.

  Marcus continues. “By investing some of Grappa’s capital, and with the help of some investors—Jake and Tony Marsden among them—we have managed to open Il Vinaio. And already at this juncture, we’ve been able to attract several additional investors, so that we envision being able to open three more restaurants within the next eighteen to twenty-four months: one in Vegas, one in Miami, and one in Napa.”

  The Napa Valley is the second greatest restaurant region outside Manhattan—and every American chef’s dream. I’m momentarily overwhelmed with thoughts of Grappa’s country home. A lovely kitchen garden overlooking a nearby vineyard, a small cooking school where I could retreat with Chloe during the winter to teach, sip wine, and pick fresh herbs.

  “I can see that one got you, didn’t it, Mira?” Marcus says, resting a hand lightly on my arm. “Look, what we see in Grappa and Il Vinaio is a brand, with you and Jake here as the primary concept people. By virtue of your initial investment, you will become a shareholder in the company—both as an owner and a manager at the restaurant syndicate that owns Grappa and Il Vinaio. Once we launch these other restaurants pulling on the Grappa/Il Vinaio brand, the profits will grow geometrically.”

  I sit back in my chair and consider Marcus, who has paused to spread some clotted cream on his croissant. He holds it aloft for a split second before popping it into his mouth, chewing with the abandon of one who enjoys his food. Where just a few months ago I’d glimpsed a life without Jake or Grappa in the nearly empty loft, I can now see myself, without the slightest effort, back here in the city. I roll the idea around, tasting it, savoring the latent burst of possibility lingering like a flavor in the back of my throat, the Napa offshoot, the cooking school Jake and I had dreamed of, my life here, in this city.

  “Okay, here’s the financial piece. The cash we are asking you to invest will be paid back within the first eighteen months. The financial plan calls for a cash down payment of only $72,000, plus a $288,000 loan, for a total of $360,000. We are having a closing with the Sixth Street Bank at the end of this month. For our first-tier investors who join us now, we negotiated an interest rate of just 6.8 percent, so debt service is minimal—under $20,000 per year. Of course, we cannot make guarantees, but based on our projections, which have already been blessed by our accountants and the banks, within the first eighteen months you will have recovered your initial $72,000, plus covered initial debt service on the loan. After that, you will be getting returns on the bank’s money. Assuming that you use that to pay down the principal on the bank loan, the entire loan can be paid down within four years. At which point you can sit back and reap pure profits.”

  Marcus is watching me intently. Slowly and delicately he removes a stray wisp of cream from the edge of his mouth and continues. “Listen, we know this is a lot to digest. Take a few days. Take a close look at the financials.”


  “I’m not a financial expert. I’d like to have my lawyer review them.”

  Marcus smiles winsomely. “We wouldn’t have it any other way. Have your lawyer review everything. I’d also be happy to put him or her in touch with our financial people—the accountants who helped put this together. We think the papers speak for themselves. Just tell your lawyer not to delay. One of the reasons we flew you in on the weekend is because we’ve got less than two weeks left until the closing for first-tier investors, and we wanted to give you the opportunity to participate on the best possible terms.

  “Of course, your investment will also yield you a voting interest. You will be in the unique position of being an owner, as well as an employee. We will of course pay you a salary as executive chef at Grappa, which should more than cover your living expenses pending the increasing returns you will enjoy as the syndicate grows. As a parent of a young child, I’m sure it will give you great comfort to know that the modest investment you make now will generate substantial returns for years to come. It could fund your daughter’s college education, graduate school, a beautiful wedding—whatever the future holds.” Marcus pulls out his wallet and slides over a sheaf of plastic-coated photos of three towheaded children. “I know my kids are first on my list,” Marcus says.

  “Mira,” Jasper says, turning to me. “We are not just recruiting you to be an investor—with returns like this, recruiting investors is not our biggest challenge. We need you at the helm at Grappa. We never intended Philippe to be a long-term solution. He’s a talented chef, but he doesn’t represent the Grappa brand. You do, Mira. You are Grappa.”

  The meeting concludes shortly thereafter with the exchange of contact information. I’ve given them Jerry Fox and Avi Steiner’s contact information and arranged to have the papers sent over first thing Monday morning. I’ve heeded Ruth’s advice and agreed to nothing, other than to look at the various documents AEL has promised to send me. I make a mental note to call Jerry Fox the minute I’m alone.

  “Mira, wait a minute,” Jake says, stepping out to the elevators and pulling the door to the suite shut behind him. “There are some things I’d like to discuss—regarding Grappa.”

  “Yeah, like what?” I tell him, spinning around on my heels. Despite the headiness the offer has induced, I’m still stinging from the news that Jake sold Grappa to a third party right out from under me.

  “Can we have dinner? Jasper told me you aren’t leaving until Monday morning.” It’s true. Since Ruth, Fiona, and my dad agreed to watch Chloe and check in on Richard, I’ve arranged to stay in town an extra day to clean out the storage space in our old apartment.

  I shake my head.

  “Listen,” he says, grabbing my arm. “I assume you saw the review?”

  “Of course I have,” I tell him, even though I hadn’t. Early on in my work with Dr. D-P, she’d declared a moratorium on contact with New York, forbidding the daily monitoring of my old life, which had included reading New York newspapers and checking in regularly with Tony, Renata, and Hope.

  “Jasper was right. Things aren’t the same since you left. None of it is, actually,” Jake says quietly. “Sunday night, the restaurant is closed. Come to Grappa. Please?”

  Jake still has hold of my arm, although he has loosened his grip and allowed his hand to slide slowly down my forearm until it brushes gently against my fingers.

  The touch of his skin on mine is electric. I feel as if I’ve been ripped loose from the shaky mooring of my life and hurled by a rapidly rising mistral into someone else’s. Mine, but not mine. Since getting back here I’ve been looking for a foothold, something familiar to grab on to, some way to orient myself. I know I should get in a cab and head straight for LaGuardia, change my ticket, and get back to Pittsburgh.

  “What time?” I ask him.

  I run downstairs, change my clothes, and find the closest Internet café. I order a double latte and settle in at one of the worn wooden booths. Finally, I find it, one thin column buried deep within the Wednesday Food section several weeks back.

  It’s a bad review, written by a staff writer, right away a bad sign. If Frank Bruni writes you a bad review, people will still come to your restaurant, for a little while at least—if only to see if he was right. According to the reviewer, who I’d never heard of, many of the dishes seem tired, in contrast to the recently overhauled décor, which is uncharacteristically slick. The reviewer lauded the addition of a martini bar and happily noted that the wine selection also had been considerably enhanced. I am mentioned by name, a little two-sentence blurb near the end of the article: “with the departure of chef Mirabella Rinaldi, the pasta specialties have suffered mightily.” The reviewer cites as evidence a gluey cream sauce and an uninspired chard-filled ravioli. While it might have been the public affirmation I was after, it still makes me sad.

  I consider Jasper’s comments at the meeting this morning. He said I am Grappa. Me, not Jake. Yet, at least at one time, we were good together. The problem is, if I come back to manage Grappa and Jake is at Il Vinaio, we will still, at least according to Marcus, be part of the same brand, which will, I imagine, entail some working together. And then there was Jake’s comment as he brushed his hand against mine and invited me to dinner. What exactly had he meant that “none of it” is the same since I left? Where is Nicola in all of this? Since Renata is on the outs with both Jake and Nicola, I have no hope of getting any scoop from her, but I am not above pumping Tony for information tonight, when we meet for dinner. If anyone knows anything, he will.

  On my way back to the hotel I call Jerry Fox. Of course, I get his voice mail, so I leave a message telling him to expect a package from the AEL Restaurant Syndicate on Monday morning, along with my authorization to review the materials.

  Next, I call Ruth who, unlike Jerry, answers on the first ring.

  “Well, how did it go?” she asks.

  “Amazing, actually,” I tell her. I fill Ruth in on the details of the meeting, omitting only the tidbit about my interchange with Jake. By the time I finish I’m nearly breathless. “Oh, and did I mention the Napa Valley?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Do you have any idea what that means? We could join the ranks of Cyrus, Ad Hoc, the French Laundry, America’s greatest restaurants!”

  “That sounds like some pretty stiff competition, if you ask me,” Ruth says.

  “I admit it would be hard work, but people who don’t call the requisite two months ahead for a reservation have to eat somewhere, don’t they? If we could just get an in—”

  “Mira, please tell me you didn’t sign anything, did you?”

  “No. A promise is a promise. But I did have the financial statements sent over to my lawyer. They’ve given us full access to their accounting firm and—”

  “Why not let me have a look at those financial statements? In case you’ve forgotten I’ve got an MBA from Wharton, which at the moment is gathering dust. I’d love to have a look.”

  “Sure,” I tell her, embarrassed that I hadn’t thought of it before. “If you’re sure you have time.”

  Ruth sighs heavily into the phone. “Oh, it will be a struggle, but I’ll pencil you in between nuking the microwave Easy Mac and our trip to the park. You can pay me in food. Hey, I’ve exhausted my freezer stash and have had to resort to Lean Cuisine, which, by the way, doesn’t taste as good as I remember. I think you’ve ruined me,” she laughs.

  “Don’t worry. Help is on the way. I’ll be home on Monday.”

  Ruth fills me in on Chloe and Richard, and I promise to call Marcus right away to arrange for Ruth to receive a copy of the financial statements. We’re about to hang up when Ruth says, “Look, Mira, I know this is exciting, but just—” She hesitates.

  “What?”

  “Be careful, okay?” Ruth finally says.

  “Of course, I’ll be careful,” I tell her. “But this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I’d be investing only a portion of what I got out of Grappa, but
I’d be an owner again, and the returns would be more than I’ve ever made before. They also promised me a creative say in the restaurant syndicate. That they have the confidence in us is pretty incredible. We could be the next Jean Georges—it’s almost too good to be true.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Ruth says.

  I’ve arranged to meet Tony for dinner at the Blue Ribbon restaurant after he gets off work, around midnight. Once I decided to come to New York and hear out Jake’s investors, I called Tony, who confirmed that he’d been in touch with the AEL syndicate and told me that I’d be crazy not to jump on the next plane and sign on the dotted line.

  “They’re offering you Grappa on a silver platter, Mira. What the hell are you waiting for?” Tony asked.

  From the inside, the Blue Ribbon looks like any of a hundred other dimly lit restaurants in Manhattan, but what makes it unique is the line that begins to form after midnight, often snaking all the way around the corner onto Spring Street. It isn’t a fancy place, but the food, although simple in concept, is innovative: tender veal meat loaf, celeriac mashed potatoes, lobster mac and cheese. It may not be the only place you can go in New York City to eat cheese fondue at four in the morning, but it is the best. Although it’s usually full throughout the evening, it doesn’t really get lively until well after midnight when, after the close of dinner service most everywhere else, New York’s chefs go out to eat.

  Jake and I got into the habit of coming here at least once a week when we first lived in the city, before we opened Grappa. It was the mid-nineties, and a young Mario Batali, the West Village’s rash and innovative chef, commanded a large table in the back, often buying out the entire raw bar and threatening to drain the wine cellar dry. Jake and I often waited in line an hour or more for one of the white linen-covered tables, dreaming of the day when we would be invited to join New York’s cooking legends for a raucous, candlelit supper. Even after Mario and his crowd stopped coming, Jake and I would still sometimes go, take a seat at the bar, and share a dozen blue point oysters and a bottle of wine.