Aftertaste

by Meredith Mileti

  “Look, you don’t have to sell me. I live here, remember? And where else can you be right in the middle of the city and be this peaceful? It’s a good life,” Ben says, stretching his legs so his feet are dangling over the edge of the balcony. “It suits me just fine.” He rummages in the bag for another cookie and pops it into his mouth. “Gotta say, the nibs were a good call. Like a nut, but not a nut. Keeps you guessing, you know?”

  “I know. It was an inspired idea. Thanks.”

  Ben draws his legs in toward his chest and rests his elbows on his knees. “Not that you asked my opinion, but I don’t think you should go.”

  I turn to look at him, surprised. “Why not? This is a huge opportunity. I’d be nuts to pass it up.”

  Ben looks away. “Well, we’d all miss you for one thing,” he says.

  “I’ll miss you, too,” I tell him, although as soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Aside from not wanting to give him the wrong impression, I’d glossed over the fact that he’d said “we,” not “I.”

  Ben smiles. “Especially Aunt Fi. She’s crazy for Chloe, and Chloe loves her, too. But that’s not the only thing. I mean, you’ve got an interesting job, an opportunity to influence how people cook and eat.”

  I lean against the bricks. “I worked so hard to build Grappa. From nothing. I can’t imagine letting it go again. Besides, I think I’m about to be fired from my very interesting job.”

  “What? That’s bullshit! They can’t fire you. You’ve got a following!”

  “Well, I don’t know about that—”

  “Jesus,” Ben says, grabbing the newspaper. “If they fire you what’s left? The Nibbler? Listen to this.” Ben folds the newspaper in two and begins reading. “The dining experience was significantly diminished by the lack of accessible parking.” Ben pulls the newspaper down and grimaces at me. “What does parking have to do with dining?”

  Ben gathers up his newspaper and stands. He drains the rest of his iced tea and hands me the empty glass. “Thanks for the snack,” Ben says, offering me his hand and pulling me to my feet. “Good luck with Grappa, Mira.”

  “If you are ever in New York, come to Grappa and I’ll take care of you,” I tell him, although we both know he never will.

  “If I’m ever in New York,” he says, laughing.

  “This can’t possibly be fat free,” Ruth says, scraping the bottom of the ramekin with the tine of her fork.

  “It’s not. It’s lower fat. It’s impossible to remove all the sugar and all the fat. It would be tasteless. But don’t worry, it’s filled with protein and not too terrible for you.”

  “In that case,” Ruth says, eyeing my unfinished dish.

  I push it toward her. “Knock yourself out. I owe you big-time for this one,” I tell her.

  Ruth digs into the documents after dinner while I get the kids ready for bed, but even with a double espresso, by eleven o’clock she is starting to nod off. So we pack the two boxes of documents and the sleeping Carlos into her Jeep. “I’ll finish them over the weekend,” she says, yawning.

  “Do you know there are two thousand five hundred pages in a box of documents?” Ruth asks, when I call her early Monday morning to see how it’s going. “You can check it on Wikipedia.”

  “But the closing is on Thursday. Jerry has to have the signed settlement sheet no later than Wednesday, which means that I have to mail it tomorrow at the latest to get it there in time!”

  “Calm down. Go ahead and sign it and put it in the mail. I’m through the first box and halfway through the second and so far everything looks good. I’ll have it done by tomorrow.”

  “I can’t even watch Carlos this afternoon. I’ve got a meeting with Enid at lunch today. Fiona is watching Chloe. But how about if I take them both to the pool tomorrow?”

  “Sure, that would be great,” Ruth says. She hesitates, and I can hear her rifling through paper. “You know, it’s just starting to dawn on me that you’re actually leaving. I’m going to miss you, Mira.”

  “Me too. But we’ll visit. You and Carlos will just have to come to New York.”

  “And you’ll come back here, for holidays, right?”

  “Right. It won’t be so bad; you’ll see,” I tell her. Never mind that with Grappa I probably won’t have a single holiday to myself for the next ten years.

  Bistro Rive Gauche is a tiny new restaurant in the Cultural District that calls itself a bistro, but really isn’t. Bistros are casual, homey kinds of restaurants, and within seconds of stepping inside I can tell this is the kind of place that takes itself a little too seriously. It isn’t busy, and I’m seated immediately.

  On the bus over I’d scribbled a few notes on the back of an envelope—points I wanted to make sure to cover in my resignation speech. I pull them out and slip them into my lap so I can refer to them during lunch. I’m no longer sure why it seemed important for me to resign before Enid fires me or, for that matter, why I’m suddenly so nervous I can barely catch my breath. So, while I’m waiting for her, I study my script, mouthing the words, hoping the couple sitting a few tables over doesn’t think I’m talking to myself.

  Enid breezes in fifteen minutes late.

  “Here,” she says, dropping a stack of papers onto my bread plate. “Some more fan mail. And these are just the snail mail letters,” she says, taking off her jacket and hanging it neatly over the back of her chair. “Most of the old timers still write letters. One of them,” she says, picking up the stack and reaching for her glasses, “looks like a marriage proposal, which if you don’t answer, I might. The guy sounds nice. Old, but nice. Called you ‘my dear’ and signed it ‘with respect and admiration.’ They’re all good or, I should say, mostly. My favorite is from the woman who substituted three of the ingredients and then blamed you for the fact that her muffins didn’t rise. And after your compelling dissertation on the dangers of substitutions in baking. Honestly!” she clucks.

  Within seconds of Enid’s arrival, a waiter approaches, bearing menus that he presents with a flourish, and begins reciting a litany of specials. Today’s offerings include grilled tuna in a soy wasabi marinade, and a pan-roasted squab with curried apricot chutney, neither typical bistro fare. It makes me think wistfully of compound butters and pestos of fresh herbs and toasted nuts, of mushrooms and lardons, eggs and roast chicken, none of which appear anywhere on the menu.

  I order myself an appetizer portion of mussels and a side of frites to start and a green salad. After an extended cross examination of the waiter, Enid orders a beet and goat cheese salad and the veal chop with Roquefort butter.

  Enid scoots her chair closer to the table and gives the bread basket a once over. “So . . .”

  “So?” I echo, picking up a roll and buttering it while Enid gives me a hard look. Even though I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes rehearsing my speech, so far I’ve barely been able to manage much more than a trained parakeet.

  “Listen,” Enid says. “I’ll get right to the point. You’re doing a good job, Mira. It’s been a long time since the Food section has attracted this much attention,” she says, gesturing to the stack of letters on the table. “I mean the Nibbler gets his fair share, but let’s face it, most of it’s hate mail. That son of a bitch is hard to please.” Enid gives her immaculate silver pageboy a small pat before picking up one of the rolls and giving it a contemplative squeeze. “Not warm and definitely not baked on the premises. Certainly not worth the carbs,” she pronounces, tossing the roll back into the basket.

  So much for getting right to the point.

  The waiter brings Enid’s salad and my mussels. Enid picks sulkily at hers.

  “I hate it when they serve the dressing on the side. Salads should be dressed lightly but thoroughly.”

  “And not too cold,” I add. “I hate it when the salad is too cold. You can’t taste the greens.”

  “Mmm, right,” Enid says with an approving smile. She puts down her salad fork and fixes me with a penetrating stare.

/>   “Mira, are you happy?”

  “What?”

  “I mean at the Post-Gazette, doing what you’re doing?”

  “Enid, listen, I’ve got something to tell—”

  “Okay, some doctor tells you tomorrow that you’ve got a year to live, and you’re okay with leaving behind a newspaper file of ‘Bistro Favorites for the Home Cook’ as your legacy?”

  “No, as a matter of fact—”

  “Aha! I knew it!” Enid signals the waiter and orders a carafe of house wine. “Listen. I’m fifty-six years old, today as a matter of fact,” she says, raising her water glass, “and I’ve been dreaming of having my own restaurant for the last thirty years. If it doesn’t happen soon, it’s never going to. Running interference for the Nibbler—Jesus, what a ridiculous name!—and figuring out if oleo should be capitalized and editing your columns on barbeque basics—you think that’s what I want my legacy to be?”

  We sit in silence for a moment while the waiter pours our wine. This strange talk of legacies and of happiness, not to mention my relief, however misplaced, that Enid isn’t going to fire me, has suddenly made me ravenously hungry.

  Enid watches me eat. “How are the mussels?” she asks, her fork hovering in between her plate and mine.

  “They’re okay,” I tell her, nudging my plate toward her. “Mussels are almost impossible to screw up, especially nowadays when the quality is uniformly good. Throw them in a pan with a little garlic, olive oil, and wine, and they’re done. But, bistros live and die by their frites, in my opinion.”

  “Well?” she says, gesturing in the direction of my frites.

  I offer her one.

  “Just as I suspected,” she pronounces mildly. “Soggy. So,” Enid says, after a beat, “what do you think?”

  “Well, to make really good fries you have to fry them twice and these—”

  “No!” she says, rolling her eyes. “What do you think I’ve been talking about?”

  Enid might just as well have been conducting this whole strange lunch in Japanese. I honestly have no idea what she’s been talking about. She carefully lays down her knife and fork and leans forward, her voice low and soft. “What do you think about opening a restaurant? With me. You do the cooking, menu development, etcetera. I handle the business and maybe put in a couple hours a week in the kitchen, if you’re willing to have me. What do you say, Mira?”

  “A restaurant?” Enid has caught me completely off guard.

  “Yeah, what do you say?”

  “Enid, I can’t. I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m going back to New York. I’m going back to Grappa.”

  Enid sits back in her chair and carefully lifts a hand to smooth her hair. “Oh,” she says, raising her napkin and dabbing delicately at her pursed mouth. “I had no idea you were thinking about leaving. If you were unhappy, you should have said something,” she says, her voice prim and clipped.

  “I’m not. I wasn’t. It’s just that it’s a great opportunity. It came up totally unexpectedly.”

  Enid drains her wine and refills both our glasses. She eyes me speculatively. “I waited too long. I should have guessed. I didn’t think you’d be happy for more than a couple of months doing this crap.” She swipes at her mouth with her napkin and drops it beside her plate.

  “No, I’ve really enjoyed writing the column. I appreciate the chance you’ve given me.” I lay a hand on top of Enid’s. “Thank you.”

  Enid sits upright in her chair and coolly removes her hand from mine. “So, tell me about it. Grappa wants you back? How did you manage that?”

  I fill her in on the details, even going so far as to suggest that if she wants to own a restaurant, there still might be room to buy into the syndicate.

  “Oh, no,” she says. “I was hoping for a more hands-on experience. I’ll just have to throw more dinner parties,” she says, sipping her wine, her eyes dark.

  “You know, Enid. It sounds romantic, but when you own a restaurant, you live, eat, and breathe it. There’s room for nothing else. You have no idea what it entails. I do. The headaches, the frustrations, not to mention the time.”

  Enid looks over at me. “So why are you doing it?”

  “Because it’s always been my dream. I can’t not do it.”

  Enid sits back and considers me. “How do you know it’s not my dream, too?” she asks.

  I hesitate. “I don’t.” Who am I to tell Enid not to pursue this? “If it is, then I think you should go for it. It will be hard, though,” I tell her. Enid looks crushed. I change the subject: “I’ll stay on for a couple of weeks. I’d like to write a farewell column, if you’ll let me. I’ve been thinking about it and—”

  Enid waves her hand dismissively. “Of course. Write whatever you want. But Mira, are you sure? Isn’t there anything I can do to change your mind?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve got the papers all signed and ready to mail.” I pull the FedEx package from my purse and set it on the table between us. “The closing on the deal is Thursday.”

  Enid calls the waiter over and waves a hand over her plate. She has hardly touched her salad.

  “Cancel my veal chop and bring me a large piece of your best chocolate dessert instead. And two forks. Did I mention it’s my birthday?” Enid asks, turning to me.

  I raise my wineglass. “Happy Birthday, Enid.”

  “Congratulations, Mira,” she says, touching her glass to mine. “To dreams fulfilled,” she adds, her eyes wistful.

  chapter 33

  On the way home from lunch with Enid I stop at the Federal Express office to mail the signed documents back to Jerry. Once the envelope is swallowed up by the postbox, I feel like the tiny hourglass in Dad’s beloved Scrabble set has just been flipped. As a kid, whenever I played with him and he thought I was taking too long, he would flip the hourglass. But the rapidly draining sands made me too nervous to come up with any decent word, and I almost always ended up doing something stupid, or just traded in my letters. As soon as I get home, I call Ruth to tell her she should forget about finishing the documents; if she hasn’t found anything in the first box, she probably isn’t going to find anything in the second.

  “But I want to finish. It’s really interesting how this is all put together,” she says. “I hadn’t realized how much I missed the world of high finance,” Ruth tells me.

  The next morning I stop by to pick up Carlos. Fiona, Dad, and I are taking both kids to the Schenley Park pool so Ruth can continue her review of the documents in peace.

  “I promised myself I wouldn’t get mushy, but I’m going to miss you—and not just the food,” she says, looking up from her work. Her dining table is littered with paper, an old-fashioned adding machine spewing miles of white tape.

  I hand her the insulated lunch box in which I’ve packed her fresh tuna and avocado salad.

  “Thanks,” she says, getting up from the table to put her arms around me.

  The professor Fiona works for is summering in the south of France, so she is at liberty to use the twelve weeks of vacation she has accumulated over the past several years, which basically has amounted to her having the summer off. She has also somehow managed to get my father to take advantage of the lighter summer schedule at the university and work only three days a week.

  We’ve agreed to meet at the pool. When Carlos, Chloe, and I exit the women’s changing room, I see that Fiona and my dad are already there. They’ve managed to secure three chaises and are encamped in prime real estate by the baby pool, Fiona, a glowing bronze goddess in a bright yellow bathing suit and my dad in plaid bathing trunks I can remember from my childhood, his bald head covered in sunscreen and glistening like a greased melon.

  “I like your bathing suit, Fiona,” I tell her, approaching.

  “Thanks,” Fiona says. “Your father likes me to wear a bikini, but I don’t think it’s appropriate when I’m with my gr—my Chloe,” she finishes shyly.

  “Honestly, Fiona!” Dad says. “That’s not something I think M
ira needs to hear—”

  “I think Dad’s right; you should wear a bikini. You’ve got a great figure,” I tell her.

  Six months ago I would have been horrified that my father actually had a preference for Fiona in a habit and wimple, never mind a bikini—or that she’d been about to refer to Chloe as her granddaughter.

  My father looks at me, his eyes narrowing slightly as he squints into the sun. I smile at him, and he winks at me. He reaches over and pats Fiona chastely on the arm. “See, baby, what did I tell you?”

  Fiona places her hand over my father’s and sighs. “For a woman of my age, maybe.”

  Although she has never even hinted at her age, Ben once told me she is fifty-five. “For a woman of any age,” I say, and I mean it.

  She smiles as she swings her tanned legs from the chaise, moving to help unstrap Chloe from the seat of her stroller. I sit down on the lawn chair next to her, fish Carlos’s things from the beach bag, and begin the arduous process of wrestling him into his water wings. Even though Carlos is afraid of water, Ruth had made me promise I’d put them on.

  “How did the barbeque go last weekend?” I ask.

  Fiona beams at me. “It was terrific, thanks to you, Mira.” I’d given Fiona the test batch of sauce I’d made, which had actually turned out to be excellent. “One of your father’s students recognized your name from the paper and asked him if you were related. Tell her, Joe.”

  “Reads your column every week, she said,” my father says, looking up from his novel. “She said to tell you she’s cooking more, thanks to you.”

  “Your father is very proud of you, you know. You’re kind of like a celebrity. Pittsburgh’s own celebrity chef.”

  Fiona lowers herself into the baby pool and scoops Chloe onto her lap. Chloe instantly begins flapping her arms and splashing. Carlos and I sit on the grass, a couple of feet from the edge of the pool. “No waaer,” he says, burying his face in my arm, when Chloe’s flat-handed splash launches an arc of water that lands within an inch of us. I pull Carlos close and gently pat one water-winged arm. “Okay, buddy. We’ll just sit.” The last time Ruth and I had taken the kids to the pool, the furthest Carlos had gotten was submerging one of his big toes in the shallow end.