Aftertaste

by Meredith Mileti

  The kitchen is small and the remains of a grease fire over one of the grills still apparent. A kid, with just a wisp of whiskers under his chin and a soiled apron slung low on his hips, is halfheartedly cleaning the fire extinguisher chemicals from the hood over the large griddle. He looks up, raises a rubber-gloved hand in greeting, and says, “I got two orders up for burgers. I told them it would be a while. These chemicals stick like a bitch.”

  “Forget the grill. We can clean it when we shut down for the night. We’ll use the oven, broil the burgers, and, if things pick up we can fry them on the stove over here,” I tell him, shooing him away from the griddle so that I can check out the oven underneath. He looks at me for a moment, clearly wondering who this crazy lady brandishing a knife case is, but I take advantage of his hesitation to further seize control. “Grab me a couple of broiler trays and fire up this oven,” I tell him. “And dump all those condiments and start chopping some new ones.”

  I look over at Ben, who has found himself a clean apron and is already grabbing the bins of lettuce and tomato for the trash.

  The kid, who is wearing a chef’s tunic bearing the emblem from the local culinary academy with his name, “Ryan,” embroidered over his chest, quickly gets on board, fires up the oven, and delivers me a tray of thin, premade burgers.

  In less than ten minutes the burgers are out the door, each with a side of onion rings that Ryan tells me are the house’s singular specialty—thin, crispy, and coated only with a light dusting of flour. They are, judging from the prepackaged soups and premade iceberg salads stacked in individual bowls three deep in the walk-in, the only thing, besides the burgers and the frozen chicken wings, requiring any real preparation.

  Around nine thirty or so, the orders pick up. People sitting around drinking tend to get hungry eventually, and by the time they do, Ryan, Ben, and I are working more or less harmoniously. I’ve reorganized the kitchen and given each of us a station to cover. Ben finds a small portable CD player, and we flip burgers to Santana’s “No One to Depend On,” while Ben occasionally belts out lyrics in fake Spanish.

  There’s a rhythm to cooking, even flipping burgers. That’s part of what I love about it. Because chefs are almost constantly in motion, we learn to be parsimonious with our movements, instinctively conserving them, stirring the sauce with one hand, flipping the contents of the sauté pan with the other. Each movement is precisely choreographed, according to the particular beat of the kitchen; the key is knowing just how long the buns need to rest atop the griddle to achieve a particular shade of gold, and when to take the food, in one simple flick of the wrist, from pan to plate. While Ben claims to be a competent home cook, it’s clear he hasn’t cooked professionally. He makes several unnecessary trips from the condiment station to the deep fryer, each time placing his hands lightly on my waist so as to move past me without bumping my hand or my arm, and each time flustering me, disrupting my rhythm, and once causing me to toast the buns to an unacceptable shade of umber.

  The orders keep coming steadily until last call. Ryan goes out to help wipe down the tables and to get himself a beer. Only when I have stopped moving do I realize that it’s almost two in the morning and I’ve totally forgotten about Chloe.

  “Oh, my God! It’s almost two!”

  “Relax,” Ben calls from the sink, where he has dumped two large cheese-encrusted sheet pans. “When things started picking up, I called Aunt Fi to tell her we’d be late. She said to tell you they’ll keep Chloe overnight. No sense waking them now. Besides, this way you get to sleep in tomorrow. When was the last time you did that? After tonight you’re going to need it. I don’t know about you, but I’m whipped.” Ben’s hair is rumpled, and his apron bears spots from several run-ins with errant condiments, but otherwise he seems to have held up well. I, on the other hand, feel like I could run a marathon. There’s an honest ache in my legs from being on my feet, but I’m upbeat and exhilarated like I usually am after a busy night in the kitchen. It reminds me of my Grappa days, of Jake and me working this late, the kitchen larger and the food more complicated, but the feeling’s the same. I’ve missed it. I just hadn’t realized how much. I turn away, startled to find there are tears in my eyes.

  Suddenly, Ben is standing behind me, his hands lightly massaging my neck. “Thanks, Mira,” he whispers. “You were great.”

  I don’t know whether it’s Ben’s hands on my neck or his breath in my hair or the exhilaration of being back in the kitchen, but I’m suddenly in Ben’s arms kissing him, and I’m pretty sure that it was my idea. He presses his body into mine, which is a good thing because my legs are suddenly weak, and were he to let go, I’d surely fall, but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches behind me and grabs a handful of my hair in his hand and gently, effortlessly removes the clips.

  Ryan makes a lot of noise coming back into the kitchen and says loudly to no one in particular that he thinks he’ll be going now.

  Richard is still sleeping in my living room, so we go to Ben’s apartment, which is much closer anyway. We only half undress before we start making love in Ben’s living room, frantically gasping and clutching at each other. Afterward, we both fall into an exhausted sleep on the couch. When I awake the next morning, I’m alone. It’s early; the sun is still on the rise, sending its diffuse rays through Ben’s old glazed windows. He has covered me with a blanket and slipped a pillow underneath my head. I feel such a sense of relief, both physical and sexual, and I’m tempted to give in to it, to roll over and fall back asleep. But I can’t. Chloe will be awake soon, and I don’t want her to wake up wondering where I am. I throw off the covers and search the floor for my clothes, which I can’t even remember removing, trying not to think about having to explain to Richard, who will be waking soon, where I’ve been.

  “Don’t move,” Ben says from the doorway, holding a tray, the morning papers tucked beneath his arm. I have no idea how long he has been standing there watching me. “I’ve been up for an hour, making breakfast for us. You have no idea how intimidating it is cooking for a chef.”

  I’m suddenly shy, and then, remembering my lust last night, I feel my face begin to color. Embarrassed, I draw the blanket up around my breasts.

  Ben sits down next to me and lays the tray on the coffee table in front of us. He doesn’t look at me, but instead busies himself with its contents, sorting silverware and plates.

  “I couldn’t move you,” he says. “You were out, and I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and cooked. I figured you’d be hungry.” Ben pours me a cup of coffee and hands me a chipped china mug.

  “Thanks,” I whisper, my voice breathless and scratchy. I sit up and arrange the blanket to cover myself.

  “Don’t,” Ben says quietly, reaching over and gently pulling the blanket from my breasts. “I didn’t get to—last night, I mean. I didn’t get a chance to look at you.” He reaches over and traces my nipple lightly with one finger, and I moan softly as he cups my breast. The breakfast is forgotten. Ben takes the lead now, taking me by the hand and leading me to the bedroom where he makes love to me again, this time slowly and carefully.

  “You know, this would have been much better if we’d eaten it hot,” he says later, munching a forkful of eggs. We’re lying together in a tangle of sheets, the remains of the breakfast, now cold, lying on top of us.

  “That’s okay. You’re really good at making”—I pause for effect and gaze lasciviously at Ben—“coffee.”

  “Thanks. You were great last night, by the way,” Ben says, leering at me in return, “. . . in the kitchen.”

  “Touché,” I say, pulling the covers up over me.

  “That’s really what got me going. You made it all seem so easy. You were formidable, commanding, quick. It was very, very sexy,” Ben says, softly nuzzling my neck and kissing me lightly on the ear.

  “Hey, how come you never mentioned before that your friend’s brother had a restaurant?” I ask.

  Ben pulls away and busies himself sorting through the morning new
spapers we’d scattered in a heap on the floor. “I don’t really know the guy,” he says, picking up the Food section and tossing me the rest.

  Confused, I raise myself on one elbow to look at him.

  “Okay, look, he didn’t actually call me. Well, he did, but not about the restaurant exactly. Jim and I were supposed to play racquetball last night, and he called to say his brother had this accident and that he was going to take him to the emergency room instead. When he told me what happened, I suggested you might help. I thought it would be good for you to get back into a kitchen.”

  I should have suspected as much. Ben had been doing me the favor, not the other way around.

  “You aren’t angry, are you?” Ben asks, kissing me.

  “No. Well, maybe. I haven’t quite decided,” I tell him, feeling a little silly that I allowed myself to be so easily fooled. Partly, I’m relieved. I haven’t cooked professionally since Grappa, and it felt good to prove to myself that I still can, even if it was only burgers and onion rings. I’m also touched that Ben took the trouble to help me like this. But mostly, I think, reaching for him, I’m grateful, grateful that cooking isn’t the only thing I haven’t forgotten how to do.

  “Hey, did you see this?” Ben says.

  “No. What?”

  “The Nibbler strikes again! Jesus, what a bastard! Listen to this—first of all, get a load of this headline: ‘Bistro Rive Gauche Only Half-Appropriately Named.’ ” Ben looks over the paper at me, an expression of mock horror on his face. “‘FON’—that’s Friend of Nibbler—‘ordered the mussels. The mussels, one of the few authentically bistro items on the menu, were decent, but it is hard, some might say impossible, to ruin mussels, given the overwhelmingly excellent quality of the farm-raised product. The veal chop was overcooked, and over-sauced, but worst of all, the frites, the signature item on any bistro menu, were soggy, the result of the chef having used only a single fry method.’”

  I lean my head back against the pillows and let out a laugh, a guffaw so raucous that Ben puts down his newspaper and looks at me with alarm.

  Of course, I should have guessed.

  “I don’t get it,” Ben says. “This is the kind of thing that should outrage you! Some poor slob pours his heart and soul—not to mention his last dime—into a restaurant and then gets a review like this one!”

  “So, maybe he deserved it. Look, it’s a tough market out there, and there’s room only for the best. Bad reviews don’t close restaurants. Bad food does. You shouldn’t open a restaurant unless you know what you are doing.”

  “Well, then,” Ben says, taking me in his arms, “what are you waiting for?”

  chapter 35

  “Okay, I’m in,” I tell her.

  “I knew you would be,” she says calmly.

  “Well, at least we can be assured of one good review,” I tell her.

  “No,” Enid laughs. “I’m afraid the Nibbler is hanging up her lobster bib. Our good review will have to be earned. But that shouldn’t be too hard for you, my dear. Congratulations.”

  We discuss the details, such as they are at this point, which amount to little beyond the fact that Enid has already begun working on the financial end. She has a friend who is connected with investments at Northwest Bank, and with whom she previously discussed financing. In addition, she’s been looking for space and has already lined up a couple of possibilities that she wants me to see. My job is to decide what type of restaurant we will have, and what sort of space and equipment we’ll need. As to what type of restaurant, Enid has an open mind, or so she says.

  “But no tearooms, okay? My mother used to eat at tearooms. The tea is always weak, and the food unimaginative. Oh, and no retro shit. If I have to eat at another revamped diner serving chicken a la king, I’ll—”

  “Relax, Enid. No tearooms, no diners.”

  I share my news with no one. Not Richard, who doesn’t seem to have noticed that I didn’t sleep at home Saturday night, and not my father or Fiona, whose generosity in watching Chloe extended to breakfast and a trip to the zoo. Not even Ben, who calls not long after I hang up with Enid to invite me out on a date. If I tell anybody, it should be him. But I don’t. In fact, I don’t even answer the phone when he calls; instead, I cower in the bathroom while the machine picks up, listening to Ben’s sweet and slightly stilted invitation to have dinner with him.

  “Hello, Mira? I was, ah, wondering if you’re busy tonight. I would love to take you out to dinner. Anywhere you like. You pick the place. I’ll even wear a tie. Call me back, okay? Oh, this is Ben, by the way.”

  Yes, Ben, who I can’t even imagine owning a jacket and tie, much less wearing one. I’m not completely sure how I feel about our backwards relationship, where the dinner invitation is issued after the fact—and with all the formality and forced cheerfulness of a date to the prom. Now that I’ve committed to the idea of a Pittsburgh restaurant, I’m committing to staying here, which means that any sane and reasonable person would proceed with extreme caution. Which is why, I suppose, I let the machine pick up when he called.

  As soon as Enid gave me a list of the four properties she and her contact at Northwest Bank determined we could afford, I knew, sight unseen, the one we’d lease. Still, I’ve done my due diligence, trekking along with Chloe, Enid, and the real estate agent to look at the first three, paying about as much attention as my eighteen-month-old daughter and politely pretending to listen as they discussed the details of financing, offers, and contingencies.

  The fourth space belonged to Bruno. He bought the building next to the bakery years ago, intending to expand his business, but somehow had never gotten around to it. He offered us a good deal on the building, but it was the location that had me sold—a long narrow space sandwiched in between Bruno’s and the Pennsylvania Macaroni Company. It isn’t big, but the ceilings are high, and there are two eight-foot double-paned windows that open onto the street in front. There’s even a small courtyard separating the space from the bakery, just enough room for a couple of tables, a few plants, and maybe a whimsical iron fountain.

  Before we’d even signed the papers, Bruno gave me the key, wrapped my fingers around it with his own trembling hands, and told me to keep it. Since then, I’ve been coming here in the early mornings with Chloe, the two of us getting up just as the sun begins to rise over the city, walking slowly, hand in hand, across Smallman Street to Penn Avenue, watching our neighborhood come to life.

  This morning, outside Nordic Fisheries a couple of delivery guys are unloading lobsters and crabs by the case, pausing in between loads to sip coffee from Styrofoam cups. Across the street, on Penn Avenue, the green grocers are busy stacking crates of vegetables and fruits, arranging them into a still life to showcase their most beautiful produce: heads of red romaine, their tender spines heavy with the weight of lush, purple-tinged leaves; a basket of delicate mâche, dark green, almost black, and smelling like a hothouse garden; sugar pumpkins of burnished gold; new Brussels sprouts, their tender petals open like flowers.

  At this hour the world belongs to those noble souls who devote their lives to food. Cook, grocer, butcher, baker, sunrises are ours. It’s a time to gather your materials, to prepare your mise en place, to breathe uninterrupted before the day begins. Chloe and I enter the restaurant from the alley, which shares a loading dock with Penn Mac. A large truck is already backed up to a delivery bay where a man is unloading fifty-pound sacks of fine grain semolina onto the floor of the storeroom. He piles the sacks, one on top of the other, sending clouds of flour into the air. Judging from the number of sacks on the floor, he’s been at it a while, and the entire alley is white with flour, hanging in the air like snow. It’s come to rest on his bare forearms, on his hair and eyebrows. He nods to us and smiles at Chloe, who holds out her hands and watches, fascinated, as particles of flour settle into her small palms. I catch a few grains and rub them in between my fingers, all at once remembering what it feels like to coax a pasta dough to life, the precise moment whe
n you feel its first breath as it relaxes and expands in one long sweet inhalation into your yielding hands.

  The weather has been unseasonably warm this year, and even though it is the week before Thanksgiving, humidity hangs in the air, custard-thick and heavy. Before turning on the lights, I switch on the air conditioner, which sputters and groans before finally kicking in. The din is tremendous, so I switch it off and open the windows instead. A breeze moves in, bringing with it the smell of Bruno’s baking bread and the sweet and slightly pungent smell of discarded lettuce and cabbage leaves that have fallen from delivery crates to litter the alley. The old Venetian blinds covering the windows flutter in the breeze, casting inky shadows on the walls and on the odds and ends of furniture, six wooden tables, each with four mismatched chairs, left over from whatever this space used to be.

  I’m taking very seriously Enid’s suggestion that I be the one to decide what kind of restaurant we will have. This is why I’ve been coming here in the early mornings to stand in the open space and let my imagination wander over the possibilities, each one a new and different incarnation. But there’s one I keep returning to, one vision that, over the last several days, has begun to assume a more specific size and shape, one that feels just right to me.

  Spuntino will only serve breakfast and lunch, my willing sacrifice to motherhood. Homemade pastas, frittatas, beans and greens, soups thickened with semolina and with ribbons of egg, a pappa al pomodoro made with a bread I’m planning to coax Bruno into baking especially for me, a thick crusty Florentine loaf with no salt. No big menus, no fancy wine lists. In fact, courtesy of Pennsylvania’s antiquated liquor licensing procedures, no wine at all for at least the first six months. A place with an open kitchen and a counter where people can sit and talk to me while I prepare their breakfasts and lunches, because it would be nice to know the people I’m cooking for. Rustic wooden tables that encourage spreading out, maybe a low banquette and some comfy chairs gathered around a fireplace. One day I imagine Chloe stopping here on her way home from school to eat a bowl of soup and do her homework on one of the long wooden tables, chatting easily with the regulars, all of whom will love her.