Aftertaste (10 page)

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Authors: Meredith Mileti

BOOK: Aftertaste
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When news of their affair had first spread, everyone told me it wouldn't last. It was just a fling, not uncommon, especially for men of a certain age who are trying to adjust to fatherhood. I'd done my best to believe them, despite mounting evidence to the contrary and, until as recently as that afternoon in the apartment, had even entertained the possibility, albeit a slim one, that Jake might want to come back. But lately, I'd begun to seriously doubt that she and Jake were just a fling. She was, I feared, going to be around for the long haul. That meant only one thing. I would have to buy Jake out.
For the next five hours I do not have another thought in my head that does not involve managing this crisis. When Eddie calls to deliver the bad news—no squid to be found anywhere in the city—I send one of the prep cooks to Dean and Deluca to check the price of squid and to make some discreet inquiries as to how much they have on hand. I throw a twenty at her and tell her to buy me half a pound so I can check the quality. The grilled calamari and spinach antipasto has been a mainstay since we opened, so paying a premium to keep it on the menu is a no-brainer, providing the quality is sufficiently high. I get one of the line guys to pull the lunch menus and type a new one that I dictate while pulling stuff from the walk-in and freezer. Today, our prix fixe menu will feature
cucina poverta:
polpettone alla napoletana, an Italian meat loaf; pappa al pomodoro; a ragout with sausages and peppers; and braciole (providing Rob, the meat guy, comes through in time).
When the meat still has not shown up by ten I'm on the phone yelling at some hapless office person, although it's just about hopeless, because, unless the meat shows up in the next five minutes, there will not be enough time to make the braciole. To cover for the fact that we were only able to buy fifteen pounds of calamari from Dean and Deluca (at an exorbitant price), Tony and I devise an additional antipasto, a ricotta and Pecorino torta flavored with hot pepper and prosciutto.
By eleven the kitchen is a mess, and should a health inspector walk in at this moment, there's a good chance we'd be shut down. I patrol the various stations shouting orders to clean up and wipe down, to get it together. When it seems inconceivable that we can pull things together in half an hour, Tony jokes that we should flip a fuse or two and post a sign on the door reading, “Closed due to power failure.” For his attempt at levity, he gets jabbed in the ribs with a whisk, and I tell him he's lucky I'm not holding a knife. I tell the staff that no dish is to leave the kitchen unless it goes by me. It is essential that I taste everything, since the majority of the food we are serving today is from recipes developed for the restaurant kitchen in the last two hours. In preparation, I chew a handful of Tums to quell the churning acid in my stomach.
As the first entrees go out, there's a collective holding of breath in the kitchen. It isn't that the food we are serving is bad. I would have taken Tony's suggestion and induced a power failure long before I served food that was seriously compromised. The issue isn't the
quality,
but the fact that we are serving
different
food. Grappa's signature dishes feature simple food, perfectly grilled meats, poultry, and fish, straightforward braises, and earthy flavors—a branzino delicately grilled on the bone and adorned by little besides some excellent quality olive oil and fresh herbs. Today, however, constrained by the small amount of meat and fish available, our menu is more reminiscent of Nonna's kitchen than what our well-heeled regulars are used to.
I'm in the midst of preparing a pesto for the fish stew when Eddie jogs through the back door and does a victory lap around the kitchen, while hefting a large bag of something over his head.
“Yo, I got the last in the city,” he booms. “The last calamari on the island! Don't ask me whose ass I had to kiss to get it, Mira, but baby, you owe me.” He grabs me by the waist and gives me a hug that I can't return, even if I wanted to. Still, the calamari is a nice gesture from Eddie, who has gone to considerable trouble just to please me.
“Thanks, Eddie,” I say, turning and giving him a tight smile. “That's great.”
“You'll have plenty of time to thank me later,” he says with a leer, inducing a few snickers from the line. I turn around, brandishing my pestle, and deliver a murderous look.
“Okay, I get the picture, you're busy.”
As nice as Eddie's gesture is, it does me little good right now. I've just shelled out close to three hundred bucks for a measly fifteen pounds of squid from Dean and Deluca that I'm now selling at a loss. Also, if Eddie has had as much trouble getting his hands on the squid as he says he has, then I know that I'm going to be paying for it through the nose. Maybe I
should
sleep with him.
Terry comes flying through the kitchen at a quarter to two announcing that she thinks she has spotted Frank Bruni in the dining room, causing me to burn myself on an open flame at the grill station. Tony locates some gauze, which he affixes to my burned hand with duct tape. I'm tempted to tell him not to bother. If Frank Bruni really is in the dining room, I might just as well throw myself into the pizza oven. When Tony is finished ministering to me, I allow myself a quick and surreptitious look, just to make sure. I decide, with relief, that Terry is probably wrong. The man in the toupee and tinted glasses is just as likely to be a movie star or a cheating husband as Frank Bruni.
By two thirty we're limping and hobbling toward the finish line. We are out of most things on the menu, and I have had to call back both Eddie and Rob and place additional rush orders for dinner. When I finally get around to opening the City Meats bill, I'm horrified at the substantial “rush delivery” fee they've charged, which I now have just doubled.
Usually I take a few minutes to look at the receipts, but I know without looking that we've taken a big hit financially today. My feet and back are aching, and my burned hand is throbbing. The thought of having to remove the duct tape bandage, not to mention the approximately six thousand calories worth of food I've tasted on its way out of the kitchen, make me feel like throwing up.
Finally, at three o'clock the last of the orders have gone out, and there's time to breathe. The kitchen staff is beat, and the waitstaff has had to put up with unhappy customers and bad tips; the kitchen is a mess, and we open for dinner in three hours. I can only hope that the meat will make it here in time. It suddenly seems so much easier to think of that as Jake's problem.
There isn't much in the way of leftovers, so I throw a few pounds of pasta in the pasta vats and prepare a simple aglio e olio for the troops. We open a couple of extra bottles of house wine, and the staff, at least the ones who are on for a double shift, gather to eat a well-deserved meal. I raise my glass and thank them, acknowledging that this was hell, but that today in my kitchen everybody is a chef. I'm tempted to stick around until Jake arrives, so that I can at least watch him suffer, but I'm still too angry. We'd probably just end up screaming at each other, and that might throw the dinner staff off their game. I clean up quickly and leave without even bothering to remove my tunic and clogs.
chapter 10
On Wednesday morning I buy the paper on the way to work, something I almost never do, because usually by the time I get around to reading it, everything is old news. I quickly check the Food section, just to make sure that the nightmare of Frank Bruni's being in the restaurant Monday was the result of Terry's stress-induced paranoia. Good, I note with relief, no scathing review. Nevertheless, I'll probably continue to check for the next several weeks, just to be sure. When I turn on my cell phone after dropping Chloe off, I see that I have two new messages. The first is from Eddie, who was just following up on how things went Monday, glad he could help, and wondering whether I was free for dinner on Saturday night. How did he get my cell phone number? Of course, in my panic Monday, I probably made the call from my cell phone. I delete the rest of the message before I even finish listening to it.
The second message is from my lawyer. “Mira, Jerry Fox returning your call. I just received Jake's settlement offer, and we need to sit down and go over it before our meeting with Jake and his lawyer tomorrow morning. Give me a call at your earliest convenience. Thanks.” I call him back immediately but, as I expected, he's not there—lawyers are never there—so I leave him another message.
In typical fashion, Jerry doesn't return my call until later that evening while I'm trying to get Chloe to bed. I'm tempted to make a sarcastic comment about his returning my call at
his
earliest convenience, but he says, “Sorry, but I hope you don't mind if I finish my dinner while we talk. I'll try not to chew in your ear.” Seeing as it is nearly eight, how can I say I mind?
I've watched enough episodes of
Boston Legal
and
The Practice
to know that lawyers do this stuff all the time. They rehearse arguments on their way to court, have conference calls on their cell phones during lunch at my restaurant, and scream instructions at their secretaries while clients are talking to them on the phone. They are the consummate multitaskers whom, for the record, I do not begrudge a penny of their six-figure salaries. In the kitchen I'm a multitasker, too, but now I need to talk to Jerry about my life. I need time to digest things. I need to be brought along slowly, particularly on issues of such immense personal importance. Jerry Fox, unfortunately, is a man willing to pander to my needs only so far. Time to digest? Don't be silly, he'd say. If you don't sleep, you'll have fourteen hours.
“Okay, where are we?” he says, all business with no hint of apology as to why it has taken so long to get back to me.
“Jake's settlement offer? Settlement meeting tomorrow?” I'm trying to be helpful without sounding snide.
“Yes, yes,” he says, focusing. “I got their proposal, and it seems they want to wrap this up as quickly as possible, which we can use, by the way. Yup. They are in a big hurry. Okay, let's see . . .” I can hear him flipping through pages. “Well, the biggest development is that they've made us an offer, and a serious one, I think, to buy your share of Grappa: $950,000, with $250,000 up front and the rest over four years.”
“The nerve of him! He won't buy me out—I'll buy him out! And anyway, Jake doesn't have that kind of money. What kind of game is he playing?”
“Mira, you own a successful restaurant in the heart of Manhattan that is grossing over three million per year. Even allowing reasonable salaries for you and Jake, at least ten percent of that is pure profit. We have a consultant, a CPA, on retainer in the office. I showed him Grappa's financials, and he's sure Jake can borrow that much, even more, based on the restaurant receipts alone. The offer is too low, but at least it's a serious opening. Anyway, there's more. They propose you take over the lease on the apartment; all outstanding credit card debt is to be split jointly; you get the Italian poster collection; he wants the season tickets to the Met. Add the price from the buyout, plus child support, and you are sitting pretty. In terms of a counteroffer, here's what I propose—”
“Hold on a minute, Jerry. I'm not selling the restaurant. I don't want to be bought out. And even if I did consider selling my share, I wouldn't sell it to Jake. No way. Selling out, particularly to Jake, means the end of everything. No, I want Grappa, Jerry. Make it happen.”
Jerry doesn't say anything right away. After a pause, he says, “Look, Mira, I'll do whatever you want, but have you really thought about what this means? After all, you've got a baby to raise, and the money from a buyout could give you time to be at home with her. You could take a breather, figure out what you want to do, and still have capital to invest in a new venture if you want. I don't know, but if I were you, I'd at least consider it.”
A new venture? Starting up a new restaurant? “No way, Jerry. I can't do another restaurant. It is a tough market; the start-up costs are prohibitive, not to mention the hours, the personal investment. Not while Chloe is a child. Grappa is well established, is operating in the black, and unless we keep screwing it up, we've got a loyal following. I'd be a fool to let it go.”
“Jake will never agree to work for you. You'd lose him as chef.”
“Just like he'd lose me if I sold to him. And with the extra hundred thousand or so Jake won't be taking out of the profits, I can look for someone really great. Or, better yet, promote Tony. He's been practically running the place as it is.”
Quite frankly, I am offended by Jerry's attitude.
I'm
Grappa, not Jake. Why doesn't he see this? Sure, Jake can cook; sure, he's great under pressure in the kitchen, but great chefs do not necessarily make great business people. From the first, I've been the one to attend to the thousands of details, to run the business, to make sure we got some publicity, to schmooze with regular clients, and to add, I think, my own innovative approach to the preparation and delivery of the food.
Could it be because I'm a woman? I should be willing to cut Jerry some slack—he doesn't know much about the industry, and his comments may just be a knee-jerk reaction from a lawyer accustomed to representing the wives of wealthy executives. But this is my future we're talking about. I'm impatient and in no mood to walk him, a relative outsider, through the complicated inner workings of the restaurant world.
“Look, Jerry, this isn't just a whim of mine. I've been thinking about it for a while. I had just hoped that Jake and I would be able to work it out . . .” I say, suddenly embarrassed, “with Grappa.”
I can hear him exhale into the phone. “That would be tough, Mira. I've seen many successful businesses fail because ex-partners just can't work together, particularly when the business involves as much day-to-day decision making as yours does. Divorce is war, most of the time anyway. Throw a business into the mix, and you've got the potential for some scorched earth. Okay, Mira, you want the restaurant. What do you think it is worth?”
What is Grappa worth? Of course, Jerry is asking me for a dollar figure, but that's only a small piece of what Grappa is worth to me.
“Jerry, you said this consultant has taken a look at the books? What does he think it is worth?”
“Well, he said Jake's offer was a bit low, but he did not mention a precise number. These accountants can be tough to nail down. Let me see if I can reach him and at least get a range of values.”
Jerry calls me back half an hour later. “Well, it took some doing, but I got him to a pretty narrow range for an accountant: considering the existing debt and mortgage, the equity value of the restaurant is in the range of $2.1 to $2.2 million. . . .” Wow—we owned something worth over two million dollars, had been multimillionaires really, without ever even knowing it.
Fifteen minutes later Jerry has explained to me (for the second time) what is, in his opinion, a brilliant strategy. Our opening move will be to counteroffer Jake exactly the terms he offered me— $950,000, with $250,000 up front and the rest over four years. When they reject it, as they are guaranteed to do, that puts us in the driver's seat. We will have established that they tried to lowball us. Then, we counter by proposing—and this Jerry assures me is the brilliant part—that I set the amount that I think Grappa is worth, and Jake gets to decide who buys out whom. Since Jake will have to pay me child support over the buyout period, we can set the buyout at a number that I can afford to pay, but Jake cannot, virtually guaranteeing that I end up with Grappa. Of course, the higher we set the number, the more I'm cheating myself, but the more I raise the odds of getting Grappa.
“Are you sure you're okay with a highball offer?” Jerry asks me, for the third time.
“Jerry, Grappa is like my child. How much would you pay to keep your child?”
In that case, Jerry assures me, there's no downside to this strategy. I either win Grappa or I get paid considerably more than my share is worth.
The meeting is scheduled for ten the following morning, and I agree to show up at Jerry's office by nine thirty for final strategizing. He tells me that I should be prepared for Nicola to be there, too. “What! Why would she have a right to be there? This is between me and Jake!” Jerry instructs me that, although Jake and I are the actual “parties,” it would be bad form to try to exclude Nicola, and if I want to, I can bring a friend for moral support as well. Who would I bring? Hope? Renata? And why would I subject anyone to this, let alone someone I call a friend? Finally, Jerry further instructs me that if I'm worried about controlling myself, I should try to avoid looking at them. Nor should I talk directly to Jake. All communication will be handled through the lawyers.
Predictably, I don't sleep, my angst extending well beyond the ministrations of the lone Valium I manage to scrounge from the bottom of my travel bag at three fifteen in the morning. I'm a nervous flyer; it's left over from the trip we took to Italy for our anniversary three years ago and has probably long since expired, but I wipe off the lint and swallow it nonetheless, washing it down with the dregs from the wine bottle that I opened after Jerry's initial phone call.
Despite the confidence with which I've stated my intentions to Jerry, I have some lingering doubts about running the restaurant on my own. There's a niggling suspicion that perhaps I haven't been completely fair to Jake. After all, he had helped get Grappa off the ground. It had been his idea to expand, a risky move and one that originally I was against. But Jake sensed that the market was right, that there was room for at least one more good, midsized Italian restaurant in the Village. And so we had expanded from fifteen to twenty-six tables after our first year in business, a move that ultimately more than doubled our profits. Also, like it or not, Jake is a good chef, and I've learned more than a few things about cooking from him.
Finally, I give up trying to sleep and turn on TV Land, which, as luck would have it, is playing an
I Love Lucy
marathon. Fading in and out of consciousness I listen to Lucy and Ricky argue, tease, and deceive each other and then make up. All is forgiven at the end of each episode. I try not to think about Lucy and Desi's real life together, which I understand was plagued by domestic strife, conniving, and betrayal. Yet another married couple whose business and romantic relationships had gone sour. Not that the TV Land version of marriage was a picnic, but wouldn't it be nice if every twenty-four minutes you could start over, take a marital mulligan, wipe the domestic slate clean?
Who was I kidding? Jake and I hadn't been married long enough to make it to syndication.
 
The offices of Tyler, Fox, and Rosenberg are on the thirty-fifth floor of the Seagram Building. Perhaps because Jerry is anticipating that we may have to be rushed off to separate corners for pep talks, cool downs, or time-outs, he's provided us with a large conference room. Jake and I, along with our respective lawyers, sit across from each other at a table that could easily accommodate twenty people. To my immense relief, there's no sign of Nicola.
On the rosewood table between us is a tray with a coffee pot, some cups, and a plate of donuts. In case anyone feels like eating. Across the table Jake looks small and boyish, out of place in his khakis and blazer when I'm so used to seeing him in his chef's whites or a tee shirt and jeans. He looks like he's borrowed his older brother's clothes for some big date. He gives me a curt smile and a brief nod, then immediately looks away. His lawyer has probably given him the same instruction mine has given me. Jake's lawyer, whose name is Ethan Bowman, greets Jerry enthusiastically, shaking hands and patting him on the shoulder. They know each other well enough to ask after their respective wives, which I think is rather tactless given the fact that they are charged this morning with the severing of certain matrimonial ties, and ought not to be broadcasting their successful marriages under the noses of clients whose relationship failures, so obvious and recent, are paying their bills.
As Jerry advised, I don't look at Jake except once, when the conversation turns to the disposition of the season tickets to the Met. At that point, I dare to meet his gaze. I'd gotten Jake a threeopera subscription package for his birthday the year after Grappa opened. For the first time in our professional lives, we were calling the shots and could count on taking the occasional Monday evening off. I splurged on Dress Circle seats, hoping that one day I'd learn to share Jake's enthusiasm for opera, although I never had. I remove a medium-sized manila envelope from my purse and slide the package containing the tickets across the table to Jake.

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