Aftertaste (3 page)

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Authors: Meredith Mileti

BOOK: Aftertaste
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We push back the meeting to eleven thirty, which gives me a little extra time to get cleaned up and feed Chloe, if she awakens before Renata arrives. When Renata volunteers to bring lunch, I don't refuse. I hang up feeling full of good intentions. After a shower I'll feel more human, and then there is the prospect of a sumptuous lunch. I'll even whip up a batch of hazelnut biscotti, which we can have with a little espresso for dessert.
My train of thought is interrupted by the ringing phone. The cordless handset slipped in between the cushions of the sofa when I set it down, and as I fumble for it, the answering machine picks up. “Mira, it's Jake. It's almost nine. I don't know if I'll have another chance to talk before lunch—”
I switch on the handset. “Hello, Jake,” I say, trying to sound calm and collected.
“It's Jake.”
“I know, you said.” Neither of us says anything for a few seconds.
“I got a couple of messages that you called. Tony said something about the baby being sick.”
I want to tell him that she has a name and that it would be nice if occasionally he would use it. “Yeah, Chloe has some sort of virus. I took her to the hospital in the middle of the night when her fever hit a hundred and five.”
“Jesus, is she okay?”
I want to tell him that I was worried and scared, but I don't do that either. “I think so. We're home now. Her fever is down, and she's sleeping. I think she's going to be all right.”
“Wow,” is all Jake can think to say.
“Actually, I don't think we could have made it to the ER any faster in an ambulance. Crazy Manhattan cabbies. Good thing, too, because she started convulsing on the way over. As soon as we got there they gave her an IV drip, you know, to rehydrate her.” Who is this person casually tossing around big medical terms?
“Well, I'm here. Lunch is covered,” Jake says.
I can't think of anything else to say, but I don't want to hang up yet. “What's up with Eddie?”
“Black bass,” he says, after a pause. “Beautiful stuff.”
“What are you going to do with it?” I ask, and for a minute we slip into our old ways. Talking food. He's animated as he tells me that he's thinking of roasting it on a bed of caramelized fennel and leeks.
“If there's any left you might think about a cioppino for lunch tomorrow,” he finishes, embarrassed that he's let himself go like that. I am, he has just remembered, the enemy.
“Well, I have to see how Chloe's doing. Tell Tony to be on call for lunch tomorrow, too, just in case,” I say coolly.
“Yeah, okay.”
It isn't until after we hang up that I realize he didn't ask me about my meeting with Renata. Our conversation had taken approximately eight minutes, and I start to replay it in my mind, rehashing and recasting the nuances: what was said, what was implied.
Sustaining that calm and in-control tone I had adopted with Jake had been key in gaining the upper hand, but it sapped what little strength I had. I slump into the couch, maneuvering myself so that the loose spring isn't directly in the small of my back. Just another minute or two on the couch before I'll get up and get moving. Of course, I fall asleep.
Some time later a ringing wakes me from my doze. I click the phone on. “Hello?” Just a dial tone. I hear the ringing again and realize it's the doorbell.
It's Renata, and I've neither showered nor changed, much less made any biscotti.
When I open the door I can see my filthy sweat suit and greasy hair mirrored in Renata's shocked expression. I usually look much better than this, a fact that I'm counting on Renata remembering.
“You,
cara mia,
are a walking argument for birth control,” Renata says, in her slightly accented English, putting down her briefcase and the two brown paper bags she has brought. I can see a large ciabatta protruding from one. A very good sign.
“Jake called right after we hung up. I was going to shower and change, but I must have fallen asleep after he called.”
“I know he called you. I just talked to him.”
“You did? When? Did you call him or did he call you?” I ask, instantly suspicious.
“He called me.” Renata's voice is calm and patient, as if she is speaking to an unruly child. I want to tell her why this bothers me so much. To share my feeling that Jake is trying to take over the reins. That I'm feeling very threatened. I follow her into the kitchen where she begins unloading the two brown paper bags onto the butcher-block island. I stand there watching as she pulls out a huge, freshly smoked mozzarella, which, by the way she handles it, I can tell is still warm. She sets it down on the cutting board along with the loaf of ciabatta. While I'm considering my next line of questioning, Renata explains, “Jake called to tell me he forgot to show you the postcard I sent out last week listing some new specialty vinegars I'm offering. He asked me to tell you he's interested in sampling some of the blood orange.” I stand there looking puzzled, having been only momentarily distracted by the salad possibilities afforded by the aforementioned specialty vinegars. Perhaps a mild goat cheese, encrusted in herbs, baked and drizzled with a fruity olive oil and blood orange vinaigrette. What else was on that postcard? And why hadn't I seen it?
“Mira?” Renata has stopped unloading the bag and is staring at me from across the kitchen table.
“What else do you have besides blood orange?” I ask. She answers by going over to her purse and pulling out a blue postcard. She hands me the card, tells me to go and take a shower, a nice hot one, and to change my clothes so that she doesn't have to look at that disgusting stain, the origin of which she does not care to know.
I make the shower as hot as I can stand and mull over the possibilities—salad and otherwise. I decide it's ridiculous to think Renata has been conspiring with Jake against me. In talking to her, Jake really hasn't committed any horrible crime, although there is the possibility he's been hiding mail from me, which might explain why I hadn't seen the postcard. I resolve to go in on Sunday to totally reorganize the office and make a concerted effort to get on top of everything.
After dressing I go to check on Chloe. She's not in her crib, but sitting at the kitchen table in Renata's lap. Renata has covered her expensive blouse with a large cotton dish towel, and Chloe is looking up at her, fascinated by the large, gold teardrop earrings swinging from Renata's ears. When Chloe sees me she smiles and reaches for me, and I scoop her up and kiss her forehead. Still warm.
“I heard her crying while you were in the shower. Poor baby,” Renata coos in a high squeaky voice, which surprises me. I hadn't thought her the maternal sort.
I feed Chloe a bottle of the electrolyte solution the emergency room doctor gave us. She barely manages to finish it before she falls asleep again. I put her in her crib and, when I return, Renata has poured us each a glass of wine.
“Do you think it's normal for her to be sleeping so much?” I ask, plopping down at the table and taking a sip of the wine, a delicious full-bodied Valpolicella.
“She's sick, isn't she? What do you do when you're sick? You sleep, no?” Renata gives me a helpless shrug. “I don't know much about babies, Mira. I'm only guessing. What did the doctor say?”
I fill her in on the details of our midnight dash to the ER while Renata finishes setting out our lunch. Roasted red and yellow peppers, long-stemmed baby artichokes marinated in olive oil and herbs, several different kinds of olives, marinated white beans, and a salad of cold broccoli rabe, heavy on the garlic and hot pepper. I know she's been to Arthur Avenue in the Bronx to buy all of our favorite things, a true labor of love. I instantly regret every single paranoid thought I had about her being in cahoots with Jake.
“You know,” Renata says, “I'm now also a mama.” She smiles, enjoying my surprise. “Well, a stepmama anyway. Michael has a daughter.”
“I didn't know. How old? Does she live with you?” It is hard to imagine a child living in Renata's loft, which is pristinely neat and minimalist.
“Oh, no,” Renata says too quickly; the same thought has also apparently crossed her mind. “She's thirteen. The worst possible age for a girl. She lives with her mother on the Upper West Side. She goes to Miss Porter's.” She pauses, taking a hefty gulp of her wine. “Of course, she hates me.”
I'm about to say something comforting, how it takes a while in stepfamilies for everyone to settle in, but Renata holds up her hand to stop me.
“It's okay. I'm planning to buy my way into her heart. One thing about thirteen-year-old girls,” she says, waving the heel of the ciabatta in my face, “is they all have their price. In Melissa's case, the price is a Prada backpack. All she wants for Christmas, the little dear. Can you believe it? A Prada backpack! I didn't have a Prada until I was thirty.”
We schmooze a while longer, long enough to finish off the wine, and almost all of the cheese. I wipe up the last of the broccoli rabe with the remaining crust of bread and tell Renata about the hazelnut biscotti, which would have been the perfect finale.
“Well, it's a good thing you didn't make them, because I don't have time for coffee and I've eaten far too much anyway.” Renata unties the dishcloth from around her neck and pushes her chair away from the table. It's almost one. She probably has six or seven other calls to make before the end of her day, and I feel guilty about having taken so much of her time.
“Thanks, Renata,” I tell her, handing her my order, to which I have added a case each of the blood orange and black cherry vinegars. “Thanks for everything. Lunch was great.” I want to say more, to tell her how much I'd needed this lunch, someone taking care of me, even in this small way. But I suspect that if I do, the conversation will quickly become maudlin and probably end in tears. Since neither of us is the mushy, sentimental type, I'm glad when she grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a shake.
“Mira,” she says slowly, looking me in the eye, “just because Jake is a shit, doesn't mean you have to keep punishing yourself.”
“I know,” I say unconvincingly. Renata looks around the room, appraising the clutter, the busy box and ExerSaucer, Chloe's empty bottles, the papers everywhere. “First thing you should do is get yourself a cleaning lady. You're a working single mother. You can afford someone once or twice a week! Then, you've got to get out and be with people. When was the last time you went out to dinner, or lunch for that matter? When was the last time you had an adult conversation that didn't involve work? Ha! Don't answer that—I'm sure you can't remember, anyway. Get yourself a babysitter for Saturday night because I'm making reservations for us somewhere fabulous. It's about time you met Michael, and you ought to meet Arthur as well.”
Arthur? But before I can even ask, Renata swings her wool merino wrap over her suit, deposits a peck on my cheek, and disappears down the hall.
chapter 4
Everyone loves New York at Christmas time, which is why I always feel funny confessing that I find it incredibly depressing. People are too full of Christmas cheer to be believable, never seeming to weary of the Musak renditions of Christmas carols played incessantly in every store and on every street corner, or the tourists clogging the streets oohing and ahhing over the hokey displays in the store windows. From October to January, the entire city appears to have undergone a collective lobotomy.
It will be Chloe's first Christmas, and this should thrill me. But the thought of putting up a tree and wrapping Chloe's gifts, which I would then have to open alone on Christmas morning, makes me ache. I'd briefly entertained the idea of going home to Pittsburgh for the holiday, but that plan was fraught with issues too exhausting to think about for very long. Besides, the holiday season is a busy one for restaurants, and it's too hard to take the time off. In the meantime, I haven't made any plans for Thanksgiving either, which might be even harder than Christmas this year. Jake and I always made a big deal about Thanksgiving, inviting several of our foodie friends over for a daylong cooking and eating extravaganza.
Renata calls to tell me we have a reservation at Le Bernadin for eight o'clock Saturday night. Prime time. She's also taken the liberty of lining up a babysitter for Chloe. Gabriella, a friend of her stepdaughter, is only fourteen but has a certificate in infant CPR and charges fifteen dollars an hour.
Renata had the audacity to suspect I was lying when I told her that Hope, my regular sitter, was sick, suffering an infection from her most recent tattoo. “Mira, I don't believe you. You just don't want to go.”
She was right, of course. I was making this up, and we both knew it. I smile at the thought of Hope with a skull and crossbones emblazoned across one of her pudgy, middle-aged arms. “Well,” Renata says, “I've taken care of the babysitter for you. Now, do I have to come over to help you pick out an outfit, or are you capable of dressing yourself?”
I groan into the phone.
“Just promise me that you'll wear something nice and try to plaster a smile on your face. Arthur has gone to a lot of trouble to get this reservation,” Renata says peevishly.
“Who is this Arthur anyway?” I'm becoming increasingly concerned that Arthur is an eighty-year-old man, the only guy Renata has been able to come up with as a plausible date for me. No one under fifty is named Arthur.
“He's someone Michael knows. He's writing a book on the history of culinary science that Michael's editing. He writes for
Chef's Technique.
You've probably read his stuff.”
“And your husband, Michael, a man whom I have never met, thinks he would be perfect for me why? Because we both know how to use a mezzaluna?”
“Look, Mira—”
“Wait a minute, is his name Arthur Cole?” I ask.
“Yes, it is. Do you know him?”
As a matter of fact, I do. I'm a regular reader of his column in
Chef's
. He's a detail freak, writing exhaustive treatises on his search for the quintessential recipe for tuna casserole, which involves trying about fifteen different versions.
“See, you do have something in common,” Renata says when I tell her. “Come on, this will be fun.”
“Renata, I don't know. I'm not really ready—”
“Funny, Jake didn't seem to wait too long. In fact, he didn't wait at all.” I'm stunned into silence. “Mira, I had such high hopes for you. You started this divorce magnificently—just like an Italian woman. What has happened to you?”
I want to tell her that I don't feel pretty, or interesting, and that loving and hating Jake has taken up all of my available time and energy. When I don't answer her, Renata tells me what I need to hear, but don't for a minute believe.
“Mira, Jake is a consummate shit, and you are a beautiful woman in the prime of your life. Come on; buy yourself something pretty to wear. And let your hair down. Men like long hair. It's sexy.”
I groan. “What Arthur Cole would find sexy is a really good recipe for short ribs.”
Renata laughs. “Okay, so what's the worst thing that could happen? We have a sublime dinner, some fabulous wine, he's boring, and you go home. Right? Then we go to Plan B.”
“Plan B?”
“Eddie Macarelli.”
“Eddie the fish guy? Eddie Macarelli is Plan B?” I'm horrified. Eddie, while an excellent fish supplier—he handles the fish for most of the high-end restaurants in the city, doubtless including Le Bernadin—is a flamboyant guy. The kind of guy who likes to make a splash (one of Eddie's own unfortunate puns). He wears a diamond pinkie ring and talks like Tony Soprano. What possessed Renata to think we would have the slightest interest in each other?
“Renata, I can't go out with Eddie. We have a business relationship. I buy fish from him.”
“So what? He likes you. I ran into him at Esca last week, and he asked about you, said he's seen more of Jake lately. He heard about the divorce and asked if you were seeing anyone. He told me he's always kind of liked you.”
“I'm not divorced yet,” I tell her. What I really want to say is that I have no desire to date anyone, never mind Arthur Cole or Eddie Macarelli, and I can't be forced. Suddenly I wish I'd had the foresight to come up with a more believable excuse. Ebola maybe, or a touch of bubonic plague.
“Okay, okay, forget Plan B. Let's stick with Plan A,” says Renata. “Let's just go and have a wonderful dinner. Michael and I will bring Gabriella over to your place at seven. You can show her around and get Chloe settled. I'll tell Arthur we will meet him at the bar at eight.”
I'm relieved when Renata hangs up, telling myself that I'm only going because no one passes up dinner at Le Bernadin.
When I arrive at Grappa the next morning, Jake is there, even though it's only a little after seven in the morning. Gesturing with the knife he's using to score the ends of cipolline, he tells me that there's some mail on the desk in the office I need to attend to. He then turns to me and says with a mysterious little smile that I also should take a look in the refrigerator where there's a small package with my name on it. Not only is Jake here uncharacteristically early, but scoring cipolline isn't the sort of work he usually does. That's the work of the sous-chefs. He looks slightly rumpled, and I again wonder what possibly could have gotten him out of bed this early.
On top of the stack of mail there's a phone message from my lawyer, in Jake's handwriting, confirming our meeting with opposing counsel on the disposition of the marital assets set for the week after Thanksgiving. Then, I open the refrigerator door, and my stomach lurches. Inside is a package wrapped in brown butcher paper and tied with string. On the package is a crude drawing of a fish with huge caricature-style cheeks. Underneath the drawing is a message scrawled in an uneven hand. “Cheeks for the sweet! Dinner for two, sometime?” I'm mortified that Jake knows old “Make a Splash” Eddie wants to date me and by this bizarre courting ritual that involves leaving halibut cheeks wrapped in butcher paper in my refrigerator.
I make myself an espresso and bring it over to the pastry station where I begin the pasta. I can hear Tony whistling in the large walk-in refrigerator as he unloads the day's shipment of meat and eggs. I measure out the semolina and deposit it into several piles of approximately equal size on the marble station. Tony has set out a large bowl of fresh eggs and several containers of pasta flavorings, two kinds of pepper (red and coarsely ground black), lemon zest, and anchovy paste. Over the years, I've trained all the sous-chefs to make pasta, but I really prefer to do it myself. It's a quiet and intense activity, a muscular workout, and relaxing, all at once. My favorite time to make pasta is in the early morning, before the full staff arrives, and before the kitchen really comes to life.
Evening is the time Jake loves best, when, at the height of the dinner service, he screams orders and brandishes kitchen knives like a frenzied maestro. During those times there's only room for one chef in the kitchen, no matter how large. When Jake and I first met, I thought we were perfectly complementary, my yin to his yang. That our relationship was better suited to a business partnership than a marriage is something I've only lately begun to realize. In a marriage, it's the little similarities that bring you closer. Nicola is more like Jake; they are both passionate people who take up the room, who burn up the space around them, who consume you, if you let them, and then toss you aside.
Jake approaches, sits down on the stool near the pastry station, and watches, silently, intently, as I knead the pasta dough. It's still in the early stage, before the gluten has developed, and I can feel the fine grains of the semolina scrape at the skin of my palms.
He doesn't say anything, and I don't look up. My hands have begun to tremble ever so slightly, and I don't know if it's because I'm working hard at suppressing an urge to strangle him or worse, grab him and kiss him. Because I'm not sure what they will do, it seems safer to keep my hands in the dough, which I know I won't be able to stop kneading as long as he's sitting there watching me.
“How's the baby?” he finally asks.
“
Chloe
is fine,” I say, curtly, noticing again that Jake never calls Chloe by her name. “Totally recovered.”
“Good. That's good,” Jake says.
I continue working the dough. Jake continues watching me. I sense there's something more he wants to say, but I have no idea what it might be. Suddenly, I know there's not much more of this I can stand. I can't stand being here making pasta with Jake watching me, pretending that we are merely business partners.
“I'd like to come over and see her,” Jake finally says. “See Chloe.”
I keep kneading, unsure of what I've just heard. When I don't respond, Jake says, “I know that I haven't, ah,” he pauses, “that
we
haven't worked out the details about Chloe and everything, but I won't leave the apartment with her if you don't want me to. I can just, you know, visit her. You can be there, or not.”
It's unlike Jake to be so compromising, and his tone is vaguely deferential. Could it be that Chloe's near brush with death has caused him to reconsider his relationship with her?
“Sure, you can visit her. She's your daughter, after all.” I look up at him for a split second. My subtle dig has had no visible effect on him.
“It would have to be a Sunday,” Jake says, after a pause. We're closed on Sundays. God forbid Jake miss work to spend time with his child. So much for compromising. “Maybe in the early afternoon?”
“Sure,” is all I trust myself to say.
“Well, I'll see you guys on Sunday afternoon, then,” he says, standing. By the time I look up again, he has crossed the kitchen and returned to scoring the cipolline. I listen to him whistle the theme from “Musetta's Waltz,” wondering what all this could possibly mean.

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