Just a Taste (27 page)

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here.” Anthony rubbed his chin thoughtfully, trying to think of the best way to put what he wanted to say. “I need you to go on a fact-finding mission for me, since you’ve got a gazillion connections all over this city.”

Theresa looked intrigued. “What?”

“I want you to find out about Bernard Rousseau. Apparently, he’s some French diplomat or something.”

“And I’m doing this because…?”

“Because I think Vivi might have a thing going with him. The guy just appeared out of nowhere to help her and her sister out of a jam, and the way she talks about him, you’d think he was Napoleon.”

“Maybe it’s just gratitude, Ant,” said Theresa, opening up a small mirror on her desk. She pulled one of her eyelids taut and began to line it.

“Or maybe something’s up,” Anthony grumbled, watching Theresa’s careful ministrations to her face. He remembered the few times he’d watched Angie put on makeup. It seemed awfully complicated to him, all those creams and powders and colors. Unnecessary, too. Angie had looked gorgeous without her makeup. So did Vivi. In fact, so did Theresa. Did women really think makeup made them more attractive to men?

“What kind of money jam were they in?” Theresa asked, lining her other lid.

“I don’t know all the details. I just know it was the sister’s fault, until this guy showed up and—
voila!
—everything’s back on track.”

“Well, at least I know why Vivi looked at me like I was nuts when she asked about Natalie setting up a meeting, and I told her Natalie never even called here.”

“She’s a piece of work, the sister. Believe me.”

“Not too much of one, I hope,” said Theresa, picking up her lipstick. “She and Vivi are meeting with me on Friday to start discussing a PR campaign.”

“Traitor.”

Theresa looked up sharply. “Hey. Business is business.”

“Yeah? And what happens if her business cuts into my business? Blood is thicker than water. Dante’s could be Little Ant’s one day. Don’t forget that.”

Theresa clucked her tongue. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: it’ll be nice to have a little French bistro to go to. You’re crazy to feel threatened. If anyone should be sweating a bit, it’s Vivi. As you of all people should know”—she gave him a penetrating look—“people in Bensonhurst don’t like things to change too much. But with the right PR, she should be able to flourish.” She winked at him.

“Anyway,” Anthony said, changing the subject, “if you’re going to be meeting Vivi, find out what you can about Rousseau. Use your intuition to get a sense of whether she’s interested in this guy or not. Or seeing him.”

Theresa frowned. “And what if she is? What will have been accomplished?”

“Then at least I’ll have someone to blame.”

Theresa put away her lipstick. “Can I give you a word of advice?”

Anthony squirmed in irritation. “Shoot.”

“Just let it go for now. If her sister is really a whack like you said, then that must be sucking up a tremendous amount of Vivi’s energy. Couple with that the stress of opening a new restaurant, and it’s easy to understand why she feels a relationship might be too much right now.”

“That’s all fine and dandy, but her reasons for breaking up had less to do with Vivi’s and more to do with some idea she pulled out of thin air that I’m not over Ang.”

Theresa raised a perfectly penciled eyebrow. “Are you?”

“Jesus Christ.” Anthony rubbed his hands over his face.
“Yes.”

“Are you still going to the cemetery?”

“
No
. I haven’t been in months—only to lay a wreath at Christmas.”

“Michael told me you were having dreams,” Theresa said with concern.

“Yeah,” Anthony admitted reluctantly, swearing he’d never speak to Mikey again as long as they both lived.

“Well, don’t you think you should go talk to someone about that? It’s not going to fix itself, you know.”

Anthony’s eyes grazed the carpet uncomfortably. Mikey had told him a shrink had helped Theresa immensely in the aftermath of her sexual assault by one of his former teammates. Maybe he should talk to someone, and make sure he told Vivi about it. Where he was supposed to find the time for it, God only knows. But if it gave him something he could bring back to Vivi, something that said, “Look, I’m working to get over this crap you think I need to get over, because it’s you that I want,” it might impress her and make her reconsider her abrupt (and in his opinion, insane) decision to end things.

Fully made up now, Theresa stuffed her mirror and makeup bag into one of her desk drawers and switched on her computer. “I hate to be rude, but—”

“You’ve got an empire to run,” Anthony finished for her with a smile. He pointed at the worksheet. “May I?”

“Please do.”

Anthony folded the ditto and put it in his back pocket, then zipped up his coat. “I promise I’ll try to finally get through to Mikey.”

“And I promise I’ll try to find out about Bernard Rousseau. Now hurry back to Brooklyn before you turn into a pumpkin.”

P
erhaps it was
underhanded, but Anthony’s way of luring Michael into a chat about Little Anthony was to ask him to come to Dante’s to discuss menu changes. At first he thought he’d tag along with Michael to a Blades game, but then he realized a rink was the wrong place to discuss letting Little Ant ditch hockey. Next he thought of asking Mikey if he wanted to go grab a beer on Anthony’s night off, or even bring in some Chinese food and watch
Monday Night Football
, but both seemed too contrived. He and Mikey had never been big on going out drinking, and they had a hard time watching football together. Anthony liked to concentrate on the game, while Michael yakked from the opening kickoff to the final whistle.

Michael had made overtures about becoming more involved now that he was retired, but so far, apart from the Insane Lorraine debacle and showing up unannounced, he’d pretty much obeyed Anthony’s “hands off” edict. Asking for input would definitely lure him in.

“Hey, big guy.” Michael seemed cheerful as he breezed through the back door of the kitchen, no Angelica in tow.

“Where’s the
bambina
?” Anthony asked.

“With Nana Falconetti.” Michael greeted the kitchen staff, pausing at each station to ask after everyone personally. He was as smooth as a politician, but Anthony knew his interest was genuine. Anthony had seen Michael in action at enough Blades parties held at the restaurant over the years to know his brother couldn’t rest until he’d talked to everyone, making sure they were happy. It was just his way.

Even so, Anthony couldn’t help but grit his teeth when Michael tipped open one of the oven doors where focaccia was baking. “How many times have I told you not to do that, Mike?” he snapped.

Michael hastily closed the oven, looking embarrassed. “You’re right. It just smells so good.”

“C’mon,” said Anthony, picking up menus and recipes, new and old, as he walked toward the swinging doors of the kitchen. “We’ll talk in the dining room.”

Michael followed him out of the kitchen, pointing to a four-seater in the corner where he, Theresa, and the kids always sat. “Let’s sit there.” He glanced around nostalgically. “Jesus, Ant. Remember when it was just Dad and Mom selling ices and slices to go on wax paper?” He shook his head in wonder. “We’ve sure come a long way.”

“We sure have,” Anthony agreed. “A lot of blood and sweat went into making this place what it is.”

“A labor of love, though, right?”

“Why do it if you don’t love it?”

Michael seemed to ponder this as he sat down while Anthony detoured to the bar to get them some bottled water. His brother looked so thrilled to be here and somehow be part of things that Anthony felt bad that he was about to, in effect, bludgeon him.

“You see they painted Vivi’s logo on the window?” Michael said, twisting in his chair to look at him. “It looks great.”

Anthony scowled. “Why don’t you just drive a stake through my heart?”

“What, you two are back to being feuding chefs now?” Michael chuckled, taking a sip from his bottle of water.

“Kinda.” Anthony rubbed his forehead worriedly as he sat down opposite his brother. “I don’t know.”

Michael seemed not to hear, or care, as he spread out the menus and recipe cards, perusing them eagerly. “So what are we doing here?”

“I’m thinking of changing things up a little. Not too much!” Anthony warned, in case Michael had any ideas about going totally upscale. “Just shake things up a bit, you know.”

“Well, give me some idea of what you’re talking about.”

“I’m thinking of ditching the eggplant patties and reintroducing the wedding soup.”

Michael made a sour face. “Boring.”

“To you. The last time it was on the menu, we couldn’t keep up with the demand.”

“What else?”

Anthony glanced down at his notes. “Ditch the risotto with zucchini—go with sautéed scallops with garlic and parsley on the appy menu.”

“Seafood is always a good choice,” Michael said authoritatively.

What the hell do you know?
Anthony almost said, until he reminded himself he was the one who sought his brother’s input.

“What else?” Michael asked.

“More basic pasta dishes, in keeping with our rep as a homestyle family restaurant that serves comfort food. Cut out the fancy schmancy.”

“You mean, make it more basic than it already is? Like a
bistro
might be?”

Anthony stared at him stonily. “You trying to insinuate something?”

“Nope,” said Michael, but Anthony could see he was fighting a smirk.

“I also think we should do away with the holiday specials,” Anthony continued. “You know I hate doing Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday dinner here, too. Those are times for family, and I want to be with mine.”

“Let’s think about that,” Michael said cautiously.

Anthony grimaced. “Come on, Mike. Wouldn’t you rather be at my house this year scarfing down lamb chops
scottodito
and stuffing yourself with coffee custard?”

“Well, yeah,” Michael admitted. “But there are lots of people who come for those holiday specials every year. We could be creating an opening for someone else.” He wiggled his eyebrows significantly.

“She’s not gonna be able to fit more than thirty people in there at a time,” Anthony snapped. “And I’d keep doing New Year’s Eve.” It was time to broach the topic of Little Ant. He feigned looking off into space distractedly. “When is Easter this year? Do you know?”

“April, I think.” Michael took another sip of water. “Why?”

“The kids get a week off, don’t they? Maybe Little Ant could do some cooking with me.”

“He’s going to be at hockey camp.”

“Yeah?” said Anthony. “You think that’s a good idea?”

Michael looked annoyed. “Don’t start with me, Anthony.”

“I just want to point one thing out to you.”

Michael frowned. “What?”

“Remember when we were growing up, and Dad was always on our asses to play bocce ball but we hated it, because we thought it was stupid and boring?”

“It is stupid and boring,” Michael snorted.

“Well, what if Dad had forced us? What if he said you couldn’t play hockey, and made you go to bocce camp instead? You would have been pissed, right? You would have been resentful about him making you do something
he
wanted you to do, not something
you
wanted to do.”

Michael was silent.

“Well, that’s what you’re doing to Little Ant.”

“You don’t understand. If he’d just give it a chance—”

“He hates it, Mike. Period. He thinks it’s stupid and boring, like we thought about bocce. Here, I want to show you something.” He pulled the worksheet out of his back pocket and handed it to his brother, careful not to watch him read it, because he didn’t want to see the pain on Michael’s face. Michael silently folded up the worksheet, putting it in his own back pocket.

“Where did you get this?” he asked quietly.

“Theresa. She asked me to talk to you about this. She said you wouldn’t listen to her. Dad let us be ourselves even though what he wanted was for us to be bocce boys! He let me cook, and he encouraged you in hockey. Don’t you want to do the same for Little Ant?”

“Yes. No.” Michael looked pained. “God, I miss it so much, Anthony.”

“I know that, bro.” Anthony reached across the table to give his brother’s arm a consoling pat. “But it’s not right to try to live vicariously through him. You know?”

Michael pulled his face from his hands. “Can I confess something to you?”

Anthony shrugged. “Sure.”

“This stay-at-home dad stuff? It’s not for me. I’m going nuts.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Something might be going on at Met Gar that could change things. But I’m not at liberty to talk about it right now.”

“Not even to your wife? She’s worried sick about you, Mike. She thinks you’re losing your mind. She’s even worried that you’re having an affair, with you creeping into the city all the time.”

Michael laughed. “
Me?
She’s got to be kidding!”

“Well, set her straight.” Anthony paused. “What’s the big mystery?”

“I can’t tell you, Ant. Seriously. I don’t want to say anything to anyone until I know for sure.”

“Well, whatever it is, I hope it comes through for you, because Christ knows you’ve been a pain in my ass since you’ve been Mister Mom.”

Michael looked contrite. “Yeah, sorry about that. I just suck at not being around lots of people, you know?”

“Mike, if you let Little Ant be who he wants to be, he’ll love you for it.” He gestured at the four walls surrounding him. “He loves it here, Mike. Dante’s could all be his one day, if he wanted. We’d be able to keep it in the family. Hockey isn’t the only Dante legacy.”

Michael hesitated. “I’m just afraid of him getting picked on at school. Being called a ‘fag’ because he likes to cook.”

“He’ll survive. Believe me, I know. They won’t be calling him a ‘fag’ twenty years from now when he’s got his own successful restaurant. He could be a great chef, Mike. If you let him.”

Michael tilted back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.

“I feel like an asshole.”

“You are an asshole. Now go home and tell your wife you’re not cheating on her, and let me finish these menus.”

A
ll Theresa’s talk
of press kits, “generating buzz,” and getting reviews was making Vivi’s head spin as she sat opposite Theresa in her office, watching her get more and more enthusiastic as she herself got more and more anxious.

Yesterday the artist had finished the sign on the front window. It looked gorgeous, the swirling script very romantic. Anthony was wrong, wrong, wrong about the color. The white looked classy, not boring. As if he were the arbiter of good taste—his restaurant filled with fading pictures of priests and amateur paintings of gondolas.

Vivi liked railing against him in her head. It helped her not to miss him. Sometimes she felt sad when she looked across the street at Dante’s and realized there would be no more cooking contests, no more passionate exchanges about food—no more passionate exchanges, period. But whose fault was that?

“One of the things we need to do,” Theresa was saying, “is make sure we invite some French people to the opening, just to give it that extra dash of authenticity and panache. I’ll come up with a list, but off the top of your head, can you think of anyone French besides you and Natalie?”

“Bernard Rousseau.”

“Bernard Rousseau,” Theresa repeated back thoughtfully. “That name sounds vaguely familiar.”

“He’s an ambassador to the UN.”

“Wow.” Theresa looked impressed. “How do you know him?”

“He worked with my father.”
Were it not for Bernard, I’d be back in Avignon, a heartbroken failure, soaking my mother’s blouse with tears.

“You sound fond of him,” Theresa noted.

“I am. My father adored him. I don’t know him as well as my sister does, but he’s a very nice man. Very generous. I definitely want him at the opening.”

“Will he have a plus-one?”

Vivi looked at her in confusion. “A…?”

“Does he have a wife or girlfriend he might want to bring?”

“I don’t think so.” Her mind flashed back to his lips on hers at the restaurant. “No.”

Theresa gave her an oddly satisfied look. “Then we’ll put him on the list as a solo.” She paused. “Obviously, as your publicist, I’ll be at the opening, and Michael wants to come, as well. I was wondering, how do you feel about inviting Anthony?”

“Anthony?” Vivi hadn’t really thought about it.

“Whatever else may have happened, you two are neighbors. It would be a show of goodwill.”

“Of course he can come, then.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, of course, of course,” said Vivi, even though the more she thought about it, the more fluttery her stomach felt. No, she told herself, it would be good for him to be there. She wanted him to walk into her beautiful little bistro and hear people raving about her cooking; she wanted him to see her in her
own
restaurant kitchen.

“Terrific.” Theresa scribbled something on the notepad on her lap. “You know,” she murmured casually, head still bent over her writing, “he’s made an appointment to go talk to someone about those dreams he was having.”

“I see.” So, his whole family knew the details of their breakup. She wondered if they knew about the “incident at the bedroom door,” as she referred to it in her mind.

Theresa looked up at her. “He loves you, Vivi. He really does. You were so good together.”

“We were terrible together,” Vivi scoffed. “Bicker, bicker, bicker over spices and sauces and this and that.”

“That was foreplay, or haven’t you figured that out yet?”

Vivi blushed. She wondered if it would be inappropriate to ask Theresa a question about Angie. Well, why not? They were supposedly having a business meeting and Theresa had ventured into personal territory. Why couldn’t she do the same?

“Do you think Anthony is over Angie?”

“Yes, I do,” Theresa answered without hesitation. “If you’d asked me that six months ago, I might have hesitated. But you gave him back his spark. I would really hate to think of the two of you never working things out.”

Vivi studied the beautiful woman before her. “You’re very pushy, aren’t you?”

Theresa laughed appreciatively. “Yes, I am. That’s why I’m so good at my job.”

Vivi laughed back. “I can identify with that.”

“Think about what I said. About Anthony.” Perhaps sensing Vivi’s discomfort, Theresa’s gaze turned sympathetic. “Shall we go back to discussing business?”

“Yes, please,” said Vivi. Business was always better. Business was safe.

“W
hat do you
think?”

Vivi could barely keep from bouncing off the walls as she ushered Natalie over the threshold into Vivi’s. The window sign was painted, the floor had been redone in wide, rugged planks of pine, and the bistro tables had arrived, though Vivi had yet to figure out which would go where. Just to annoy Anthony, she’d put a large sheet across the front window so he couldn’t look inside. She wanted him to be as surprised as everyone else when Vivi’s finally opened.