Vintage (6 page)

“What's that, Bruno?” Greta said, hovering over his shoulder and setting a soft-boiled egg in a porcelain stand before him.

“They're publishing my article,” Bruno said guiltily as he spun the egg and cracked off the top with the edge of his spoon.

“A thousand dollars! You're such a fine writer.” She kissed his blushing cheek.

The toaster popped. Bruno spread schmaltz on his roll. He sipped strong coffee and fingered his newfound fortune. He knew he should carry it directly to Anna as a sign of goodwill. But then he could also invest it in a bottle or three of excellent wine.

“Straight to the bank with that,” Greta said, patting her son on the back. “You can stop on your way to work.”

For once Bruno didn't have to cringe at the mention of work. He was beginning to concoct a new plan, one that required investors. The check from
Gourmet
and even his severance check from the
Sun-Times
were a good start. But there was more to do.

*      *      *

The Black Samovar was one of Bruno's favorite restaurants, not for the clichéd and barely passable Stroganoff, but for the burgundy leather barstools and cushioned booths in the lounge at the back of the cavernous room. It reminded him of the dark, faded elegance of the dining caves of his childhood before kitsch and irony became the norm in restaurant décor. The Samovar also boasted an impressive wine list, its owner being an aficionado of some of the more elusive Georgian wines, along with interesting Italians from the Friuli and Alto Adige. The polished bar was dim and mysterious, manned by a humorless hulk named Yuri, whose shaved head and handlebar mustache made him simultaneously cartoonish and frightening.

The corner booth was reserved for the Samovar's owner, Aleksei Gurgin, a former KGB officer who fled to Chicago
after a colleague and onetime rival ascended to the presidency of Russia. He took a job at the bottom rung of the construction business and worked like a serf for several seasons until he realized that his KGB experience coupled with years of free market racketeering in the Yeltsin era had equipped him quite well for the streets and City Hall offices of Chicago. He started his own construction firm, one that specialized in the removal of asbestos . . . whether the client had invited him to remove it or not. His crew showed up in their chemical suits and set to work on old tenements, threatening the slumlords with visits from city inspectors whose services Aleksei had purchased in advance. It was a perfect scheme, turning Aleksei from a political refugee into something of an underworld success story and making him feel like a Russian Robin Hood.

He'd done well enough to open the Samovar on the North Side, as well as a posh tearoom downtown, a present for his Kazakhstani wife who liked to dabble as a pastry chef, among other things. He was earnestly interested in the restaurant side of his operation, and enlisted Bruno early on as a consultant to help him plan his personal wine cellar. He'd also paid Bruno for a favorable review or two over the years, a practice that Bruno considered less checkbook journalism and more like a form of patronage from a wealthy individual who was also a fan of his work.

Bruno squinted in the dim light at the entrance of the Samovar and Aleksei beckoned from his corner booth.

The Russian wore his customary pressed white shirt and cheap blazer that fit him like a uniform, sharp brown eyes sparkling beneath heavy lids that made him look perpetually tired to those who didn't know him well. What little hair he had was gray and militarily cropped. Calling for hot tea from Yuri and clearing the table of spreadsheets and ledgers that kept
restaurant balances (mostly negative) as well as those from his more lucrative construction and informal loan businesses, he welcomed Bruno with a warm smile and gestured to the seat across the table. Bruno slumped into the chair.

“Welcome, my friend,” Aleksei said as he fussed about pouring tea from a small samovar that Yuri produced and set on the table with a serving tray. “How are the girls?”

“They're good. Really growing.”

“And Anna?”

“She seems to be doing fine without me.”

“One hell of a woman. You really fucked that one up.”

“Didn't I, though?”

“Perhaps we can help each other out,” Aleksei said, sugaring his tea and leaning over. “Tatyana is opening a restaurant in Wicker Park. Russian peasant food. Siberian-themed. She's still a lousy cook, but once she gets something in her head . . . you know her. She's sent for her aunt, who supposedly makes the best
kulebyaka
. And in truth her
kotlety
isn't half bad.”

Aleksei sipped from his cup and reached into his pocket for a roll of hundred-dollar bills. He peeled off a half dozen, licked his finger, double-counted, and then slid the pile across the table to Bruno, who gulped, eyes bulging.

“So . . . why don't you write up a nice review for me in the paper?”

“Actually . . .”

“Ah, I see the price of objective journalism has gone up!” He peeled off six more bills and added to the pile. Bruno eyed the cash hungrily.

“I'm not with the
Times
anymore.”

Aleksei paused, shook his head, and then retrieved the bills with a shrug. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Wait, wait . . . I'm hoping it'll be a good thing. And I have a great idea I wanted to share with you.”

Aleksei tucked the money into his inside pocket, laced his fingers together and leaned forward on his elbows like a man who has suffered his share of great ideas.

“The papers are dying, right?” Bruno said, lowering his voice and looking around conspiratorially. “Everyone knows that. They're losing their relevance. That's why they couldn't stand me . . . guys like me, we're the ones people trust. And I plan to use that trust to start a consulting practice.”

“You're going to become a businessman?” Aleksei was clearly trying to suppress a smile.

“Bingo! I'll set up an office. Gold nameplate on the door. I can advise restaurants. I can write menu copy, whatever. I'd start one of those . . . blogs . . . and I could charge people for reviews just like we've been doing, but go legit.”

Aleksei leaned back and laughed.

“Do you even know what a blog is?”

Bruno's ears burned. In truth he rarely used the infernal Internet and didn't really understand it, but he'd heard plenty of talk about it. “It's like an electronic newsletter. Kinda like my column. I'd write on food and wine . . . the stuff I know best. But with no middleman . . . no Ernie Grovnick around to clip my wings or saddle me with shitty copyediting assignments. And I'll use the interest from the blog . . . the clicks or whatever . . . to fuel my consulting practice.”

“Do you know how many food bloggers are out there? My wife's one of them. RussianFoodieGirl-dot-com.
Girl!
She's three years older than I am! Can you imagine? She's got fifteen thousand subscribers and nets a hundred thousand page views per month. She's using a photo from twenty years ago for the hero
image—she was quite striking, you know—and spends half the day fending off Web trolls and deleting spam. She even set up a pay-per-click ad account, and you know what she makes every month? Thirty bucks.” Aleksei dismissed the figure with a wave of disgust. “Blogs are old news, Bruno. Even if there was money in it, that ship left the harbor ten years ago.”

Now, Bruno understood next to nothing of this . . . other than the mention of “spam,” which reminded him of a favorite food cart in Portland, Oregon, that served Hawaiian street fare, which in turn reminded him that dinnertime was approaching . . . but he wasn't worried. The economic viability of the scheme wasn't his primary concern. He didn't need for this venture to actually be profitable. What he really needed was for Anna to see him make a legitimate, organized attempt . . . at something. If he showed up, cash in hand and a plan in the works, maybe she'd see him differently. If she saw him striking out in a bold direction, with good timing and some luck maybe she'd let him move back in. Then he'd work on some articles, pay Aleksei back and in the meantime he'd clean and cook and drink less and pick up the girls from school and prove himself indispensable . . . all while working on his next book, which he'd eventually finish and prove his worth to Anna. It was a harebrained scheme, to be sure, but it was the only one he had. Besides, weren't all schemes a little harebrained? Like spending everything he had upon graduating college on a plane ticket to Amsterdam with no idea what he wanted to do with his life other than the fact that he didn't want to wind up an overstressed shopkeeper dead before he could accomplish his lifelong goals of taking over the butcher shop or seeing the Cubs make the World Series.

But Bruno couldn't explain this all to Aleksei. Instead he offered, lamely, “Still, I think it could work.”

“Sorry, Bruno . . .”

“I've already got some seed money, see,” Bruno said, unfolding the check and holding it out to him. “I just need a couple grand more. You could be a partner.”

“Another way to get on the IRS radar . . . no, thanks.”

“Well, then how about a loan? I know that you offer . . . lending services.”

Aleksei thought for an uncomfortably long moment. “I'd rather we remain friends,” he said with a weary sigh. Then he regarded Bruno with a long, sad, heavy-lidded gaze that sent a shiver down Bruno's spine. Behind that sleepy expression, deep down, there was a hint of warning, or even malice. Bruno suddenly sensed then that owing money to Aleksei might be quite dangerous. He gulped.

“Um, I mean, how does that work?”

“Typically there is something of value that can be put up . . . as collateral. Something of substantial value. Perhaps a family heirloom. Or a business. Or one's . . . health. Whatever the case, I'm not sure that I'd be willing to take you on as a business partner or a client. In the former case it's always unwise to invest in friends. In the latter it can be . . . quite uncomfortable for all involved.”

“I'm sorry,” Bruno said, “I probably shouldn't have asked.”

“It's okay,” Aleksei said, waving his hand.

They sipped tea in silence, Bruno feeling a little foolish for having come here. Then Aleksei offered him a sympathetic smile.

“You know,” he said, “I never properly thanked you for helping Tatyana with the wine list. It's been quite successful.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“And perhaps I can help your little venture in another way.
Let's call it your first official consulting project,” Aleksei said, sitting up higher. “I've recently come into the possession of a wine locker, and I could use some assistance in cataloging and assessing the value of the contents. I'd like recommendations on what to keep and what to sell. In exchange, I'd offer you a commission. And you're welcome to take a few bottles for yourself.”

Aleksei snapped his fingers and Yuri materialized at his elbow holding a manila envelope. He unfastened the clasp and dumped the contents on the table, sifting through the collection of papers and odds and ends.

“A former client of mine, an accountant originally from Minsk, amassed quite a collection. It seems his former employer was a connoisseur on a grand scale, though he ran into some trouble in Russian politics. This accountant made off with a few treasures and some schemes of his own. He borrowed money from me but encountered some repayment issues and had to forfeit the contents of this locker . . . among other things.” Aleksei plucked a key attached to a leather wine-bottle key chain from the pile and tossed it to Bruno, whose heart began humming. The key chain bore the logo of Chicago River Wine Storage, where the better-off Chicagoans kept their oenological prizes. This locker might hold any number of treasures.

“I don't know what to say.”

Aleksei waved off his gratitude. “Just some honest work for a fair wage.”

Aleksei sifted through the contents on the table. There were a few coins, a wallet and a cell phone. Bruno tried not to think of what happened to the unfortunate accountant. Aleksei retrieved a waiter's corkscrew from the pile and handed that to Bruno, who took it in his hands. It was elegant, brushed silver, with a double eagle and some Cyrillic letters etched into the side.

“I'm sure you'll find that useful.” Aleksei smiled.

“Of course,” Bruno said, admiring the craftsmanship.

Aleksei retrieved a Rolex from the pile. He shook it and held it to his ear, frowning. “You wear watches?”

Bruno shook his head. Somehow the watch felt too personal.

“So, you're staying for dinner, right? There's fresh
kulebyaka
in the oven.”

“I'd hate to impose,” Bruno lied. His belly rumbled and his mouth began to water at the thought of the buttery crust that sealed the miraculous mixture of fish, leeks, rice, mushrooms. He sniffed and thought he could detect a trace of the aroma coming from the kitchen.

“Impose? Nonsense!” Aleksei clapped his hands and Yuri appeared again, this time bearing a bottle of vodka and two short glasses on his tray. “Enough talk about wine. Let's have a toast to our new little partnership!”

The toast carried them well into the night, and it wouldn't be until much later that Bruno would recall Aleksei drunkenly putting his arm around his shoulder and speaking carefully: “You know, this wine locker . . . there are those who have been showing great interest in its contents. Whatever you do, be careful.”

Compatibility is not only overrated but something of a scourge. With computerized dating or those overly earnest matchmaker friends (you both like movies and hiking!) it is easy to wind up with someone a lot like yourself, but where's the fun in that? Celebrate contrast. Fall in love with your opposite. Explore, disagree, fight, make up, make love. Open a Sauternes (cheap will do, but d'Yquem if you can get it) and pair its silky sweetness against good anchovies packed in brine with capers spread on toasted flatbreads. The contrast of flavors, from salt to acid and sugar all commingling, will create lusty tensions you wouldn't have encountered had you chosen to play it safe.