Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [115]
Enid Maxwell is a small, neat woman with expensively cut and carefully styled short hair, the color of a brightly buffed and polished nickel. When the secretary knocks on the wall of the cubicle, Enid stands, offers me a cool, manicured hand, and instructs me to have a seat. Before sitting down herself, however, she stands on her tiptoes, settles her glasses atop her nose, and surveys her domain. Apparently satisfied by the bustling chaos outside her cubicle, she sits back down, rests her forearms on the desk, and says, “Well, Mira.”
I’ve brought along a copy of my résumé and several copies of my restaurant review in a thin leather portfolio I’ve borrowed from my father. I pull out a copy of the review and prepare to slide it across the desk at her, but she shakes her head at me.
“I’ve got them. Don’t bother,” she says.
From a file folder on her desk Enid pulls a copy of my résumé, along with the Gourmet review and a couple of other things I’m pretty sure I didn’t send her. “Well, well, Mira,” Enid says again, readjusting her glasses. “You are quite a talented chef. Gourmet, Bon Appétit, Saveur, Food and Wine,” she says, leafing through the file on her desk. Enid, apparently, has done some research on me. “Grappa has been mentioned in every one of them, mostly quite favorably.” She leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, “By the way, I have it on good authority that Grappa has suffered in your absence. A friend at the Times, who I called while assembling my dossier on you, let it slip. You might watch the food section in the next few weeks.” She sits back in her chair, studying me, waiting for a reaction.
Ever since my phone call with Renata and hearing the news that Jake was jumping ship to Il Vinaio, I’ve dreaded hearing news of Grappa. But there’s still a part of me that is secretly thrilled by the knowledge that Grappa has suffered in my absence. I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help it. Public affirmation that I had mattered to Grappa. I wish I didn’t need it, but I do. I want nothing more than to pump Enid for the details, but of course this isn’t exactly the time. I swallow hard and do my best to return Enid’s speculative gaze with a level one of my own.
Once again she reaches into the manila folder, this time removing a photocopy of a newspaper column. “But even before Grappa, you were noticed. This,” she says, looking over her glasses at me, “you may recall from New York magazine, February 1995. ‘Under the direction of talented chef Francis Barberi and creative sous-chef Mirabella Rinaldi, Il Piatto has reopened to rave reviews.’ ”
Il Piatto was, in fact, the last job I’d interviewed for. I left there after five years to open Grappa. It was also the first time I’d seen my name in print, and I feel strangely nostalgic and unexpectedly touched that Enid has ferreted out this small, mostly insignificant, accolade. I’m impressed that she has so thoroughly researched my career, but more than a little puzzled.
“In fact, ever since you graduated from the Culinary Institute you’ve done well for yourself. You apprenticed in Abruzzo and then in Bologna, where undoubtedly, you perfected la cucina Italiana . You’ve amassed an impressive set of credentials thus far in your relatively short career,” she says, rifling through the file once more. I think for a moment that Enid will pull out my