Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [134]
I quickly turn away and walk at a good clip in the opposite direction of where I need to go, hoping Jake is too bent on lighting his cigarette to have noticed me. I cannot resist a final backwards glance as I turn the corner. Jake is standing squarely in the middle of the sidewalk, the cigarette unlit between his fingers, staring after me like he’s just seen a ghost, or a mutant, or some equally improbable act of nature, something that even if it’s standing right in front of him, he can’t be sure he’s really seen.
“Well, at least the cagna wasn’t there,” Renata says, later, at dinner. Cagna, loosely translated, means “bitch” in Italian. Renata, as it turns out, has her own independent reasons for not liking Nicola, which she’s in the midst of enumerating. Shortly before Il Vinaio opened, Nicola abruptly switched suppliers and fired Renata, right after rejecting as unusable several cases of expensive imported olive oil, which she’d opened and claimed were rancid. (They weren’t.) When Nicola refused to pay her, Renata called Jake, with whom she has done business for years and who, at one time at least, had counted her as a personal friend. He had not even returned her call.
“Puttana!” sings Michael, raising his glass of Belgian ale. Michael has been busy studying Italian, taking courses at the Berlitz school uptown twice a week. He and Renata are planning a trip to Italy in the fall, to meet Renata’s family, and Michael wants to be able to communicate with his in-laws.
“Is that what they are teaching you at that expensive school?” she says to him in Italian. When Michael doesn’t answer her, she rolls her eyes and gives me an exasperated look. “Besides,” Renata says, raising her glass of Riesling, “a puttana she is not. Puttana is too good for the likes of her.”
A puttana is an Italian whore, and in Italy whores have a somewhat more reputable standing than they do elsewhere. For centuries they’ve been glorified in both classic opera and popular song. Among their many noteworthy attributes, Italian whores are reputed to be responsible for the development of a much beloved pasta sauce, pasta puttanesca, a spicy and salty dish made with capers and anchovies. Its chief attraction, aside from its wonderful flavor, is that it can be prepared quickly—in other words, between clients.
Michael launches into a rendition of the “Drinking Song” from La Traviata, which he sings with wide, sweeping arm gestures, causing Renata to look around embarrassed. Michael isn’t drunk, just silly, relaxed, and in a good mood. He’s just landed a plum assignment, editing a book by the Berkeley cooperative responsible for improving the quality of California school lunches, which will mean lots of trips to Berkeley, several opportunities for meals at Chez Panisse, and even the prospect of a meeting with Alice Waters, who is a member of the co-op and one of Michael’s idols.
“More herring, anyone?” Michael says, raising the almost empty crock of smoked herring pâté we’ve ordered as an appetizer with our drinks. I shake my head. My impromptu trip to Il Vinaio has put a bit of a damper on my appetite, and I’ve ordered only an endive salad for dinner. Renata and Michael, on the other hand, have ordered half the menu, moules marinières for Renata and roasted potato and leek soup for Michael, then carbonnade à la flamande and chicken waterzooi, which they are planning to share.
Michael and Renata fill me in on the latest New York gossip until the starters arrive. Michael tastes his soup, pronounces it excellent, and offers Renata a spoonful, which he feeds to her, delicately holding his napkin under her chin as she sips. It is the type of intimate gesture, sweet and touching, that makes me slightly squeamish to watch.
“Oh, this is wonderful. Mira, you must try some. Michael, give her a taste.”
“So, Mira, what’s this about a new business venture?” Michael asks, offering me some soup.
“Jake’s grand plan to take