Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [135]
“Well, I’m not exactly sure,” I tell them, wiping a trace of soup, which happens to be delicious, from my chin. “But from what I understand, a group of investors is interested in backing Jake in a multi-venue package that would encompass Grappa, Jake’s new enoteca, and a large restaurant venture in Vegas. They’re looking for some additional investors and have asked me to take over Grappa.”
“Wow, that’s pretty impressive,” Michael says, spreading some pâté on the heel of a baguette.
“Ill-advised, in my opinion,” Renata says. “I always knew Jake had an egomaniacal streak.”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “Lots of the big-name chefs are doing it.”
Michael says, “Mira’s right, and every one of them has been successful. There are some unsaturated markets out there; it makes good business sense to move now, while prices are depressed. Wait too long, and you could get shut out.”
“You want to know something?” Renata says, looking from me to Michael and shaking a butter knife. “Jake is not big-time.”
Even though she has just finished ranting about Nicola, Renata’s ire surprises me. “Since when are you so angry at Jake?” I ask.
“Mira,” Renata says, ignoring my comment, “what you loved about Grappa is the intimacy, the fact that you recognize the people you’re feeding. Cooking is an intimate act, or at least it should be. I shouldn’t need to remind you that the notion of the chain restaurant is not Italian.”
“Come on, Renata,” Michael says, leaning forward and wiping the remains of his soup with another piece of baguette. “We’re not necessarily talking Olive Garden here.”
“Feeding people and getting rich are two different things. One is a noble calling, the other pure gluttony,” Renata says.
“Look. No one is suggesting opening up an all-you-can-eat buffet. At least I don’t think they are. I guess I don’t really know,” I tell them, remembering the arrival of the FedEx man at my door Thursday afternoon bearing a first-class ticket to New York on USAir, a voucher for a suite at the Trump Soho, and an official-looking letter from the AEL Restaurant Syndicate inviting me to a meeting on Saturday morning. Beyond that I don’t know a single thing about these people, or their plans for this supposed restaurant syndicate.
“Besides, since when are getting rich and feeding people mutually exclusive?” Michael asks. “What Mira should be interested in is getting Grappa back. Everything else is incidental. If she gets rich in the process, so be it. Call it an occupational hazard.”
“Amen to that,” Renata says, raising her glass of Riesling. “And to our renewed business relationship,” she adds, turning to me. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but I assume you will be needing my services once you are back in command at Grappa?” The waiter places a large plate of mussels in front of Renata, who immediately scoops a few onto my bread plate.
“Oh—of course, but wait a minute here—I’m not, I mean I haven’t committed to anything yet. The meeting isn’t until tomorrow. I’m not really in a position to—”
“Do me a favor,” Michael interrupts. “Just let us know how the meeting goes. It’s the kind of thing we might be able to throw a little capital toward, provided the returns look decent.”
Renata raises her eyebrows.
“You know I’ve always wanted to own a restaurant,” Michael says, turning sheepishly to Renata. “And besides, even you told me you thought it was a good idea.”
“Maybe so, maybe in the abstract it is, but Italians don’t do business with people they don’t like. And I don’t like Jake or that, that—cagna.”
“Down, girl,” Michael says, smiling. “I love that she’s so loyal,” Michael says to me, as he reaches over to pinch Renata’s cheek. “But if we don’t change the subject, my darling Renata will develop a good old case of l’agita. See,” he says, winking at me and turning to Renata, “I am learning something in that expensive school.”
Renata mumbles something in Italian that I don’t quite catch.
“So, Mira,” Michael continues, “tell us about Pittsburgh. Renata tells