Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [142]
“What time?” I ask him.
I run downstairs, change my clothes, and find the closest Internet café. I order a double latte and settle in at one of the worn wooden booths. Finally, I find it, one thin column buried deep within the Wednesday Food section several weeks back.
It’s a bad review, written by a staff writer, right away a bad sign. If Frank Bruni writes you a bad review, people will still come to your restaurant, for a little while at least—if only to see if he was right. According to the reviewer, who I’d never heard of, many of the dishes seem tired, in contrast to the recently overhauled décor, which is uncharacteristically slick. The reviewer lauded the addition of a martini bar and happily noted that the wine selection also had been considerably enhanced. I am mentioned by name, a little two-sentence blurb near the end of the article: “with the departure of chef Mirabella Rinaldi, the pasta specialties have suffered mightily.” The reviewer cites as evidence a gluey cream sauce and an uninspired chard-filled ravioli. While it might have been the public affirmation I was after, it still makes me sad.
I consider Jasper’s comments at the meeting this morning. He said I am Grappa. Me, not Jake. Yet, at least at one time, we were good together. The problem is, if I come back to manage Grappa and Jake is at Il Vinaio, we will still, at least according to Marcus, be part of the same brand, which will, I imagine, entail some working together. And then there was Jake’s comment as he brushed his hand against mine and invited me to dinner. What exactly had he meant that “none of it” is the same since I left? Where is Nicola in all of this? Since Renata is on the outs with both Jake and Nicola, I have no hope of getting any scoop from her, but I am not above pumping Tony for information tonight, when we meet for dinner. If anyone knows anything, he will.
On my way back to the hotel I call Jerry Fox. Of course, I get his voice mail, so I leave a message telling him to expect a package from the AEL Restaurant Syndicate on Monday morning, along with my authorization to review the materials.
Next, I call Ruth who, unlike Jerry, answers on the first ring.
“Well, how did it go?” she asks.
“Amazing, actually,” I tell her. I fill Ruth in on the details of the meeting, omitting only the tidbit about my interchange with Jake. By the time I finish I’m nearly breathless. “Oh, and did I mention the Napa Valley?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Do you have any idea what that means? We could join the ranks of Cyrus, Ad Hoc, the French Laundry, America’s greatest restaurants!”
“That sounds like some pretty stiff competition, if you ask me,” Ruth says.
“I admit it would be hard work, but people who don’t call the requisite two months ahead for a reservation have to eat somewhere, don’t they? If we could just get an in—”
“Mira, please tell me you didn’t sign anything, did you?”
“No. A promise is a promise. But I did have the financial statements sent over to my lawyer. They’ve given us full access to their accounting firm and—”
“Why not let me have a look at those financial statements? In case you’ve forgotten I’ve got an MBA from Wharton, which at the moment is gathering dust. I’d love to have a look.”
“Sure,” I tell her, embarrassed that I hadn’t thought of it before. “If you’re sure you have time.”
Ruth sighs heavily into the phone. “Oh, it will be a struggle, but I’ll pencil you in between nuking the microwave Easy Mac and our trip to the park. You can pay me in food. Hey, I’ve exhausted my freezer stash and have had to resort to Lean Cuisine, which, by the way, doesn’t taste as good as I remember. I think you’ve ruined me,” she laughs.
“Don’t worry. Help is on the way. I’ll be home on Monday.”
Ruth fills me in on Chloe and Richard, and I promise to call Marcus right away to arrange for