Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [145]
Tony shrugs.
“What happened?” I ask, taking a bite out of the shaved artichoke and Pecorino salad the waiter has just set down in front of me.
For some reason, my question has surprised Tony, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Just as I think he’s finally about to answer me, the waiter brings his steak and sets it in front of him. Tony leans back and allows the waiter to rearrange our table to accommodate the huge plate. At first, I think he’s just being circumspect. The New York culinary world is a notoriously gossipy one, and I assume he doesn’t want the waiter to hear what he’s about to say. But after the waiter leaves Tony cuts a piece of his steak and spears it with his fork. He raises it midway to his mouth where it remains, poised in midair, dripping blood.
He still doesn’t say anything.
“What happened, Tony?”
“Nicola made her life a living hell. That’s what,” Tony says quietly.
“Why?”
“I swear I thought you knew. I figured Renata would have told you.”
“Knew what?”
Tony exhales, a slow, painful-sounding wheeze. “About Zoe and Jake.”
I stare at Tony, not really understanding.
“What about Zoe and Jake?”
Tony lays down his knife and fork, carefully arranging them on his plate before answering me. He does not meet my eye. “They had a thing a few months back,” he says.
The waitress sets down Tony’s second martini, and I take a sip, welcoming the burn in my throat as I digest this fascinating morsel. Six months ago, five—hell, maybe even two months ago news like this would have filled me with hope. Now, I’m not sure what to feel.
“It was when Nicola was away. In Vegas.” Tony says.
“What happened?”
Tony stops eating, his knife and fork poised limply over his dish. He drops his utensils and pushes his plate away.
“Jesus, what does Jake have that I don’t have, you know? Women going wild over this guy, I just don’t get it, but whatever. Nicola’s back about fifteen minutes before she figures it out. Big showdown in the kitchen. Right in the middle of service she tells Zoe to pack up and get the hell out. Zoe looks at Jake, who just stands there, his mouth hanging open like a fucking steamed clam. Zoe yells back that she isn’t going anywhere; she’ll sue their asses if they fire her. Then, Nicola drags the both of them back into the office, and they’re in there for about a half hour—completely quiet—while we’re down two cooks and the rest of us are trying to keep the line moving. It was a hell of a night. Next thing you know,” Tony says, picking up his fork and knife, “Zoe’s gone, Marcus and Jasper show up, and plans for Il Vinaio are spread out all over the back room.”
“Where did Zoe go?”
“I heard she went back to Chicago—probably with a nice severance package.”
“So are they . . . okay, Jake and Nicola?”
It’s the first time I’ve said her name, and I can’t help wincing. Tony watches me carefully. Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know, Mira. Like I said, Jake isn’t around much. Both of them are at Il Vinaio most of the time now.” Tony leans forward and lays a beefy hand on mine. “Look, Jake doesn’t have a clue how to fix Grappa, Mira. You do. Forget about him. He’s not in your league anymore. Never was, in my opinion.” Tony wipes his mouth delicately and deposits his napkin on the table as he turns and signals for the check.
“Come back, Mira,” Tony says.
“I’m thinking about it, Tony.”
chapter 30
I spend a good chunk of Sunday afternoon going through my storage space in the basement of my old apartment building on Perry Street. Most of it is stuff that I never should have saved in the first place: boxes of old cooking magazines,