Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [154]
On my way home, I see Ben coming out of Primanti’s across the street, carrying a large paper bag and a huge Dunkin’ Donuts plastic coffee mug. I wave, but either he doesn’t see me, or his hands are too full to wave back.
“Hey, I know you,” I call to him, darting across the street. “Had your fill of pigeon?” He gives me a halfhearted smile, but otherwise doesn’t respond, although at least he slows his pace a little.
We walk in silence for at least half a block before he says, “Actually, I’m still working in your building. A couple of the last buyers changed the specs on the plumbing, and the other day some woman saw me carrying a toolbox and begged me for an estimate. Wants an upgrade on her shower and bathroom fixtures, too.” He stops to shift his bags. “Looks like I’m gonna be busy servicing the ladies in your building for quite a while.”
“Great. Richard says you’ve been stopping by. Come for lunch some day,” I tell him.
“Why? Something needs fixing?” he asks, giving me a sidelong glance.
“You like that place, don’t you?” I ask, gesturing to the Primanti’s bag.
“Primanti’s? Yeah, I do,” he says, opening the bag and taking a fry. “Got them on the side today. Gotta shake things up once in a while.” He holds the bag open and offers me one.
I shake my head. “I didn’t know they served breakfast,” I say.
“They don’t. Same menu twenty-four hours a day,” Ben says, munching another fry.
“Gourmet magazine did a piece on them a few years ago. Do you remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. Food Network, too,” Ben says with a wry smile. “For weeks afterward you couldn’t get near the place. Yuppie suburbanites from six surrounding counties were lined up three deep at the counter.” He shudders.
“Do you know,” he says, turning to face me, “I’ve been going there practically my whole life. My stepdad used to take me there when I was a kid. We’d go early in the morning, sneak out while my mom was sleeping. We’d sit at the counter and eat these sandwiches for breakfast—always with the fried egg. Man, I could barely reach the counter, and my hands were too small to wrap around a sandwich. Whenever I think about him I remember the smell of stale beer and fried potatoes. Those were good times.”
“What happened to him? Your stepfather?”
Ben doesn’t say anything for a moment. “He and my mom divorced when I was about ten. We kept in touch for a while.” He shrugs. “You know how it goes.” He turns toward me. An edge has crept in and surrounded Ben’s easy drawl. “This place is an institution. You want to be a food writer? Why don’t you write about this—I mean the no-frills, real-life version of this place, not the high-end, food magazine, ‘isn’t it so cute we’re slumming’ version.”
We walk back toward the lofts in silence. I want to tell him I’m sorry, that I hadn’t meant to hurt him, but I’ve never really been good at that sort of thing.
“Hey, have you tried Bruno’s hazelnut cookies? Trust me, once you try these, there’s no going back.” I open the bag and offer one to Ben.
He takes it, and even though it’s only a little bigger than a quarter, bites off just a small piece. “Mmm. Good,” he says, popping the rest of the cookie in his mouth. “Got any more?”
“You can have one more, but that’s it. They are for research purposes only. I’m experimenting with the recipe, and I need to study the rest.” I’ve already made a half dozen attempts at duplicating Bruno’s recipe, but there’s something about his version that conjures memories of Italy, of the panetteria off the square in Scanno, each morsel crumbly and sweet, the taste of the roasted hazelnuts thick and full on the tongue.
Ben chews his cookie slowly. “So, what do you think?” I ask him. “A hint of Frangelico? Or coffee, maybe?”
He shrugs. “Don