Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [160]
“Mira, it is a lot of stuff. I’m not sure Avi will have the time to go through it before Friday. Not to mention it’s going to be expensive to copy. Are you sure you need them?”
“Don’t worry about the copies,” I tell him. “Just go ahead and FedEx them to me. And no need for Avi to take a look. Ruth can fill him in on anything he needs to know.” Why pay Jerry’s firm five hundred dollars an hour, when Ruth has volunteered to work for food?
“This Ruth knows what she’s doing?”
“She’s got an MBA from Wharton,” I tell him.
“Well, she’s going to have to be fast. The closing is next week.”
My next call is to Ruth. “What are you doing tomorrow night for dinner? How does chilled avocado soup followed by lobster paella sound?”
“Like it’s not on my diet,” Ruth answers.
“Okay, broiled oysters with chili and lime, steamed lobster, and avocado and grapefruit salad.”
“You working on your spa menu?”
“Kind of,” I tell her.
“What’s for dessert?”
“Two boxes of documents.”
Ruth laughs. “You figure out a way to make a sugar-free, fatfree, chocolate cheesecake, and I’m there.”
Of all the marvels of the modern world, there are few things that can rival a well-baked cookie and a cup of tea, served in the part of the afternoon when the spirit begins to flag. Part respite, part distraction, part pure fun, it restores the body and soul and whets the appetite for the evening meal.
I’ve spent the afternoon working on duplicating Bruno’s hazelnut cookie recipe and have finally found a version I like. I serve Richard a few, along with a cup of tea in his favorite antique Wedgwood cup, then pack up a couple of dozen for Fiona and my father. And, because this version owes much to Ben, I put a few in a bag and pour a tall glass of iced tea and go hunting for him on the fifth floor.
It isn’t hard to find him. The double doors on the corner loft are ajar, construction materials litter the entryway, and Bruce Springsteen is wailing from an iPod dock in the kitchen. No one answers when I knock, so I just walk in. Ben is sunning himself on the balcony, his feet up against the railing, reading the newspaper.
“Hard at work, I see,” I tease, handing him the iced tea.
“Ah, the joys of being an hourly employee,” he says, squinting up at me, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. “Actually, I’m waiting for the plumbing inspector. He was supposed to be here half an hour ago. I thought you might be him. Hey, did you get my note?”
“I did, thanks.”
“I was thinking, the texture’s the key to that cookie. Sure, cacao nibs are ugly-looking, but they have an interesting texture. I had to look pretty hard to find them. Anyway, I thought it might be worth a try, that is if you’re still hung up on recreating the recipe,” he says.
“Here,” I tell him, holding out the paper bag. “They’re nothing like Bruno’s, though.” I smile at him.
Ben takes a cookie from the bag and holds it between his thumb and forefinger, examining it like it’s a rare geologic specimen. “They’re chocolate,” he says, surprised.
“Actually, I flavored them with espresso powder. Like I said, totally different from Bruno’s.”
“But I thought that was the point—to duplicate his recipe,” he says, taking a bite.
“It usually starts out like that, but experiment enough, let the ingredients speak to you, and you can end up with something completely different. Sometimes something you like even better.”
He chews his cookie slowly, thoughtfully. “Complex, interesting; a cookie like this keeps you on your toes,” he says, holding it aloft and looking at me, one eyebrow raised, his lips twitching as if he’s trying not to smile.
He pats the small expanse of concrete next to him and holds out the bag to me. “Can you stay a minute? Is Chloe okay?”
“Sure, Richard’s watching her for a few minutes,” I tell him, sitting down.
“So, I never asked you, how was New York?”
I rest my head against the balcony’s back wall. The late afternoon sun has warmed the bricks, and I can feel their heat in my hair and through the thin cotton of my shirt.
“It was—complicated,” I tell him.
Ben turns