Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [162]
“I can’t even watch Carlos this afternoon. I’ve got a meeting with Enid at lunch today. Fiona is watching Chloe. But how about if I take them both to the pool tomorrow?”
“Sure, that would be great,” Ruth says. She hesitates, and I can hear her rifling through paper. “You know, it’s just starting to dawn on me that you’re actually leaving. I’m going to miss you, Mira.”
“Me too. But we’ll visit. You and Carlos will just have to come to New York.”
“And you’ll come back here, for holidays, right?”
“Right. It won’t be so bad; you’ll see,” I tell her. Never mind that with Grappa I probably won’t have a single holiday to myself for the next ten years.
Bistro Rive Gauche is a tiny new restaurant in the Cultural District that calls itself a bistro, but really isn’t. Bistros are casual, homey kinds of restaurants, and within seconds of stepping inside I can tell this is the kind of place that takes itself a little too seriously. It isn’t busy, and I’m seated immediately.
On the bus over I’d scribbled a few notes on the back of an envelope—points I wanted to make sure to cover in my resignation speech. I pull them out and slip them into my lap so I can refer to them during lunch. I’m no longer sure why it seemed important for me to resign before Enid fires me or, for that matter, why I’m suddenly so nervous I can barely catch my breath. So, while I’m waiting for her, I study my script, mouthing the words, hoping the couple sitting a few tables over doesn’t think I’m talking to myself.
Enid breezes in fifteen minutes late.
“Here,” she says, dropping a stack of papers onto my bread plate. “Some more fan mail. And these are just the snail mail letters,” she says, taking off her jacket and hanging it neatly over the back of her chair. “Most of the old timers still write letters. One of them,” she says, picking up the stack and reaching for her glasses, “looks like a marriage proposal, which if you don’t answer, I might. The guy sounds nice. Old, but nice. Called you ‘my dear’ and signed it ‘with respect and admiration.’ They’re all good or, I should say, mostly. My favorite is from the woman who substituted three of the ingredients and then blamed you for the fact that her muffins didn’t rise. And after your compelling dissertation on the dangers of substitutions in baking. Honestly!” she clucks.
Within seconds of Enid’s arrival, a waiter approaches, bearing menus that he presents with a flourish, and begins reciting a litany of specials. Today’s offerings include grilled tuna in a soy wasabi marinade, and a pan-roasted squab with curried apricot chutney, neither typical bistro fare. It makes me think wistfully of compound butters and pestos of fresh herbs and toasted nuts, of mushrooms and lardons, eggs and roast chicken, none of which appear anywhere on the menu.
I order myself an appetizer portion of mussels and a side of frites to start and a green salad. After an extended cross examination of the waiter, Enid orders a beet and goat cheese salad and the veal chop with Roquefort butter.
Enid scoots her chair closer to the table and gives the bread basket a once over. “So . . .”
“So?” I echo, picking up a roll and buttering it while Enid gives me a hard look. Even though I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes rehearsing my speech, so far I’ve barely been able to manage much more than a trained parakeet.
“Listen,” Enid says. “I’ll get right to the point. You’re doing a good job, Mira. It’s been a long time since the Food section has attracted this much attention,” she says, gesturing to the stack of letters on the table. “I mean the Nibbler gets his fair share, but let’s face it, most of it’s hate mail. That son of a bitch is hard to please.” Enid gives her immaculate silver pageboy a small pat before picking up one of the rolls and giving it a contemplative squeeze. “Not warm and definitely not baked on the premises. Certainly not worth the carbs,” she pronounces, tossing the roll back into the basket.
So much for getting