Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [163]
The waiter brings Enid’s salad and my mussels. Enid picks sulkily at hers.
“I hate it when they serve the dressing on the side. Salads should be dressed lightly but thoroughly.”
“And not too cold,” I add. “I hate it when the salad is too cold. You can’t taste the greens.”
“Mmm, right,” Enid says with an approving smile. She puts down her salad fork and fixes me with a penetrating stare.
“Mira, are you happy?”
“What?”
“I mean at the Post-Gazette, doing what you’re doing?”
“Enid, listen, I’ve got something to tell—”
“Okay, some doctor tells you tomorrow that you’ve got a year to live, and you’re okay with leaving behind a newspaper file of ‘Bistro Favorites for the Home Cook’ as your legacy?”
“No, as a matter of fact—”
“Aha! I knew it!” Enid signals the waiter and orders a carafe of house wine. “Listen. I’m fifty-six years old, today as a matter of fact,” she says, raising her water glass, “and I’ve been dreaming of having my own restaurant for the last thirty years. If it doesn’t happen soon, it’s never going to. Running interference for the Nibbler—Jesus, what a ridiculous name!—and figuring out if oleo should be capitalized and editing your columns on barbeque basics—you think that’s what I want my legacy to be?”
We sit in silence for a moment while the waiter pours our wine. This strange talk of legacies and of happiness, not to mention my relief, however misplaced, that Enid isn’t going to fire me, has suddenly made me ravenously hungry.
Enid watches me eat. “How are the mussels?” she asks, her fork hovering in between her plate and mine.
“They’re okay,” I tell her, nudging my plate toward her. “Mussels are almost impossible to screw up, especially nowadays when the quality is uniformly good. Throw them in a pan with a little garlic, olive oil, and wine, and they’re done. But, bistros live and die by their frites, in my opinion.”
“Well?” she says, gesturing in the direction of my frites.
I offer her one.
“Just as I suspected,” she pronounces mildly. “Soggy. So,” Enid says, after a beat, “what do you think?”
“Well, to make really good fries you have to fry them twice and these—”
“No!” she says, rolling her eyes. “What do you think I’ve been talking about?”
Enid might just as well have been conducting this whole strange lunch in Japanese. I honestly have no idea what she’s been talking about. She carefully lays down her knife and fork and leans forward, her voice low and soft. “What do you think about opening a restaurant? With me. You do the cooking, menu development, etcetera. I handle the business and maybe put in a couple hours a week in the kitchen, if you’re willing to have me. What do you say, Mira?”
“A restaurant?” Enid has caught me completely off guard.
“Yeah, what do you say?”
“Enid, I can’t. I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m going back to New York. I’m going back to Grappa.”
Enid sits back in her chair and carefully lifts a hand to smooth her hair. “Oh,” she says, raising her napkin and dabbing delicately at her pursed mouth. “I had no idea you were thinking about leaving. If you were unhappy, you should have said something,” she says, her voice prim and clipped.
“I’m not. I wasn’t. It’s just that it’s a great opportunity. It came up totally unexpectedly.”
Enid drains her wine and refills both our glasses. She eyes me speculatively. “I waited too long. I should have guessed. I didn’t think you’d be happy for more than a couple of months doing this crap.” She swipes at her mouth with her napkin and drops it beside her plate.
“No, I’ve really enjoyed writing the column. I appreciate the chance you’ve given me.” I lay a hand on top of Enid’s. “Thank you.”
Enid sits upright in her chair and coolly removes her hand from mine. “So, tell me about it. Grappa wants you back? How did you manage that?”
I fill her in on the details, even going so far as to suggest that if she wants to own a restaurant, there still might be room to buy into the syndicate.
“Oh, no,” she says. “I was hoping for a more hands-on experience. I’ll just have to throw more dinner parties,” she says,