Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [17]
I finally choose a pair of black crepe pants and a black cashmere sweater. I consider heeding Renata’s advice about leaving my hair down, but somehow I don’t think long hair will be a turn on for Arthur. Someone that compulsive would surely be made uncomfortable by untamed hair. I settle for a simple chignon.
Gabriella, with Michael and Renata in tow, arrives precisely at seven, and from the instant they step into the room, Chloe begins to cry. Her whole body stiffens as she locks me in a death grip. Michael is the one who finally takes charge, removing Chloe from me and placing her in Gabriella’s waiting arms. Then, Michael, to whom I’ve barely been introduced, gently but firmly maneuvers me out of the door and into the elevator. Once we are settled in the cab, he gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“She stopped crying before we even made it into the lobby, you know. They do that just to torture us, a conspiracy among babies everywhere.”
“I feel like a wretch for leaving her. She doesn’t know Gabriella and she’s not used to being left with a babysitter at night.”
“It’s your own fault, Mira,” says Renata. “You should have been doing this months ago. She’d be used to it by now.”
“Ha,” laughs Michael, giving me a knowing look. “They never get used to it.”
Renata quickly steers the conversation clear of children, and we chat about what we’re planning to eat, and laugh over the fact that none of us has eaten all day in preparation for tonight. This allows me an opportunity to sneak a look at Renata’s husband who, I decide, isn’t at all what I expected. For starters, he’s much older than I imagined. He looks to be somewhere in his mid-fifties, making him roughly a decade older than Renata. He isn’t a handsome man; his nose is too large and his eyes too small, but they’re a lovely blue, soft and friendly. He’s got a nice full head of dark hair, going silvery at the temples, and a small, neatly trimmed beard, black and flecked with gray. But what makes him not seem Renata’s type is that he’s a comfortable man, rumpled and slightly squishy around the edges, the sort whose preference might run toward flannel and gabardine instead of silk and cashmere. The kind of man who might own, and occasionally even wear, a sweat suit.
Compared to the few male friends of Renata’s I’ve met on previous occasions, all of whom were younger than she, handsome, and impeccably groomed, Michael seems less sophisticated. But Renata seems different, too, softer than usual and more relaxed. She’s taller than Michael, and the way he drapes his arm around her shoulders is awkward, yet occasionally he gives her an affectionate squeeze. A trace of a giggle escapes her as he whispers something inaudible, something, I imagine, so silly and tender that I glimpse, for an instant, the girl she’d once been. Already I like Michael and think Renata’s lucky. There simply aren’t enough men who can make women giggle, or who even care to try.
Le Bernadin is one of only a handful of Manhattan restaurants—including La Grenouille, the Four Seasons, and Café des Artistes—that has endured, almost unaltered, since its opening. Within months of its New York debut in January 1986, Gourmet magazine bestowed upon Le Bernadin and its chefs/owners, Gilbert and Maguy Le Coze, an unprecedented four-star rating, a historic event in the restaurant world. Now, a quarter of a century later, it has become one of New York’s grande dames. If Le Bernadin were a woman, as I think most restaurants are, she would be Grace Kelly—beautiful, elegant, and understated.
The bar is crowded, and at first I don’t see Arthur Cole, whom I think I’ll recognize from the miniscule photograph that appears above his byline in Chef’s. Michael spots him instantly. He’s sitting with his back to the door, engaged in conversation with the bartender, probably interviewing him about how to make the perfect mai tai. When Michael taps him on the shoulder, he turns and, with one fluid movement, flips his