Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [172]
“Okay, look, he didn’t actually call me. Well, he did, but not about the restaurant exactly. Jim and I were supposed to play racquetball last night, and he called to say his brother had this accident and that he was going to take him to the emergency room instead. When he told me what happened, I suggested you might help. I thought it would be good for you to get back into a kitchen.”
I should have suspected as much. Ben had been doing me the favor, not the other way around.
“You aren’t angry, are you?” Ben asks, kissing me.
“No. Well, maybe. I haven’t quite decided,” I tell him, feeling a little silly that I allowed myself to be so easily fooled. Partly, I’m relieved. I haven’t cooked professionally since Grappa, and it felt good to prove to myself that I still can, even if it was only burgers and onion rings. I’m also touched that Ben took the trouble to help me like this. But mostly, I think, reaching for him, I’m grateful, grateful that cooking isn’t the only thing I haven’t forgotten how to do.
“Hey, did you see this?” Ben says.
“No. What?”
“The Nibbler strikes again! Jesus, what a bastard! Listen to this—first of all, get a load of this headline: ‘Bistro Rive Gauche Only Half-Appropriately Named.’ ” Ben looks over the paper at me, an expression of mock horror on his face. “‘FON’—that’s Friend of Nibbler—‘ordered the mussels. The mussels, one of the few authentically bistro items on the menu, were decent, but it is hard, some might say impossible, to ruin mussels, given the overwhelmingly excellent quality of the farm-raised product. The veal chop was overcooked, and over-sauced, but worst of all, the frites, the signature item on any bistro menu, were soggy, the result of the chef having used only a single fry method.’”
I lean my head back against the pillows and let out a laugh, a guffaw so raucous that Ben puts down his newspaper and looks at me with alarm.
Of course, I should have guessed.
“I don’t get it,” Ben says. “This is the kind of thing that should outrage you! Some poor slob pours his heart and soul—not to mention his last dime—into a restaurant and then gets a review like this one!”
“So, maybe he deserved it. Look, it’s a tough market out there, and there’s room only for the best. Bad reviews don’t close restaurants. Bad food does. You shouldn’t open a restaurant unless you know what you are doing.”
“Well, then,” Ben says, taking me in his arms, “what are you waiting for?”
chapter 35
“Okay, I’m in,” I tell her.
“I knew you would be,” she says calmly.
“Well, at least we can be assured of one good review,” I tell her.
“No,” Enid laughs. “I’m afraid the Nibbler is hanging up her lobster bib. Our good review will have to be earned. But that shouldn’t be too hard for you, my dear. Congratulations.”
We discuss the details, such as they are at this point, which amount to little beyond the fact that Enid has already begun working on the financial end. She has a friend who is connected with investments at Northwest Bank, and with whom she previously discussed financing. In addition, she’s been looking for space and has already lined up a couple of possibilities that she wants me to see. My job is to decide what type of restaurant we will have, and what sort of space and equipment we’ll need. As to what type of restaurant, Enid has an open mind, or so she says.
“But no tearooms, okay? My mother used to eat at tearooms. The tea is always weak, and the food unimaginative. Oh, and no retro shit. If I have to eat at another revamped diner serving chicken a la king, I’ll—”
“Relax, Enid. No tearooms, no diners.”
I share my news with no one. Not Richard, who doesn’t seem to have noticed that I didn’t sleep at home Saturday night, and not my father or Fiona, whose generosity in watching Chloe extended to breakfast and a trip to the zoo. Not even Ben, who calls not long after I hang up with Enid to invite me out on a date. If I tell anybody, it should be him. But I don’t. In fact, I don’t even answer the phone when he calls; instead, I cower in the bathroom