Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [174]
The weather has been unseasonably warm this year, and even though it is the week before Thanksgiving, humidity hangs in the air, custard-thick and heavy. Before turning on the lights, I switch on the air conditioner, which sputters and groans before finally kicking in. The din is tremendous, so I switch it off and open the windows instead. A breeze moves in, bringing with it the smell of Bruno’s baking bread and the sweet and slightly pungent smell of discarded lettuce and cabbage leaves that have fallen from delivery crates to litter the alley. The old Venetian blinds covering the windows flutter in the breeze, casting inky shadows on the walls and on the odds and ends of furniture, six wooden tables, each with four mismatched chairs, left over from whatever this space used to be.
I’m taking very seriously Enid’s suggestion that I be the one to decide what kind of restaurant we will have. This is why I’ve been coming here in the early mornings to stand in the open space and let my imagination wander over the possibilities, each one a new and different incarnation. But there’s one I keep returning to, one vision that, over the last several days, has begun to assume a more specific size and shape, one that feels just right to me.
Spuntino will only serve breakfast and lunch, my willing sacrifice to motherhood. Homemade pastas, frittatas, beans and greens, soups thickened with semolina and with ribbons of egg, a pappa al pomodoro made with a bread I’m planning to coax Bruno into baking especially for me, a thick crusty Florentine loaf with no salt. No big menus, no fancy wine lists. In fact, courtesy of Pennsylvania’s antiquated liquor licensing procedures, no wine at all for at least the first six months. A place with an open kitchen and a counter where people can sit and talk to me while I prepare their breakfasts and lunches, because it would be nice to know the people I’m cooking for. Rustic wooden tables that encourage spreading out, maybe a low banquette and some comfy chairs gathered around a fireplace. One day I imagine Chloe stopping here on her way home from school to eat a bowl of soup and do her homework on one of the long wooden tables, chatting easily with the regulars, all of whom will love her.
I’ve been gone from Grappa for almost a year, and most of that time I’ve spent thinking about what I missed, idealizing it because it had been ours—mine and Jake’s. But it had been replete with the sorts of compromises, big and small, that make any joint venture successful. Only recently have I begun to think about what I would have changed, if I’d had the chance. Spuntino (“snack” in Italian) will be my chance to do something different. Enid’s given me complete creative control, so why not have some fun? How often do we get a second chance?
Ben has promised to help with the repairs—a good thing because, judging from the puddles of water pooling under the air-conditioning units, there’s considerable work to be done. Since Richard moved out a couple of weeks ago, Ben’s been around for two dinners, three lunches, and one breakfast. Neither one of us is thinking long term, at least not yet, but our relationship is developing like a slow and steady braise. A braise might not look like much to start with—throw a bunch of ingredients into a pot, add a little broth and wine, and simmer over low heat for several hours—but the technique tends to produce the most complex and full-bodied flavors in food. One of the most wonderful things about a really good braise is that the end result is often so much more than the sum of its parts.
Chloe has pushed one of the chairs along the floor until it has come to rest against the back wall, and the exertion has dampened her curls and cast a furrow in her brow. Now that her work here is finished, she’s impatient to leave. She turns to face me, raises her arms, and calls, “Mama!” I cross the room and pick her up, holding her close to me despite the heat, nuzzling her hair, still flecked with flour dust. I know she will probably resent Spuntino