Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [18]
“Mira, is it?” he says, turning to me and offering his hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
His smile is automatic, revealing a set of even, white teeth. He’s immaculately groomed, and his hands look as if they are regularly manicured, making me instantly conscious of my own short, trimmed nails and workman’s hands, ruddy and rough-skinned, which I have no choice but to offer in return.
Renata, who had been waylaid by a friend on the way to the bar, joins us, and Michael completes the introductions. Arthur quickly summons the bartender, and we order our drinks. I order myself a glass of Prosecco.
“Ah, Prosecco, a wonderful choice! It’s great to see this previously little known aperitif is finally getting its due,” Arthur says excitedly. “Of course, I mean outside of Italy,” he adds, nodding in deference to Renata. “Are you familiar with this vineyard?” Arthur asks. As it turns out, I am, but Arthur doesn’t wait for me to answer. Instead, he turns to Renata and Michael and says, “Do you mind? Why don’t we order a bottle? Mira here has made a wonderful suggestion.”
“I think you’ll like it,” I say. “It’s a wonderful vintage from a small winery in the north of Italy. In Fruili.” Why do I feel as if I’m in the midst of a job interview? “We stock it in the cellar at Grappa.”
“Grappa?”
“Yes, our—my restaurant,” I tell him, my tone a little more proprietary than I’d intended.
A flicker of recognition passes across Arthur’s well-mannered face. I wonder if he’s heard something and is only now putting two and two together. “Ah, yes, of course,” he says. I can only hope that he has heard the short version of my sordid story and not the longer, assault and battery one. But, judging from his embarrassed look, and the way his eyes flit quickly toward the door, I suspect the latter. He has already decided that I’m an incalculable risk and is wondering just how quickly he can make an exit.
“Mira, my apologies,” says Michael. “Renata has so many customers, and I couldn’t recall the name of your restaurant when I told Arthur about you.”
“I’m afraid I’ve never eaten there,” Arthur says, with no trace of apology.
“Well, then you must come sometime.”
“It’s really a wonderful restaurant, Arthur,” Renata pipes in. “Mira and her ex-husband started it on a shoestring, not unlike Le Bernadin. It’s quite a success story.” I chafe at the mention of Jake, my “ex-husband,” and my leg accidentally bumps Renata’s under the table.
I’m relieved when the Prosecco arrives and even more relieved when the maître d’ approaches us with the news that our table is ready. Arthur balances his glass of Prosecco with one hand, and rests his other hand on my elbow as we make our way to the dining room. He leans into me, veering me slightly off course and, as I struggle to realign myself, I catch him sneaking a peek down my sweater. “So, what started you cooking, Mira?”
“My mother, actually. She was a chef.”
“Oh? How interesting! Where did she train?”
“In Paris,” I tell him, “at the Cordon Bleu.”
“Really? Impressive for a woman of your mother’s generation. Where did she cook?”
“Well, when I knew her, she cooked at home. Just for our family.” The truth was my mother had never really made use of her impressive French pedigree, something she’d always regretted. While studying there she met my father, who was in the army and on leave in Paris. She was just finishing up her two-year course in French gastronomy; they married as soon as his tour of duty was up.
“In Manhattan?”
“No, in Pittsburgh. I grew up in Pittsburgh.”
“In Pittsburgh?” Arthur says, a small snort escaping him. “An unlikely place for a classically trained chef.”
“People have been known