Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [93]
It’s an exceptionally daring move—taking on an established reviewer, not to mention a restaurant that’s already been reviewed and found to be lacking. But if I do it right, I just might get Enid’s attention.
Thinking it might be fun to take the kids out to dinner (the real test of a waiter is how he or she deals with fussy babies), I decide to invite Ruth to come with me. However, one look at her exhausted face when I arrive to pick up Chloe, and I know this will be an uphill battle.
“Come on. It’s only five thirty. We’ll be back before eight. I promise. My treat?”
She slumps her shoulders and gives me the “I’m too tired to move” look. She says, “I’m just looking forward to getting Carlos fed and to bed.”
“The stimulation of a new place, new food, might be good for him. He’ll fall right asleep as soon as you get home.”
Ruth laughs. “I’m the one who doesn’t need the stimulation. Besides, I thought reviewers were supposed to be low-key, anonymous-like. Believe me, going to a restaurant with Carlos will do nothing to preserve your anonymity. They’ll be talking about you for weeks.”
On the way home I try Richard. He answers the phone just as the machine picks up and tells me, over the answering machine’s recorded message, that he’s just on his way out the door.
“Hey, perfect. Glad I caught you. Want to have dinner with two gorgeous women? Chloe and I want to try this new Caribbean bistro, and I’m on assignment, sort of. How about it?”
Richard doesn’t say anything, but I can hear another voice in the background. “Well,” he finally says, “I’m actually on my way out to dinner. Tonight isn’t going to work. How about I call you later?”
Richard doesn’t sound like himself. Apart from his lack of effusiveness, he didn’t even pick up the bait when I told him I was on assignment. Obviously, he’s seeing someone and, judging from the sound of his voice, it isn’t going well. I remember his cryptic comment last week about not wanting to ruin the afternoon with talk of his love life, but because Richard is such a private person, at least when it comes to his romantic liaisons, I know it would be fruitless to push.
The next morning I set off early thinking Chloe and I will do some shopping in the Strip and then have lunch at Koko’s. We stop for coffee and biscotti at Bruno’s and, because it’s still a little too early for lunch, we sit a while. Bruno is here this morning, perched on a stool in the back, hunched over a large ceramic bowl of biscotti dough. His hair is completely white now, his nose and ears bigger and his frame much smaller than I remembered. The knuckles of his hands are ruddy knobs, the fingers bent with arthritis at unnatural angles, and his movements are palsied. His face is expressionless, the practiced countenance of a person used to being in pain.
When we first came in, I hovered by the counter, hoping that Bruno would look up. Eventually he did, smiling at Chloe and me, but I knew from his filmy gaze that he didn’t remember me and probably wouldn’t even if prodded. His son, or perhaps even his grandson, handles the heavy lifting now. I watch as the young man gently wrests the bowl of dough from Bruno and in one fluid movement turns the heavy bowl onto the counter, scrapes out the contents, and dusts it with flour. He stands there a moment, watching as Bruno sinks his hands into the dough. He’s probably thinking he could do it better or faster. Finally, he smiles and pats Bruno gently on the shoulder, sending a thin cloud of flour into the air.
Chloe pushes her chubby board book at me and smiles. I take her onto my lap and read to her about sheep in a jeep while she drinks her milk. She follows along, pointing to the pictures, cooing and gurgling, her voice mimicking the rhythm and cadence of my own.