I pull the collar of my blazer up over my neck and turn to make my way back out the door. I'm not sure why, but I'd expected visiting Il Vinaio would be easier, less emotionally costly, than visiting Grappa. After all, I have no real connection to this place, which is much too glitzy on the inside for my taste anyway; it's hard, in fact, to see Jake's hand in here at all. But there's a sickening knot in my stomach. Why did I assume that wandering into Jake and Nicola's new life would be easy?
The outside air hits me in the face, a warm, heavy blast that makes me gag. I'm relieved to have escaped undetected, but my relief is short-lived as I see Jake standing across the street, trying to light a cigarette, his face angled to the side, his hand cupping the struggling flame.
I quickly turn away and walk at a good clip in the opposite direction of where I need to go, hoping Jake is too bent on lighting his cigarette to have noticed me. I cannot resist a final backwards glance as I turn the corner. Jake is standing squarely in the middle of the sidewalk, the cigarette unlit between his fingers, staring after me like he's just seen a ghost, or a mutant, or some equally improbable act of nature, something that even if it's standing right in front of him, he can't be sure he's really seen.
Â
“Well, at least the
cagna
wasn't there,” Renata says, later, at dinner.
Cagna
, loosely translated, means “bitch” in Italian. Renata, as it turns out, has her own independent reasons for not liking Nicola, which she's in the midst of enumerating. Shortly before Il Vinaio opened, Nicola abruptly switched suppliers and fired Renata, right after rejecting as unusable several cases of expensive imported olive oil, which she'd opened and claimed were rancid. (They weren't.) When Nicola refused to pay her, Renata called Jake, with whom she has done business for years and who, at one time at least, had counted her as a personal friend. He had not even returned her call.
“Puttana!”
sings Michael, raising his glass of Belgian ale. Michael has been busy studying Italian, taking courses at the Berlitz school uptown twice a week. He and Renata are planning a trip to Italy in the fall, to meet Renata's family, and Michael wants to be able to communicate with his in-laws.
“
Is that what they are teaching you at that expensive school
?” she says to him in Italian. When Michael doesn't answer her, she rolls her eyes and gives me an exasperated look. “Besides,” Renata says, raising her glass of Riesling, “a
puttana
she is not.
Puttana
is too good for the likes of her.”
A
puttana
is an Italian whore, and in Italy whores have a somewhat more reputable standing than they do elsewhere. For centuries they've been glorified in both classic opera and popular song. Among their many noteworthy attributes, Italian whores are reputed to be responsible for the development of a much beloved pasta sauce, pasta puttanesca, a spicy and salty dish made with capers and anchovies. Its chief attraction, aside from its wonderful flavor, is that it can be prepared quicklyâin other words, between clients.
Michael launches into a rendition of the “Drinking Song” from
La Traviata,
which he sings with wide, sweeping arm gestures, causing Renata to look around embarrassed. Michael isn't drunk, just silly, relaxed, and in a good mood. He's just landed a plum assignment, editing a book by the Berkeley cooperative responsible for improving the quality of California school lunches, which will mean lots of trips to Berkeley, several opportunities for meals at Chez Panisse, and even the prospect of a meeting with Alice Waters, who is a member of the co-op and one of Michael's idols.
“More herring, anyone?” Michael says, raising the almost empty crock of smoked herring pâté we've ordered as an appetizer with our drinks. I shake my head. My impromptu trip to Il Vinaio has put a bit of a damper on my appetite, and I've ordered only an endive salad for dinner. Renata and Michael, on the other hand, have ordered half the menu, moules marinières for Renata and roasted potato and leek soup for Michael, then carbonnade à la flamande and chicken waterzooi, which they are planning to share.
Michael and Renata fill me in on the latest New York gossip until the starters arrive. Michael tastes his soup, pronounces it excellent, and offers Renata a spoonful, which he feeds to her, delicately holding his napkin under her chin as she sips. It is the type of intimate gesture, sweet and touching, that makes me slightly squeamish to watch.
“Oh, this is wonderful. Mira, you must try some. Michael, give her a taste.”
“So, Mira, what's this about a new business venture?” Michael asks, offering me some soup.
“Jake's grand plan to take over the restaurant world, you mean?” Renata pipes in. Michael shushes her.
“Well, I'm not exactly sure,” I tell them, wiping a trace of soup, which happens to be delicious, from my chin. “But from what I understand, a group of investors is interested in backing Jake in a multi-venue package that would encompass Grappa, Jake's new enoteca, and a large restaurant venture in Vegas. They're looking for some additional investors and have asked me to take over Grappa.”
“Wow, that's pretty impressive,” Michael says, spreading some pâté on the heel of a baguette.
“Ill-advised, in my opinion,” Renata says. “I always knew Jake had an egomaniacal streak.”
“I don't know,” I tell her. “Lots of the big-name chefs are doing it.”
Michael says, “Mira's right, and every one of them has been successful. There are some unsaturated markets out there; it makes good business sense to move now, while prices are depressed. Wait too long, and you could get shut out.”
“You want to know something?” Renata says, looking from me to Michael and shaking a butter knife. “Jake is not big-time.”
Even though she has just finished ranting about Nicola, Renata's ire surprises me. “Since when are you so angry at Jake?” I ask.
“Mira,” Renata says, ignoring my comment, “what you loved about Grappa is the intimacy, the fact that you recognize the people you're feeding. Cooking is an intimate act, or at least it should be. I shouldn't need to remind you that the notion of the chain restaurant is not Italian.”
“Come on, Renata,” Michael says, leaning forward and wiping the remains of his soup with another piece of baguette. “We're not necessarily talking Olive Garden here.”
“Feeding people and getting rich are two different things. One is a noble calling, the other pure gluttony,” Renata says.
“Look. No one is suggesting opening up an all-you-can-eat buffet. At least I don't think they are. I guess I don't really know,” I tell them, remembering the arrival of the FedEx man at my door Thursday afternoon bearing a first-class ticket to New York on USAir, a voucher for a suite at the Trump Soho, and an official-looking letter from the AEL Restaurant Syndicate inviting me to a meeting on Saturday morning. Beyond that I don't know a single thing about these people, or their plans for this supposed restaurant syndicate.
“Besides, since when are getting rich and feeding people mutually exclusive?” Michael asks. “What Mira should be interested in is getting Grappa back. Everything else is incidental. If she gets rich in the process, so be it. Call it an occupational hazard.”
“Amen to that,” Renata says, raising her glass of Riesling. “And to our renewed business relationship,” she adds, turning to me. “I hope I'm not being presumptuous, but I assume you will be needing my services once you are back in command at Grappa?” The waiter places a large plate of mussels in front of Renata, who immediately scoops a few onto my bread plate.
“Ohâof course, but wait a minute hereâI'm not, I mean I haven't committed to anything yet. The meeting isn't until tomorrow. I'm not really in a position toâ”
“Do me a favor,” Michael interrupts. “Just let us know how the meeting goes. It's the kind of thing we might be able to throw a little capital toward, provided the returns look decent.”
Renata raises her eyebrows.
“You know I've always wanted to own a restaurant,” Michael says, turning sheepishly to Renata. “And besides, even you told me you thought it was a good idea.”
“Maybe so, maybe in the abstract it is, but Italians don't do business with people they don't like. And I don't like Jake or that, thatâ
cagna
.”
“Down, girl,” Michael says, smiling. “I love that she's so loyal,” Michael says to me, as he reaches over to pinch Renata's cheek. “But if we don't change the subject, my darling Renata will develop a good old case of
l'agita
. See,” he says, winking at me and turning to Renata, “I am learning something in that expensive school.”
Renata mumbles something in Italian that I don't quite catch.
“So, Mira,” Michael continues, “tell us about Pittsburgh. Renata tells me you're doing some writing? I didn't know you had writing aspirations.” Even though I get the sense he's just being polite, I've been dreading the question. Michael, after all, is a food editor. And because I've played up my role in the Pittsburgh newspaper world as part Bob Woodward, part Frank Bruni, I'm feeling, shall we say, a tad cornered.
“Well, it isn't real
writing.
I mean, recipes are different. It's more like just writing things
down,
if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, but still, cranking out a weekly column isn't easy.” Michael gives me an admiring look, and I don't have the heart to tell him I'm really only developing and testing recipes and that, according to Enid Maxwell, I couldn't write myself out of a paper bag.
“Are you going to keep doing it after you come back here?” Renata asks.
I hadn't even thought about having to give up my column. Or where we'd live, or getting Chloe back into day care, which could take several months. I hadn't thought about a lot of things. All, it seems, I had thought about was Grappaâand Jakeâand not necessarily in that order. Suddenly the room feels too warm. I pick up my water glass and drain it in a couple of long, thirsty gulps; it's instantly refilled by a hovering waiter.
“You know, there's no reason you couldn't try to get your column syndicated,” Michael says later, over dessert and coffee. “In fact, I think it's a good idea. Didn't you say this editor wants you to wake up those tired Pittsburgh taste buds? Mira, most home cooksâand not just in Pittsburghâare intimidated by things professionals take for granted. They view cooking as a necessity and a chore. Take Renata here,” he says, patting her gently on the shoulder.
“Hey, what's that supposed to mean? I love to cook!” Renata says, slapping Michael's hand as he reaches for a bite of her lemon soufflé.
“Renata, my love, you are an assembler par excellence. You have impeccable food sense and you know where in New York to buy the freshest and best prepared food. In fact, no one can assemble a better meal than you. But when was the last time you actually cooked anything?”
“
Divino,
” Renata says, closing her eyes and tasting the soufflé. She drops a big spoonful onto my bread plate, resisting my halfhearted attempts to refuse. Turning to Michael, Renata says, “Why on earth would anyone cook when you can just come here and eat this?”
Michael smiles at her and says to me, “Why would anyone write anything after Hemingway, or compose a symphony after Beethoven, or paint a landscape after Turner? It isn't necessarily about doing it better. It's about
doing
it.”
“Michael, that isn't what I meant. It's just, why should I slave away in the kitchen when I can just come here and pay for someone really talented to do all the work while I enjoy the results?”
“Tell her, Mira,” Michael says, reaching back into Renata's dish for another taste.
I know what Michael means. If someone told me that I could travel anywhere and eat anything I wanted, choosing, if I so desired, to eat only in Michelin-rated restaurants for the rest of my life, but the price for such a gourmand's dream would be that I could never cook again, I'd turn it down without a moment's hesitation. It's about doing your best by a pile of mussels sweet from the sea, or holding a perfect tomato, warm, rosy, and smelling like summer, and knowing that there are a dozen ways that you can prepare it, each one a delicious
homage
. I look away, unable to answer Michael. Maybe it's seeing Jake again, or being back in New York, or talking food while eating a great meal with people you care about; whatever it is, it's been building since the instant I stepped off the plane at LaGuardia. Suddenly, I don't know how I have been able to resist it all these months, the raging itch to be back in a kitchen.
I shake my head and stand up. Michael and Renata, spoons poised, look up at me. “I've got to go,” I tell them.
I grab my purse and deposit a kiss on each of their cheeks.
“Where are you going?” Renata calls after me.
“Michael's right. I've got to go. I'll call you tomorrow.”