Excerpt:
"Can't you picture it? Couples staring
dreamily into each other's eyes over a bottle of Bordeaux? The scent of
apple tartin as it bakes? Oh, Natalie, it's going to be wonderful!"
Vivi Robitaille hugged herself tight,
giving a small twirl in the center of the empty candy store she and her half
sister planned on turning into a small bistro. All her life she'd dreamed of
cooking in her own restaurant. Now it was going to happen and in America, to
boot!
Vivi dropped her arms and danced over to
Natalie, who had yet respond to her giddiness. "What? You can't imagine
biting into a piece of my baguettes with creamed butter? Or ordering a bowl
of my bouillabaisse de poulet?"
"Not as strongly as you can, obviously."
Eyeing her surrounds critically, Natalie strolled the perimeter of the empty
store, her high heels punching measured beats on the scuffed wooden floor.
Unlike the high-spirited Vivi, Natalie was pragmatic, some might even say
detached. Vivi was not surprised when Natalie concluded her stroll by
asking, "Remind me again why we chose to open a restaurant in Brooklyn
rather than Manhattan?"
"You know why," Vivi reminded her. "We"
"You"
"wanted a small, intimate local place that
would serve peasant food to regular working people, not some fancy haute
restaurant catering to Manhattan's rich."
"You have something against the rich?"
Natalie asked wryly.
Vivi blushed. "You know what I meant." She
regarded Natalie with unabashed appreciation. "I could never do this without
you. You know that."
Natalie cracked a small smile. It saddened
Vivi to think it, but sometimes she wasn't sure whether she liked her half
sister at all. A year and a half ago, they hadn't even known of each other's
existence. Now they'd embarked on a foreign adventure together, Natalie
putting up the lion's share of the money for Vivi's restaurant. Amazing.
Some would say that was only fair, since Natalie had received the lion's
share of papa's inheritance. But Vivi never felt entitled. Instead, she felt
lucky to have Natalie here with her, both as a business partner and a
friend, even though there were times a certain wariness could spring up
between them. Vivi's mother claimed the beautiful, aloof Natalie was just
running from her failed love affair, but Vivi knew better. Natalie wasn't
running from, but towards. Both sisters wanted to reinvent themselves. What
better place to do that than New York?
Still pensive, Natalie moved to look out
the large front window, the one Vivi could picture with her own name
stenciled across it in ruby script. Natalie's gaze remained critical as she
peered up and down the street. "Not the most-how shall we say?upscale area."
Vivi bristled. "That's the point."
"It's very bourgeoisie," Natalie continued
as if she hadn't heard. "Very American bourgeoisie," she concluded
with a small sniff.
"What's wrong with that?" Vivi said. The
disdain many of her fellow French had for America puzzled her. She loved the
place! Her aunt Solange had moved to New York when Vivi was a child, and
every other summer, Vivi and her mother came to visit. America always left
her dizziednot only by the sheer scale of the place, but the energy, the
inventiveness. Some of her countrymen saw Americans as crude, but not Vivi.
She found them spirited and comfortable in their own skin; a people willing
to take risks and dream big. This was exactly the place she and
Natalie needed to be.
Natalie sighed. "I suppose if we fail, it's
better to fail here, among the middle class, than in Manhattan."
"We're not going to fail."
Natalie eyed her with measured affection.
"I'm amazed by yourwhat's the American expression?pluck."
"You know what a great cook I am, Natalie.
And you know how thoroughly I did my research."
"Just because this place is filled with
'average' people doesn't mean they'll want your food." She pointed out the
window to the large, red brick restaurant across the street called Dante's
Ristorante. "That's what they want: spaghetti, big fat meat
balls...bah." She turned away in disgust.
"They'll want what I make, too," Vivi
insisted stubbornly. "And if they don't, then the food will be good enough
to draw people from Manhattan. I'm not worried. People want good, home
cooked food at reasonable prices. They want to sit down and relax over a
simple, hearty meal at the end of the day."
"I hope you're right."
"I am."
Natalie studied her nails. "I still don't
see why you insisted on renting an apartment here rather than in Manhattan
with me."
"I want to live where I work, Natalie,"
said Vivi, tired of having to explain again. "I want to know the names and
faces of my neighbors and future customers, and I want them to know me.
Besides, getting into the city won't be a problem. I'll just hop on the
Metro."
"Subway," Natalie corrected. "And it's
filthy, by the way." She shuddered. "Degountante."
"What are you saying?" Vivi teased. "That
you're only going to travel by cab? Or hire a limo, perhaps?"
"Now there's an idea..."
Vivi furrowed her brows, worried that
Natalie might be serious. Natalie caught her expression and chuckled.
"Don't worry. You concentrate on getting
this place up and running, and making Vivi's the best it can be. I'll worry
about the dollars and cents."
"If you say so."
Vivi took another tour of the space. The
sweet smell of candy still lingered, bringing back pleasant memories of
childhood. She'd been a happy little girl, never more so than when maman
let her help out in the kitchen. Even as a small child, standing beside the
old gas stove on a step stool, stirring potato soup under her mother's
watchful eye, she knew she was destined to be a chef. Some people likened
the clang of pots and pans to a headache, but not Vivi. To her, it was like
church bells pealing in her ears, reminding her of her calling.
"Quick!" Natalie called from the window.
"Come look!"
Vivi hustled to join her. Together they
watched as a broadly built, dark haired, handsome man unlocked the door of
the restaurant across the street, slipping inside.
"The owner," Natalie deduced.
"No doubt." Vivi tugged Natalie's sleeve
and began pulling her towards the door. "Let's go introduce ourselves."
Natalie looked appalled. "What, now?"
Vivi blinked. "Yes, why not?"
"Let's wait half an hour or so. Otherwise,
it will look like we were standing here spying on him."
"We were!"
The sisters laughed.
"Half an hour, then," Vivi agreed. Then
she'd get to meet the first of her neighbors. She couldn't wait.
*
"Hello. Can I help you?"
Vivi smiled at the handsome, rugged man
standing in the doorway of Dante's Ristorante. He seemed slightly shorter
than the man they'd seen enter just half an hour before. His expression was
typically American: open and friendly. She felt reassured that her decision
to open a bistro here rather than Paris, or even back home in Avignon, was
the right one.
Vivi shot a quick, sideways glance at
Natalie to see if she wanted to field the man's question, but it was obvious
from Natalie's ram rod posture Vivi would be the one doing the talking. She
was glad. Natalie could come across as imperious at first. Better she handle
the initial introductions.
"My name is Vivi Robitaille, and this is my
hamy sister, Natalie. " She pointed across the street. "We purchased the old
candy store, and we just wanted to introduce ourselves."
The man looked delighted. "You're French,
right?"
"Oui," said Vivi.
"I love your accent." The man extended his
hand. "My name's Michael Dante. I'm half owner of this place with my
brother, Anthony."
Vivi hesitated slightly. "Is he the tall
man who arrived earlier?"
Michael laughed. "Yeah, that's Ant, all
right. He's the head chef."
"I'm a chef, too!" Vivi said excitedly. "I
would very much love to speak with him!"
"Come on in," said Michael, holding the
door open wide. The inside of the restaurant surprised Vivi; it was much
larger than it appeared from the outside. There were various size tables and
a long, sleek wooden bar. Beyond the sea of tables was yet another dining
room, probably used for private parties. Vivi took it as a good sign a
restaurant this large was thriving in the neighborhood. Natalie would say it
was because it served Italian food in an Italian enclave, but Vivi had been
working in restaurants long enough to know there was more to it than that.
For a place this large to do well year in, year out, the food had to be
outstanding.
Michael pointed to an empty table for four.
"Have a seat. I'll go get my brother."
"Actually, could I see the kitchen?" Vivi
could feel Natalie's eyes chastising her for being so pushy, but she didn't
care.
"Sure, no problem. Just don't be surprised
if Anthony's got his head stuck in a pot of sauce and he's less than
cordial. He can be a little intense sometimes."
"All chefs are," Vivi said simply.
Michael looked thoughtful. "I guess you're
right. You couldn't even talk to our father when he was in the middle
of 'mangia making,' as he used to call it. He'd either bite your head off,
or give you a chore and tell you to get busy."
Vivi laughed. "Sounds familiar."
Michael smiled, motioning for Vivi and her
sister to follow him. Vivi ventured another quick glance at Natalie, who was
clearly displeased that they weren't remaining in the dining room.
"Ten minutes," Natalie whispered in a
warning voice. "That's it. I know how rapturous you get at the sight of
industrial sized gas ranges and Sub Zero freezers! I don't want to be here
all day!"
"We won't be," Vivi promised, though
nothing would make her happier. She could the anticipation building inside
her as Michael nudged open the swinging, stainless steel doors of the
kitchen with his hip. Vivi held her breath, her mouth falling open at the
sight of the huge, well lit, well ventilated kitchen. It was as though St.
Peter had just permitted her to pass through the gates into heaven.
"Company, Ant," Michael announced.
The large man Vivi and Natalie had seen
enter the restaurant earlier looked up from where he stood at the stove,
peering into a large, stainless steel pot of sauce as if scrying. Vivi
closed her eyes a moment and inhaled deeply, trying to pinpoint the
individual ingredients making the sauce smell so inviting. Fresh garlic...
basil...carrot...perhaps the slightest hint of nutmeg? Interesting.
"This is Vivi and Natalie," Michael
continued as Anthony wiped his hands on the front of his apron. "They're the
ones who bought old man Garlasco's candy store."
At the mention of the candy store, Vivi
thought she saw a small smirk play across Anthony's lips. Arrogant, she
thought, though on a certain level, she understood completely; all chefs
were wary of new competition. Out of habit, her gaze was drawn to Anthony's
hands. They were beautiful in the way a chef's hands should be: strong and
slightly nicked and scarred. Her eyes traveled back to his face. He was
handsome, and judging from the slight upward tilt to his head, proud. She
stole a quick glance at the prep cooks assembled in the kitchen, all of whom
had greeted her and Natalie with a pleasant smile when they walked in. They
seemed happily focused on their tasks. Of course, it was still early in the
day. She knew that by the time the restaurant opened, nerves would be a bit
frayed and a mild frenzy would prevail. She also knew the minute she and
Natalie left, they'd be back to chatting and gossiping, using the foulest
words they could find where appropriate. Restaurant kitchens were not for
the faint of heart, especially when it came to pressure and indelicate
language.
Anthony joined the semi circle where Vivi,
Natalie and Michael stood by the kitchen door. "I hear you're opening a
restaurant." His voice had a deep, rich timbre. He sounded self assured, and
a little too cocky for Vivi's taste.
"Yes," Vivi answered, giving her head the
same proud tilt as his. "A bistro."
"A bistro," Anthony repeated stonily. "Now
there's an original concept."
"Anthony," Michael murmured under his
breath, sounding embarrassed.
"You are afraid of some competition,
maybe?" Vivi purred, teasing out the words slowly for maximum effect.
Anthony tilted his head a fraction higher.
" I've got no competition. I'm peerless."
"Egocentrique," Natalie sniffed.
"And damn proud of it."
The enticing smell of the sauce on the
stove was driving Vivi crazy. She had to know what, exactly, was giving it
that wonderful tang. "Excuse me: is there nutmeg in that sauce?"
Anthony looked surprisedand impressed. "A
little."
"Chianti, too, yes?"
Anthony frowned. "Of course there's
Chianti. Who ever heard of making gravy without Chianti?"
Vivi and Natalie exchanged glances.
"Gravy?"
"It's Italian slang for pasta sauce,"
Michael explained.
Anthony, meanwhile, seemed to be appraising
Vivi suspiciously. "So, you're the chef, huh?"
"Yes," Vivi said. She glanced at the
kitchen again in wonder. "This is a beautiful kitchen! So much room!"
"It started out strictly as a pizza joint,"
Anthony started to explain proudly, "and my folks built it up from there"
"To the friggin' headache it is today,"
Michael joked.
Vivi blinked. Friggin'? A curse
word?
"Speak for yourself," Anthony told Michael.
"Where did you train?" Natalie asked
Anthony.
Anthony looked confused. "Train?"
"What cooking school did you go to?" Vivi
clarified. She was glad Natalie asked, since she too was curious.
"You want to know where I trained?" Anthony
pointed to the bank of stoves behind him. "Right there."
Vivi covered her surprise. "You didn't go
to cooking school?"
"I didn't need to go to cooking school.
Good cooking comes from here"he tapped his chest over his heart- "not here."
He tapped his forehead twice.
Against her better judgment, Vivi found
herself impressed. "I guessif one is nurtured youngcooking school isn't
strictly necessary."
"Then why did you let Papa send you to Le
Cordon Bleu?" Natalie asked snappishly.
Vivi was dumbstruck. What business was it
of Natalie's whether their father paid for her culinary education? Perhaps
sensing the tension, Michael Dante smiled brightly and asked, "When are you
ladies hoping to open?"
"About nine months from now," said Vivi.
"Why Bensonhurst?" Anthony asked.
"Why not?" Natalie retorted.
Vivi stared at her sister, wide eyed. Why
was she being so rude? First the egocentrique comment, now
this. Was she trying to show these brothers they weren't two fluffy little
mademoiselles? Vivi was interested in making friends, not enemies.
Anthony's wariness towards them seemed to grow with each of Natalie's
waspish comments.
Vivi smiled at Anthony. "Maybe you could
recommend some contractors to us? What suppliers you use?"
"Maybe."
"Of course we will," Michael said
graciously, shooting his brother an annoyed look, which Anthony pointedly
ignored.
Vivi gestured towards the stove. "Your
sauce is done, I think. It smells done."
This time Anthony didn't hide his smirk.
"It does, huh?"
"Yes," Vivi maintained primly.
"I'm pretty sure it's got five minutes or
so to go before all the flavors have peaked."
Vivi shrugged. "It's your kitchen."
"That's right."
"But I still think it's done," she
insisted. She could hear her mother's scolding voice in her head: Don't be
such a know-it-all when it comes to food, Vivi! But she couldn't help it.
Food was her passion, preparing it perfectly her obsession. Judging from the
look of begrudging respect mingle with annoyance that flashed across Anthony
Dante's face, he understood exactly where she was coming from, even if he
didn't like it.
"Tell you what," Anthony challenged. "When
it's your kitchen and you're making the gravy, you can decide how long it
cooks. Capisce?"
Vivi regarded Anthony politely. "I'm sorry
if you feel I insulted you. It's just important to me that things turn out
right."
"I've been making the gravy since I was
ten," Anthony replied. "I think I know when it's done."
"And I think"
"Oh, my." Natalie looked at her Cartier
watch and began nudging Vivi towards the door. "Look at the time. We've got
to get going."
It was the last thing Vivi wanted. She
wanted to wait and see whether she'd been right about the sauce. She wanted
to chop, peel, flambe, roast, seer, blanch, fry, boil, bake, mix, blend,
simmer. But most of all, she wanted to make it clear to Anthony Dante that
she knew her way around a kitchen just as well as he did, if not better.
Men! They always thought they knew better, they always thought
Natalie began dragging her towards the
doorway. "Au revoir, neighbors, au revoir."
Vivi shook Natalie off. "Perhaps we can
talk sometime," she said to Anthony.
He looked dubious. "About what?"
"Food." Bold though she knew it was, she
plucked the pen held in place at his waist by the drawstring at the front of
his apron. "Here's my address and cell phone number," she said, rummaging
through her purse for a piece of scrap paper, upon which she scribbled
furiously.
"Look, you can stop in here any time you
want," Michael offered graciously. This time it was Anthony who looked
irked, not the other way around.
"I don't want to be a pest," said Vivi,
holding out the paper with her address and phone number on it to Anthony.
Their eyes locked. For a split second, it looked as if he might refuse,
prompting a surge of anger within her. But then he reached out and took it,
holding the paper into a careful square before tucking it into the back
pocket of his pants.
"Au revoir," Natalie trilled
desperately one final time, practically dragging Vivi by the hair.
"Nice meeting you," said Michael. "Right,
Ant?"
"I've gotta go check the gravy, Mikey," is
all Vivi heard as Natalie propelled her through the kitchen doors. Vivi
smiled to herself. He was second-guessing himself, worried that perhaps she
was right. Which she was, of course.
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