Aftertaste by Meredith Mileti

Manhattan restaurants—including La Grenouille, the Four Seasons, and Café des Artistes—that has endured, almost unaltered, since its opening. Within months of its New York debut in January 1986, Gourmet magazine bestowed upon Le Bernadin and its chefs/owners, Gilbert and Maguy Le Coze, an unprecedented four-star rating, a historic event in the restaurant world. Now, a quarter of a century later, it has become one of New York’s grande dames. If Le Bernadin were a woman, as I think most restaurants are, she would be Grace Kelly—beautiful, elegant, and understated.
    The bar is crowded, and at first I don’t see Arthur Cole, whom I think I’ll recognize from the miniscule photograph that appears above his byline in Chef’s. Michael spots him instantly. He’s sitting with his back to the door, engaged in conversation with the bartender, probably interviewing him about how to make the perfect mai tai. When Michael taps him on the shoulder, he turns and, with one fluid movement, flips his notebook closed. “Now, Arthur, you are officially off duty tonight. You’ll make me look bad,” Michael says with a trace of a smile, gesturing to the notebook that Arthur is in the process of thrusting into his breast pocket. They shake hands, and Michael gives him a small pat on the arm. Arthur’s hair is longer than in his picture in Chef’s, and he’s not wearing glasses, which in the picture are small and round.
    â€œMira, 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.
    â€œAh, 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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œGrappa?”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œMira, 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.”
    â€œI’m afraid I’ve never eaten there,” Arthur says, with no trace of apology.
    â€œWell, then you must come sometime.”
    â€œIt’s really a wonderful restaurant, Arthur,” Renata pipes in. “Mira and her