Aftertaste by Meredith Mileti Page A

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?”
    â€œMy mother, actually. She was a chef.”
    â€œOh? How interesting! Where did she train?”
    â€œIn Paris,” I tell him, “at the Cordon Bleu.”
    â€œReally? Impressive for a woman of your mother’s generation. Where did she cook?”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œIn Manhattan?”
    â€œNo, in Pittsburgh. I grew up in Pittsburgh.”
    â€œIn Pittsburgh?” Arthur says, a small snort escaping him. “An unlikely place for a classically trained chef.”
    â€œPeople have been known to eat in Pittsburgh, you know,” I tell him, with a backwards glance as he pulls out my chair. The man is a snob.
    â€œWell, of course they do. I just meant that, well, even today, it’s not exactly the bastion of haute cuisine. Twenty, thirty years ago, forget it. In fact, can you remember the last time a Pittsburgh restaurant was featured in Bon Appétit ?”
    Touché. In fact, the only time I can remember a Pittsburgh restaurant being mentioned in a national magazine was several years ago when Gourmet mentioned Primanti Brothers in an interview with Mario Batali (who’d eaten there on a recent trip and enjoyed it). For the uninitiated, the Primanti sandwich is a cheesesteak sub, served on thick slabs of crusty Italian bread and topped with very well-done grease-still-glistening French fries, coleslaw, and, if you’re really a traditionalist, a fried egg. Apparently, it has become the signature food of Pittsburgh. I do not remind Arthur Cole of this fact.
    The bread basket is presented to us—warm, crusty, French farmhouse rolls with an herb and goat cheese spread. We study our menus, considering the delights within. I look over at Renata, who I can see is already mapping out how we can best cover the most ground. This, of course, involves sharing.
    Some people are funny about that, and I’m betting Arthur Cole is one of them. You can tell a lot about a person by how liberal he is about sharing his food. That was one of the first things that had attracted me to Jake. I first met him when we were both waiting for a table at a little roadside trattoria in Piacenza. We were each overjoyed to find someone who could speak English and decided to share a table. During that first meal together he casually reached over and speared a piece of my calamari, delicately grabbing it by the ring with a single tine of his fork. It was an intimate gesture, and one that might have shocked me had I not already decided to sleep with him—which I did, immediately following dessert and espresso.
    â€œOh, look,” says Michael, “fresh sardines.”
    â€œI’m looking at the spiny lobster with cepes risotto,” says Renata, her nose buried in the menu.
    â€œImagine, pairing the most delicate of shellfish with such a strong fungal flavor,” offers Arthur, wrinkling his nose. “Interesting, if he can pull it off.”