Aftertaste by Meredith Mileti Page B

He sounds doubtful.
    The subject of our dinner conversation is the demise of the American restaurant, a not-quite-open forum conducted in sotto voce by Arthur, who has emerged from his research on culinary history finding America’s traditions wanting.
    â€œThere simply are no traditions. Everything has been imported. There’s nothing originally American, except perhaps corn.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Not even the hamburger can we claim as our own!” he says with a sneer, as if anyone would want to.
    When no one picks up the gauntlet Arthur has so conspicuously thrown, he continues unabashed. “Why then,” he says, suddenly turning to me and folding his arms across his chest, “did your mother study in France? Why did you study in Italy? Which I presume you did because you know as well as I do that no culinary education is considered complete without an international apprenticeship.” His voice is smug, his mouth curled in a half smile.
    â€œWait a minute,” I say, feeling suddenly compelled to defend American culinary tradition (not to mention my own expensive and, in my opinion, extremely comprehensive education at the Culinary Institute of America). “I studied in Italy because I cook Italian food. My mother studied in France because in the late 1960s there was no other option. But that certainly doesn’t mean that there isn’t a rich and varied culinary tradition in America today. Stop at a roadside barbeque in Texas, eat a lobster roll in Bangor, Maine, order a fried egg on your Primanti sandwich in Pittsburgh, for heaven’s sake!” I look over at Michael, who is humming the national anthem, his right hand on his heart, his left raised in mock salute. The moment dissolves into laughter, all of us, except perhaps Arthur, slightly embarrassed to have taken ourselves so seriously.
    Arthur, I’m uncharitably pleased to note, is sporting a stray kernel of cepes risotto on his Fendi tie. Despite expressing his initial doubts about the dish, he ended up ordering it, anyway, and then—suspicions confirmed—was loath to share all but the tiniest taste.
    We are all so full by dessert that we only order two, a tarte tatin and a cheese and fruit plate. When Arthur makes as if to summon the sommelier, Renata wrestles his arm to the table.
    â€œArthur, if you order another bottle of wine, I will fall into my cheese.”
    â€œYes, she gets sloppy when she’s drunk, to that I will attest,” says Michael, a small belch escaping him.
    â€œAre you sure? A small digestif, Michael, might be just the ticket.”
    I’m feeling slightly woozy myself, which I attribute to the wine, the rich food, and the lateness of the hour. I wonder fleetingly if Arthur Cole could be trying to get me drunk. His perfectly manicured hand is now lying mere inches from my own, his fingers slightly greasy from the shellfish. For some reason, I find this small and insignificant departure from perfection endearing. For several moments I can’t stop thinking about his hands, which I imagine on my body. Not that I want them to be—in fact, I’m quite sure I don’t. I look over at Renata, who has taken Michael’s hand and is softly running her fingers across his knuckles. This gets me thinking about Michael’s hands, which disturbs me even further. What’s the matter with me? I must be drunk.
    Arthur doesn’t join us on the way home. He lives on the Upper East Side (where else?), and we are headed to the Village. Outside the restaurant he shakes my hand. “Lovely meal. Lovely,” he says, planting a disinterested peck on my cheek. And then he’s gone.
    In the cab on the way home, Renata lays her head on Michael’s shoulder and within seconds begins to snore. “You want to know the worst thing about foodies?” Michael asks, resting his head on the back of the cab and yawning. “I mean the diehards like Arthur