Free Just a Taste by Deirdre Martin Page A

they made a life for themselves, making room for the next wave. It was comforting somehow.
    He climbed the front steps and went to press the buzzer, then hesitated. Maybe just showing up was stupid. What if she wasn’t there? Or worse, what if she was there and wasn’t in the mood for a culinary showdown in the middle of the day? Well, she’d just have to deal with it. God knows she’d ambushed him more than once.
    He shoved the paper into the back pocket of his jeans and rang her buzzer. Nothing. He waited a second or two, and then rang again. Nothing. “Figures,” he muttered to himself, turning away. That’s when Vivi’s disembodied voice crackled over the intercom.
    “Yes, who is it, please?”
    “The best chef in Bensonhurst.” Anthony heard her laugh. “I have a dessert here that’s going to make you cry uncle.”
    “Uncle?” Vivi replied, puzzled.
    “It’s an expression. Never mind. You going to let me up or what?”
    “Of course. You and your uncle can come right up.”
    He walked the four flights of stairs to her apartment. Vivi was waiting for him in the open doorway, her slim body swathed in a short, brightly patterned silk kimono. Her damp hair was pinned up, her flushed face amused. Uncomfortable, Anthony looked away.
    “I’m sorry. Did I drag you out of the shower?” he asked, wishing he had called ahead. This felt awkward, with her standing here in her robe.
    “Bath.”
    Anthony tried to remember the last time he had had a bath. It had to be when he and Mikey were little kids. Their mother would throw them into a tub together, killing two birds with one stone. He could still remember her vigorously cleaning his ears with a washcloth, the way she impatiently manhandled the two of them. As soon as they were old enough, they started taking showers.
    “Don’t you have a shower?” Anthony asked as she ushered him inside.
    “I do,” said Vivi, motioning for him to sit down on the plump couch, “but I prefer to take baths when I can. They’re much more relaxing.”
    “Understandable.” Anthony knew if he took a bath on a Sunday morning, he’d wind up becoming so relaxed he’d crawl back into bed and sleep. Vivi sat down beside him, the faint hint of floral scent wafting from her body.
    “What have we here?” she asked, tapping the top of the container.
    “Ricotta fritters. Freshly made less than an hour ago.” Anthony shook the small paper bag in his hand. “I brought honey, too. You have to drizzle them in honey.”
    “Interesting.” Vivi glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “I’d offer you some coffee, but since you seem unable to appreciate a decently made cup of French roast, I don’t see the point.”
    As a matter of fact, Anthony was dying for a cup of coffee. “I think I can manage to gag down a cup, as long as I can douse it in milk and plenty of sugar.”
    Vivi batted her eyelashes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a cow’s ass?” she asked sweetly.
    “Besides you? No. And the expression is ‘a horse’s ass,’ by the way.”
    “Well, excuse moi .” She rose. “I won’t be a moment.”
    Vivi disappeared, giving Anthony a chance to check out her apartment. It was small and relatively spartan: a couch, a coffee table piled high with cookbooks, a small bistro table for two pushed up against a far window. But there were lots of plants, which gave it a homey feel—a feel his home used to have, before he let all the plants wither and die. He couldn’t be bothered after Ang died.
    Curious, he picked up a small black binder from the nearest pile of cookbooks and flicked it open. It contained page after page of handwritten recipes, some relatively new, some old and faded. Anthony knew from experience that those pages on the verge of tatters, covered in unidentifiable food stains, were her favorites. He didn’t know much French, but he did know that beurre meant “butter,” and that a helluva lot of the recipes in this book called for a helluva lot of