Free Just a Taste by Deirdre Martin Page B

beurre . Simple food my ass, he thought, recalling the conversation he and Vivi had that day in the candy store. French food thrived on butter; there were no two ways around it. If Vivi wanted to claim French cooking wasn’t rich, that was her delusion.
    “I see you’ve found my little black book,” Vivi called out as she walked back into the living room, bamboo tray in hand upon which sat two coffee cups, a milk creamer, a sugar bowl, plates, and forks.
    Anthony closed the binder. “Some of the recipes look pretty old.”
    “A lot of them were my grandmother’s,” Vivi said fondly.
    “I have a book like that, too, full of recipes passed down from my grandparents. There are even a few from my great-grandparents in the old country,” Anthony revealed, taking the liberty of clearing away some of the cookbooks to make space on the coffee table for the tray.
    “It’s good to keep tradition alive, don’t you think?” Vivi sat down beside him. “Please, help yourself to some of my awful coffee.”
    Vivi’s robe was tied loosely, and as she leaned forward to prepare a cup of coffee for herself, Anthony caught a fleeting glimpse of the top of one of her breasts. Flushed with embarrassment, he averted his eyes, waiting until she had leaned back before grabbing a coffee cup for himself. “So, where’s your sister?”
    “In the city.”
    “She doesn’t live here with you?” Anthony asked, hoping she didn’t notice him loading his small cup with five lumps of sugar.
    Vivi erupted into peals of laughter. “Natalie wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this. It’s too shabby.”
    “It’s not shabby. It’s just a little spartan right now, that’s all.”
    Vivi gave a small nod of approval. “I like your attitude.”
    “As long as the kitchen’s up to snuff, that’s all that matters.”
    “Exactly. The kitchen here is small, but the stove is gas. Electric is horrible, no?”
    “The worst.”
    “I actually chose this apartment precisely because of that,” Vivi continued. “Imagine, trying to cook on an electric stove!”
    “It’s insane!” Anthony agreed.
    Vivi’s expression turned thoughtful. “When did you know?” she asked.
    “What, that I wanted to be a chef?”
    Vivi nodded.
    “Always. From the time I watched my mother cooking.”
    “Me, too. The smells, the tastes…” She put her hand over her heart and sighed. “It was like heaven.”
    “A calling.”
    Vivi’s eyes flashed with recognition. “Exactly! It’s so nice to talk to someone who understands.”
    Anthony’s eyes held Vivi’s for a long moment before they both looked away. Anthony reached for the creamer, pleasantly surprised to find it indeed filled with cream, not the skim milk Ang used to insist he have in his coffee. So much for watching his waistline, he thought as he poured a smidgen into his coffee. He held his breath and took a sip. It was drinkable—just.
    “You’re not choking,” Vivi observed wryly. “Perhaps you’ve seen the error of your ways.”
    “Let’s not jump the gun here.” He took another sip.
    Vivi raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
    “Still awful,” Anthony said cheerfully.
    Vivi sighed. “You’re very predictable.”
    “Is that a bad thing?”
    “It depends.”
    “We’ll see how predictable I am. Break out the fritters.”
    Vivi opened the container, dishing three fritters onto each plate.
    “Tell me they don’t smell delicious,” Anthony challenged, removing the honey he’d brought with him from the paper bag. “Tell me the mere scent of these fried beauties doesn’t make you want to swoon.”
    Vivi passed her plate under her nose. “Lemon peel?”
    “A little.”
    “I thought so.”
    Anthony passed her the small squeeze bottle of honey. “Drizzle them with this.”
    Vivi took the honey and proceeded to drown the fritters rather than drizzle them.
    “You’re doing it wrong,” Anthony pointed out.
    “I believe in seasoning liberally,” was Vivi’s retort.
    Anthony held