Espresso Shot

Perry did. Sophisticated diners expect the freshest and finest when they hand over Benjamins for what’s supposed to be gourmet cuisine, not garbage that’s past its prime. It’s a violation of trust. And it gets worse.”

“What could be worse than serving expired product?”

“Tip pooling.”

“No.”

Tip pooling was frowned upon in the restaurant biz. Typically a waiter kept all of his or her own tips. In a restaurant that pooled, the waitstaff was forced to place all gratuities into a common kitty to be divided at the end of the day.

“It stinks,” I said, “but technically it’s not illegal.”

“You’re correct. It’s not, as long as the owner doesn’t take a cut. But Chef Perry did take a cut. A big one.”

“Wow. The man really is an idiot.”

“The whole matter ended up before a Department of Labor arbitration board.” Roman shook his head. “It was a moot point by then. The New York City Health Department had already shut down his restaurant for a slew of violations, all stemming from Breanne’s expose, which embarrassed the heck out of them. The place never reopened.”

“Chef Perry was the owner, wasn’t he? Between the start-up costs and the annual lease, he must have lost a fortune.”

“Actually, it was his mother who lost the fortune. But Mrs. Perry is the queen of downtown real estate, so she can afford it. Anyway, she’s the one who got him the prime location for his restaurant, and her networking is what got her son on a network in the first place.”

“Real estate and reality television? I don’t get the connection.”

“You would if you were an up-and-coming producer for one of the big four, and you wanted a particular loft in a particularly hot building in Soho, along with some prime space to tape your shows. Mrs. Perry delivered on both, bartering the reality TV deal for her son in the process.”

“I see. So Perry’s mother was the key to his success?”

“Oh, yes.” Roman’s head bobbed like a bird at a fountain. “Mommy’s lawyers helped him squirm out of trouble with the arbitration board, too, when those poor, unemployed waiters tried to recoup their losses. All the spoiled brat got for his questionable business practices and culinary transgressions was a bruised ego.”

“What a creep.” I was beginning to see Breanne in a whole new light-as a crusading journalist. It didn’t make me like the woman any more, but it did help me dislike her a little less. “So the young chef is blaming Breanne for his restaurant’s collapse, even though he was the architect of it?”

“Those blogs of his are adolescent. That should give you your first clue to the man himself.”

I sat back in my plastic orange seat, thinking that over, and smiled. Now I had more than enough info to ambush the little twerp. It gave me a thrill, I had to admit. Not that this was fun and games-I hadn’t forgotten about that poor girl from West Virginia, lying in a cold morgue drawer-but at least my weariness was cured. Now I could hardly wait to confront Chef Perry.

I peered through the Plexiglas windows, trying to make out landmarks, to determine how close we were to our stop. At the moment we were passing over the huge expanse of Flushing Meadows Park. Against the purple twilight sky, the dark sprawl of budding trees was interrupted by the brilliant illumination of the Mets baseball stadium. I pointed it out to Roman.

“Looks like there’s a night game.”

Across from the enormous baseball stadium was a cluster of much smaller stadiums. None of their lights were burning. The train shuddered to a stop just then, and the conductor garbled something over the speaker about delays ahead. I shuddered myself, finally realizing what those little, dark stadiums were.

Roman must have seen the expression on my face, because he asked if anything was wrong.

“Just a bad memory.”

“Do tell?”

“Not much to tell, really.”

“Oh, come on. We’re stuck here anyway.”

I pointed out the window again. “You see that shadowy complex over there?”

Roman nodded.

“That’s the Billy Jean King Tennis Center. Back when I was still married to Matt, he took Joy and me to the U.S. Open. I think she was seven or eight at that time.”

“Sounds like a happy memory so far.”

“It gets unhappy fast. After we settled into our seats, Matt went off to buy a cold drink, and he never came back.”

“What?”

“There was a British couple with us, friends of his mother’s that he’d invited along. They wondered aloud if we should look for him, but I told them not to bother. An hour turned into two, and Matt never returned.”

“My God, did you contact the police?”

“That’s what the Brits suggested, but I explained that my husband had done this a few times before, and I knew from experience that I had to wait forty-eight hours to file a missing persons report. I went home with Joy alone. Thirty-six hours later, Matt showed up at the Blend.”

Roman blinked. “Why didn’t you call him?”

I almost laughed. “This was long before cell phones.”

“So where was he?”

“He’d run into ‘a friend’ at the concession stand, and the two of them took off on a cocaine-fueled bender.” I met Roman’s eyes. “I suspected the ‘friend’ was female, but he never admitted it.”

Roman shook his head. “So what did you do?”

“I divorced him-eventually. It took a few more years.”

“Good heavens, why?”

“Because even though Matt acted like a grade-A jerk during our marriage, most of the time he’d been supportive and caring, a passionate lover, and a besotted father; he loved Joy more than anything. But finally, I got tired of forgiving the eternal boy crap and found the strength to leave.” I gestured to the lighted baseball stadium. “ ‘The great beginning had seen a final inning,’ you know?”

Roman smiled. “Who can argue with an Ira Gershwin lyric? ‘The Man That Got Away,’ right?”

I laughed. “You’re the one who said I reminded you of Garland in A Star Is Born.”

“It’s the outfit, sweetie. Retro-adorable. So what happened to you and Matt after that?”

“I moved to Jersey, and he hit bottom. He went into rehab, straightened out, relapsed, straightened out again.” I touched Roman’s arm. “Don’t get the wrong idea, okay? Matt’s worked hard since then to turn his life around, and I honestly think he’s going to be fine. He has no interest in becoming an addict again.”

“I understand.” Roman folded his hands over his belly. “But, you know, Clare, there’s something else on my mind, now that you’ve brought up your marriage to Matt.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s clear that you and he are still close-two snow peas in a tenderly steamed pod, if you will. When I see you two together, it’s as if your marriage never ended.”

“It ended, Roman, trust me on that.”

“So the last inning’s played then? The game’s over? There’s nothing between you?”

Roman’s phrasing made me shift on my plastic seat. Nothing between me and Matt? That wasn’t true. There was a living, breathing daughter between us; a vital coffee business; an important family relationship with his mother; a long-standing friendship; and the residual affection that didn’t just evaporate after years of sharing a life. But that answer was far too nuanced for what Roman wanted to hear. So I adjusted the $300 skirt that Breanne was nice enough to buy me and cleared my throat.

“There’s no chance of our marrying again,” I said firmly. “And Matt wants to move on with his life, you understand?”

“Yes. But, sweetie, here’s the million dollar question: Do you?”

“Yes, of course. I have only one reservation about Matt getting married again.”

Roman sat up a little straighter. “Do tell.”

“Matt strayed during his ten-year marriage to me. And he led a pretty wild life in the decade after we parted. If he starts to feel restless, he may stray on Breanne, too. Does she understand that possibility is more likely than not?”

Roman actually laughed. “Breanne’s no fool. Matt’s been a playboy for years, and she’s ready to endure his extracurricular activities. Unlike you, Clare, Breanne understands that there are at least as many types of marriages in the world as cultural cuisines.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning…” He shrugged. “Not everyone believes one should marry for love.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And what do you believe?”

The Puckish smile returned. “ ‘What fools these mortals be… ’ ”

“Excuse me?”

“Lovers deceive and are deceived, Clare. It’s been that way for centuries. Look at you and Matt. You imagined your love to be firm and constant, but it wasn’t. He strayed, and you lost faith in him.”

Oh, God. “I never really thought of it that way.”

“Injured parties never do. They’ve been injured, after all. But your ex-husband still wants you back, doesn’t he?”

I sat motionless for a moment. It was true: Matt did want me back. The man’s taxicab confession outside of Fen’s had implied exactly that. But I didn’t like the way Roman asked the question, and I hadn’t forgotten bridezilla’s fitting room fit. Breanne specifically ordered Roman to find out whether or not I wanted Matt back.

Well, the food critic was a good interrogator, I had to give him that. But I was no slouch, either, so I simply replied, “Matt and I are over. He knows it as well as I do. That’s why he proposed to Breanne in the first place.”