Just a Taste Read Free

was just running from her failed love affair, but Vivi knew better. Natalie wasn’t running from, but toward. Both sisters wanted to reinvent themselves. What better place to do that than New York?
    Still pensive, Natalie moved to look out the large front window, the one Vivi could picture with her own name stenciled across it in white script. Natalie’s gaze remained critical as she peered up and down the street. “Not the most—how shall we say?—upscale area.”
    Vivi bristled. “That’s the point.”
    “It’s very bourgeois,” Natalie continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Very American bourgeois,” she concluded with a small sniff.
    “What’s wrong with that?” Vivi said. The disdain many of her fellow French had for America puzzled her. She loved the place! Her aunt Solange had moved to New York when Vivi was a child, and every other summer, Vivi and her mother came to visit. America always left her dizzied—not only by the sheer scale of the place, but the energy, the inventiveness. Some of her countrymen saw Americans as crude, but not Vivi. She found them spirited and comfortable in their own skins; a people willing to take risks and dream big. This was exactly the place she—and Natalie—needed to be.
    Natalie sighed. “I suppose if we fail, it’s better to fail here than in Manhattan.”
    “We’re not going to fail.”
    Natalie eyed her with measured affection. “I’m amazed by your—what’s the American expression?—pluck.”
    “You know what a great cook I am, Natalie. And you know how thoroughly I did my research.”
    “Just because this place is filled with ‘average’ people doesn’t mean they’ll want your food.” She pointed out the window to the large, red brick restaurant across the street called Dante’s Ristorante. “ That’s what they want: spaghetti, big fat meatballs…bah.” She turned away in disgust.
    “They’ll want what I make, too,” Vivi insisted stubbornly. “And if they don’t, then the food will be good enough to draw people from Manhattan. I’m not worried. People want good, home-cooked food at reasonable prices. They want to sit down and relax over a simple, hearty meal at the end of the day.”
    “I hope you’re right.”
    “I am.”
    Natalie studied her nails. “I still don’t see why you insisted on renting an apartment here rather than in Manhattan with me.”
    “I want to live where I work, Natalie,” said Vivi, tired of having to explain again. “I want to know the names and faces of my neighbors and future customers, and I want them to know me. Besides, getting into the city won’t be a problem. I’ll just hop on the Metro.”
    “Subway,” Natalie corrected. “And it’s filthy, by the way.” She shuddered. “Degoutante.”
    “What are you saying?” Vivi teased. “That you’re only going to travel by cab? Or hire a limo, perhaps?”
    “Now there’s an idea…”
    Vivi furrowed her brows, worried that Natalie might be serious. Natalie caught her expression and chuckled.
    “Don’t worry. You concentrate on getting this place up and running, and making Vivi’s the best it can be. I’ll worry about the dollars and cents.”
    “If you say so.”
    Vivi took another tour of the space. The sweet smell of candy still lingered, bringing back pleasant memories of childhood. She’d been a happy little girl, never more so than when maman let her help out in the kitchen. Even as a small child, standing on a step stool beside the old gas stove, stirring potato soup under her mother’s watchful eye, she knew she was destined to be a chef. Some people likened the clang of pots and pans to a headache, but not Vivi. To her, it was like church bells pealing in her ears, reminding her of her calling.
    “Quick!” Natalie called from the window. “Come look!”
    Vivi hustled to join her. Together they watched as a broadly built, dark haired, handsome man unlocked the door of the restaurant across the street, slipping inside.
    “The