Reinhart's Women Read Free

were, in front of the Mexican packaged foods—that’s where we met, in the supermarket, as I mentioned earlier. She turned to me, in that cardigan and those sensible shoes. ‘Say,’ she said, ‘do you really buy any of this stuff?’ She asked it so aggressively that I thought she might be hostile to it herself. ‘Not much,’ says I. ‘I don’t cook in any Hispanic cuisine, though mind you I’ve nothing against any. I’ve eaten a taco or two in my time, and once, in that Mexican restaurant in the Wulsin Building downtown, I ate a chicken mole, which was fascinating with its peppery chocolate sauce, but—’
    “‘I am really interested only in the Pancho Villa line,’ she said, and she pointed at the cans bearing that label, which carry a picture of a Mexican bandit or general, Villa himself I suppose, with crossed bandoleers and a saber and two guns. ‘I’m one of the guys who distribute that,’ she said, ‘and what I’m listening for is public reaction. The opinion-testers are more scientific, but I like to get the street-reaction on my own. Now, you look like a normal member of the public. Do you think this picture of a bloodthirsty-looking greaser would encourage you to buy, uh’—she chose a can at random and read the label—‘uh, refried beans?’
    “That’s Grace’s style, I’m afraid,” said Reinhart. “She’ll never get the mealymouthed award.” He laughed heartily, though in truth he found that quality the least of Grace’s attractions. “It turned out that she was an executive with this food-distributing firm, a vice-president no less. When she found out I did the cooking at my house she wouldn’t let me go until I had given her a complete rundown on my choices of brands, the types of food I buy, the type of meal my family prefers, and the rest of it.” Reinhart gestured with his wooden spoon. “And that would have been that, I’m sure, had I not mentioned that I had a daughter who happened to be the foremost model in town.”
    Winona blushed. “Oh, Dad, come on.”
    Reinhart chuckled happily. “No, I’m afraid I was just a statistic until then. But I didn’t mind, dear. I like nothing better than bragging about you. Well, as I told you, that’s how it began. That was just two days back. We found ourselves having lunch in that restaurant in the shopping center that used to be Gino’s.” Reinhart winced at a series of unpleasant memories under the old management. “It’s a better place now, with a more expansive though somewhat hokey menu sometimes: pineapple with baked fish, and ginger with anything. Grace had the New York steak, hold the potato, and helped herself only modestly at the salad bar. I ordered the escalope de veau —we don’t have it here very often because the price of veal is really insane”—not to mention that Winona wouldn’t eat it—“and when the orders arrived, the waiter needless to say put the cutlets in front of her. ...They were by the way more Wiener schnitzel than escalopes, breaded, for gosh sakes, but not badly, with grated Gruyère and what tasted like a little real Parmesan in the breading...”
    Winona was wearing a sweetly bored look by now.
    “Anyway, we also had a drink before eating: I had the vermouth cassis, and Grace, the Jim Beam and water, and the bartender remembered which was which and kidded us about it. Grace is not so big, you know, in body.”
    At that point the doorbell sounded. Winona gasped and scampered back to her room. Reinhart had never seen her in such consternation over a visitor: she was not above greeting a gentleman caller in an old wrapper and curlers—in which, needless to say, she still enchanted him.
    Reinhart opened the door. This was but the third time he had seen Grace and the first occasion on which he might have called her almost pretty. Something had been done to her hair, and her eyes had been skillfully made up. Though she was wearing a suit, as she had on their second meeting, a dinner