Page 36 of Infidelity Rules

Daily Special

Veal tartare

Cacio e Pepe

Roasted cauliflower with golden raisins and pine-nuts

Oh my. Chef has put together another of my favorite menus.

I know I’ll be spending much of my time this evening explaining cacio e pepe to guests, but I don’t care.

As long as Chef saves me some. I’ll happily endure his hairy eyeball for a plate of this pasta — bucatini, tons of toasted black pepper, even more tons of grated Pecorino Romano, all doused with olive oil so delicious you could drink it on its own.

It’s simple but, when done well, it’s lick-the-plate perfection.

When I make it at home, I have to stick to tiny portions, otherwise I’ll down an entire pound of pasta in one sitting. I know because I’ve done it.

And yes, cacio e pepe is most definitely a part of my death row meal plan.

“I might curl up and die if you don’t save me a plate,” I say to Chef as I rush past the kitchen and to the wine cellar, trying to avoid close contact. He’s distracted and busy with cheffy things so I am in luck, for now at least.

I choose both a red and a white for my wine pairings. A white vermentino for those who want to cool the warmth of the black pepper and a Chianti Classico to help cut the richness of the cheese. Either would be delicious, so it really depends on the diner’s mood and wine preferences.

I need to reign in my cacio e pepe enthusiasm as the special is flying out of the kitchen faster than I can pour wine. If I don’t stop gushing about it, I fear there won’t even be a forkful left for me.

Chef waves me into the kitchen.

Uh oh.

“God forbid you curl up and die,” he says, handing me a warm plate of pasta. “Not in my kitchen.”

I smile.

“Eat,” he points. “While it’s still perfect.”

Who am I to argue with that?

I’m grateful for the delightfully toothsome bucatini AND for the fact that Chef is currently not in my face about Barnyard Funk. I realize I need to address the situation, but right now, I need to eat.

Twirl, eat, sigh with pleasure. Repeat.

.....

I manage to avoid Chef the rest of the night. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold him off. Chef is many, many things, but patient is not one of them.

I sneak a bit of the bucatini into a coffee mug to bring to Julian. Not that Chef would mind, necessarily, but he does have odd proclivities and the last thing I need right now is to further rile him up. So I pile some noodles into a mug and head to the bar.

Julian is doing his Julian thing. I watch him for a moment as he finishes making his final round of drinks, garnishing glasses and expertly eyeballing liquor amounts.

He skewers a black cherry and an orange peel and then sprinkles a different glass with what looks like lime-colored dust. Turns out, it is, in fact, lime dust.

“Making up your own drinks these days?” I ask, smiling at my friend.

“Always,” he says, handing me a specialty cocktail list.

“These are all your creations?” I ask, reading through the list of concoctions.

“More or less,” he says, shrugging.

“J’s Juice?” I laugh, raising an eyebrow at him. “How come I’ve never seen this list before?”

“You prefer classics. You don’t need a list for those.”

“True. But I work here. Providing alcohol, so …”

“This is strictly for the bar-goers.” He winks at me. “It’s where the real fun happens.”

“Is that so? Does Chef know about this hidden little gem of a menu?”

Julian points to a cocktail several items down on the list. He named it “Toque Blanche.”

I shake my head. “You are always full of surprises.”

I peruse the menu and see drink names such as, “Daddy’s Riff” and “Groove Me” and “Naked with Shoes On.”

“What, no Quinn?” I ask, teasing.

“Keep going,” he says.

And there it is. “Q.” The final drink on the list. Champagne, gin, tart cherry juice and a splash of simple syrup.

I smile. “Dare I ask?”

“Well, Champagne was obvious. You dig gin. And, well, you’re a redhead.”

“Now I have to try one.”

“Done,” says Julian, grabbing a coupe glass.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say, passing the mug of pasta to Julian. “You must try this. It was Chef’s special tonight.”

Julian glances at the mug and says, “No thanks, I’ll pass.”

“What do you mean you’ll pass? Do you have any idea what this is?”

He shrugs. “Some sort of spaghetti.”

“Some sorta spaghetti,” I grumble. “Typical dude. Some sorta spaghetti my ass.”

I meticulously explain cacio e pepe to Julian.

“And that,” I say with a little bow, “is why the dish reigns supreme.”

He stares at me as if I’m, well, naked with shoes on.

“You cannot be serious,” he says, laughing. “Are you sure you’re normal?”

“You’re not even going to have a bite?” I ask, ignoring his comment.

“Well, after that lengthy presentation, how can I refuse?”

I peer down into the mug only to find it empty. “Oops,” I say sheepishly. “I think I ate it. While you were making my drink. Which is excellent, by the way.”

Julian starts laughing and I fear he won’t ever stop.

I sip my pink-hued, namesake cocktail, roll my eyes and wait patiently for him to get a grip. “It’s not that funny. Let me see if there’s more in the kitchen.”

“No, please, I’m fine,” Julian says, still chuckling. “Next time, okay? I promise never to refuse you again.”

This makes me smile. I fiddle with his cocktail menu and notice there’s a drink called “Love, Violet.”

“That’s an interesting choice,” I say, pointing to the menu as Julian washes the empty cacio e pepe mug. “What’s it mean?”

Julian dries the mug and looks right at me. “Wishful thinking.”

I’m about to inquire further when he grins at me and points over my shoulder.

“I love it when you have visitors,” he says, smirking.

Oh no, I think. Oh no, no, no. I don’t even want to turn around and find out.

“Who is it?” I ask. “Man? Woman?”

“Both, actually. This looks like it could be fun.”

I spin around, not sure who to expect. If it’s Alex and Fantasia I might faint. Nope, it’s Elliot and his sister, Emma.

Oh boy.

I haven’t seen Emma since “Cake Night,” which was several months ago now. She looks exactly the same — medium height, medium straight brown hair, pale golden eyes and perfect, peachy skin — except this time she’s not tottering about, drunk.

Elliot I’ve seen a few times in passing with Dezi.

He hasn’t spoken more than a couple of words to me since “Cake Night.” One of which was the word “no” when I inquired about ordering cheese for our dessert cart at Persimmon.

But he recently allowed me to apologize, which is new, so I think we’re moving in the right direction.

“Hi Quinn. I was hoping to catch you,” says Elliot.

“What can I do for you, Elliot?” I ask with a tentative smile. I nod at Emma and say, “It’s good to see you.”

Emma’s peachy cheeks turn sunset orange. She touches my arm and says, “I am so sorry about that night. I was upset. And drunk. And now I am so embarrassed.”

“No need to apologize at all,” I say. “Really, I’m the one who needs to apologize. To both of you.” I turn to face Elliot. “Elliot, again, I’m sorry for causing a scene at your dinner party. Emma, it’s okay. I know you were hurt and just protecting your friend.”

I gesture to them both to sit as Julian approaches to see if they’d like anything to drink.

Elliot asks for a gin and tonic and then swivels his stool toward me. Emma, interestingly, points to the “Love, Violet” cocktail.

“Look Quinn, it’s no secret I’m not thrilled with your choices. And I don’t get it. But we both love Dezi,” he says. “I just want to move forward as best we can. For her sake if nothing else.”

Oh thank god, I think.

“Is that why you came all the way down here?” I ask, mentally keeping my fingers crossed that maybe, just maybe, I can also get back into his Barnyard Funk good graces.

“Well, yes, but I also have a favor to ask,” he says, glancing at Emma. “We have a favor to ask.”

“Yes. Anything,” I say. “Anything at all.”

“Emma wants to sign up for your, um, you know ... your lessons.”