waiter poured them each flutes of the house Champagne and another one brought over amuse-bouches that looked like tiny ice-cream cones wrapped in little white napkins on a small silver tray. They were hard tuiles filled with salmon tartare and red onion crème fraîche, buttery and savory and amazing.
“Oh my God, Rick,” she said, eyes widening.
He smiled. “My
bouche
is definitely amused.”
As soon as they were finished, a couple of people materialized at their sides to take the napkins from their hands. They each ordered the chef’s tasting menu—
champignons à la grecque
, butternut squash “porridge,” Wagyu beef tartare, quail
pressé en croûte,
halibut confit, and so on. Earlier that day, Rick had phoned the restaurant to make sure they still had the appetizer they were famous for, an outrageously extravagant concoction called beggar’s purses: crepes stuffed with beluga caviar, tied up with chives as purse strings, and topped with real gold leaf. He’d read about them in one of the many pieces
Back Bay
had done on Madrigal. They did still have them, he was assured. He put in a request to have an order of each of them presented before the entrée. A special surprise. “Oh, and can you use osetra instead of beluga?” he’d said.
“Certainly, sir,” he was told.
Rick scanned the wine list, as thick as a Tom Clancy novel. “We’d like the 1990 La Tâche,” he finally said.
“
Excellent
choice, sir,” the man replied, and he patted Rick’s shoulder. With a wink, he said, “I think you’ll be extremely pleased with the La Tâche.”
When the waiter had left, Andrea said, “Hold on, did you just order the DRC?” She was using insider shorthand for Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, the wine producer in Burgundy generally considered one of the very finest in the world. Also one of the most expensive. The only reason Rick knew about DRC was a piece he’d written about a Boston hedge fund manager’s wine grotto at his McMansion in Weston. He’d never actually tasted the stuff. The fact that Andrea was on such intimate terms with DRC that she used its nickname, its initials, though—that was disorienting. This was the same Andrea Messina who, when last he knew her, didn’t know how to use a corkscrew.
We all grow up,
he thought. Even high school girlfriends. Maybe especially high school girlfriends.
He nodded.
“Seriously?”
“Hey, you only live once.”
“That’s like . . . four thousand dollars!”
He shrugged. Like it was nothing. A pittance, a bagatelle. He felt more than a little uncomfortable about it.
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Did you just rob a bank? Or does journalism pay better than I thought?”
“And they say print is dead,” Rick said, smiling.
“I hope this is on
Back Bay
magazine’s expense account. Oh, wait, you said you moved on. Who are you working for now?”
“I’ve got a number of things going on,” he said vaguely. “Online start-ups and so forth.” The less said about his employment situation, the better.
There was a gleam in her eye. “What kind of start-up?”
Rick shook his head, as if it was just too boring to explain. He didn’t want to lie to her, nor dig himself in deeper.
“Nineteen ninety La Tâche.” She nodded appreciatively. “So . . . let’s see . . . the grape crushers were getting jiggy to M. C. Hammer’s ‘U Can’t Touch This,’ I’m thinking.”
He laughed. “How was Evan’s birthday party?”
“It was nice. It was sweet. Loud. Nine seven- and eight-year-old boys.”
“His dad . . . is he in the picture?”
“Vance lives in New York, so not much. Luckily.”
“Vance. Hmm. Didn’t end well?” She was divorced, he reminded himself; of course it didn’t end well.
“We were oil and water. Chalk and cheese, as the Brits say.”
“Goldman Sachs guy?”
She shook her head, clearly uninterested in talking about her ex. “We met at Wharton.”
So she’d gone to business school before
“Oh my God, Rick,” she said, eyes widening.
He smiled. “My
bouche
is definitely amused.”
As soon as they were finished, a couple of people materialized at their sides to take the napkins from their hands. They each ordered the chef’s tasting menu—
champignons à la grecque
, butternut squash “porridge,” Wagyu beef tartare, quail
pressé en croûte,
halibut confit, and so on. Earlier that day, Rick had phoned the restaurant to make sure they still had the appetizer they were famous for, an outrageously extravagant concoction called beggar’s purses: crepes stuffed with beluga caviar, tied up with chives as purse strings, and topped with real gold leaf. He’d read about them in one of the many pieces
Back Bay
had done on Madrigal. They did still have them, he was assured. He put in a request to have an order of each of them presented before the entrée. A special surprise. “Oh, and can you use osetra instead of beluga?” he’d said.
“Certainly, sir,” he was told.
Rick scanned the wine list, as thick as a Tom Clancy novel. “We’d like the 1990 La Tâche,” he finally said.
“
Excellent
choice, sir,” the man replied, and he patted Rick’s shoulder. With a wink, he said, “I think you’ll be extremely pleased with the La Tâche.”
When the waiter had left, Andrea said, “Hold on, did you just order the DRC?” She was using insider shorthand for Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, the wine producer in Burgundy generally considered one of the very finest in the world. Also one of the most expensive. The only reason Rick knew about DRC was a piece he’d written about a Boston hedge fund manager’s wine grotto at his McMansion in Weston. He’d never actually tasted the stuff. The fact that Andrea was on such intimate terms with DRC that she used its nickname, its initials, though—that was disorienting. This was the same Andrea Messina who, when last he knew her, didn’t know how to use a corkscrew.
We all grow up,
he thought. Even high school girlfriends. Maybe especially high school girlfriends.
He nodded.
“Seriously?”
“Hey, you only live once.”
“That’s like . . . four thousand dollars!”
He shrugged. Like it was nothing. A pittance, a bagatelle. He felt more than a little uncomfortable about it.
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Did you just rob a bank? Or does journalism pay better than I thought?”
“And they say print is dead,” Rick said, smiling.
“I hope this is on
Back Bay
magazine’s expense account. Oh, wait, you said you moved on. Who are you working for now?”
“I’ve got a number of things going on,” he said vaguely. “Online start-ups and so forth.” The less said about his employment situation, the better.
There was a gleam in her eye. “What kind of start-up?”
Rick shook his head, as if it was just too boring to explain. He didn’t want to lie to her, nor dig himself in deeper.
“Nineteen ninety La Tâche.” She nodded appreciatively. “So . . . let’s see . . . the grape crushers were getting jiggy to M. C. Hammer’s ‘U Can’t Touch This,’ I’m thinking.”
He laughed. “How was Evan’s birthday party?”
“It was nice. It was sweet. Loud. Nine seven- and eight-year-old boys.”
“His dad . . . is he in the picture?”
“Vance lives in New York, so not much. Luckily.”
“Vance. Hmm. Didn’t end well?” She was divorced, he reminded himself; of course it didn’t end well.
“We were oil and water. Chalk and cheese, as the Brits say.”
“Goldman Sachs guy?”
She shook her head, clearly uninterested in talking about her ex. “We met at Wharton.”
So she’d gone to business school before
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