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“I have to apologize for Saturday night,” I say. Apologies are always difficult for me, though I’m not entirely sure why. “I got a bit freaked out,” I admit, staring at his sexy five o’clock shadow.
He takes a sip. “That’s really good.”
I do the same. “I can’t take credit for the measurements. But thanks.”
“You don’t have to apologize. This whole thing is . . . unique. There’s no rule book.”
I grab a stool and sit on it, thankful for the bar between us. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure I would do something really stupid. Like forget that this whole thing is a game. That Tris is here, presumably, for some good PR.
“I still could have been more gracious. You must be thrilled to be nominated.”
Code formaybe I shouldn’t have clammed up and stomped my feet for twenty-four hours at the possibility of a little healthy competition.
“It’s a surprise.” He takes another sip of the drink. “This week will be busy for sure.”
And yet, he doesn’t seem to be jumping up and down.
“You do realize, with a certified nomination, that will open other doors?”
“Such as?”
Is he serious?
“Other awards. Nearly all of the James Beard Outstanding Restaurants that are Italian restaurants have won a Cucina Award.”
Still, he’s clearly not impressed.
“You’re kidding me right now.” I jump up from the stool and put the drink down. “Winning a Cucina puts you in the same category as Cappriccio.”
A blank stare.
Oh. My God.
“You don’t know Cappriccio?” My hands flail, but I can’t help it. “It’s only one of the most famous of all Italian restaurants in the world, right here in New York City. A two-Michelin-star restaurant.”
I stop.
“You don’t care,” I accuse.
“No,” he says shamelessly. “Not really.”
I’m going to hyperventilate.
Leaning onto the bar, head in my hands a bit more dramatically than is probably necessary, I take a deep breath. He doesn’t even care that he’s nominated.
Tris leans over, and for a second, I think he’s going to touch me. Instead, he grabs the base of my glass and slides it toward me. “Here, I think you need this.”
I peek up from between my fingers. Tris, clearly amused, waits for my dramatic display to end.
“I just can’t.” Grabbing the drink and taking a sip, I think of all the reasons getting a Cucina Award could be good for business but realize he must know all of this already.
It’s just . . . not as important to him.
“The thing is,” Tris says as I sit back on my stool, drink in hand, “I don’t have a fancy culinary education like you do. The vibe here”—he waves his hand—“is completely different. It looks great, better than ever, but definitely fancier than DeLuca’s, especially now. People don’t order negronis or paccheri at my place. They order Pinot Grigio and veal parm. Anything that can get us good press, I’m all for it. But awards aren’t really my thing.”
And now I feel like some kind of restaurant snob.
“First of all, my fancy education,” I say with maybe a little more edge than I intended, “has nothing to do with my wanting a Cucina Award.”
