She turned and saw Odessa’s smiling face.
“Ciao! I was eating dinner with my boyfriend, and saw you standing here. Would you care to join us? I recall you’re new here, yes?”
“Odessa! It’s such a nice surprise to see you. I don’t want to intrude, though. I just came in for a bowl of minestrone. I had my first cooking class today and I’m exhausted and starving.”
“It wouldn’t be intruding at all. We just sat down ourselves, and I would love to introduce Antonello to you. Please? We always enjoy meeting new people.”
“If you’re sure I wouldn’t be in the way, I would love to join you.”
“It’s settled, then. Come.”
Odessa took Juliette’s arm and led her through the crowded space to where they were seated. She pulled out a chair and waved Juliette in, so she gratefully sat down.
“Juliette, this is mio ragazzo, Antonello.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Juliette said and shook Antonello’s offered hand. She liked his looks. He had longish dark brown hair and heavy eyebrows. He looked like her idea of a stylish journalist and she later learned she wasn’t far off base.
“Thank you for letting me crash tuo appuntamento,” she said, then wondered if “crash” your date meant the same thing in Italian as it did in English. Probably not, she decided, but Antonello laughed and assured her that she was welcome, so she guessed that she hadn’t insulted either of them.
She smiled as she glanced around.
“I love this place already and I haven’t even tried the food yet.”
“It’s actually my favorite restaurant. How did you manage to choose this one of all the restaurants in Lucca?” Odessa asked.
“I walked around to find one that looked good. This one was the most crowded, so I thought, if all of those people want to eat here, it must be good.”
“I never would have thought of that.” Antonello said, as he waved to the waiter to come to their table. “From now on, that’s how we should always choose restaurants,” he said to Odessa.
When the waiter arrived, Odessa and Antonello both broke into such rapid fire Italian that Juliette couldn’t follow what they said. She did hear Odessa say the word “minestrone” with a wave of her hand toward Juliette, so she assumed that her soup had been ordered. She enjoyed watching them together. They seemed completely at ease with each other and on familiar terms with the waiter, who somehow managed to listen to both of them talking to him over each other. They all laughed at something and then the waiter turned to Juliette.
“Vino, Signorina?”
“Si, grazie. Rosso, per favore.”
“Certo.”
He left to get their wine, which gave Odessa time to explain what she had ordered.
“We asked him to bring us a sample of his favorites tonight,” she said. “But don’t worry, I made sure to include a request for minestrone.”
Juliette was happy to be in Odessa and Antonello’s care. She knew instinctively that she was in for a treat, and was happy she hadn’t ended up sitting by herself eating only a bowl of soup.
She wasn’t disappointed. At the end of the evening, Juliette tallied thirteen different little dishes with tastes of this and that. Each one was superb. They had started with cups of minestrone, which was perfect. Next came a few spoonfuls of the most delectable, savory, delicate white beans she could have imagined. She wondered how something so basic could melt on the palate in such a way. The waiter told them the beans were cooked in a clay pot for days with salty ham.
The beans were followed by three morsels of lamb—the meat so succulent it fell off the bone. And then next came breaded eggplant, which had been pounded to a tenderness she’d never imagined could be achieved, followed by diminutive artichokes baked in a wood oven, and on and on. The meal ended with un digestivo and a serving of tiramisu.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so full in my life. And that’s saying a lot for me,” Juliette told them. “But I think that was the best meal I’ve ever had, which is one of the reasons I came to Italy. This is what I want to do.”
“And what were the other reasons you came?” Odessa asked.
“I’m running away a little bit, to be honest,” Juliette admitted.
“Ah, we Italians can understand that. What are you running from? A lover?”
“No, a different kind of heart break actually, but let’s not talk about that,” Juliette gestured to them with her wine glass. “Let’s talk about food and you two. I can’t thank you enough for inviting me to your table.”
“Now you know why it’s our favorite restaurant,” Odessa told her, graciously taking her new friend’s lead to change the subject.
“I’ll order us some coffee,” Antonello said, raising his arm to the waiter.
“None for me, please,” said Juliette. “I don’t know how you Italians can drink such strong coffee and still sleep.”
“It’s in the genes, I guess,” he smiled at her.
“It can’t be that. I’ve got the genes. Well, half of the genes, at least.”
“Well, I guess half isn’t enough. Odessa can do it, too, because the French are as serious as the Italians are about coffee.”
“It’s true,” Odessa agreed. “I guess you just have to build up your tolerance.”
Juliette looked at her watch. She wasn’t surprised to see that it was almost eleven o’clock. The dinner scene in Italy was decidedly later than at home, and she was amazed at even how many children were still awake.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to have coffee,” Juliette said, and reached for her purse to pay her share of the bill, but Antonello waved her off.
“It’s our treat,” he said.
“No, that’s ridiculous. You were wonderful to me tonight and you kept me from being lonely. You don’t have to buy me dinner, too.”
“We insist,” said Odessa. “We were happy to introduce you to our restaurant. You can have us over to dinner sometime—once your class is finished.”
“Ok, but I’ll have you over long before that. In fact, maybe I can practice on you.”
“Bene,” said Antonello, and Odessa nodded.
“Good night then,” said Juliette, and gave them each a kiss on the cheek before putting on her jacket and scarf. She was still smiling as she walked back to her apartment.
“Enchanting,” she said, thinking of the evening, “affascinante.” She loved the Italian language. What a beautiful sound. And she enjoyed listening to her new friends talk to her in a mixture of Italian and melodic English, with their lovely accents. She turned the key in the center set doorknob and entered her temporary home.
Juliette awoke with a muted scream just as the car was hurteling towards them in her dream. Her heart was racing, and she was sweaty and disorientated with the picture of her mom’s frightened face burned into her sleep-hazed mind. When she looked at the clock, she saw that it was just after two a.m. and she knew she wouldn’t be going back to sleep for a while.
She threw off the covers and switched on the light. She padded to the bathroom in bare feet and splashed cold water on her face, realizing she was still a little tipsy from the wine she had at dinner. She sighed and looked at her face. It looked exhausted and older than her thirty years. The skin around her blue eyes looked like crinkled tissue paper to her. Last spring, on Juliette’s twenty-nineth birthday, her friends unanimously commented that she looked younger than her age, but no one would make that mistake now, she thought.
She knew she’d just stare at the ceiling if she tried to go back to sleep, so Juliette picked up the shoebox of letters she’d brought with her and climbed back in bed. The odd thing was that both sides of the correspondence between Nonna and her girlfriend were together in the box, as if someone had carefully organized them chronologically. Juliette slipped the first letter out of the envelope for the second time. She scanned over the first two paragraphs to refresh her memory of where she had left off and then continued. It was yellowed with age,
but the writing was still legible. The formation of the script had a distinct European style to it in spite of the fact that her granddad had lived in the United States for two decades, if not more, before the letter was written.
It was a beautiful letter: full of longing and desire. She stumbled over some of the words, so she grabbed her old, well-worn Italian dictionary to help with them. Forget flawed online translators; Juliette viewed her dictionary as an old friend.
As she submersed herself in the prose, she could visualize the two of them young and her grandfather in love with her beautiful grandmother from afar. She could see her nonna sitting on the low stone wall near their olive orchard and imagining the long future they would have together. Although at that point, Nonna wouldn’t have truly understood the journey they were about to begin.
Juliette wondered if she would have been as brave if the choice to leave her own country forever had been hers. What would have been so dire to cause her to leave home?
When she finished reading, Juliette tucked the letter back into the box. Their love had begun here in Italy, she mused. She was glad she’d come.
She snuggled back under the covers and closed her eyes, hoping for a peaceful sleep, and was relieved to see rows of ripe grapes growing on sun-filled hillsides in her mind’s eye instead of an out-of-control car racing towards them.
It seemed like moments later when she awoke to the blare of her alarm. She was tired, but she knew the excitement of day two of cooking school would get her through. The antiquated espresso maker worked enough for her to eek out a cup and she was on her way.
When she walked into the classroom, she already liked the familiarity of it. She greeted her classmates with a smile and a nod and took a seat, wondering what was in store.
Three hours later the question was well under way to being answered. The subject being taught was how to debone a rabbit. They were learning to make coniglio ripieno di salvia e formaggio/sage and cheese stuffed rabbit. She had always found the act of tearing meat from bone disgusting, and working on the rabbit made her consider becoming a vegetarian. But at least she was learning something new to do with it. She vowed next time to try to be included at the prep station where they were busy chopping herbs and grating cheese, instead of the meat station.
“Come va? How’s it going?” Roman walked around the class, observing progress and answering questions.
Juliette wondered what the Italian word for “yuck” was, but decided to be brave and stick with “Bene” instead.
“Good technique,” he said, nodding to her rabbit. “You have deboned rabbit before?”
“Grazie, and si, I went to the Culinary Institute of America.”
“Ah,” he said, with a tone of respect. “In New York or California?”
“California. That’s where I’m from.”
“Bene,” he said. “You learned good technique there.” She felt a sudden sense of triumph.
The coniglio ripieno was consumed as the finale of the day. The students sat on stools surrounding one of the islands and purposefully swirled the pinot noir that they’d poured into their respective glasses to accompany the rabbit. They discussed the merits of the meal and exchanged preparation tips and pitfall warnings to each other. She liked the camaraderie of cooking with other students. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it since her time at the Culinary Institute.
Juliette admitted that the rabbit was succulent and delicious, but she didn’t include it in her mental list of what she would serve in her own café someday. There were too few Americans who would order it, and frankly it wouldn’t be something she’d enjoy making on a regular basis. She smiled as she swirled her wine, thinking about what she would do when she finally opened her own place. Even being here and taking the first step towards her dream was exhilarating. It was almost surreal to have begun the process with this important step after fantasizing about it for so many years. She planned to spend her time here doing research in her down time to fine-tune her plan so when someday came, she’d be ready.
When the meal was over and the kitchen cleaned, the students collected their things and left for the day.
Juliette strolled slowly back towards her apartment in the waning afternoon sunshine. She peeked into the windows of the boutiques along the corso, and enjoyed the simplicity of being in the incredibly picturesque town. She liked the low key beauty of Lucca. It was a “real” town where people lived and worked. It wasn’t a glitzy tourist destination, so it had an unassuming feel and a certain quaintness about it. There were many small piazzas to be found and lots of gardens. She was looking forward to going for her runs along the wall, which was wide and lined with trees. She was determined to be present in every moment she spent in Italy, and promised herself that she would savor them.
Not long after she left class, Juliette was surprised by her teacher who suddenly appeared by her side.
“I’ve been to Napa before,” he said to her in English, as if they were in the middle of a conversation. She was confused at first and then remembered her comment about the Culinary Institute.
It was a relief that he had spoken in English instead of Italian. Her brain was exhausted from thinking and speaking in another language all day.
“How did you like it?”
“I liked it very much. The area reminded me a bit of here, no?”
“I agree,” said Juliette. “Of all the places in the United States, the wine country is the most like the hill towns of Italy.”
“Are you a chef back at home?”
“I was, but things went badly so I have been working for a caterer—someone who cooks for parties—,” she explained, “but I want to open my own small café someday when I have enough money. I’m here to study a bit more for now; so at least I’m taking small steps, you know?”
“Ah, yes. I understand,” he said. “The kitchen in our school is beautiful, no?”
“Very beautiful. I can only dream of having something like that at home.”
“I set it up myself,” he smiled at her.
“This is your school?” Juliette asked.
“Yes, mine and my family’s. We have a restaurant in Florence as well. Quite a well-known restaurant,” he smiled, and although at home if someone had said that, she might assume he was bragging, in this case she could tell that he was just being matter-of-fact. “I work there sometimes, but I love to teach cooking as well as do the cooking.”
“Well, you’re very good at it.”
“Grazie. Would you like to stop for an espresso with me?” he asked, nodding to a coffee bar they were passing. “I usually end my day here.”
“I would love to,” she smiled. “I could use an espresso. I was out late last night. I had a wonderful dinner out with new friends at a restaurant called Salvia. Do you know it?”
“But, of course. It’s a wonderful restaurant. You’ll have to tell me about your meal,” he said, after he ordered espressos and settled them both at seats along the window. He watched as she stirred in her lump of sugar and took teeny sips of the delicious hot coffee.
“No, no,” he laughed, after he scrutinized her for a moment. “This is not good at all,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
“What’s not good?” she asked, laughing with him, why, she didn’t even know. “My espresso is delicious,” she said, nodding to the little white porcelain cup holding the rich, dark brown liquid.
“I’m sure it is, but you are not drinking it in the Italian way.”
“The Italian way? I didn’t know there was an ‘Italian way’ to drink espresso.”
“Oh yes. Espresso is very Italian and you must drink it properly. What you have to do is stir in the sugar very slowly,” he said.
He dropped a lump of sugar into his own cup and demonstrated how to stir it in by barely moving the spoon back and forth. He was completely serious and the way he stirred was almost sensual.
“And then you drink it very fast,” he continued, and then drank his
espresso in one large gulp, as if he was tossing back a tequila shot.
“Interesting,” she smiled. “I’ll try it. Then you can try my way and we’ll see which we enjoy most.”
He chuckled, “Not a chance,” he said. “You’re in my town, and while you’re here, you drink it the Italian way,” and then went to the counter for another.
“You’re right and thank you for teaching me. I want to learn all these subtleties.”
“Then I’ll take you ‘under my wing’ as you Americans say. But now, tell me about the meal you had last night,” he said. “I want to hear all the details.”
So she did. He listened intently, as only someone who shared a passion for food would do.
“It sounds delicious.” He took his eyes off of her and looked out the window at the early November dusk settling in. “Oh, mio Dio! How did it get so late? I’m sorry, Juliette, but I must go.”
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“No, not at all.” He seemed suddenly distracted. “I would love to stay longer, in fact, but I have a meeting I must get to,” he said.
“Ok, well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Si, a domani.” He met her eyes. “Until tomorrow.”
She watched him go from her spot at the window.
Wow, she thought. What an amazing, unexpected afternoon. She knew she could get used to his company. He was gracious, warm, and kind. Why do the perfect ones come along when you’re not looking? She wondered, hoping that today’s coffee wasn’t going to be a one-time event.
When she emerged from the café, the temperature had dropped considerably and Juliette noticed her breath turning to vapor. She wrapped her pumpkin-colored wool coat around herself tightly as she began to walk home, and felt warm in spite of the chill. She tucked her hands into her pockets and reminded herself to bring gloves the next day.
Chapter 9
CATARINA, MARIA, DANCING WITH GREGORIO AND FIDANZATOS
Catarina couldn’t stop from shedding more tears as the boat departed and her father and brother slowly slipped out of sight. The heat of the day was immediately replaced with a brisk wind that, although still warm, whipped her hair and dress. Nonetheless, she stayed up on deck until she composed herself and then she made her way down to her berth to unpack her suitcase. She found Maria right where she left herself in the small, stuffy cabin, except Maria’s trunk was now empty. While Catarina took her turn unpacking herself, the two got acquainted before it was time to go to the dining room for dinner.
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