On the way home that evening, I stopped at an all-night drugstore and bought a tube of burn ointment. My palm sported a massive blister, plus four more on my index, middle, and ring fingers, and pinky. Only my thumb had been spared. They say humans evolved larger brains after developing opposable thumbs, and not vice versa. I had saved my intelligence and my reputation. What a dumb-ass idea to put a pan in the oven. I’d never have a crappy dish like that on my menu.
7.
The unmitigated madness that reigned at Giulio’s came to my rescue, when almost overnight, in a nonstop, daily procession, first one chef and then the other barged into the owner’s little Ikea-furnished office to complain about the other’s ineptitude. Unbeknownst to each other, they both adopted the same strategy, which was to show how much better, defter, and more trustworthy I, a mere chef de partie, was than their rival, who was a pathetic joke of a chef. Giulio ended up firing first the Japanese chef (not even two months after my arrival) and then the young dude, who got his revenge by dragging his former employer into a labor dispute — but not before thoroughly cleaning out his pantry. And so I ended up in charge of the kitchen, and I was the only chef. I never really cared what happened to those two. I believe the young dude went on to become a second-rate stage actor. All that mattered was that once there were two chefs above me and now there were none. The oven-baked sea bream disappeared from the menu and I had a say in who got to work in the restaurant.
“Hey, Matt, how about coming to the restaurant tonight?”
“Sure, are you offering me dinner?”
“Nope, work.”
“Oh.”
“The waitress is a hottie.”
“I dunno, let me think about it.”
“Well, bring a clean shirt with you, you’ll be working front of the house.”
My future is within my reach. This is an unhoped for stroke of luck. I have no degree, no one wants my photos, I have no actual skills to speak of, but I am in charge of a restaurant.
A couple of weeks later, Lucia’s voice, coming from Matteo’s room, wakes me up: “Chef, it’s nearly eleven, will you come down and have breakfast with us?”
“Don’t wake me up, it’s my day off! And don’t make a mess, you pigs.”
I’d cleaned up the house the night before after getting back from work, and my capoeira instructors were coming over for dinner, because I was royally pissed off at being ignored during class. I knew only one way to get a bit of attention, what else could I do? The menu included three cold and three hot appetizers, with a skillful interplay between soft and crunchy textures; two entrées; a fillet of Piedmont beef with myrtle sauce; and a small selection of desserts. Matteo and Lucia went out and I cooked all day. I was even late getting to the gym, and by the time I arrived they were in the showers, so all I did was tell them how to get to our place. By the end of the evening, I had become “o cozinheiro,” the chef, and I was now officially “someone” at the gym.
One of the instructors I invited that night was a guy named Giangi, and before leaving he asked if I’d be interested in organizing dinner parties with him, events consisting of samba, cocktails, and good food. I, of course, would look after the food side of things. Not right now, he hastened to add. It was only an idea at this stage, but he wanted to start talking about it. I was still up to my neck in problem-solving at Giulio’s and trying to understand whether I really liked that lawless world that seemed prepared to let me in out of nothing other than deep-rooted pathological negligence. Nonetheless, I asked Giangi to stay back for a drink, and we spent the rest of the night discussing his plans. I listened and made a few suggestions, as if I were ready to start whenever he was. I have always opted for remote possibilities rather than outright refusals, a tactic that has often borne sweet fruit.
In the meantime, I was starting to realize two important principles: Be wary of establishments that bear the name of the owner, and always distrust a career that takes off abnormally fast. Not that this kept me awake at night, because being trusted and appreciated by Giulio fanned my pride, and a sense of responsibility in some way did actually make me a better, more competent cook, simply because in his restaurant I was the top dog. And nothing else mattered at the time. Of course, there was that niggling doubt that if I was held in such high esteem by an asshole, then it was safe to say that I was one too. But apart from the owner, Giulio’s could potentially turn into something of real worth, even though it was not a sophisticated place by any stretch of the imagination. Observing the restaurant from this side of the kitchen door, all I saw was a monument to overinflated egos and cocaine, but from the outside it didn’t seem any worse than so many places just like it: pastel walls, soft lighting, a burnished timber bar counter. We served shrimp skewers with a sweet-and-sour sauce, clams au gratin, baked sea bass coated in mint-and-chervil breadcrumbs, steamed beef ravioli, desserts topped with luscious Fabbri syrups and store-bought wafers. Uninspired fusion cuisine interspersed with a handful of stand-out dishes.
Yet the work made me surprisingly happy. The kitchen is the sultanate that rules over the whole restaurant, and I was its benevolent absolute ruler. Happy even when still serving brunch an hour past noon; happy an hour past midnight. The tasks were mindless and repetitive, the clientele made up almost exclusively of Giulio’s friends who, after a while, took turns disappearing into the restrooms only to emerge sniffing conspicuously. Night after night, Giulio became increasingly consumed and dispirited, all alone behind the long dark counter at the bar. He didn’t even wait for the end of service before the effects of the coke started appearing. He would shout abuse at the two chefs who’d ruined him, whine loudly about overheads, and curse at the wages of the bloodsuckers he had to pay, but most often he’d laugh mockingly at his own bad juju.
A little more than a year after I started working at Giulio’s, every table, every pot, pan, and plate exuded the unmistakable stench of tragedy. There was only one thing left for me to do, which was par for the course in our line of business: abandon ship a minute before it sinks. Land the final blow just after you’ve been paid your wages, when the owners still trust that fate will step in and rescue them.
Giulio was in the grip of overwhelming panic, snorting more and more coke, thrashing around in a state of unbridled agitation, and spewing out a steady stream of preposterous solutions devoid of logic or coherence and pathetic attempts to patch up a situation that was beyond salvation: fixed-price menus, midweek closures, cocktail hour, aperitifs with free finger food, ethnic dishes, themed evenings, and regional cuisine.
“You know how to make pizza, right?” he blurted out suddenly one evening, his jaw jutting and his gaze unfocused, while I was on the doorstep ready to go home. Even the last remaining regulars had become suspicious and moved on. Lucia hadn’t been around for a while and Matteo stayed for a few only weeks and then bowed out to write his dissertation. The waiters were just kids, a new bunch every week, all of them clueless. By now I was embarrassed to see my friends coming to the restaurant. And to top it all, my new status as “chef” did not come with a raise. It was still just €1,100 a month, cash in hand, always late and always grudgingly. The time had come to pull up stakes. Actually, it was probably too late already and, worse, I had no plan B.
“Giulio, I’ll be out of here in a couple of weeks. Can you pay me my last salary before then?”
“What? And I should pay you? For pissing off and leaving me in this shit!”
“I’m not leaving you in any shit, I’m handing in my notice …”
“Well, as soon as the place picks up, I’ll pay you, damn it. Whatever happened to loyalty? What am I supposed to do? Pay everyone and call it quits? And be the only one who gives a damn if the place keeps going or falls apart?”
I thought about what I should do. It was only about one month’s wages, after all, less than €1,000.
“You know what, Giulio? As of tomorrow I’m done, you can keep your cash.”
Freedom.
Light
heartedness.
Fuck you.
I started working out at the capoeira gym three times a week. I felt revitalized, like at the end of a violent and prolonged scream, and went back to school. But with no money flowing in, my savings quickly ran out. I started speculating: How about suing Giulio? What about Sessanta — would they take me back? Washing dishes was out of the question. Working in a fast-food joint? No way, too depressing. I began to seriously consider setting up my own business, importing secondhand cars from Germany. Or working as a carpenter with my brother.
One evening on my way to the gym, I stopped at an ATM to check my bank balance: €1,500, enough to survive a couple of months. There had to be a solution somewhere. I tossed the receipt and continued walking toward the gym, taking a slightly longer route. Giangi was in the dressing room. “You remember those samba evenings we talked about? Well, I’ve found a place over in the Testaccio quarter that might be interested. How busy are you right now?”
8.
It was past ten on a balmy Roman night, and I was changing my clothes in a broom closet at the venue where Giangi and I were now organizing samba parties. I never found out his real name; everyone called him Giangi. That evening I left earlier than usual, still feeling a strange urge to cook. Maybe it was because Barbara, the hot new waitress with a mop of curly hair, was coming over for a late-night snack of blue cheese and bubbly as soon as she finished polishing the cutlery. It was the first time I’d asked her out, and she accepted right away. Nothing was more exciting than the prospect of starting a new relationship. I’d just finished work and I was really buzzing.
Just outside the venue, I noticed an old white Fiat 850 Westphalia camper van. A thing of beauty, instantly recognizable. I knew it well. Vincenzo had bought it to go to techno parties and ended up living in it. I, however, had decided that I would have nothing more to do with him for a while. Or rather, for as long as possible. I’d met him in Sandro’s kitchen. He was from Lucca, short like me, and skinny, but with the physique of a fat guy who’s lost a lot of weight, and they introduced him to me as Ciccio — Fatso. Nicknames can conjure up memories like nothing else in this world. Names tell stories of exploits, bring to mind anecdotes, and in my case remind me of someone’s eating habits. Ciccio was still Ciccio even after shedding the seventy pounds that earned him his nickname. Now he had stick-thin arms attached to sloping shoulders, sinewy hands covered in burn marks, and the black stuff under fingernails that comes from kneading dough every day. He appeared out of nowhere one New Year’s Eve to help prep the appetizers.
Vincenzo was a born liar and for that reason people liked him; they felt at ease when he was around. When I became the chef at Giulio’s, I asked him to come along and give me a hand and then decided to let him stay — or, rather, he decided to stay. His tumultuous presence had a soothing effect on me. Because this junkie, this erratic, affectionate liar, worked magic when let loose in the kitchen. He was always cooking and experimenting with food, at the restaurant, in his own kitchen, or at friends’ places. Mainly mine. One joint after another, we would stay up until the early hours of the morning waiting for the dough, an outlandish mixture of rotten apples, various types of flour, sugar, water, and oil, to rise just so. We knew it was ready by its aroma.
Making bread was our common ground. His was incredible. A profoundly gratifying fragrance would fill the house when, after an hour and a half in the oven, we would take the loaf out and, with a puff of steam, let the flour-dusted crust crackle between the palms of our hands. He could determine, by sound alone, exactly where the air bubbles created by the yeast were located: if they had settled on the bottom of the loaf; if there were any hollow spots; or if, as was more often the case, the bread was perfect. The smell of that bread has stayed with me like verses tossed away by a despondent young poet. Five months later the only thing on my mind was how to get rid of him.
Ultimately, Vincenzo’s irresistible acts of generosity and charm couldn’t make up for me having to be his nanny, his ATM, his analyst, and his latrine. So one day, completely out of the blue, I simply said to him, “I’m letting you go tomorrow.” Vincenzo was the dark hero of those carefree days: sensitivity shattered by greed, greed sustained by sensitivity. A real chef.
I’m out of here, I said to myself. Fuck yes. I’m going home, I murmured, convincing myself it was the right thing to do. Only, when you have to convince yourself to do the right thing, it’s never a good sign. I thought about Barbara’s curly hair, the heat. I froze, with the motorbike lock in my hand, under the yellow streetlamp. For a split second I was in a Gregory Crewdson photo. “Hey, Vince, it’s me, Leo. Open up.”
The van’s small white, arched door opened with a click. Behind a pair of glasses I saw a slightly bug-eyed gaze, just like I remembered it from way back.
“Leo baby! It’s been ages, what the fuck are you doing here?”
“Let me in. What are you doing out here? I work here.”
“Here? But isn’t this place a club?”
“Nah. On Saturdays they have live bands, but during the week I organize samba nights and theme parties. Hey, will you let me in?”
“Goddammit, Leo baby, of course I’ll let you in. Come on, have a joint.”
I knew it.
I was right back smack in the middle of it and thrilled to be there. So when he said, “Hey, Leo baby, why don’t we go over to my friend’s place? She’s a pastry chef. There’ll be other people too, it’ll be a fun night, and great wine … c’mon it’s been more than a year since we hung out. We can take the bike. How about it?,” I didn’t hesitate.
The next thing I knew I was texting Barbara, who had probably left the restaurant and might even be at my place by now, blowing her off with a pathetic excuse, all the while hollering, “Okay, let’s go!”
Fuck. I’m a moron. Farewell creamy blue-veined cheese, goodbye hands running through Barbara’s curly hair. An absolute moron. We ate mint-scented arancini and kamut-and-cumin bread sticks.
“Leo baby, take a look — I make everything in this!” He pointed at a tiny oven not much bigger than a toaster.
“You’re a fucking genius, goddamn you.”
I told Vincenzo what I’d been up to since the last time we met, my words filling the narrow crevices of the landslide of descriptions and stories he buried me under. Then it was on with the jackets and helmets, he grabbed his backpack, and we climbed onto my motorbike.
“So, where are we going?” I asked.
“Get to Piazza Conca d’Oro and I’ll tell you where to go from there.”
My old Honda 250 started on the first try. We arrived in this smart residential part of town and parked the bike. Vincenzo was still talking, and so was I, when I could get a word in edgewise. Elevator, top floor. The penthouse. Jesus. Sara, the owner, welcomed us in. That is, the daughter of the owners, who were out. They won’t be coming back tonight. I recognized her. I had seen her at the occasional techno party but never spoken to her. I now discovered she was the pastry chef Vincenzo had mentioned.
The pastry station isn’t really part of a professional kitchen. It’s an area unto itself, usually physically separated from the other stations. There you don’t use scoops of sugar, guessing roughly at amounts, you don’t measure things by the handful, you don’t check how things are cooking by looking through the oven window. The pastry station is that secret place where the alchemy occurs: different kinds of flour, butter, oil, cocoa, coffee, thermometers, electronic scales, cooking times that are exact to the minute and temperatures that can’t fluctuate by even half a degree. It’s not that far from a science lab, and the preparation and cooking of sweets and desserts requires a certain understanding of chemistry and physics.
In confectionary art, the better you know how those processes combine to develop aromas, compositions, consistencies, and balances, the better the outcome. In short, almost anyone can learn to cook well, many even manage to become professional chefs, but only a few, a very few, are good pastry chefs
. It’s such a specialized field that many pastry chefs do nothing else — they never set foot in other parts of the kitchen. They have their own ovens, their own fridges, a separate pass. Seeing Sara use a credit card to scrape the ketamine off the bottom of a frying pan after it has just crystallized makes it exceedingly hard for me to imagine her putting the finishing touches on a Saint-Honoré. As the evening progressed, I declined invitations to partake of the harder stuff, being more than happy to stick with pot. I opened a couple of bottles of decent wine and munched on some aniseed pralines, which were quite good. Hmmm — homemade.
“Hey, Sara, did you make these? Vincenzo tells me you’re a pastry chef.”
“Yeah, we learned how to make them at the Gambero Rosso cooking course. Do you like them?”
“I do, yeah … What cooking course was that?” These pralines weren’t the kind an amateur whips up for a bunch of friends. “It couldn’t have been just a weekend course …”
“No, it was one of those new ones, for professional cooks. I mean, I’ve got a master’s in food and wine writing, ’cause my parents were sick of me goofing off, and I always got a kick out of cooking. I met Maurizio Santin there by pure chance and I did his pastry-making course.”
“Wow, cool … It’s pricey, though, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, a bit. But I really dig pastries and desserts and all that stuff. I like to jumble things up, play around with different ingredients. Sometimes it’s a god-awful mess, but every now and again I hit a home run.”
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