I was a twenty-five-year-old with a passion for cooking and precious little experience, but I did know I liked being called a chef. If I’d had the money, I would have been well on the way to opening my own restaurant. Thank heavens I didn’t.
There are only two reasons for opening a place of your own: Either you’re a genius with a brilliant idea, lots of drive, and loads of family money to spend, or your ego is completely out of control. Giangi and I were well-endowed when it came to egos and a desire to work, but that’s all we had. But we couldn’t afford to let things slide downhill for much longer.
Very, very few restaurants make a profit. There must be some reason why so many hopefuls still believe that being a restaurateur is an easy job, but I haven’t discovered it yet. That night, after everyone left, Giangi and I split a measly €250, net of expenses, and finally admitted that maybe it was time to call it quits. Too many things had come to a boil in a very short space of time. When I got home, I buried my head in my pillow and fell asleep wishing my bed would turn into sand and I’d awaken in Copacabana.
9.
The noonday sun streaming through the half-opened shutters woke me up. It crept under my eyelids without knocking. Leaden eyelids. A throbbing headache. The usual sour taste in my mouth. Had it been a late night? Another one? But then, it’s hard to decide what constitutes late. It’s like overeating. Like you have to plan ahead, know when to stop. It’s something you should know, but you don’t, because if you did maybe you would stop before it was too late. Or before eating too much. You eventually get it, but by that time it’s over or your belly is exploding. Or you’ve lost count of how many drinks you’ve downed. Or all three. These are the half-baked thoughts that run through your head when you’ve been out too late and drunk too much.
I turned over and slowly got onto my feet, to the sound of rustling and scrunching. There were scraps of paper covered in scribbles all over the bed, and on my pillow lay the thick red pencil I’d used on paper, sheets, furniture, everything — I must have tossed and turned quite a bit last night. Scrawled sentences followed by question marks, words that seem to have tumbled onto the paper from a height, few of which I could decipher. Did someone else write them while I was lying there quiet as a mouse, with my eyes half closed, halfway between too late and too early? I disregarded anything that looked like mindless doodling and retrieved anything that made the slightest sense, trying to piece them together: lasagna/lasagnetta? sauce, basil-tomato, no-cook? appetizers? mixed? fried (?) NO — maybe/veggies, meatloaf/mini meatloaf/veggies/meat(?), bread home-baked/shop bought — any oven???, what pasta? Eggs, kamut flour? Things like that. With the big red pencil. Because that’s how I am: too sloppy to do it any other way.
Spring was definitely in the air in Rome, with temperatures above 70 degrees, visibility nearly 7 miles, average humidity 62 percent, and crisp clear skies. I picked up the phone, cleared my throat, and tentatively stretched a couple of limbs. I was parched, but the fridge was too far away to bother, and someone seemed to be in the bathroom. Fine, no water, I could manage without. I was adept at making others believe that mine was not the voice of someone who’d barely dragged himself out of bed. Especially at one in the afternoon. Who would think that anyway? It had been more than a year since I last spoke to Sandro. I’d heard that Sessanta was his now. Who knows what he used for money, or how deep in debt he had gotten himself. Rumor also had it that he was doing quite well. I dialed his number, hoping it hadn’t changed in the meantime.
“Leo!”
“Hi there, Sandro, my man, it’s been so long, is this a bad time?”
“Hell, no! How are you, what are you up to, besides going to bed at seven a.m. as usual?”
“I’m still cooking, Sandro. Have been since I left Sessanta.”
“Yeah, I heard … Are you still at that place, what’s it called, Giulio’s?”
“Nope, I left a while back … I’ve been doing dinner parties over in Testaccio, and now, guess what, I have to put together a party for about two hundred and fifty people on a riverboat on the Tiber. Actually, that’s why I’m calling you …”
“Wow! Good for you … What did you want to ask me?”
“Buddy, I need some advice on the menu. I have to work out if what I’ve put together is okay. Can I pass by the restaurant?”
“Whenever you want. Today? I don’t have too many bookings tonight …”
“Perfect, I’ll see you at six. Oh, and thanks, after all this time.”
“Cut it out. See ya later.”
I turned on the TV. William, our smart-ass cat, would be back in a while. He’d sit in front of the main door of the apartment block waiting for someone to open it, then pad up the stairs to our landing on the first floor and start meowing outside the door. One of us would hear him, or sometimes my aunt next door would let him in. Today it was me. I got some chicken out of the fridge and a packet of rice. Small pot, water, stove. When the water came to the boil, I threw in some rice, then the chicken, cut into little strips, no salt. Salt is bad for cats. And it’s criminal to give cats leftovers. William was by no means a spoiled cat, it’s just that I like to cook for those I love. More than anything, I like cooking at home. I’d been out of work about a month and was starting to fret. When I’m jobless and fretting, cooking soothes me, so here I was boiling rice and chicken for William.
Christ, 250 people are a crowd. But I can trust Sandro, and at the end of the day, all I need is for someone to say, “Yep, can do.” It’s what I always say, it’s my default setting, even when I don’t actually know — or even dare hope — it can be done. Besides saying “Yep,” Sandro might even give me a few tips on how to pull it off.
The gigs in Testaccio were over, but an unmissable opportunity presented itself to Giangi and me: the annual Capoeira Batizado. Every year capoeira members from groups all over Brazil and Europe host an enormous get-together. In a few days, between two and three hundred people would be converging on the RadioRock boat anchored on the Tiber, behind the Gasworks. During the Second World War, the old Canadian vessel, three stories high, transported troops and military vehicles. During the ’60s, it was turned into a private merchant ship that sailed between Ponza and Ventotene. Eventually it was purchased by Carmine Gammella, who had it towed up the Tiber to the bend in the river where it is still moored today. Carmine spent a lifetime on this river, dreaming of turning it into another glamorous Via Veneto. But la dolce vita never budged from downtown Rome and never made it onto the Tiber. Too many trees uprooted by floods, too many bags of garbage, dirt, and mud floating by whenever it rained for more than three days running. Is bad weather what makes the Tiber so nasty? Or is it the twenty-first century that’s spitefully casting up three thousand years of history? Rome was born on the banks of the Tiber, and Rome was now slowly killing it. Young kids don’t give a crap about the river, or its history, or Via Veneto. Carmine’s riverboat was simply a place that hosted private functions and dinner dances for teenagers blinded by raging hormones and craving booze.
The boat’s name was the Nestore — I noticed the letters way up high, near the dock line that moored the boat to the riverbank, one evening while I was pissing against a wall — but everyone just called it the RadioRock Boat because the Roman radio station organized all its events there. And in about ten days, for one night only, it would be my boat. Chef Leonardo Lucarelli’s sensational menu would tickle the taste buds of at least 250 jubilant capoeira enthusiasts.
Turning on the radio, I rustled up a ring cake using the old beige electric mixer my grandmother gave me, back when kitchen appliances weren’t all unrelentingly white. I tried to concentrate, swallowing an aspirin. The eggs were past their use-by date, but only just, and for a simple cake they’d be fine. If your eggs are past their prime, this is what you have to do: bake a cake or a quiche. Anything else and you can taste the eggs are old, especially in custards or sabayon, and you risk sending people to the ER.
I was listening to RadioRock, as
it happens, and had time to take a leisurely shower and get my act together while the cake was baking. Right now, there was only one reason for me to get my ass out of the apartment and it was to deal with the Capoeira Batizada shebang on the riverboat. Sandro would save me. Sandro would tell me two or three dishes to wow the customers and I’d know exactly how to make them. Everyone would eat. And they would all eat well. It was past five o’clock and outside the light was sheer magic, the kind of Roman light that knows exactly how to cast itself upon ancient Roman walls. It’s a joy to see. As I turned on the shower and opened the bathroom window, air and sunlight poured in and my headache vanished. I said to myself, Wow, I am one good-looking stud. But I said it with a sigh.
“So, two hundred and fifty guests?”
“Yeah. I think it’s doable, but I’ll have to prep everything in advance so I only have to heat it up when I get there.”
“Is there an oven?”
“I don’t know. Actually, I don’t think there is. But they told me there are griddles.”
“And what about a boiler?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I can give you a pot with four baskets.”
“Get outta here! Perfect. And what about the menu, Sandro? What do you think? Can I base it on things we did at Sessanta?”
“Are you joking? Sure you can! But I can’t let you cook anything here, I’m afraid.”
“No, that’s fine. So look here.” I pulled a notebook out of my backpack. “Do you think a menu like this is feasible: mixed appetizers, maybe olive pâté crostini, fried eggplant-and-carrot balls, tomato boats, and salad? I’d have these on the tables as the diners arrived. Then I’d go with a choice of first courses. Vegetarian lasagna, precooked and served at room temperature, with a hot fondue, and while they’re eating that, I’ll be boiling the orecchiette pasta, one basket after another, with a sauce — yours, the one with raw tomatoes and basil, whizzed in the blender with some sea salt and oil and nothing else. Then, while I’m draining the first two pounds of pasta, I’ll add the sauce and plate it, and move on to the next two pounds and then the third, and so on. For the main course, a vegetarian quiche with spinach sauce and beef meatballs with yogurt sauce. For dessert I was thinking of biscotti and chocolate cake. And a big fruit salad. What do you think?”
“Well, the menu’s a bit demanding, but I think it’s manageable …”
“And what about quantities?”
“What I usually do is calculate the amount of food I’ll need for the number of guests and then take away a bit …”
“What? You take away a bit? You don’t add more? I mean, what if it’s not enough?”
“Oh, people usually eat less than you think, especially when it’s a big crowd. You know, they get up, wander around, get distracted, there are kids running around … take away a good fifteen percent from the total. And think about where you’ll be doing all the cooking, you’ll need a fair amount of space. And a big fridge …”
“Are you sure I can’t do any cooking here?”
“No, not possible, I need the whole kitchen to myself.”
“Okay, I’ll get by … and thanks for the pot. And the friendly advice. Oh, I was forgetting something important: your Metro Caterer’s supplies card! Can I do the shopping on your card?”
“No sweat, just don’t overspend, because they’ll be invoicing my restaurant. And another thing: Break a leg.”
10.
I just love those massive wholesale cash-and-carries. I love Metro, shelves stacked sky-high with food, the fish counter ablaze with live red and European lobsters crawling over one another and then tumbling back down, enormous cold rooms that you have to enter wearing a windbreaker, vegetables sold by the crate. Not to mention all those fantastic spices, sauces, and powders. I invariably end up getting lost. Those vast amounts of food make my mouth water and fill my head with ideas. I create fantasy dishes as I stroll past shelves and fridges. Spanish pata negra cured ham, veal shanks with mashed potatoes and a demi-glace sauce, lamb chops with escarole Roman style and mint sauce, radishes in clarified butter, braised rabbit legs, roast suckling pig with a vanilla-enhanced tomato reduction and crispy skin on a bed of … enough already. It was time to calm down and check the shopping list hanging from the six-wheeled shopping cart; I could buy only the bare essentials and could not under any circumstances stray from the task at hand: Parked outside was my motorbike, and it had to carry me and the shopping. So, roughly speaking, 250 people would consume around 220 pounds of food.
Frozen puff pastry and lasagna sheets, tomatoes, lettuces, zucchini, eggplant, cream, milk, Grana Padano cheese, basil, butter, oil, salt, marjoram, dill, mincemeat, bread, spelt, honey, and everything else all piled up in the cart, while my shopping list became a list of words crossed off in red pencil. At the checkout I filled plastic bags, two at a time for extra strength, paid by EFTPOS, and cleaned out my bank account. This party had better be a success, there would be no second chance.
I tied the crates of tomatoes and vegetables to the back of the motorbike using a cargo net; I crammed the meat, the lasagna, olives, and a heap of other stuff into my backpack as I leaned for a moment on the hood of a Milan-gray Mercedes: If I had a car like that, just imagine the groceries I could be loading. I was ridiculous and I couldn’t help laughing. Plastic bags dangled precariously from the handlebars, two on each side.
Crushed up against the gas tank, I struggled to steer the bike and brake as smoothly as possible. A few drivers honked as I overtook them in the hectic Roman traffic as the bags brushed against the side of their cars. “Sorry!” I yelled over and over again from under my helmet, but I was so bent forward that no one could hear me. Wobbling on my overloaded motorbike, I was as happy as when I’d get into mischief as a kid and do something I was absolutely not allowed to do. However, I made it home, and had hardly turned off the motor when a bag burst and everything spilled out onto the pavement. Thank God the bottle of oil didn’t break; that’s bad luck. The crates of vegetables were leaning dangerously to one side but didn’t fall because they came to rest against the muffler. So that’s where the smell of scorched plastic came from.
First things first: clean up, unpack the groceries, divide them up, and put them away. The big four-way cooking pot would have to go to the riverboat too, and all on my bike. I’d worry about that tomorrow. At the moment my fingers were itching to start. I turned on RadioRock, washed my hands, tied on my apron, took a deep breath, and lit the stove. I had one wooden cutting board, all the wrong knives, no scars on my hands, and nowhere near enough experience to organize a function this size, so it all seemed pretty easy.
By midnight, the pasta sauce was ready, the mixture for the veggie balls was resting in the fridge together with the raw appetizers. Sliced vegetables were all over the place, a few of the lasagna sheets were already cooked, the others waiting to be. The ground beef was mixed with the bread that had been soaked in milk with spices and grated orange peel. I was getting ahead, so I cracked open a cold one and went out onto the balcony for a smoke.
Two whole days went by. I filled up my grandma’s and my aunt’s fridges.
On Friday I went to the riverboat to inspect the place. Tomorrow there would be fruit salads galore and two long tables seating more than two hundred happy people, all gorging themselves silly. Kids would be running wild, beverages and crisp white napkins would be offered by smiling waiters, as samba blared from the loudspeakers. Everyone would put away their cares and woe and enjoy the meal and the party, then they’d come charging into the kitchen to thank me. I’d be worn-out and hot and sweaty, and I’d down an enormous cocktail. Wow.
I walked along the gangplank and boarded the vessel.
The place was big and cold. It was spooky seeing it so empty, I’d only been there for parties. The rickety trestle tables were covered in rust. At the back, toward the stern, was the door to the kitchen, oval shaped and hovering about four inches from the floor. Inside, nothing but a gas cylinder c
onnected to a large stove, the only one, perched perilously on some sort of patched-up metal tripod. Next to it, on the floor, a rubber hose for the water, which apparently was safe to drink. I took a closer look and rocked the stove from side to side. No cursing, no profanity, I was simply stunned. Tragically stunned. Reality can do that to you sometimes. And there’s nothing you can do about it.
I picked up a stick, broken off from God knows what, lying on the floor and wedged it under the stove — no more wobbling. Sometimes you can set things right with relative ease, other times you can’t. I found Giangi in the main room fixing up the bar area. Put simply, there was no kitchen. What there was, was this weird squarish space with one dirty window overlooking the river from the butt-end of the boat, metal walls coated in peeling white paint and droplets of moisture, a grimy, rusted floor, a wooden table, luckily large, and a crappy swinging door giving onto the dining room. Yikes, it was going to be tough, all right. Now might be a good time to curse, silently, and to myself. But no, I had everything ready. It was only a question of getting here early and roping in some kids to help. Setting the big pot on the stove and filling it with water, bringing it to a boil, and then it’s all good. A brilliant plan. The image of the fridge overflowing with food calmed me. I went onshore to untie the pot, which was in a big plastic garbage bag, from the seat of the bike.
Saturday arrived. Everyone was still at the gym in Via Bocea. I was not. I was putting on the finishing touches at home. All the food went onto cardboard trays and then into the polycarbonate gastronorms that Sandro lent me. “Just wash them and give them back to me on Sunday.” Giangi managed to get hold of an old Peugeot station wagon for me to use. My bike, which I’d left at the riverboat, would take me home tonight. I left at 4 p.m. with the car loaded and the phone numbers for a couple of kids who’d be giving me a hand.
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