“This dinner has gone the way it’s gone, but you did it all on your own. I don’t know any other chef who would have taken on anything like this.”
And so, mellowed by the joint, the chitchat, the cocktail that actually did appear eventually, the tension slipped away. But I couldn’t tear myself away from the kitchen. No, damn it, for me this evening was an outright disaster. One in four guests got up and left, so we had to give them their money back. And what kind of a fool did I make of myself with the mestre?
“Excuse me, are you the chef? I mean, still the chef?”
It was a girl’s soft voice. I turned around. Cute too, very cute.
“Yeah … and you are?”
“Souheila.”
“Hi. Did you enjoy the food?” I asked defensively.
“Yeah, it was really good. There was a bit of a wait between the pasta and the main course, but everything tasted fine.”
Her head was tilted slightly, her gaze inquisitive. She seemed more than a little tipsy. Definitely drunk, I would say. Which disappointed me somewhat: so that’s why she’s telling me she liked the food. I could have served her river rat in an anthrax sauce, and after four of Giangi’s cocktails she would have polished it off with glee. Maybe even the tall guy, and the other one, Riccardo, were trashed too and I simply didn’t notice.
“Maybe I’ll see you later, sweetheart, at the party upstairs, after I’ve changed my clothes. But right now I’ve got to tidy up.”
“Couldn’t I just stay here and keep you company while you work? I’ve never been inside a real chef’s kitchen before!”
“What the … Souheila, are you kidding? A real chef’s kitchen! This shit hole? Why don’t we hook up some other time and I’ll take you to a real kitchen. Where a girl has to duck for cover if she doesn’t want to be hit by a barrage of testosterone bouncing off the walls and suddenly ending up in her panties … but here? Why are you hanging around here? The only thing left to do now is clean up. C’mon, we can meet upstairs later.”
Souheila left, waving goodbye.
I stayed holed up for a while, licking my wounds and mentally replaying, in an endless loop, the film of what could have been and wasn’t. Precooking. Of course, why didn’t I think of that? Had I arrived with the orecchiette precooked, I would have plunged them in boiling water for sixty seconds and voilà, all done. Give or take a few minutes, all the pasta would have been cooked in twenty-five minutes.
Why didn’t I realize that 250 people couldn’t possibly all walk in at the same time? I should have been ready for the early birds and the latecomers, and instructed the servers accordingly. Shoulda, coulda.
The kitchen was empty, and so was the dining room, and my plastic cup was empty too. My stained uniform was stuffed into my backpack. I left the side towel behind, it was beyond repair. And it was hardly destined to become a lucky charm, anyway. It had had a pitifully short and wretched life. Amen. Pot empty, pasta scraped off the floor, wooden table more or less scrubbed, bags of garbage all stacked against the dirty window. Time to go. The party upstairs held no appeal; I was in a foul mood and thoroughly bushed. It was one o’clock in the morning. I virtually slunk out, looking for and finding Giangi. From his point of view, the party had been a success: The mestre was satisfied, all the capoeira masters were blind drunk and inundated by swarms of women. Of course, the money from the dinner, less expenses and refunds, didn’t amount to much, but we’d make up for it, we’d recoup, we’d do something else together. Now it was time to samba, Leo!
No fucking way, I said to myself.
We’re going to recoup what? For months we’ve been organizing things that have bombed, first in Testaccio and now tonight.
“Maybe next time we should put a little more thought into organizing things, learn from our mistakes,” he suggested.
No, no more plans, that’s it. Too much effort, too little returns. No success, no profit, everything just thrown together, improvised, makeshift, and random.
“I dunno, Giangi, why don’t you think up some brilliant idea. I’m running on empty, I need to sleep.”
So tonight it finally dawned on me: It was well and truly over. Sometimes it takes moments like these to get the message across. There’s nothing left to do, nothing left to say. It’s cold, the air is heavy and damp, foul smells are rising from the river, it’s probably around fifty degrees, give or take, and thank God I remembered my gloves.
Through the Testaccio neighborhood, past the Pyramid of Cestius, down Via Marco Polo, nearly there now, the traffic lights on Via San Giovanni red, as usual. Finally, I arrive at my destination, Via Placido Zurla, Pigneto quarter, home.
Questions are buzzing around my head, clouding my mind like a gray sky in the middle of summer. Jumbled thoughts fade into the pillow as I drift off to sleep. Enough. That’s it. This chef business has to end right here, right now. Whatever will be, will be. Then again … what if I’m not ready to call it quits quite yet? Maybe, but I can’t go on like this either. I want it to end here, I really do. I’d like to apply for another scholarship. I’d like to end on a high note, not like this.
My anguish and my dire misfortune were absolute. The sound of the key turning in the front door awoke me. Matteo knocked quietly on my bedroom door.
“Hey, you there?”
“Sure, man, come on in, I’m awake.”
“Did your big bash go ahead?”
“Yep.”
“Did it go well?”
“It couldn’t have gone any better than it actually did.”
“Let me know tomorrow if that means it went well. Did they eat everything?”
“Yep.”
“So it went well. Good night.”
11.
The music was too loud, and I knew full well I’d end up with ringing in my ears even in my dreams. Matteo was behind me, Silvia in front. She could really move it on the dance floor, whereas I, like everything else I did, was merely average. The smell of marijuana was intense, but I couldn’t work out exactly where it was coming from. Silvia’s short black bangs, catlike features, and wistful expression reminded me of Björk. Until last year she was with a surfer dude: she, a photographer and student at the European Institute of Design, he a video maker and the scion of a wealthy family. Then the surfer dude went to visit his father in Costa Rica and nobody heard from him again. At the time, I thought she was too good for the surfer dude. I’d love to have had a girl as pretty as her, but I was a humble salad guy, and I deserved her even less than he did.
Silvia floated around the smoky room. She was still gorgeous, maybe a bit whiny, every bit the brooding world-weary artist and not even thirty, making her much less desirable than I remembered. That evening I was particularly nice to her, even though I felt hollow and useless. Matteo was turning on the charm with a girl from Bologna, a newcomer to Rome. I liked the girls Matteo schmoozed. Glass after glass, I started feeling light-headed, slurring my words. “I’m okay, I can hold my liquor,” I said to myself. “Stop drinking, you’re not okay, you can’t hold your liquor,” said Matteo.
The alcohol got my thoughts drifting to kitchens, to the party on the riverboat the week before, and the €250 that Giangi and I split between us. My bike was parked outside my apartment building, its gas tank full, a bill, paid, lay on my nightstand, there was some ganja in my left pocket, and in my right, my last €50. The fridge came to mind, inside it an Époisses de Bourgogne that I’d bought as a treat immediately after getting paid for the riverboat party. I can’t fucking stand people who call it Taleggio. Sure, to all intents and purposes, it’s a classic French cheese sporting the usual mold, but the difference hits you the moment you cut into the sticky rind and get to the creamy, almost chewy heart. Époisses cheese is one of those flavors and textures that I got hooked on after meeting Sandro, and I met the only supplier of the cheese in Rome through him.
“Are you coming to the restroom with me?” Silvia whispered, bringing her lips to my ear, still dancing.
W
hen we got home we were all pretty smashed, and the girl from Bologna immediately headed to the bedroom with Matteo. Good-quality coke doesn’t take your appetite away, nor does it keep you awake. It generally does take away your sadness. Silvia’s coke was excellent but left my sadness intact. I suggested tasting the Époisses and uncorking a bottle of Riesling, given that they’re a match made in heaven. It’s a cheese from Burgundy, in France, I tell her, and it’s made only in a handful of communes in the departments of Côte-d’Or, Yonne, and Haute-Marne, and only four cheese makers export it.
While I was talking, I opened the small round wooden box as if the label said Tiffany’s. She barely tasted it and said she didn’t like Taleggio, but did like Riesling, but enough already with the geography lesson, let’s go into the bedroom. I put the spurned cheese away without defending it or complaining. I told her to make herself at home. She stripped down to her bra and panties and then took them off too. I did the same. Some girls are more beautiful when they are clothed than naked, and she was one of them. She said she wanted to take a shower and it would only take a moment. As she closed the bathroom door, I started thinking that I liked her a lot more when she was the girlfriend of the guy who didn’t deserve her.
Not even ten minutes later, a bathrobe was on the floor next to Silvia’s wet footprints, the bedroom door was ajar, and she was lying up against the mirror nailed to the wall like a headboard. Weird how reality can turn ugly when least you expect it. I paused, turned off the light that showed off her stretch marks, kissed her on the neck, detached myself from her, and said I’d be back in a minute, don’t run away. She gave a little whimper of surprise, shrugged, and then I heard her sliding down onto the pillows.
One second later, I was stretched out on the sofa in my aunt’s apartment, the one next to mine, butt naked and with a lime green blanket wound around my waist, the TV on and my camera on the coffee table, which I had grabbed before absconding, because you never know. I mean, I didn’t really know Silvia that well, perhaps in a fit of rage she might have smashed it out of sheer spite. I brought the Époisses with me too, not because I thought it might be in danger, but because it’s always a good idea to have something delicious at hand. I smiled, trying to imagine that little Björk face, mulling over my sudden disappearance, and I fell asleep instantly.
Next morning the incessant ringing of my cell phone woke me up. I opened my eyes and grabbed it.
It was ten thirty and it said Caller Unknown.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, hi, I’m … Hey did I wake you? Do you want me to call back later?”
“Nah, don’t worry … Who is this?”
“It’s Longo Longo, we met the other night, do you remember?”
“Long … who? No I don’t, sorry.”
“Longo Longo, that’s my capoeira name. We’ve crossed paths at a few training sessions, I spoke to you at the party on the riverboat. I came into the kitchen at the end of the evening. My name’s Michele, by the way.”
“Ah, Michele, of course I know who you are!” I was actually lying, but there was no use investigating any further.
“I wanted to tell you back then, at the riverboat, but you looked shattered, and I wanted to be sure first …”
“Sure about what?”
“Of getting you involved in a project of mine! Are you busy now, are you working anywhere?”
“I’m in negotiations about a job at a restaurant that’s opening soon,” I lied again, because it’s always best not to show yourself too willing or too desperate.
“Have you heard of the Verve?”
“That renovated farmhouse where they hold a jazz festival?”
“Exactly. In May they’re opening a restaurant there and later the summer festival season begins. They’ve taken me on as chef, and I need at least one other person in the kitchen with me.”
“Ah. And when do you need an answer by?”
“Tomorrow. Mauro, the sommelier in charge of the restaurant, is interviewing for staff at around four. If you’re interested, I’ll get an appointment for you at three, that way maybe you guys can work something out. See, I’d rather have you than a complete stranger … How about it?”
“Sure. Will you be there too?”
“Yeah, I’ll be in the kitchen getting things ready.”
“Oh, by the way, Michele, thanks.”
Click.
Time to take stock: not a dime to my name, a probable court appearance, which — glass half full — might cost me as much as €7,000. I needed to study and pass some exams in the July and September sessions at the university; I wasn’t ready to give up capoeira or photography just yet. I did not feel like being stuck in a kitchen all summer long. As things stood, the only real options for survival were: slip on a white polyester jacket with the name of the dry-cleaning service stamped on the pocket and work in some dive in Rome’s working-class Torpignattara quarter, or consider the possibility of becoming a professional drug pusher as a profitable enterprise, since I now had a police record anyway. So, tomorrow at three o’clock I’d be at the Verve, freshly showered and with my hair neatly combed and parted, wearing my best smile and hoping to be hired.
My aunt’s apartment was empty; she and my cousin must have left already. Before going next door to my place, I peered outside to see if Silvia’s car was still parked there. It wasn’t, which was fine by me.
Sometimes it takes little or nothing to turn things around, sometimes a random phone call pushes you down a certain path. This random phone call suddenly placed the world at my feet. The fog had lifted and the sun was blazing.
12.
Monday, April 28, 2003, day broke at 5:11 and found me wide awake, convinced it was still the night before. The sun would set at 7:04 p.m. and I might still be at the Verve, talking with Mauro. I dozed off again, hoping the dark pouches under my eyes would go away, and slept through lunch. As I was leaving, I caught the news that the Italian comedian Ciccio Ingrassia had just died. Shortly afterward, I was standing in front of the Verve. The converted farmhouse looked amazing: elaborate stonework, terra-cotta jars, low walls, and an old barn, in a beautiful country setting. All around, but hidden by the trees, was Rome. I decided that I really liked the place even on this dull, gray day with the threat of a storm in the air, like a promise you have no intention of keeping. Like when you swear you’ll do something knowing full well you won’t. But you don’t give a damn because at that precise moment all that matters is the promise, not the fiasco that is bound to follow, or the deception.
The iron gate was half open. I asked a guy carrying a ladder if he knew Mauro, and he said he did but had no idea where he was at the moment and told me to ask the girl sitting over there on a wooden bench. She had big dark eyes, a ’30s-style bob, and great tits, which I noticed even though she was wearing a sweater. An unlit cigarette between her lips, she was rummaging about in her handbag, pulling out an assortment of odds and ends including an elegant corkscrew. I sidled up, offering her my Clipper lighter. She thanked me and smiled. She worked here and her name was Giusy.
“Mauro is in the restaurant back there.” She pointed with the cigarette between her index and middle fingers and blowing the smoke to one side.
No rain yet. Mauro was sitting inside waiting for me, looking relaxed. As I approached him with my hand held out, I quickly sized him up. Thinning hair, a ginger mustache, an oversize knot on his necktie, not much older than me, maybe a little over thirty. He smiled, with cheery and oddly watery blue eyes, and started to talk. Better that way, it would give me time to adjust and adapt to his demeanor. His eyes never wandering from mine, he asked a few questions, we made small talk about kitchens, our likes and dislikes. He informed me immediately that he was aware Michele and I already knew each other, which was a good start — it helps to know whom you’re working with. The season would be brutal because with the concerts, the restaurant would be fully booked every night. No days off.
Best to come clean, no fake résumés or t
rumped-up jobs. I told him the truth. I had no culinary qualifications, I had no hotel school diploma. After finishing art school, I enrolled in an anthropology course at the university and had only three more exams to go to finish. I’d worked as a dishwasher and at an appetizer station. I’d run an entrée and main course station in a down-at-the-heels dump in Trastevere, before being promoted to chef due more to the deranged temperament of my colleagues and bosses than to any ability of mine. However, the food that came out of that kitchen was undeniably worthy of mention. I’d worked as a salad prep, organized parties in Testaccio, and put on a dinner for 250 people on board the RadioRock riverboat. If given the choice, I would rather cook meat than pasta, and I could bake a mean loaf of bread.
“But are you prepared to work every day of the week, at least ten hours a day, for the next four months? This is a straight question and I want a straight answer.”
“Yes, absolutely. That’s what a chef’s work is all about.”
“Look, Leonardo, I don’t care about hotel schools or culinary courses. I’ve worked in the hospitality industry for twelve years and I’ve seen it all: aspiring chefs, kids wet behind the ears unable or unwilling to learn, starry-eyed thirty-year-olds lured by the fantasy of tinkering with caramelized shallots and white Alba truffles, all the losers and dreamers who go to cooking school, and the others, the ones who can truly cook, who find their way into kitchens and work their butts off.
“The most expensive diploma from the most prestigious school is nothing compared to hands-on experience in the kitchen. Good chefs, before mastering the techniques of low-temperature cooking and fancy vegetable shapes, have to be able to run with things, without breaking balls or developing delusions of grandeur. They have to respect the head chef, make themselves useful when necessary and, amid the pandemonium, enjoy themselves. If you’ve washed dishes for at least a year without cursing too much or getting yourself fired, then you might well become a decent chef. Do you know why I never hire Italian kitchen hands?”
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