by Eric Flint
"Come on, Vince." Tim rolled his eyes. "We've been though here before. Didn't you notice anything then?"
Vince made a face. "Okay, okay. You got me. I just never notice things like that. I was looking at buildings and people. I mean, I saw they were selling food. I just never noticed what kind. I guess that makes me a lousy Italian. Mom would be in seventh heaven here. It's really funny. Up-time I always wanted to visit Italy. But now that I'm here, it's
dangerous and dirty and it really, really stinks."
"Amen to that," Tim said. "Just trust me. I noticed the food. Everything we need is here, if it isn't . . . well, then we can make do with what we do have. Where there's a will, there's a way. What do you say, partner?"
"You know Phil doesn't want us making any waves. The political situation here is dangerous."
"I guess that's why he wants us wearing civilian clothes outside the compound on our own time." Tim poured the last of the wine in the glasses. "We can be careful. What do you say?"
" I say, I've always wanted to own a pizza joint."
* * *
It took them about twenty minutes to find the restaurant the vendor told Tim about. Gillmarino By The Sea it was called, and it wasn't too far from the villa where they were staying. They stopped for a moment before getting too close and took a look at it. It wasn't that large. And, well, Tim had to admit that it was a little run down. But there was some
space in front that could have some tables put out in it. A vision of a picture he'd seen bubbled to the surface of his mind. Tables on a patio. Wrought iron chairs and tables. Blue umbrellas with the word "Cinzano" emblazoned on them. Yeah. This could work for that. Probably eight tables would fit out front. Maybe a couple of benches. Yeah.
The place wasn't too crowded and getting a table was fast. The first thing they ordered was the best wine they served. When the waiter brought them the bottle and two glasses, they ordered a pizza with the works.
The waiter just looked at them as though they asked for something strange. Tim tried to explain to him what they wanted in his limited Italian and still that look remained. After several minutes, the waiter snapped his fingers and said, " Ah! Neapolitan pie."
"Whatever you call it. Yes, yes." Tim nodded vigorously. "We want the works."
The waiter bowed and headed for the kitchen. Twenty minutes later he came back and placed a large round plate on the table. He stood there smiling.
Vince and Tim looked at what he brought them and they both were speechless. On the plate was a round of cooked dough maybe seven inches in diameter. It had some sliced tomatoes, some green leaves that maybe were a herb of some kind and very little cheese. They looked at each other and then at the still smiling waiter.
"This isn't a pizza." Vince said. "It sort of looks like maybe a poor example or . . . or . . ."
"It looks like something a four year old would try to do," Tim piped in. "Is this your specialty? Can we talk with the manager for a few minutes?"
"Yeah. We don't mean any disrespect to your restaurant, but we would like to show you how to make a pizza from our time," Vince said.
"This may be your best." Tim pointed to the pie. "But we can make it even better."
The waiter left with a concerned look on his face. He returned with a short, bald man who introduced himself as one of the owners of the place.
* * *
Marco felt a little worried about these up-timers and hoped there wouldn't be any problems with them. He knew he and his family couldn't afford to lose any more business or they would lose the restaurant and everything else. He hoped that these two men wouldn't be his downfall. They tried to serve the best food they could but sometimes that wasn't
always easy. The Spanish had placed some pretty high taxes on them—not to mention that they always required the best food for themselves. That left very little for Marco and his people to choose from. He hoped that what the waiter told him was true, that these men could help him. He could use a little bit of luck right now.
"You gentlemen do not like the pie?" he asked, wringing his hands nervously. "This is the best in the house. We only use the best in such a noble dish. We can make you something else to your liking. We wish . . . to . . . "
Tim held his hand up to stop the chatter. "We want to help you. Of course, ourselves, as well. What's your name?"
"I am Marco. My family and I own this little place. You wish to help me in some way? May I join you at your table?"
"Please. Join us and have a drink of this excellent wine." Vince motioned towards the empty seat and asked the waiter to bring another glass. "You probably know just from looking at us that we're what people call up-timers. One of the many things we miss from our time is a really good pizza. You call it Neapolitan pie here, but in our time it was called pizza. What you have here," he pointed to the plate, "is the beginning of a pizza."
"You have tomatoes which is the first thing to start the pizza sauce." Tim took over. "You have everything here to make a really great pizza. I've seen it in the markets. We want to show you how it's done. We'll teach you how to do it and in return we ask to be given a small part of your profits."
"You wish to be paid?" asked Marco. "We have no money to give out."
"No, no." Tim shook his head. "You only pay us once the pizza's start selling hand over fist. okay?"
"What do you do with hand and fist?" Marco asked with a puzzled look on his face. "We only cook food here, no hands or fists." Marco wasn't entirely sure these were sane. What did hands and fists have to do with pizza, what ever pizza might be?
"Listen, Marco. That's just a old saying from our time," Vince said. "It just means making more money than you can imagine."
"You wish to help us do that?" Marco asked, looking at them strangely. He stood up. "What is really going on here? We do not want any trouble. We only want to live peacefully with everyone. We start no trouble."
"Neither do we want trouble." Tim motioned for him to sit back down and he poured him some more wine. "We want a pizza like the ones we remember. And we want to share with the people of Naples the great taste of a truly excellent Neapolitan pie." Tim flapped his hand at the Neapolitan pie on the table. "Yeah. Keep that one. No big deal. But the ones we teach you to make can be called pizza. We'll show you how you can put anything on these pies as long as you have the crust, the sauce and the cheese."
"You will become world famous for your pies and become rich while doing it," Vince pronounced solemnly.
Marco looked at Vince and stated. "You are so sure of this?"
"You bet." Vince grinned. "You'll get rich. I'm willing to bet on it. But my friend and I, we only wish to be comfortable in our old age." He asked the waiter to bring another bottle of wine. Then he took a piece of the pie and tasted it. "This is okay. Not bad at all. But we can make it better. Even great. What do you say?"
"I must first talk with my brothers. We will let you know tomorrow if we wish to get rich as you say."
"Fair enough," said Tim.
* * *
Bright and early the next morning Vince and Tim made their way to Gillmarino's. Marco and his two brothers, Anthony and Michael, met them there. They all sat down and Tim did all the talking this time. Last night, before they went to bed, he and Vince wrote down everything they could remember about making pizza. They'd argued about what their mothers put into their pizza sauces for a while. Some people liked oregano more than others. They'd written an outline of what went on the pizza and how long it was cooked. Tim was ready for any questions they had. After about twenty minutes of talking, the brothers excused themselves and went behind the bar and talk over what to do.
"Five bucks says they don't go for it," Vince said.
"My father always told me to only bet on sure things." Tim answered. "You're going to lose. Again." He cast a look over at the brothers. They were all talking rapidly and waving their hands in the air.
Ten minutes later the brothers rejoined them at the table. It was Marco who spoke
first. "You will teach us how it is done. If it is true what you say, about how it will be received, then we will give you five percent of the intake."
"No, twenty percent," Tim said.
Finally they settled on ten percent for four months only. Vince held out one more requirement. Tim and Vince could eat there for free or no deal. After all, the recipe couldn't be kept secret for very long.
"That's fair." Tim shot a look at Vince to keep quiet and let him handle this. "Shall we get started, say day after tomorrow? It will take a few days to get everything set up and tried out and put just right."
* * *
Lucky this was their day off. Vince and Tim spent all day and half the evening making things. They cut up different vegetables and herbs they bought on their way to the restaurant. Tim showed the brothers and the cooks how to cut up the tomatoes and cook them and smash them as they started stewing. He added sage, rosemary, basil and thyme to season the sauce. They didn't have a grater, so Tim showed them how to cut up the cheeses more finely. He even showed them that adding a little olive oil to the dough made a crispier crust.
Vince helped the one brother, Michael, figure out how they'd advertise the new product to the people and how much to charge for each one. It all depended on what was on the pizza. He suggested that they should give out some samples; small pieces, to some of the people who hung around and explained that this would be free advertisement for them.
Michael wasn't real sure about that and it took a good bit of convincing him. "We don't gotta do it every day," Vince said. "Just the first few. Maybe three days? Give the word a chance to spread around." Michael eventually agreed.
By the time Tim and Vince headed back to the villa, they were dog-tired and felt ready to fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows. Hopefully by the time they got off work tomorrow and went to Gillmarino's, the place would be packed. Vince was a little uneasy about the whole thing. If he'd been able to, he'd have taken a few days leave, instead of letting the Gillmarino brothers do it alone.
"Good grief," Tim said, noticing the worried look on Vince's face. "Everything is going to be fine. Who doesn't like real pizza?" Tim was sure everything would be fine.
Vince hoped he was right. They wished each other a good nights sleep and then went to their own rooms.
Vince settled back into his pillows. They were his own pillows, brought from home in his baggage. He never could sleep on strange pillows. You'd think it was Christmas Eve he thought. He was trying to go to sleep so Santa Claus would come. But just like it did for a little kid, the night just dragged on.
The next day was just as bad. Tim and Vince waited anxiously until it was five o'clock and quitting time.
* * *
Finally their relief came. They hurried off towards Gillmarino's. Vince hoped that there was a full restaurant and the pizzas were a success.
Standing across from the restaurant, they both felt a little down. It seemed like only a few more people were going in or coming out. "Shit," Vince muttered. He'd really hoped to see a long line of hungry people. Not so, not today. "Maybe tomorrow." He could still hope.
"From the look on your face, old buddy, you're disappointed." Tim patted him on the back. "This is only the first day, guy. Remember the old saying, 'Rome wasn't built in a day.' So cheer up."
"Duh... we're not in Rome," Vince said. He looked at the few people in line. "I need a drink." He took off across the street, heading for the restaurant.
* * *
The inside of the restaurant was dim. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust. Finally, Tim spotted an empty table. He whistled. One of the waiters looked up and Tim signaled for a bottle of wine.
Funny Vince thought. Tim is acting as Italian as the Italians, what with all that arm waving. Nevertheless, it worked. The waiter headed for their table with a bottle and three glasses, just as Marco came out from the kitchen and headed toward them.
"How's business, Marco?" asked Tim.
"Slow, but not really slow." Marco poured three glasses of wine. "We did as you told us to do. We started giving out the free samples this morning, yes, yes. They went fast. Hungry people all around, but the majority, they really liked it."
"So the advertising went well, " Vince said. "You got a lot out then?"
"Oh yes, very many. Why, we even sold quite a few in the last hour."
"You don't say." Tim grinned. "We told ya."
Marco ignored him. "Anthony is drawing the menu just like you said, so people can see what comes on the different pizzas, It's good that one of us can draw pictures. You know, with these menus, anyone can order food without having to learn our language. We will get new foreign customers."
"Yes. That would benefit everyone," Tim said. "But Vince was really hoping for a packed house today. Yes, I know, I know, it takes time to get the taste out to the people."
"Mr. Vince." Marco patted him on the shoulder. "This is the first day. I feel within my heart that things will soon improve. You must have faith that this pizza will be received with great hunger soon. How about a pizza with the works?"
Mouths watering, Tim and Vince nodded. "Yes," Vince said. "And another bottle of wine."
* * *
Over the next three days Tim and Vince kept track. Each time they went to Gillmarino's they noticed a little more of a crowd. Quite a few people were ordering; but not a few were standing around hoping for a free handout. Some of the customers seemed to be tearing their pizzas apart and looking really close at the items before they slapped it back together and ate it. This made Vince laugh. Tim told Vince as long as they paid for it, they could wear it like a hat for all he cared.
Anthony and Marco joined them at what had now become their usual table. "My friends." Anthony shook their hands. "Each day becomes better, as does our making of the pizzas."
"As you can see, pizzas are becoming quite popular," chimed in Marco. "Soon we will be selling them faster than they can be made."
"If you say so," said Vince.
Tim looked at Vince and then the people in the room. "How about a cheese pizza and a bottle of wine?"
* * *
The next day, after work, Tim and Vince headed straight for Gillmarino's. As they rounded the corner to the street the restaurant was on, they noticed a huge line of people waiting to get into Gillmarino's. Both their jaws dropped. With pounding hearts they raced
up to the front door and saw Michael directing the flow of people. He saw them and his face lit up with the biggest grin and he hugged them both. He was speaking so fast they didn't understand a word he was saying. But from the looks of the packed place they understood his excitement.
They squeezed their way up to the kitchen area and saw pizzas in all stages. Some dough being rolled out, some getting sauce and toppings, some were coming out of the fire and more going in. Everywhere they looked they saw pizzas. Marco came up to them and also gave them a hug.
"Look at this place. Never has this place seen so many at one time. They are a big success as you said they would be. Once the word got out, people had to come and see and try."
They knew people would love them, but never this much. Even Tim and Vince were struck speechless.
"We even had a fight or two with people wanting to get one first." Marco beamed proudly. "We only hope this will continue this desire to have a pizza your way. We all are going to be rich. Thank you both. You have saved my family from ruin. You deserve everything you get and you will be getting your percentage tonight. Now would you like a pizza with the works?"
They both nodded yes and turned to look for a table.
"Now you can see why I settled on ten percent," Tim said. "We shouldn't get greedy, you know. And let's just say this is only the beginning of things to come."
"Did you bring your fishing pole with you?" Vince asked.
"My fishing pole?" Tim gave him a puzzled look.
"I'm getting hungry for a McDonald's fish sandwich." Vince smiled and gave him a wink.
Seasons
By Mark H. Huston
May, 1631
The old Buick slowly made its way through the dark countryside, headed away from the high school. The couple inside was elderly, cautious, and tentative on the road. It had been daylight when the meeting at the high school started, now it was well after eleven PM. John's eyes were not what they used to be. He'd had cataract surgery a couple of years ago. It had helped, but seventy-eight-year-old eyes were still seventy-eight-year-old eyes.
He just had to take it easy, and make sure he didn't get in an accident. Before last Saturday an accident might have meant losing the drivers license. That would have been a loss of the freedom they enjoyed; living on their own land, tending the garden, tending the house. It would have meant moving into an assisted living apartment that their daughter had shown them in Wheeling. But that was before last Sunday, when what folks were calling the Ring of Fire came to Grantville, West Virginia.