Georgia’s Kitchen

by Jenny Nelson

  “Ugh. You sound like my mother. No, I don’t have to go to Italy. I want to go to Italy. It’s mecca for chefs. The food, the wine—”

  “The men,” Clem pointed out.

  “But what about us?” Lo said. “What are we going to do without you, George? We’re a trio. We’re—”

  “Please don’t say it,” Clem said. “Please.”

  “The three musketeers!” Lo said, shooting Clem a dirty look. “We are.”

  “No,” Clem said. “We’re not. We are so not the three musketeers.”

  The elevator dinged and a pert girl with shiny hair and knee-high boots got off, dragging a guy behind her. She skipped over to a George Nelson marshmallow sofa, above which arched an Arco lamp. The guy shuffled along behind her, his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes glued to the floor. Most guys didn’t have the shopping gene. Despite all his faults, Glenn could shop.

  “I’ll be back in a few months. You won’t even notice I’m gone,” Georgia said, turning back to her friends. “But between you guys and Sally—”

  “I still can’t believe you’re letting Glenn take Sally,” Clem said.

  “I didn’t hear you volunteering for the job, Clem, dog-sitter extraordinaire and alleged best friend.”

  “If you were west of Third I might have considered it,” she said. “Seriously, if you hadn’t sublet your apartment to my brother, I would have. You know I would have.”

  Before Georgia had to even contemplate a Craigslist posting for her sublet, Clem offered up her brother as the perfect candidate. He and his buddy had just graduated college and wanted to relocate their rockabilly band to the Big Apple, where they were sure they’d strike it big. After listening to their demo, Georgia was less sure, but they had jobs that would cover the rent, and that was all she cared about.

  “I appreciate it, Clem. But Sally loves Glenn. And he loves her too. It’ll be fine.”

  Glenn was due to pick up Sally first thing in the morning, just hours before a car service would whisk Georgia to JFK, final destination Amerigo Vespucci airport, Florence, Italy. She’d already planned not to be there when he arrived and would instead be enjoying a buttered bagel, a weak cup of coffee, and the New York Times at Silver Star diner, a few blocks from her apartment. There was no way she could watch him walk out that door again, especially with her best friend leashed to his side. Besides, she had already said everything she wanted to say to him; her brand-new ballistic-nylon suitcase was the only baggage she planned to bring with her to San Casciano.

  “Italy is so far away,” Lo said. “What if you fall in love with an Italian count and never come back?”

  “Or maybe she won’t fall in love at all,” Clem said. “Get a taste of how the single half live for a change.”

  “All I’m doing is following your advice. I’m trying on the jeans.” Georgia rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  “But why go all the way across the globe when everyone knows Barneys has the best selection in the world?” The earnest expression on Lo’s face almost made Georgia laugh.

  “Because I’m looking for something a little different.” And though Georgia didn’t know exactly what it was, she thought that maybe, just maybe, she could find it in Italy.

  Scusi, signora. Vorrei un bicchiere di prosecco e tre tartufati per favore.” Georgia sat at a small table at Procacci, a fashionable food store and café on via Tornabuoni, Florence’s equivalent of Madison Avenue.

  The Lilliputian store’s two other tables were occupied by a chic mother-daughter duo and a handsome gray-haired couple in crisp button-downs, pressed jeans, and driving mocs, the unisex uniform of Florence’s moneyed set. Before Georgia could blink, the waitress placed a flute on a scalloped-edged coaster.

  “Grazie,” Georgia said, smiling broadly. She’d been smiling since her arrival in Italy a few days earlier, perma-grinning like a blissed-out hippie.

  And why not? The sun was shining, the air was downright balmy. Even her hair looked good. She felt so cheerful it was almost spooky. If she were the paranoid sort, she’d be looking over her shoulder for Marco or Mercedes or her mother to pop out from behind some marble statue and ship her back to the half-fork, zero-ring reality she’d left behind in New York. Fortunately, she wasn’t. America and all of its lousy M-people were far, far away. Maybe karma really was a boomerang, like that stupid bumper sticker said, and her happiness was simply payback for a really, really bad week.

  Whatever it was, she’d take it, along with her third mouthwateringly delectable truffle-spread mini-brioche. The waitress placed an artfully arranged cheese plate before the mother and daughter next to her, and they gleefully rubbed their hands together before digging in to a runny Robiola. Tempted though Georgia was to order a few selections, she didn’t. She had too much money invested in her jean collection to start eating cheese plates for one on day two in Italy.

  “Qualcos’altro?” The waitress shifted her attention to Georgia.

  “Sì, un caffè macchiato,” Georgia said, tearing her eyes from the oozing cheese. A police car whizzed by, its two-note siren sounding just like the ones in the classic movie Roman Holiday. Italians seemed to have the uncanny sense to not fix what wasn’t broken.

  The elementary school around the corner had let out for the afternoon, and young girls wearing pleated skirts and kneesocks charged down the street in groups of four and five. It was early enough in the tourist season that the streets still belonged to the Florentines. In a couple weeks the deluge would begin and the city’s bars, cafés, churches, museums, and restaurants would be clogged with camera-wielding Americans, Germans, and Japanese. But for now the city was at rest, contented. Shopkeepers smiled, street sweepers whistled, even the carabinieri joked with their partners, tipping their caps to the old ladies walking the streets in pairs, their arms linked.

  The waitress placed the espresso and a silver tray holding the check on the table. “Faccia con comodo.”

  Georgia unsnapped her wallet and counted out several crisp euro bills. She’d taken out a couple hundred from the airport ATM, figuring it was enough to get her through the first few days but not enough to indulge her inner shopper, who was dying for a go at the Florentine shops. If Lo were here, she’d be up to her eyebrows in black pants and anything else that suited her fancy. Georgia rested a moment longer, drinking in Procacci’s old-world elegance and watching the parade of smartly dressed Italians pass by. Then she placed the bills on the tray and walked outside to join them.

  The Hotel Leo was located on viale Michelangelo, a winding road rich with grand villas that culminated in the Piazzale Michelangelo and one of the best views of Florence. Georgia had stumbled upon the hotel ten years earlier when she interned at Claudia’s first restaurant and had returned a couple times since on vacation. Not much had changed since that first visit. Yellowing black-and-white photos of the Ponte Vecchio, the Uffizi, and other landmarks graced the walls, thready Persian carpets covered scuffed marble floors. Gabri and Cesca, the brother-and-sister owners, were from an old Florentine family and could trace their lineage back to the Medici—the poorer side, they always said, as if there were one. Family heirlooms, including swords and antique maps, decorated the hotel, giving it a slightly medieval-castle vibe. The Hotel Leo clientele fell into two distinct camps: tour groups and independent-minded (read: budget) travelers, all trying to find their very own room with a view.

  On Georgia’s first visit Gabri and Cesca took her under their collective wing, bringing her to swank palazzo parties, showing her where to get handmade paper and almond hand cream, teaching her Florentine slang over card games of scopa, the Italian version of spades. Though this was the first time she’d been back in years, the hotel and its small staff were as familiar as an old cardigan.

  Mickey, who moonlighted as an opera singer when he wasn’t manning the front desk, handed her the key to room 18 as she entered the lobby. Far from the street, with a queen-size bed and an actual bathtub, instead of the u
sual sliver of a shower, it was the best of the single rooms.

  “Buon giorno, Mickey. Any messages?”

  “No, signora, no messages.” Mickey smiled regretfully, his lips drooping like those of a sad clown, and Georgia realized Gabri and Cesca must have filled him in on her story. “Have a seat, and I’ll make you an aperitivo.” He gestured to the lobby, where a young English couple drank red wine and flipped through a guidebook, discussing where to have dinner, between slurpy kisses.

  Georgia sat down on the silk love seat directly across from them and offered a hopeful smile, eager for a little native-English-speaker chitchat. When they didn’t look up, she cleared her throat. Nothing. Soon, the guy was running his hands through the girl’s feathery blond hair, and Georgia was thumbing through a year-old Vogue Italia.

  “Campari and soda, splash of orange,” Mickey said, handing her a drink. “And delicious olives my mama cures herself.” Though approaching forty and recently married, Mickey was an Italian mama’s boy through and through. He placed a small bowl on the coffee table. “Gabri and Cesca want you to be their guest for dinner. I reserved at Benci for eight o’clock.”

  Osteria de’ Benci was a casual and sometimes raucous trattoria run by the “Benci boys,” a group of young, handsome guys who served tasty regional fare to a mixed crowd of locals and tourists. Meals at Benci were inevitably followed by house-made limoncello, a highly alcoholic concoction that had been known to sideline more than a few overzealous American tourists.

  “Perfect,” she said. Dinner with those two was always a boisterous affair, since they seemed to know just about everyone in Florence, locals and expats alike.

  Georgia popped a half dozen of the briny olives into her mouth without even thinking, lining up the pits on her cocktail napkin. The English couple grew more amorous with each slug of their Chianti, and she wished she’d chosen to sit across the room; pretending not to notice their tongue twists was impossible from her front-row seat. The girl whispered something in her boyfriend’s ear, and he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her. Their guidebook fell to the ground, where it sat, splayed, until she broke from his embrace and, giggling, picked it up. They kissed again; this time for what seemed like a whole afternoon. Georgia set down her nearly full drink and stood. If she hadn’t before recognized how single, how sola, she really was, there was no avoiding it with these two.

  “Tell Gabri I’ll meet them down here at quarter of,” she called over her shoulder to Mickey.

  Though still deeply entangled, the couple broke their lip-lock and the girl made a halfhearted attempt to fix herself, smoothing her yellow hair and running a finger over each incongruously dark eyebrow. Georgia considered suggesting La Farfalla—she could probably even get them a last-minute reservation—but didn’t. They were in love; food was unimportant. Even she could understand that. They’d likely opt for the lovers’ diet of pizza margherita, a glass or two of Montepulciano, and a moonlit stroll to Vivoli, the city’s best gelateria, followed by a leisurely walk back to the hotel, where they’d make mad love until morning.

  Georgia and Glenn had once passed a similar evening at the Hotel Leo. That day they’d witnessed the wedding of American friends in a sprawling garden overlooking the Duomo. The air was heady with young love and promise, and never was Georgia more certain that Glenn was the man she wanted to spend her life with. Back at the hotel, they turned down Gabri’s offer of a nightcap and rushed to their room, unbuttoning, unzipping, and diving into bed. The sex was fun and free, passionate and tender, the kind that happens when everything magically aligns and both partners are equally crazy about each other. After, they lay in bed drinking cans of aranciata from the minibar, laughing about nothing in the dazed and dopey afterglow.

  How, Georgia wondered, as she trudged up the marble staircase to her room, had they lost it? How had they gone from ripping off each other’s clothes to “forgetting” to have sex? The same way they’d gone from engaged to broken up: a slow but steady spiral that involved jobs and lives and indiscretions and an empty bindle of blow.

  “Scusi, signora,” Mickey said, running up the stairs behind her two at a time. “A phone call for you. You take here?” He pointed to the guest phone at the bottom of the stairs. “Your mama and papa.”

  “Now? They’re on the phone now?”

  “Sì, now.” He gestured to the phone again, more urgently this time.

  She turned around to walk back down, then paused. “I’ll call them back,” she decided out loud. “Mickey, can you tell them I’m not here? That I just left?”

  As promised, she’d called to let them know she’d arrived safely, and neither had been home. She didn’t bother calling their cells since they never answered and she wasn’t eager to talk to them anyway. While Dorothy’s “Glenn-is-so-wonderful” shtick made her gag, it was her comments about Georgia’s career that still bugged her.

  Mickey looked shocked. He had obviously never lied to his mama and papa, and certainly not when they were calling from another continent. “Okay, signora,” he said doubtfully.

  “Thanks, Mickey. It’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise.” Georgia finished climbing the stairs and unlocked the door to room 18. The bed had been turned down, and she slipped off her flats, unbuttoned her jeans, and slid in between the sheets for a nap.

  “You have to try this,” Gabri said, pushing his zuppa inglese to Georgia and offering her a fresh spoon.

  “I’m so stuffed I couldn’t possibly.” She leaned back and exhaled loudly while rubbing her belly. “But okay.”

  Georgia and Gabri were seated at a large round table at the bustling Osteria de’ Benci with Cesca and Oscar, a boyhood friend of Gabri’s who was something of an aristocrat, or so he had said at least a dozen times. Gabri had apologized in advance for the last-minute addition, explaining that Oscar was in from Milan and though he was a bit of a cazzo Gabri felt obliged to invite him. Georgia had a hard time keeping straight whether he was a Ferragamo or an Agnelli, neither, or possibly even both—and a harder time pretending she actually cared. As far as she could tell, he wasn’t interested in the family business, be it shoes or cars, and instead concentrated on being a professional American-basher who dabbled in high-stakes poker.

  “You Americans,” Oscar said, swatting the air with the back of his hand. “You always eat too much.”

  Gabri dropped his spoon. “Oscar,” he said sharply.

  “What? At least she’s not fat.” Oscar cocked his head and eyeballed Georgia. “Not yet, anyway.”

  Earlier in the dinner, around the time she had been enjoying a magnificent ravioli ai broccoli di rapa, Georgia felt a hand on her knee. When it began crawling slowly upward, she flicked it with as much force as she could muster, hoping to hit a supersensitive nail bed. Bingo. Oscar’s bloodshot eyes went wide and he bit his lip and glared at her. Since then, he’d grown more obnoxious with each sip of his wine.

  “What did you say, Oscar?” Georgia asked, swatting the air as he had just done. “I’ve been having a hard time understanding you all night.” She smiled through her lying teeth. His English was flawless.

  “I went to boarding school in England.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked down his aquiline nose at her. “My English is perfect.”

  She cupped her hand around her ear. “You went snowboarding in England? And your schussing is perfect? Interesting. I never think of England as big ski country.”

  Gabri and Cesca snickered. Sitting next to each other, they looked like identical twins. The only obvious difference was Cesca’s black hair, which hung down her back in loose waves, and Gabri’s, cropped close to his head. Otherwise, they shared the same soaring cheekbones, bee-stung lips, and creamy complexions of the genetically blessed. Though Georgia had never met their parents, she imagined they must look like Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni.

  Oscar threw up his hands. “This girl will never understand me. What can I expect from an American?”

  “It’s better n
ot to expect much,” Cesca said. “That way you won’t be disappointed.”

  A slight man with a pom-pom of gray hair and a lopsided gait approached the table. “Georgia!” he boomed in a deep voice usually associated with larger men. “So it’s true, eh? We heard rumors you’d be heading our way, and here you are. Wonderful to see you again.”

  Georgia stood and kissed the man’s ruddy cheeks. “Vincenzo. It’s great to see you. And, Katherine, you too.” She turned to Vincenzo’s wife, a tall Englishwoman with a pointy, foxlike face and the slightly concave posture of a woman who’d spent the last ten years married to a shorter man. Together they owned several restaurants in Florence, and both were close friends of Claudia’s. Georgia had met them when she interned at La Farfalla. As Grammy would say, they were good eggs.

  Georgia was about to introduce them to the rest of the party, but they already knew everyone except Oscar, who grunted hello.

  “Drinking the good stuff, I see.” Vincenzo picked up the empty bottle of wine in the center of the table and whistled through his teeth, a sound Georgia would forever link with Italy, and which she had never been able to master despite trying until she was—literally—blue in the face. She swore this would be the trip.

  “Sì, too much,” Gabri said, hanging his head forward in mock-drunkenness.

  Oscar never traveled without a trove of wine because, in his words, “most of what these places serve is shit.” Much as she disliked him, Georgia had no qualms drinking his sublime Serpico, and neither had anyone else. Things had grown slightly fuzzy at the first scrumptious bite of panna cotta, and she’d been gulping Pellegrino since.

  “So, Georgia, we hear you’ll be working with Claudia in San Casciano?” Katherine asked.

  “Yup, I’m going there in a few days. I can’t wait.”

  “I’ll bet. Especially after all that business in New York,” Katherine said.