Georgia’s Kitchen

by Jenny Nelson

  Georgia was silent. Never in her whole life could she remember her mother apologizing. Not when she accidentally flushed Goldie the Goldfish—the only pet Georgia was ever allowed—down the toilet, not when she forgot to attend the final round of the county spelling bee, in which Georgia took second place. Maybe, Georgia thought, her mother really did want her to be happy. Maybe, in her own odd way, she always had.

  “Okay, Mom. I accept your apology.”

  Hal removed his glasses and dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Come on, Dad, please don’t cry.”

  “I’m not crying, George, I have something in my eye. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.” He held out his hand and Georgia squeezed it.

  “Oh, and, Georgia,” Dorothy said, “there is one more thing.”

  “There always is. Go ahead, Mom.”

  “I’m thrilled you’re having incredible sex. Life is far too short to have anything but. Never, ever settle for anything even remotely less.”

  Vanessa sat dumbstruck, her water glass poised at her lips.

  “And that,” Hal said, laughter erupting from his belly, “is one of the reasons I love your mother.”

  The last of Dia’s customers ambled out and Claudia closed the door behind them. “Finalmente,” she said. “I thought they’d never leave.”

  Tonio turned on his iPod the second the door clicked shut and Italian pop music filled the restaurant. “Tonight we listen to my all-Italian playlist in honor of Georgia’s last night in Italy.”

  “Even I can’t argue with that,” said Effie. “As long as there’s no Paola e Chiara.”

  Bruno entered the dining room holding a tray of champagne flutes. “Since we kicked off the summer with Bellini at the friends-and-family party, I thought we’d end it the same way.” He walked around the room doling out drinks, and by the time he reached Georgia, only two were left. “Perfetto,” he said as they clinked glasses. “One for you and one for me.”

  The entire staff had turned out to wish Georgia buon viaggio, even Sergio, who had spent much of the summer tending to Claudia’s other restaurants. The only person missing was Gianni, who’d politely declined Effie’s invitation. According to Effie, Gianni had been nursing his broken heart in the arms of his beautiful blond cousin. Georgia pretended it didn’t matter, but of course it did.

  At midnight, Vanessa brought out a tiramisù cake covered in whipped-cream frosting that read WE’LL MISS YOU GEORGIA! in red and blue script.

  “Tiramisù?” Georgia said, turning to Claudia. “I’m shocked!”

  “It’s my latest craving,” she admitted sheepishly. “I blame the bambina.”

  Sergio passed out cordials of Brachetto, the sparkling dessert wine traditionally drunk at Tuscan weddings, and the perfect pairing with tiramisù, and when everyone held a glass, Claudia signaled Tonio to turn off the music.

  “Buona sera, everyone,” she called. “I will be brief, I promise, and then we can all get back to this delicious tiramisù.”

  “We’ve heard that before!” shouted Elena, who had been enjoying her Bellinis a bit too much.

  Claudia laughed. “Then let me get right to it. To our wonderful friend Georgia. Without you, this little trattoria would not be the big success that it is. Not only are you a talented and dedicated chef, but your presence has brightened our kitchen… though not so much in the early days.”

  Everyone laughed, especially Georgia. “Here, here!” yelled Bruno.

  “I wish you the best of luck with your restaurant in New York, with your life in New York”—Claudia fixed her eyes on Georgia’s—“and I have no doubt that you will be tremendously successful with both.”

  Blinking back tears, Georgia blew her a kiss.

  “And finally, you should know that there will always be a place for you here in San Casciano.” Claudia grinned. “But don’t come back until you’ve opened your own restaurant—or nearly died trying.”

  Amid a chorus of “To Georgia,” the two friends hugged. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for all you’ve done for me,” said Georgia.

  Claudia placed her hands on Georgia’s shoulders. “You’ll never need to.”

  Sergio walked up behind Claudia and rested his hands on her belly, which was still small enough to camouflage with the tent dresses she’d been living in all summer. “So you’re really doing it?” he asked Georgia. “You’re really going back to crazy New York City?”

  “I’m really going. Back to my crazy city.”

  Georgia ran up the hill in the hazy morning sunshine, past the sign for the Tomba Etrusca, nearing the spot where she had wiped out, taking a bite-size chunk out of her shoulder and a bigger bite out of her ego. The roosters had woken her this morning for the last time, and she didn’t want to waste a single minute.

  In a few hours Vanessa would drop her at Amerigo Vespucci airport, where she’d hop a plane for JFK. Her Italian adventure was over. She knew she’d see her friends again—Effie swore he’d come work for her as soon as she opened her own place, and Vanessa, Dia’s freshly minted sous-chef, promised she’d be there for the opening party. Even Bruno and Elena were planning a trip to the States, though they weren’t sure whether they’d hit New York or Miami. For some reason, Italians loved Florida.

  Before the road elbowed, Georgia slowed to a walk (she was no dummy), stopping as soon as she reached the olive grove. It looked much prettier from an upright position than it had while lying horizontally with a mouth full of dirt. She’d been practicing in the shower all summer, but this was the moment that mattered. She smacked her lips together a few times, pressed her upper teeth into her bottom lip, blew through her teeth, and let out a full-blown, Italian-style whistle. The capo della polizia himself couldn’t have done a better job.

  A car horn tooted behind her. With a triumphant smile, she turned around to wave it past, but it pulled up next to her, and when the window rolled down, Gianni stuck out his hand.

  “Georgia,” he said, taking off his sunglasses. “You’re leaving.”

  “In a few hours. What are you doing here?”

  “Claudia told me you’d be here.” He put the car in park and climbed out, squinting against the brightening sun. “I didn’t want you to leave without saying good-bye.”

  “I’m glad you found me.”

  A crow cawed overhead, casting a small shadow on the ground before screeching to a stop in a tree near them. Gianni glanced at the bird, then back at Georgia.

  “I’m sorry about the way things ended. I’m not used to hearing what I don’t want to hear, or not getting what I want.” He looked off into the olive grove. “I acted like a big bambino.”

  “Yeah, you sort of did.”

  “I still think you’re making a mistake, that the best thing for you is to go to the Lazzaro… with me. But I know you’re doing what you have to do.” He tapped his heart, summing up five minutes of conversation in one small gesture. “I can’t be mad at you for that.”

  “It wasn’t an easy decision, Gianni. And the hardest part about it was you.” She looked down at the ground. “Seeing how you believed in me helped me believe in myself—and not just as a chef. I owe you a lot, Gianni.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.” He picked up her hands and they stood like that for a moment without saying anything.

  “Oh,” he said, breaking the silence. “I almost forgot. I have something for you.” He walked around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door, picking up a bottle from the seat. “Drink it on opening night,” he said, handing it to her.

  She looked at the label. “A 1990 Solaia, just like the one we had—”

  “In Taormina.”

  “An Antinori masterpiece, if I remember correctly.”

  “You must have had a good teacher.”

  “I did. Thanks, Gianni. For this”—she held up the bottle—“and for everything else.” She kissed him good-bye, once on each cheek, and once more on his delicious lips.

 
; He got into the car and started the engine. “Arrivederci, Georgia, e buona fortuna.” The car rolled forward a few feet, then stopped. He leaned his head out the window. “Georgia?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t forget about your friends in San Casciano when you become a famous New York City restaurateur.”

  “Never. I’ll never forget any of you.” She grinned, and though it was not at all the moment for it, pushed her teeth against her lower lip and let loose one final earsplitting whistle.

  Georgia arrived back on home turf to zero fanfare. No WELCOME BACK signs, no waving friends, no fiancé bearing flowers. It was as if she’d returned from an overnight business trip to Cleveland or Detroit. This being New York, where no one picked up anyone at La Guardia, let alone Kennedy, she hadn’t expected much. But she’d e-mailed her details to Clem and Lo, just in case.

  The view from the duct-taped backseat of the yellow cab was just as it’d been when she left five months earlier: boxy buildings lining the Van Wyck, colorless sky overhead, standard-issue air freshener dangling from the rearview. SUVs holding two passengers, sometimes just a solitary driver, blasted by, their horns honking at the slightest hint of an improper lane change. Jangly Indian (or was it Pakistani?) music blared from the front seat, and Georgia felt her grip on San Casciano—her friends, the restaurant, the sights, the smells, the food—slipping. It was hard to believe that just yesterday Vanessa had escorted her to the airport, stuffing vacuum-packed bricks of pecorino and Piave into her suitcase.

  The cab deposited her at her apartment, and a doorman she didn’t recognize watched, refusing to budge from the entry vestibule, as she unloaded her bags onto the sidewalk.

  “You subletting from Mark and Tom?” he asked after she stumbled through the door in a rush of nylon, leather, and canvas bags, breathlessly announcing her apartment number.

  Georgia looked at him blankly, unable to remember the name of Clem’s brother or his buddy, who’d been her summer tenants. “No,” she said, flustered. “It’s my apartment. I was away, but now I’m back. For good, I think.” She smiled even though she didn’t feel like it.

  “Those guys were cool.” The doorman stuck out his pointy, goateed chin. “Too bad they’re gone.”

  “Yeah. I don’t suppose you want to help me with my bags?”

  A deliveryman balancing a pizza box on one hand arrived at the door. The doorman eyed the piece of paper taped to the top of the box, then looked at Georgia’s bags. “Sorry. Gotta buzz 15D and tell them their food is here.” He shrugged and turned his back on her, leaving her to struggle to the elevator alone.

  The eighth floor smelled like a dive bar, pre-smoking-ban. A cloud of wispy smoke hung in the air, and the wallpaper, a nondescript stripe installed just before she left for Italy, had already yellowed. Taking her first wary step back into her New York life, she turned the key in the lock, holding her breath.

  The apartment was spotless. Clem must have insisted her brother hire a cleaning lady, since college boys weren’t exactly famous for their scouring prowess. She dumped her bags in the living room and toured her apartment like a prospective buyer, checking out the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom, at last coming to rest in front of the picture window. A tugboat sputtered up the East River, passing under the Queensboro Bridge, where the lights had flickered on for the evening. She was home.

  A sleek-haired girl chomped into her cell phone, cupping her hand over her mouth, while two chairs down, a pudgy man with silvery pouches under each eye, and a knit cap pulled down to the tops of unruly gray eyebrows, glared at her.

  “I think cell phones should be banned from all restaurants, don’t you?” the man said loudly, turning to Georgia, the third and final diner sharing Pain Quotidien’s communal table that mid-October afternoon.

  She had carefully chosen her seat, far enough away so that she wouldn’t be forced into conversation with anyone, yet off the main traffic loop that ran through the restaurant to avoid being bonked on the head by a laptop or a lapdog. She’d seen it happen.

  She offered a noncommittal shrug before turning back to the pocket-size notebook on the table in front of her. On a fresh sheet of paper she’d written the words Pros and Cons. A list. She was still master of The List.

  “What does this mean?” The man mimicked Georgia’s gesture, except that his lips turned into a sneer.

  She sighed. “It means I don’t really care about it right now, okay?”

  “Fine.” He stuck his fork into the seaweed salad on his plate, then jabbed it into his mouth. A string of hijiki clung to the corner of his lips, and ginger dressing dripped down his chin. Georgia looked away.

  “Here ya go, dear.” The server, a freckle-faced boy who didn’t look a day over twenty-two and was way too young to call anyone dear, set down a sandwich and a mug of green tea on the table in front of her. Since returning from Italy she’d had a hard time stomaching American coffee, agreeing with the Italians that more often than not it was burnt, bitter, or bland. Her head raged from the lack of caffeine; green tea was no match for her four-espresso-a-day habit. The cell-phone hater eyeballed Georgia’s food, then quickly buried his head back in his own.

  “Thanks,” Georgia said, taking a bite of the fig-and-ricotta sandwich.

  She edged the plate aside and picked up her pen, a graceful Elsa Peretti that was, of course, a gift from Glenn. After endless vacillating, she’d concluded that—engagement ring excluded—it was okay to keep the gifts Glenn had given her in their relationship. With seven years’ worth of birthdays, Valentine’s Days, Christmases, and the odd guilt-induced “just because” gift under her belt, the bounty was impressive. A few days earlier she’d collected every last bag, belt, or boot he’d gifted her, making a pile in the center of her living room. Blood presents, Clem had scoffed, eyeing a buttery Balenciaga bag. Lo was quick to point out that if Georgia ever fell on hard times, she could sell off the booty at Michael’s, the consignment store where Lo unloaded her wardrobe at the end of each season. For all her griping about her upper-crustiness, Lo was as dedicated a shopper as any Park Avenue princess.

  The Tuscan Oven, Georgia wrote above Pros and Cons, drawing a line smack down the center of the page. Her only chance to draw a paycheck in the foreseeable future. Her hand automatically slid to the column on the right; it was always easier to start with cons.

  1. Humiliating

  2. Location, location, location

  3. What if someone I know eats there?

  4. What if Glenn hears I work there?

  5. What if Marco hears I work there?

  6. Will people think I work at the Olive Garden?

  She crossed out numbers 3, 4, and 5, rationalizing that they really belonged to number one: humiliating. And 6 was just petty, so she slashed a line through that too. That left her with a respectable two cons. On to the pros.

  1. It’s a job

  2. It pays

  And that, she thought, was all there was to it. After nearly two weeks of making calls, talking to everyone she knew, even, mortifyingly, responding to a couple postings on Craigslist, she needed cash. Though all were quick to congratulate her on the Taste article, to ooh and aah as she regaled them with tales of Tuscany, to ask about the famous Claudia Cavalli, and then, finally, to raise an eyebrow and whisper, so tell us what really happened at Marco, as if they were her closest confidant, no one offered up a job. They’d either just hired someone or were scaling back, going in a different direction, didn’t have the right job, the money, the need, the fill in the blank. With her bank account dwindling as fast as her confidence, she actually considered calling up Gianni and telling him she wanted the job at the Lazzaro after all. She also considered moving back in with her folks. For a nanosecond.

  Enter Effie. Good old Effie, who even a whole ocean away still managed to come to her rescue. His uncle Aldo, a big-time businessman in Bari, had a grade-school pal who owned a restaurant in New York. A couple times a year the guy jet-setted into the city and l
iked to have a place where he could entertain his lady friends and throw his name around. If she was interested, Uncle Aldo would hook it up. She was interested.

  The Tuscan Oven, Georgia discovered, was a bi-level tourist trap at Rockefeller Center where murals of the Italian countryside covered the walls, shiny chandeliers dripped with clusters of faux-Murano grapes and olives, and Adam, Eve, and various fig-leaf-covered people frolicked with Bacchus across the dining room’s domed ceiling. When Georgia arrived for her interview with Daniel, the GM, he had only one question: when would she like to start? Oh, and could she please name the shifts she’d prefer. Clearly, Uncle Aldo had clout.

  “Buon giorno, Georgia!” Clem strode into Pain Quotidien, breezing by the hostess and plunking down her bag on a chair between Georgia and the cell-phone hater. Her ginger hair swished at her shoulders and a fringe of bangs fell into her eyes. She wore maroon leggings, a slouchy sweater, and a pair of tall riding boots, which, she’d tell anyone who’d listen, she was wearing way before they became chic. She bent down and kissed Georgia’s cheek. “I’m still not used to having you back. I can’t believe we get to meet for coffee again.” She frowned at Georgia’s green tea. “C’mon, George. You can’t have a coffee date with tea, especially that naked green stuff.”

  “Get over it, Clem.” Georgia smiled. Coffee dates with Clem and Lo and extended walks with Sally were the biggest things going on in her life.

  “Oh, pardon me. I forgot that you’re now a coffee connoisseur.” Clem turned to the server. “Excuse me? Large pot of American coffee, please. And cream, if you have it. Doesn’t that just turn your tummy, Georgia?”

  “Actually, it kinda does.” She sipped her tea.

  “What’s this about?” Clem grabbed the notebook. “The Tuscan Oven? You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Not kidding.”

  “Georgia, are you insane? Four words, my friend: Rockefeller. Center. Holidays. Upcoming. Need I say more?”