by Jenny Nelson
“No one will hire me, and my rent doesn’t take care of itself. I need a job.”
“But I thought you were finally going to make your move, finally do it.” Clem swigged a sip of coffee and wrinkled her nose. “This coffee does taste sort of crappy.”
“Do what?” Lo slid into the seat next to Clem, removed her paisley-patterned shawl, and draped it over the back of her chair. Her black hair hung in ropy, dreadlike chunks, completing the boho-chic look she was currently cultivating. The coif had probably set her back three hundred bucks at her chichi Madison Avenue salon.
“Open her own place, for God’s sake,” Clem said. “Hasn’t that always been the plan, Georgia? Especially now that you’re—”
“Essentially unemployable?” Georgia said. “Unless you count the Tuscan Oven, which you, Clem, obviously don’t.”
“She can’t just open her own place, Clem. She needs backing. A lot of it,” said Lo.
“What about your dad?” Clem asked Lo. “He’s got more than enough to go around.”
“Yeah, right. My dad would never invest in someone who’s friends with me.”
“True.” Clem sighed, turning to Georgia. “You really need the money? I mean, you really need a job?”
“Um, yes. You do realize we’re talking about me, Georgia, and not Lo, right?”
Clem rolled her eyes. “What about the money from Grammy?”
“Almost gone. Besides, I need to cook. I love to cook.”
“So throw a dinner party.”
“Funny. Besides, working on the business plan, walks with Sally, and coffee dates with you two aren’t cutting it. No offense, guys.” Especially since “working on the business plan” had been limited to checking out spaces she couldn’t afford and fantasizing about turning away Mercedes Sante and Marco on opening night. She’d started to think the right partner might help get the restaurant off the ground, but so far the list of potential candidates hovered at zero.
“Tea dates,” Clem said. “I think I’m quitting coffee too.”
“Hey, how is Sally?” Lo asked. “And did you see Glenn when he dropped her off?”
“No, the lame-o had his cousin do the drop-off,” Clem snorted.
“Sally’s amazing, as always. And believe me, I’m glad I didn’t have to see him.”
“I’m sure. How awkward, especially since—” Lo cut herself off. “Where is the waiter? I want a tea too.”
“Since what, Lo?” Georgia asked.
“Since you haven’t seen him for so long?”
“Since what, Lo?” Georgia repeated.
“Oh, Jesus, Lo, just tell her. She’s going to find out soon enough anyway.” Clem flagged down the waiter. “Two more green teas. And you better send over a chocolate bombe too.”
“I’m not really sure how to say this.” Lo took a deep breath. “Glenn is engaged. To Lila Fowler.”
“How do you know?” Georgia asked.
“I ran into Mrs. Fowler at Doubles. I’m sorry, George.”
“Does Lila Fowler have a dog?” Georgia pictured the cockapoo sitting next to Sals on the beach in Bridgehampton. Her new best friend, Glenn had written.
“That’s the first thing you want to know?” Clem asked.
“I’m not sure,” Lo answered. “But I can find out.”
“Forget it.” Georgia tucked her head into her chest. Her black cardigan pouched out at precisely the wrong place, making her belly appear even bigger than it was. A shiver ran down her neck and she hunched her shoulders against the chill. “I don’t love him anymore,” she said without lifting her gaze. “I haven’t loved him in a long time.”
“We know,” said Clem.
“We know,” said Lo.
“But still,” Georgia said.
The server brought over the teas and the chocolate dessert. He looked at Clem, who pointed to Georgia. “I guess this is for you, dear.” Clem slid the notebook out of the way, and he placed the oozing orb in front of Georgia. “Enjoy it.”
Georgia smiled wanly, her eyes still resting on her pouchy sweater, expanding and retracting with each breath. But still.
The giant snowflake flickered over Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue, the commercial crossroads of the world for the holiday season if not the whole year through. The streets were thick with cabs, the sidewalks clogged with tourists speaking languages as far-flung as Ukrainian and the slightly closer-to-home dialect known as Brooklynese. Bergdorf’s street-level windows overflowed with one-of-a-kind treasures and so much sartorial splendor one could only dream. Across the street, Tiffany was knee-deep in tourists ogling the important jewels on the ground floor before shuffling off to four to buy key rings, a charm, or maybe an egg-size picture frame. Down the avenue, Salvation Army workers collected Christmas cheer for the less fortunate, ringing their bells in front of St. Patrick’s, Saks, and the trumpeting angels at Rockefeller Center. All roads led to the tree: a ninety-foot Norwegian spruce covered in blue lights, a five-pointed star perched atop its highest branch. Holiday season in New York was in full swing.
Like any schooled New Yorker, Georgia avoided the tourist-rich stretch of Fifth Avenue from Thanksgiving straight through the New Year. The lone exception to this ironclad rule had been her and Glenn’s annual pilgrimage to behold the tree. The tradition began innocently enough one clear December evening after drinks at the Four Seasons, a couple of those ghastly green apple martinis that had enjoyed a fleeting moment of fame in watering holes across the city. Glenn suggested a walk, and arms linked, they strolled down the avenue, pausing at each overdecorated window and picking out gifts they’d never buy for everyone they knew. Rock Center was almost deserted, and they held hands and gazed at the tree, forgetting for the moment how cheesy it all was. The next year they repeated the tradition, even sitting on the same uncomfortable barstools. The only difference was the champagne that filled their flutes, a necessary upgrade.
This year, she’d skip the trip. First, there was the Glenn-is-engaged-to-someone-else issue. Second, she now passed the tree twice a day, once on her way to the Tuscan Oven and once on her way from the Tuscan Oven. She’d started as head chef in the middle of October and now, two months in, was fairly cozy in her new position. The job was virtually stress-free: absentee boss, no chance of getting reviewed, customers who barely spoke English. The more comfortable she got, the harder it was to start working on her own restaurant. Plus, she rationalized, everyone knew that nothing was ever accomplished over the holidays. The question of a partner gnawed at her, but she pushed it aside. Her grand plans would wait until the new year, which, Claudia’s astrologer would surely confirm, was a much more auspicious time to start a new venture anyway.
Wearing a chunky knit hat pulled low over her head, a trim down coat, and jeans tucked into knee-high boots, Georgia arrived at the Oven. Snow was forecast for later in the evening, and the city eagerly awaited the first flakes of the season to fall. The door blew shut behind her, letting out a little squeal. If the wind kept up, the snowstorm would become a blizzard and the restaurant would be dead. Even tourists knew how to order takeout. She walked under the distressed-brick archway into the dining room, heading for her locker.
“Georgia!” a voice called out. “Ciao, Georgia!”
Georgia whipped her head around, her eyes landing on a man sitting at the Oven’s primo corner table. He tossed an espresso cup in his left hand as if it were a Super Ball. “Yes?”
“Luca Santini,” he said, rising from his chair and placing the cup on the table, rim-side down. The top two buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a tuft of shiny chest fluff. His hair was the color of tarnished silver, but he had a full head of it, and he wore it to his collar, parted in the middle, no bangs. He looked like a man who’d been told so many times he looked decades younger than his sixty-plus years that he now believed it. He was dressed like a thirty-year-old investment banker out for a night at the Boom Boom Room.
Georgia stared at him blankly. “Hello. So nice to
meet you.” She held out her hand.
“I own this restaurant,” Luca said, staring at her outstretched hand without taking it. “Now does the name ring the bell?” He cocked his head slightly and puffed out his lower lip in a gesture Georgia would soon learn to imitate perfectly.
“Oh, Luca, Mr. Santini, I’m so sorry.” Georgia smiled. “My friend Effie has told me so much about you.”
Luca cocked his head again. He stared at the hand hovering so close to his and, after what seemed like an eternity, grabbed it between his own puffy paws and squeezed. Hard. “Call me Luca. Please have a seat.” He pulled out a chair.
Georgia settled stiffly into the chair, flexing the fingers of her right hand under the table. The imprint of his ring was embossed on her finger, and Georgia glanced at the mondo diamond shining on her new boss’s pinkie. She tried to remember what Effie had said about Luca and if the word godfather played a part in the conversation.
“You made a big impression on that boy, Effie. Aldo, his uncle Aldo, my friend Aldo, says all he talks about is coming to New York to work for you.”
“For me? Oh, you mean here, at the Tuscan Oven.”
“Of course here. Where else would I mean?”
Georgia shrugged. “So what brings you to town? Holiday shopping? Business? Broadway?”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Mostly I’m interested in meeting you.”
“Me?”
The GM had told Georgia that she’d probably never even lay eyes on Luca, who blew through the restaurant with a bevy of blondes every month or so and cared more about replenishing his private wine stash than the state of the restaurant.
“Since you’ve started, I hear the food has really improved. Tickets are up, food costs down. All in, what, two months? You’ve been here two months, yes?”
“Yes. I started in the middle of October.” In two weeks it would be Christmas.
“So, tell me what you’ve done. What you’re doing here at the Tuscan Oven.”
“Sure, Luca. You mean with the food?”
“Unless you’ve painted us some new frescoes I haven’t seen yet, yes, I mean with the food.” He picked up the espresso cup and tossed it in the air again.
“Well, the recipes are good, basic recipes. They just needed some TLC. A little, um, updating, a little more attention paid to the execution, to presentation, and especially to the bottom line. There’s a lot that’s been going to waste that doesn’t need to go to waste.”
Saving money was always a safe topic with restaurant owners. No one wanted to lose money. An owner could hate the food, the decor, the service, but when it came to saving money, everyone was game.
“The recipes are my nonna’s recipes. Handed down from her nonna, and her nonna’s nonna. We didn’t always live in Bari. If you think they need updating, you go right ahead. But they’ve been making Santinis happy—and fat—for generations.” He patted his belly and smiled, looking, Georgia thought, not exactly like a shark, but certainly sharklike.
“Have you sampled any of the dishes since I came on board, Mr. San—I mean, Luca?”
“Not yet. I’ll be in for dinner tonight with some friends. Ten of us. I’ll let you know what we think. For now I just wanted to meet you, the Georgia everyone talks about.”
“‘The Georgia everyone talks about.’ I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”
“I’ll let you know after tonight.” Luca’s cell phone rang, and the espresso cup crashed to the terra-cotta floor. He didn’t even blink. “Pronto,” he shouted into the phone. He put it down and turned back to Georgia. “I’m taking this call. Thank you, Georgia.”
Georgia collected her hat and gloves from the chair and walked through the dining room as nonchalantly as she could. If Luca Santini didn’t positively love her food, she was out, Uncle Aldo or no Uncle Aldo.
Pablo, an elegant Spaniard and career waiter, returned to the kitchen and stood in front of Georgia. He was the only waiter who served Luca, and according to Oven lore, he’d once been forced to cancel his annual trip to Madrid when Luca made a last-minute trip to New York.
“Well?” she asked.
Pablo straightened his tied bow tie—no clip-ons for him—and cleared his throat. “Too soon to tell. I’ll let you know.”
Georgia paced around the Oven’s clumsily configured kitchen, trying not to bump the line cooks. The antipasto and pasta courses—funghi con polenta, zuppa di ceci, and a Neapolitan timbale that had taken forever to prep—had been cleared from Luca’s table, and the waiters had marched into the dining room single file, bearing plates of crispy pollo alla capricciosa, tender arista di maiale, and rich sogliola alla fiorentina.
Daniel, the GM, stuck his head into the kitchen. “Georgia, a word.”
The kitchen ground to a halt. Though the staff didn’t care what happened to Georgia, they certainly wanted to know what happened.
“A word,” Daniel repeated. “Out there. With Luca.”
“You’re kidding.”
Daniel shrugged. “Powder your nose. You’re a little shiny.”
“I don’t carry powder with me in the kitchen, Daniel.”
“You do carry lipstick, I hope?”
Georgia fished in her pocket for her lip gloss and swiped it across her lips. She straightened her chef’s coat and patted her hair down, guessing the frizz factor was a semicontained six. “Of course I carry lip gloss, Daniel.” She strode out into the dining room, her stomach suddenly queasy with déjà vu. Huggy Henderson had asked to see her that last night at Marco. The next day Bernard fired her. Table visits were not Georgia’s thing.
Luca stood as she approached. His party consisted of a handful of bottle blondes and two men who looked like carbon copies of their host, only huskier.
“Georgia,” he said. “The food was wonderful. And the timbale. I haven’t had one in ages. It was as good as my nonna’s.” He kissed his fingertips.
“Thanks, Luca. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”
His guests murmured their approval. Georgia had the feeling they could have eaten shoe leather and if Luca said it was the best dish he ever had, they would agree, even as they attempted to dislodge bits of charred leather from between their veneered teeth.
“I’ll walk you back to the kitchen.” He took her elbow and steered her to the bar instead. “Drink?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. It’s sort of not very professional of me to sit at the bar and drink during shift.”
“You think you’re going to get fired?”
“I guess not. Good point.”
“John,” Luca said to the bartender. “Two glasses of the Lafite Rothschild. The ’82 you’ve been decanting for me.”
“An ’82?” Georgia said. “I thought those didn’t even exist anymore.”
“They don’t.”
The bartender placed the decanter on the bar and poured the wine into voluminous Yeoward crystal glasses, reserved strictly for Luca’s use. Luca picked up his glass.
“Your friends won’t mind that you’ve left them?” Georgia asked.
“Are you kidding me? Free food, free wine? They’re in heaven, and now that I’m not there, they can actually relax. For some reason I make people nervous.” Luca held up his palms and shrugged. “Do I make you nervous, Georgia?” He cocked his head and pursed his lips.
Georgia considered the question. “Actually, not so much.” It was the truth. She’d worked with much, much worse.
Luca looked slightly disappointed.
“But I can see how you could,” she hastily added. “You know, make someone else nervous.”
Luca chuckled, then held up his glass. “Salut.” He took a sip. “I have a question for you, Georgia.”
“Shoot.” After her first sip of the sublime Bordeaux, she hoped he had at least a couple glasses’ worth of questions.
“Why are you wasting your talent here? Of course I’m glad you’re here, don’t get me wrong. But this restaurant, my restaurant, as long
as the food is decent, it will make money. The tourists will always come to Rockefeller Center, and they’ll always need a place to eat, a place to splurge when they tire of that Til Friday place.”
“T.G.I. Friday’s.” Georgia drank more wine.
“I don’t need a superstar chef. Which, I think it’s safe to say, you are on your way to becoming.”
“You do?”
“I do. But the question is, Georgia, do you?”
“Superstar? I’m not so sure. I don’t see myself with an empire of restaurants, my name in Page Six or on the food blogs, or forcing customers to eat fifteen-course prix fixe dinners, but I do—”
Luca glanced at her empty glass. “More wine?”
“Just a splash.” Emboldened by the alcohol, she saw her chance. “Look, I may as well be honest with you, Luca. I do intend to open my own place. And hopefully a few more after that. It’s still in the early planning phase, so not anytime really soon. I’m looking for space—”
Luca cut her off. “You have a business plan?”
“Sure,” Georgia lied. If a few scratches in a notebook counted, then, sure, she had a business plan.
“I’m going back to Bari at the end of the week. Get me a copy of your business plan. I like the way you cook. I like the way you talk. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be able to do some business together.”
“Wow, that’d be—”
“No promises. But I’m always interested in young talent. Youth, talent, and drive are a killer combination. Not to be fucked with, you know what I mean?”
“I guess so,” Georgia lied again.
“And now I must get back to my guests. I’ll leave the wine for you to enjoy, which I see you do.” He motioned to her empty glass and winked. “And don’t forget to get me that plan.”
Georgia emptied the last of the Lafite into her glass and surveyed the nearly empty dining room. One good thing about working at the Oven was that it cleared out early. A much better thing about working at the Oven was having a boss who might be interested in backing her first solo venture, an extremely wealthy boss who wasn’t in the country often. The best investors had deep, deep pockets and lived far enough away that unannounced drop-ins were unlikely. Luca qualified on both counts. Now all she needed to do was produce a kick-ass business plan.