Naples! (9780698152687)

by De Laurentiis, Giada; Gambatesa, Francesca (ILT)

  “But I do,” Alfie said. “I spent the whole day listening to Marco talk about how proud he is of the food and what it means to your family. It’s all he cares about!” Alfie thought he could see Signore Floreano considering his proposal, so he pressed on. “I’m Italian, too. I know how important family is. Family is everything to us. I would never let my family down, and I promise I won’t let yours down.”

  Signore Floreano looked at him carefully and said, “You don’t know the way to the market. And even if you did, you don’t know how to choose the mozzarella to my standards.”

  “I do know the way to the market,” Alfie said. “And I watched Marco choose the mozzarella. He told me all about it, so I know what to look for. Signore Floreano, I just want to help your family win your honor back.”

  Signore Floreano looked between Alfie and Marco. Marco threw his arm around Alfie’s shoulder and said, “Please, Papà. Trust my new friends.”

  Signore Floreano crossed his arms and looked closely at both boys. Finally, he said, “If you’re sure, son. If you believe he can do it, then he can go.”

  The boys relaxed and smiled but Signore Floreano quickly said, “But do not let me down. Understood?”

  “Yes,” they both said.

  “Okay, then,” Signore Floreano said. “Off to the market you go. And make sure you choose the mozzarella di bufala wisely.”

  Marco led Alfie to the front of the restaurant, reminding him of the directions to make sure he knew the way.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Marco asked, relief already flooding his face. “It’s just at the market we went to this morning. You remember the stall?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Alfie said. “I can find the way.”

  “Alfie,” Emilia pressed.

  He turned to his sister and said, “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry, really. It’ll be quicker this way.”

  Lowering her voice so the others couldn’t hear, she said, “What if you accidentally go back home without me? I like it here and all, but I don’t think I want to be here without you.”

  Alfie knew the situation was serious, but he also knew they didn’t have a clue yet how to fix it. What he could do for now, though, was help the family who had already helped them. So he told her not to worry, got a map from Marco, and set off into the Naples streets alone.

  No way, not in a million years, would Alfie’s parents ever let him roam the streets of a foreign city alone. They probably would never let him roam any American streets alone, at least not ones they’d only just arrived in. That made this trip to the market ten times more exciting.

  Alfie walked the streets with confidence now, easily sidestepping locals as if he were just another Neapolitan rushing out to the market at the end of the day. It was the first time he ever felt truly independent.

  Still, he had to pay attention. He looked closely at street signs, paid attention to landmarks like the pasta factory, Pasta Fabbrica, and kept track of north and south, even in the tight, confusing streets. Before he arrived at the Mercato Pignasecca, he spotted someone who had become familiar during this completely unfamiliar day. Leaning against a wall near an alley was a tall, slim boy with unruly, curly hair. Before the boy turned his face toward him, Alfie knew it was Enzo and his anger instantly rose. When Alfie saw what looked like a softball in his hand, he knew exactly what was going on. Alfie marched through the crowd and straight over to Enzo.

  As soon as Enzo spotted Alfie, he pushed off the wall and started to run.

  “Hey!” Alfie called, determined not to let him get away. “I see you! Stop!”

  He was surprised when Enzo did stop—chasing someone was never that easy. For a brief moment Alfie was grateful. These streets were Enzo’s, and if he’d wanted to lose Alfie in them, he easily could have.

  Enzo turned to Alfie and now that he was closer, he saw that he was right. It wasn’t a softball in his hand (did Italians even play softball?). It was the cheese—the special mozzarella di bufala, to be exact.

  “So it’s true,” Alfie said. “You did it. You stole from Marco.”

  At least Enzo had the decency to look guilty. He looked down at the cracked sidewalk and ran one hand through his curls. “It’s not what you think,” he said.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you and Marco, but stealing is, like, the lowest,” Alfie said.

  “I wasn’t stealing,” Enzo said.

  “Then how’d this exact ball of mozzarella that we got at the farm get into your hands?” Alfie felt a little like a grown-up demanding answers. It felt kind of good.

  “I found it,” Enzo said, still not looking Alfie in the eye—the mark of a true criminal and liar.

  “Ha!” Alfie said. “Likely story!”

  “I’m telling the truth. I don’t lie,” Enzo said, finally looking at Alfie. “And I don’t steal. The mozzarella fell from Marco’s basket in the church. I found it. I was going to return it.”

  “When? After the pizza festival?”

  “Of course not,” he said, and Alfie couldn’t believe Enzo had the nerve to act offended.

  “Why are you being so mean to Marco’s family?” Alfie said. “What’d they ever do to you?”

  Enzo looked out at the streets. The sun was just beginning to fall behind the mountains above the town. After a moment he said, “Marco’s family is my family.”

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “Marco is my cousin,” Enzo said. “I’m also a Floreano. Our fathers are brothers—brothers who hate each other.”

  Hate was such a strong word that Alfie’s parents didn’t like him to even use it. He had to say he greatly disliked tomato soup. So he couldn’t imagine using that word to describe how he felt about family. “But why?”

  Enzo took a deep breath before he began. “Growing up, our families did everything together, we were always at Trattoria Floreano, and Marco and I were inseparable. Our fathers taught us the family pizza recipe when we were only eight. It’s a proud family recipe—one hundred years old! We used to enter the pizza festival together, as one family. Then, three years ago, my father wanted to try a new recipe. He thought he could make the dough even lighter, the sauce a hint sweeter. But Zio Luigi—my uncle Luigi, Marco’s father—refused to change the family recipe, which had already won the pizza festival many times and made a success of Trattoria Floreano. My father insisted, and Zio Luigi became so offended that my father would want to break family tradition that he couldn’t even look at my papà anymore, much less talk to him or work with him. So Papà decided to start his own restaurant and enter his own pizza recipe. When he actually won the festival last year, Zio Luigi accused him of cheating, and they’ve been bitter rivals ever since. I’m afraid they’ll never speak again.”

  “Wow,” Alfie said. Pizza was clearly serious business if families could be broken up over it. “So you and Marco stopped being friends because of your fathers?”

  “Yes,” Enzo said. “I guess we felt we had to pick a side, and of course we each chose our own father’s. But after talking to your sister this afternoon, on the bus and at the church, I started to realize I didn’t want to be a part of it anymore. She talked a lot about you and told me stories of your life in America. Marco was like my brother, and I missed him so much. I was following him earlier—my father told me to—and that is the mozzarella Marco got from the farm. I was going to return it, honest. After seeing Marco, and seeing how close you and your sister are, I realized that family is more important than a recipe or tradition. Family is the most important tradition of all.”

  “You both want the same thing—the best pizza in the world!” Alfie said. “Surely you can make things right. If not with your fathers, then between you and Marco. You don’t have to be a part of their fight if you don’t want to. Right?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” Enzo said. “It’s what I was thinking as I sto
od here, holding the mozzarella. I’m trying to get the courage to go face them. Because if I walk into Trattoria Floreano, I’ll be facing the entire family. And it will not be easy.”

  “We’ll do it together,” Alfie said. “After all, I guess I owe you one for taking care of my sister and all.”

  Enzo smiled. “So you admit I wasn’t trying to lead her away from you or steal secrets from her?”

  “Maybe,” Alfie said, although he smiled, too. “So what do you say? Will you come with me to Marco’s?”

  Enzo fidgeted, putting his hand in his pocket, then taking it out to muss his hair, scratch his arm, and do all sorts of things while looking off down the street. Finally, he looked at Alfie and said, “I guess it can’t hurt to try.”

  Alfie knew the way back, but he let Enzo lead. They didn’t speak, but Alfie suspected Enzo was nervous by the way he kept bumping into people but didn’t seem to notice.

  When they walked into Trattoria Floreano, Alfie noticed a new level of preparation was happening behind the counter, with Marco’s father working intently and Marco himself nearby at the cutting board. Even Emilia was helping out by rinsing tomatoes. Alfie and Enzo stood for a moment between the restaurant and the kitchen until Alfie nudged Enzo. “Go on,” he said. “Say something.”

  Before Enzo could work up the nerve, Signore Floreano spotted them and called out, “You!” looking directly at Enzo. He turned to his son and asked Marco, “What is he doing here?”

  When Marco saw his cousin, he looked confused. As everyone stood in stunned silence, Marco finally asked, “What are you doing here? Haven’t you done enough for one day?”

  “Marco, please,” Enzo said, but any hint of bravery evaporated as every Floreano in the kitchen and restaurant began yelling at him and at each other—and Marco, as if this was his fault.

  “His father spits on family tradition,” Signore Floreano continued. “They’ll stoop to any level to win!”

  “How could you?” Marco said to his cousin. “How could you walk into my family’s restaurant and try to take from us?” Alfie thought Marco looked more hurt than angry, and he wondered how long it’d been since they’d actually spoken—not yelled—at each other.

  “Marco, honestly,” Enzo began, “I’m not here to—”

  But before he could say more, Signore Floreano snatched the phone off the wall to call Enzo’s father—Signore Floreano’s own brother. “What, now you send your son to do your dirty work?” he said into the phone, his face turning redder with each heated moment that passed.

  “Our cheese!” Marco said, pointing to the ball of mozzarella in Enzo’s hand. “I knew it! I knew it, but I still can’t believe it,” Marco said, shaking his head and looking hurt.

  “Should I call the police?” a young man hollered from the restaurant while Signore Floreano yelled into the phone, gesturing wildly.

  Alfie stood watching the whole thing and wondered if he had made a huge mistake. This was not going well—not by a long shot. And poor Enzo—Alfie couldn’t believe he was thinking that, but yes, poor Enzo stood there and took it all. He was getting yelled at from all sides—by the young man behind him, by his own uncle in the kitchen, and by his cousin and former best friend, who looked like he was as disgusted by the sight of him as he would be by the sight of a dead rat in the kitchen.

  “Basta!” a voice rang through the restaurant. Clapping hands then punctuated each word again: “Basta! Basta! Basta!”

  The whole place went quiet, and Alfie was shocked to see his own sister standing on top of the counter between the kitchen and restaurant, yelling enough to everyone like their mother did when his and Emilia’s fighting got out of hand.

  Emilia didn’t even look surprised or intimidated when everyone turned to her as if awaiting further instructions. She put her hands on her hips and said, “Everyone needs to calm down. If Enzo has walked into this restaurant, it’s for a good reason, and I think we should hear him out. This afternoon as we were coming back to town, he said that—”

  “You spent time with him?” Signore Floreano said, dropping the phone to the tiled floor and stepping closer to Emilia. “Who are these people you bring into our family business, Marco?”

  “Papà, they’re my friends,” Marco said. “Or I thought they were . . .”

  “We are your friends, but Enzo is family,” Emilia continued, refusing to be intimidated. “So I say we hear him out, then you can all decide if you should throw him out on his backside.”

  Signore Floreano crossed his arms over his puffed belly and with his chin held high, gave a slight nod of agreement. Emilia turned to Enzo and nodded to him as well before stepping down off the counter. Alfie couldn’t believe how brave and in control his sister was. Bossy, but in a good way.

  Now that all eyes were on him, Enzo seemed more panicked than ever. But Emilia stepped closer to him and said quietly, “It’s okay. Just tell them what you told me.”

  With Emilia by his side, Enzo took a deep breath and began. “This is your cheese, and I was following you.”

  Another uproar erupted—hands were flying, strong words were uttered, and there were more threats of calling the police—but Enzo pressed on. “I didn’t steal your cheese. It fell out of your basket at the church,” he said, looking at Marco. “I was following you but not like you think. I followed you because I miss you and I wanted to talk to you. Today used to be our favorite day of the year, better than Christmas. We all spent it together, making and testing and remaking pizza to ensure it was the best in all of Naples. Remember that year we spilled soda into the sauce but didn’t tell anyone because we wanted to see how it would turn out? And then everyone tasted it and thought there was something special about it but no one could figure out what?”

  A tiny smile appeared on Marco’s face. He quickly looked back down to the flour-dusted floor.

  “I don’t care if our fathers fight, although I wish they wouldn’t,” Enzo continued. “I just want my friend back. I hope you will forgive me for taking sides with my father.”

  All of Trattoria Floreano was silent, waiting to hear what Marco would say—or what his father would do. Finally, Marco looked at his cousin and said, “I miss you, too. And I believe you about the mozzarella. You’d never steal, not from anyone for anything. I’m sorry, cousin.”

  A smile spread on Enzo’s face—and on Emilia’s and Alfie’s as well. Marco and Enzo gave each other a quick hug, and Emilia started clapping and hopping up and down. Alfie noticed Signore Floreano had picked the phone up off the floor and was again speaking into it—speaking, not yelling. As others in the restaurant began applauding for the boys—including the young man who had threatened to call the police—Alfie thought the worst had passed. That is, until the other Signore Floreano appeared in the doorway, his eyes bright with an anger similar to his brother’s.

  Get ready for round two, Alfie thought.

  “

  Fratello!”

  Enzo’s father stood in the doorway of the restaurant. He’d just been on the phone with Marco’s father and suddenly, quickly, he was there. Alfie was sure he was angry, but then he slowly spread his arms wide as an equally big smile spread across his face. Soon the brothers, tears flowing down their cheeks, were in their own backslapping embrace, laughing and clapping their hands on their sons’ shoulders. Now everyone was smiling and happy and back to work. Except this time, for the first time in years, the entire family would work together on one pizza.

  Marco took a break from catching up with his cousin to thank Emilia and Alfie. “If I hadn’t met you today, I’d still be without my best friend,” he told them. “I’m so glad you chose our restaurant to stop in today.”

  “I’m glad we did, too,” Alfie said, wondering if it was chance or fate that made them walk into Trattoria Floreano out of all the other places on the street. Maybe Zia Donatella had something to do with it? When
Alfie looked to his sister, he somehow knew Zia was on her mind as well. “Let’s finish helping,” Alfie told her. “Then we’ll figure out the rest.”

  She agreed, even though neither knew how this would all end.

  Both sides of the Floreano family came to Trattoria Floreano to help make pizza for the festival. After much negotiation—sometimes verging on heated—it was decided that the brothers would use the traditional crust that had been handed down for generations and the updated sauce that began the family feud. Once the pizza was complete, everyone went to the square where judging was taking place. Crowds gathered while music played and people danced, happily celebrating the city’s tradition. When the judges came around, all the Floreanos stood, watching the judges’ faces to determine how they felt about the new pizza.

  They seemed to chew slowly and thoughtfully as every Floreano—and the two Bertolizzis—leaned in and watched carefully and hopefully.

  The gentleman who seemed to be the head judge nodded his head slowly and said, “Delicate crust.” He took another bite and once again chewed painfully slowly. “Slightly sweet sauce.” One more bite, one more excruciating moment of suspense. “Full of flavor.” The other judges agreed, and Alfie noticed that the judges had all finished their slices of pizza entirely, instead of only taking a few bites like they did at the other booths. “Your pizza,” the judge said to the Floreano elders, “is clearly made with a careful, light touch, melding together the delicate yet explosive flavors of Naples’s best ingredients.”

  Everyone let out a sigh of relief. Now all that was left to do was wait for the winners to be announced. As the judges moved on to the final competitors, Alfie, Emilia, and the Floreanos each had a slice of pizza. Alfie had never tasted pizza so wonderful in all his life. On their first bite, he and Emilia closed their eyes to the heaven that was fresh, made-from-the-heart pizza. Alfie could admit that Presto Pesto didn’t come anywhere close to this.