Reservations for Two

by Hillary Manton Lodge

  “Thank you,” I said, though I doubted a dress would change much at all. But I didn’t have the energy to deflect the comment or argue the way I would have if it were from Sophie or Caterina. Instead, Letizia kept tugging me in the direction she desired, and I reveled in having someone else to make the decisions.

  While I considered myself a professional-level shopper in the States, Letizia was a woman on a mission. And clearly, price was not a part of the equation. From shelves and racks Letizia found me two Sophia Loren-esque minidresses that were just this side of decent, a cashmere pashmina, a cropped and tailored red blazer, a pair of very strappy, very high heels, as well as a pair of Gucci sunglasses.

  I goggled at the price, but Letizia insisted, saying how nice they would look with Grand-mère’s scarves, which she admired very much.

  We stopped for lunch at Ditirambo, where I had the best tuna steak over a bed of arugula. Letizia chattered about Italian politics and the state of Italian film, followed by her thoughts on Paulo Sorrentino’s The Great Beauty. “And so what of you?” she asked after taking a pause for breath. “You are in love, but your eyes are worried.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” I hedged. “He’s a doctor. I’m trying to open a restaurant.” I shrugged. “And we live across the country from each other.”

  “Love can motivate people to make difficult circumstances work,” Letizia observed. “Is Tennessee so far?”

  “It’s about three thousand miles. Far enough.” I took a sip of my rosé. “The truth is, I don’t know what to do, and with everything with the restaurant, my mom’s cancer—it’s a little overwhelming. Or a lot. A lot overwhelming.”

  “But you don’t want to give him up. You can’t put love on hold forever.”

  “Mm. I’ve heard that.”

  “But you don’t believe that. Do you want an affogato? I do.” Letizia lifted her hand to flag the waiter.

  “Oh, I believe it,” I said, feeling more cynical than ever. “In theory. I’m just worried about how it’s going to work in practice.”

  “Certainly you need an affogato, to sweeten you up.” Letizia winked.

  I scowled. “You think I’m bitter?”

  “I think you frown too much. Cheer up—wear that black dress tonight. Just watch—Neil will have no reason to stay in Tennessee.”

  Letizia’s sincerity stopped my snicker in its tracks. It was a nice idea, of course, but I had little hope that our long-distance conundrum would be solved by a short black dress.

  After the shopping trip, Letizia and I returned to her apartment. She kissed my cheeks and left for work, leaving me keys to her husband’s Alfa. “He took the Ducati today. The Alfa’s full of petrol, not that you’ll need it all. Dinner’s at nine. Ciao!”

  I thanked her for the keys and waved good-bye. I went looking for Neil and found a note that he had decided to explore on foot, and to text him when I returned. I pulled out my phone and sent him a brief missive.

  In the guest room, I unpacked the new purchases. They were extravagant, but Letizia was right about one thing—they did look amazing with the Hermès scarf.

  I dressed in the black minidress and topped it with the blazer, added the spindly heels, one of Grand-mère’s scarves, and the Gucci sunglasses.

  A glimpse in the mirror told me I looked even more Italian than usual.

  I heard the slamming and pressure change of a door opening and closing. “Neil?”

  “It’s me,” he called. “Did you have fun?”

  I stepped out into the hallway in my new ensemble. “Letizia had fun dressing me.”

  Neil’s eyes widened as they took in the look. “I’ll say.”

  “Is it too much?”

  He closed the space between us and kissed me soundly. “Don’t go running off with any race car drivers.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to run very fast in these heels. I think you’ll be able to catch me.”

  “Maybe. Riccardo loaned me a pair of his shoes.”

  My eyes widened. “He must really like you.”

  “Or he really hated my shoes.”

  “Footwear really is different this side of the pond. Less comfort, more style. I wouldn’t have thought you two had the same size foot.”

  “Close enough.” Neil lifted a foot. “There’s practically no traction. Or padding. And the toes are so long…”

  “They look nice.”

  “They hurt.”

  “You’re very nice to wear them.”

  He shrugged. “I thought I’d try to please my host. When in Rome, and all that.”

  I grinned. “Literally. Well, now that we’re both shod by Italians, want to go out? I want to see a man about some tomatoes.”

  Neil laughed. “Why not?”

  With renewed confidence fueled by new clothes and Italian espresso, I programmed Riccardo’s Alfa with my intended destination. Neil arranged himself behind the wheel, and we were off.

  Our first stop was the rep for Dad’s favorite tomatoes. Letizia happened to be right—with a little friendly flirting and a larger order, I managed to negotiate our tomato prices to a new, lower price. Afterward we visited two cheese-makers and a winery. This time I declined to commit, taking free and copious tasting notes, as well as samples to take with me.

  I expected to be very popular at dinner that night.

  A stop for gelato—we were in Rome, after all—and we drove back to the apartment.

  By that time Neil had adjusted to the Italian drivers and attacked the roads more aggressively, come un italiano.

  With an hour until dinner, we parted ways for a short nap.

  I dreamed, unsurprisingly, of Neil. Also, of cheese.

  Households that have lost the soul of cooking from their routines may not know what they are missing: the song of a stir-fry sizzle, the small talk of clinking measuring spoons, the yeasty scent of rising dough, the painting of flavors onto a pizza before it slides into the oven.

  —BARBARA KINGSOLVER

  We drove to Montalcino the next morning. At dinner the night before, Riccardo and Neil had traded their thoughts on each other’s cars—apparently Neil had a BMW in Memphis. While we were planning to drive a rental car for the trip, Riccardo insisted Neil keep driving his Alfa Romeo. Neil accepted immediately.

  We parked the car under a beautiful old oak tree; Neil looked around at the other parked cars and sighed. “Riccardo beat us here.”

  “What?”

  “His and Letizia’s Ducati. They got here first.”

  I gave his leg a conciliatory pat. “We’ll chalk it up to home court advantage. Let’s go in and say hello, shall we?” As I stepped out of the car, I could see where the setup for Nonno’s party had begun—lights twinkled in the olive trees, streamers fluttered in the breeze.

  Inside, it sounded like a restaurant kitchen at eight o’clock on a Saturday night.

  “Wow.” Neil paused at the threshold. “Are you sure it’s safe to go in?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll protect you. Buongiorno!” I called out.

  “Giulietta!” My zia Annetta poked her head out of the kitchen. “You are here! Come in, come in. Leave your luggage in the hallway; Donato will put it away for you. Come here and stir this torta della nonna custard for me.”

  “Okay,” I called back. “Are you good at stirring?” I asked Neil.

  “I feel pretty good about my upper body strength,” he replied.

  “Good, good. Just know that any of these women could out-stir you in their sleep. Zia!” I called once we neared the kitchen. “I have a friend with me.”

  “Si! Letizia told me.” Annetta looked Neil up and down. “Do you think you could turn the pig?”

  Neil stared at her blankly. “The pig?”

  “On the spit. The porchetta.” Zia Annetta pointed to the back of the kitchen, where there was a large, open wood oven featuring a stuck pig at the center.

  I grinned at Neil. “Welcome to Tuscany.”

 
“So much fuss,” said a gravelly voice from the kitchen door.

  “Nonno!” Annetta scolded as she browned the veal cutlets. “You should be napping.”

  “I napped earlier. What I haven’t done is see my granddaughter.”

  I squealed and—once I’d seen my stirring duties passed to Francesca’s oldest daughter, Sofia—jogged across the kitchen to wrap my grandfather in a hug.

  As always, he smelled of rosemary and olive oil. In his face I saw a wizened version of my father. “Happy birthday!” I said, careful not to dislodge his cane.

  “It is a day like any other except”—he put a gnarled finger into the air—“it is a day with a party!”

  “I do love a good party. My parents wish they could be here.”

  He patted my arm. “Oh, I know, I know. I spoke to them both on the phone last night. It is very sad about your mother. Your father is doing the right thing.”

  “I think so.”

  “I am proud to call him my son. It’s a pity he has to take out a second mortgage, but I am proud of him.” Nonno didn’t rest on sentiment; he spied Neil by the wood oven. “And this! This is your young man! He looks good at the spit. He is a chef, no?”

  “No,” I said with a shake of my head. “He’s an immunologist. A doctor,” I added, seeing Nonno’s confused face.

  “Ahh. Doctor. Eh, doctor is good too. Can he roast a chicken?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Nonno gave a sage nod. “You must find out. You can tell many things about a man by the way he roasts a chicken.”

  “What about a woman?”

  “To know a woman, it is the soufflé. A shallow woman, her soufflé is too tall. A distracted woman, her soufflé will be burned.”

  “I thought a burned soufflé meant a woman was in love,” I asked, playing along.

  “No, no, that is not so. A woman in love will be making the soufflé for the one she loves, yes? So she will watch that soufflé very close. In fact, the soufflé may be underdone because she takes it out too soon, because she cannot stop looking at it.”

  “I see,” I said, masking a chuckle. “I think Zia Annetta would be happier if you were sitting down. What do you think?”

  “Annetta worries too much,” Nonno said with a huff.

  “Perhaps,” I answered mildly. “The chairs in the dining room look comfortable. I could bring one in here. You could supervise.”

  Nonno leaned on his cane and considered the idea. “Your doctor friend might hurt himself unless he learns to put his back into it when he turns the spit. It’s a pig, not a duck.”

  “True.”

  Nonno patted my arm. “You’re a smart, smart girl. You know that, yes?”

  “I’ll be over here, stirring,” I said, grinning as Nonno left to teach Neil the finer points of turning a pig.

  “He may not have meant mortgage,” Neil said later when I worried aloud about my parents’ financial situation while setting the outdoor table. “Do you think it could have been lost in translation?”

  “Nonno’s English is pretty good. You know he used to be in spaghetti westerns, back in the sixties?”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Ask him about Clint Eastwood sometime.” I sighed. “But with the restaurant…I mean, it makes sense. And he’s been working a lot. I hope…I hope they’re okay. I just…I try not to think about what might happen.”

  Neil opened his mouth, then closed it again. After a moment’s thought he spoke. “I’m sorry. Cancer is cruel, no matter which way you look at it.”

  I shook my head. “We’re in Italy, Neil—I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

  Neil wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pressed a kiss to my temple. “I’m sorry, love.”

  I grasped his hand and clung tight, resting my head against his shoulder. “I haven’t had time to read any of the letters.”

  “What?”

  “Mireille’s letters. I have to read them. Find out what happened. I don’t know…I just need to read them. Soon.”

  As we finished out the table, my heart felt heavy. Thinking about the letters, my mom’s cancer, the thousands of miles between Neil’s home and mine—I felt as though there would never, ever, be enough time.

  ~ HOME-STYLE TIRAMISU ~

  Tiramisu, translated “pick-me-up,” is very popular throughout Italy. It’s quick and easy to assemble, and easy to make for a dinner party. It utilizes the Italian tradition of making a “cake” by soaking something crisp in a full-flavored liquid. In this version, Italian savoiardi cookies or crisp ladyfingers are dipped quickly in brewed coffee and layered with a simple custard. The standard Italian version uses very fresh, uncooked eggs for the custard. Free-range, organic eggs are recommended; farm-fresh eggs are ideal if you can get your hands on them. The filling also relies on creamy mascarpone cheese, the Italian take on cream cheese. Look for it near the ricotta in well-stocked grocery stores.

  6 very fresh eggs

  ½ cup sugar, divided

  2½ cups mascarpone

  ½ ounce shaved dark chocolate (optional)

  20–22 savoiardi or crisp ladyfinger cookies

  1½ cups brewed coffee or espresso

  1 tablespoon cocoa powder

  Wash the eggs with soap and water before cracking. Separate egg whites into one mixing bowl and yolks into another.

  Beat egg whites until stiff peaks form. Add most of the sugar and beat until egg whites are glossy, about another fifteen to thirty seconds.

  Beat egg yolks until pale and creamy. Add mascarpone and remaining sugar and beat until well incorporated. Grate dark chocolate over mascarpone mixture, if using.

  Fold the egg whites into the mascarpone mixture, folding gently until fully incorporated.

  Pour coffee into a shallow bowl. Set out a 9×9 or equivalent-sized baking dish to assemble the cake. (Note: if you double the recipe, a 9×13 works great).

  Dip the unsugared half of the cookies into the coffee and then place them snugly against each other until the bottom is covered, about ten or eleven cookies. If necessary, break cookies in half to fit.

  Spread half of the custard mixture over the cookies, and repeat with a second layer of coffee-dipped cookies, followed by the last of the custard.

  Cover and refrigerate for 1–2 hours. One hour leaves the cookies a little structured still, while two hours gives a fully softened cookie. Sift cocoa powder over the top. Keep cake chilled.

  Serves 4–6.

  There’s a friendly tie of some sort between music and eating.

  —THOMAS HARDY

  More than a dozen cars sat parked in the driveway and grassy area outside my uncle Ciro’s home, as if the Alfa Romeos and Fiats had multiplied like fluffy little conigli.

  My cousin Giancarlo’s best friend Ivo’s band played outside, in a combo which featured a lute, an enthusiastic tambourinist, and a noted love for dated American pop. Nonno held court near the large dance floor and a larger pile of gifts.

  I should have been on the dance floor myself—how often does anyone get the chance to dance with her boyfriend in Tuscany, much less to the melodious strains of “Kiss from a Rose” sung in Italian?

  At the very least, I should have been talking to one of my five dozen Italian relatives. But all I could think about was my parents.

  And once I started worrying about my parents, worrying about my brother and our restaurant seemed like a natural progression.

  I was still lost in concerned concentration when Neil reappeared at my elbow. “Here,” he said, handing me my phone. “Call someone. Call Caterina, call Nico, call your parents—whoever you have to talk to.”

  “No, no, I’m fine,” I protested, waving him off.

  “You’re frightening the little children with that scowl. Please? If you won’t do it for me, do it for the children.”

  “It’s seven thirty in the morning in Portland. Nico would kill me.”

  “Call Cat.”

  “She’ll be at work.”<
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  “So wake up Nico.”

  I thought it over. “He might be awake.”

  “Call him.”

  “Fine.” I pressed a kiss to his cheekbone. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I walked away from the party, the music, and the chatter, and dialed my brother’s number.

  He answered groggily on the third ring. “Who died?” he asked, sounding more cranky than concerned.

  “No one,” I said. “Calm down.”

  “I couldn’t think of any other reason you’d call so early.” A yawn. “Party’s today, right?”

  “Going on right now. The band is playing a rendition of ‘I’d Do Anything for Love,’ so actually, I might die.”

  “Oh.” He sounded impressed. “In English or Italian?”

  “Italian, with feeling—oh, hang on.” I took a second to get a handle on the melody. “Nope, now it’s Sting.”

  “Stop stalling, Jules. What’s got you so worked up that you’re calling me rather than slow-dancing to a classic yet cheesy power ballad of the nineties?”

  “I couldn’t stop worrying about Mom and Dad.”

  “Worrying?”

  “Panicking, maybe. How are they?”

  “About the same. Mom’s chemo sickness got worse, doctors put her on antinausea meds. She’s better, for now.”

  “That’s good, I guess? How about Dad?”

  “Busy. Distracted. Worried about money.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “He won’t talk about it, but I know he’s been keeping a very close eye on the numbers at the restaurant.”

  “Does he have reason to worry? Has D’Alisa & Elle been underperforming?”

  “No, it’s doing great. Plenty of covers, and as it turns out, Mario has real flare for using all of his ingredients and keeping costs down. Dad’s been updating the interior some, and it looks sharp.”