by Erika Kelly
Come on, already. Her siblings had only gotten one present on this birthday. A plain white envelope that held a fat sheath of papers: the lease contract for the next Da Nonna’s family restaurant.
Today, Delilah would get the eighth and final franchise. She wished—God, did she wish—her parents could be here for this milestone. They’d died eight years ago, just weeks shy of her high school graduation. But, at least, with the restaurant, she’d always have a part of them.
“This one’s from Callie.” Her sister brought the package to the table.
Delilah had to push back her chair to fit it on her lap. Callie Bell—her closest friend since freshman year at NYU—had postponed her trip to Europe by a day to share this momentous occasion with her, so of course she’d happily open her present. She slung an arm around her friend’s shoulder and tugged her in close. “Thank you so much for coming to my birthday party.”
“Are you kidding?” Callie clasped her hand. “I wouldn’t have missed it.”
Actually, she almost had missed it. When Delilah’s siblings heard she’d invited two friends to the party they’d said no. Can you imagine? The Lua home was party central. People came and went all day long. So, why would they say no tonight?
Of course Delilah wanted her closest friends here. She and Callie had gone through everything together the last seven years, and her boyfriend, Marco, would be the pastry chef at her new restaurant. They’d been working on their plans since they’d first met four months ago in the flagship restaurant’s kitchen, where he worked to put himself through school.
Da Nonna’s didn’t have a pastry chef. Her family ordered from a fantastic bakery in Brooklyn. But, for Delilah’s franchise, she wanted her boyfriend to create his mouth-watering delights. You bet I want him here when I open that envelope.
Delilah slid a finger under the taped edge and ripped off the paper.
“Oh, my God, Delilah,” her sister said. “That wrapping paper’s so pretty, and you’re manhandling it.”
“Yeah, save the manhandling for me.” Marco was the only one to laugh at his comment. Her family had long since stopped attaching to the guys she brought home. If she didn’t take them seriously, they weren’t about to.
“Pretty sure you know how impatient she is to get to the real present.” Callie gave a warm smile to Delilah’s four brothers and two sisters.
She’d expected that glint in their eyes, the joy they felt in bestowing this fabulous gift on behalf of their parents. Instead, she got…anger?
Were they really that pissed she’d invited her friends? Good thing Callie’s fiancé hadn’t come. He’d stayed in the hotel to get some work done before they left for Europe in the morning. Imagine a third guest at the table. Oh, the horror. She had no idea why it was such a big deal.
Tearing off the paper revealed a gorgeous mixed media depiction of an old Wild West town. “This is beautiful.” But it was more than that. It was evocative. She could feel the warm, dusty air, imagine women with full skirts and bonnets walking on the boardwalks, the heels of their boots clacking on the wood. “You’re so damn talented.”
Her friend had grown up in Calamity, Wyoming, a ski resort at the foot of the Tetons, but they’d only known each other in New York City. Impulsively, she hurled herself into her friend’s arms. “I love you. Thank you so much.” She pulled away. “I always pictured cowboy boots and bolo ties when I thought of your hometown, but you make it look magical.”
“You have to come visit. When I get back from my buying trip at the end of summer.”
“Oh, I’ll be a little bit busy then.” She flashed a mischievous grin to her sister who held the white envelope.
Either her sister had to go to the bathroom really badly or she’d eaten a bad clam. What the hell? Delilah shot a look to her other siblings and their significant others. Something wasn’t right. “What’s going on? Why’re you all acting so weird?” She didn’t miss the silent exchange between her oldest brother and sister.
Her sister’s expression said, Do I have to?
Her brother’s said, Do it.
“Just give it to me already.” She was dying here. Under the table she reached for Marco and Callie’s hands and gave them a quick squeeze—this is it—before claiming the envelope her sister offered. Her excitement was marred only by the way her family watched her, like she might find a horse head in it. “What?”
Her sister looked away. Her brother’s chin tipped up.
She tore open the envelope to reveal a single sheet of paper.
A tear sheet.
A review? The moment she read the by-line a whole bag of Pop Rocks went off in her stomach. She closed her eyes to let it all sink in. Harry Morgenstern had reviewed Da Nonna’s flagship restaurant.
Is this happening? The top food critic in New York City had eaten her food and liked it enough to review it for The New York Daily Times.
Are you kidding me?
Second best birthday present ever.
Except when she looked up to share the moment with her family—expecting to see huge, proud smiles—she was shocked to see trepidation and…disgust.
Uh oh. She read it.
Our robust city has twenty-four thousand eating establishments. With an eighty-percent failure rate, it seems incredible—yet nonetheless true—that new ones open each day. Certainly, it’s my expectation they’ll do something special to stand out. An innovative theme, a wildly creative presentation, the chef’s unique take on an old standard. Most nights, my taste buds welcome the surprise. I am, after all, a food critic.
But sometimes I just want something familiar. A perfectly seasoned steak, alongside a steaming baked potato topped with a dollop of sour cream and a handful of chives. A Caesar salad with crisp iceberg lettuce, the particular tang of anchovy in the dressing.
Or the kind of borscht I got in Moscow that summer of 1968.
Last night I wanted pasta e fagioli. I wanted manicotti. I wanted tiramisu.
Old school. Just the way Nonna Abelli made it.
Da Nonna’s has been the gold standard in Italian food since 1923 and, by God, I knew I could count on that basil-flecked marinara. The cognac-soaked Ladyfingers of their classic, sweet, and creamy tiramisu.
Or so I thought. Twenty-five-year-old up-and-coming chef Delilah Lua, daughter of tragically deceased owners Elsa and Ike Lua, dolled up the marinara sauce with andouille sausage and peppers. She added escarole to the pasta e fagioli. The dessert—mislabeled tiramisu—had raspberry and Meyer lemon curd.
Now, I grudgingly concede every bite was magnificent, every flavor lingered so lovingly on my tongue that I didn’t want to move onto the next course.
But it was most definitely not Da Nonna’s.
Thus, the next time I crave old school Italian food, I will go to Isle of Capri.
Today we mourn the loss of one of the best and most authentic Italian restaurants in the city.
The thin piece of paper trembling in her hands, she quickly set it down.
Impoverished, her parents had come to New York City for a better life. Her dad, from Hawaii, had started out at Da Nonna’s as a dishwasher. Her mom, from Sweden, worked as the hostess. For all the turn-over in the restaurant industry, her parents had stayed loyal and true to Nonna Abelli—and were rewarded ownership when the matriarch passed.
Every single morning when her parents had awakened, they’d glanced to the ceiling to make sure they still had a roof over their heads. Every day they waited for their luck to run out. For their brand to go out of style.
They’d passed that concern onto their children.
This review was her family’s worst nightmare. Only, they’d certainly never considered their own sister would issue the death knell.
When she could no longer take the silence in the room, she reluctantly looked up to face the music.
Color flushed her sister’s cheeks, and her brother’s jaw was set in a rigid line. The others looked like they wanted to be anywhere but at that table
witnessing this horrific car crash.
Crawling out from under that last, devastating line—Today we mourn the loss of one of the best and most authentic Italian restaurants in the city—she rallied. “He really liked my food.”
The continued silence made her stomach hurt. But she faced kitchen crises every day of the week, so she’d fix this. “Fortunately, the majority of our customers don’t read reviews.”
“Harry Morgenstern’s the top food critic in this city,” her brother said. “If he tells his readers to eat at Isle of Capri, that’s what they’ll do.”
That was painfully accurate, but she could spin it right around. “Yes, but he’s also just brought in new customers who’ll want to try my ‘magnificent’ cuisine.”
“Delilah.” The brother sitting across from her shook his head. Stop.
“The only reason any of us makes a living is because of Da Nonna’s reputation. You don’t get to destroy it.” Her oldest brother slammed his palm down on the table, rattling the wine glasses. “This is our livelihood.”
“I’m not destroying anything. I’m making it better.” Every bite was magnificent, every flavor lingered so lovingly on my tongue that I didn’t want to move onto the next course.
Unlike her siblings who’d gotten business degrees, Delilah had gone to culinary school. She’d apprenticed with some of the greatest chefs in the world. She’d won awards, for goodness’ sake. She knew how to transform the hundred-year-old recipes into something better, brighter, sharper.
If her siblings would just trust her, her dishes would bring people in.
“Our patrons don’t come for something better or different,” her brother said. “If they want that, they have thousands of restaurants in the city to choose from. They come to ours for old school Italian food and, if we don’t meet their expectations, they’ll stop coming, and we’ll go out of business.”
She heard the unspoken fear, And then what will we do? They’d all been raised to work in the family business. This question, she could answer. “I get what you’re saying, but I see it differently. I think if we don’t change, our brand will go stale. We’ll get boring. Using the same sauce for a hundred years? Come on. Shaking things up is good. Change is happening whether we want it or not. I mean, there’s hardly anything left of Little Italy.”
“There’s Da Nonna’s,” her sister said.
“And it’s my job to make sure there will always be a Da Nonna’s,” her brother said.
She wasn’t going to win this argument. “Okay, well, the good news is that once I open my franchise, the flagship goes back to serving old school Italian.” And she could do whatever she wanted with her own restaurant.
“It won’t work,” her brother said.
“What won’t work?” Fear had her looking for the second envelope. The fat one. The one with the lease agreement. But there wasn’t one. The gift pile was empty. “Are you saying I don’t get my restaurant?” The foundation beneath her turned into a sinkhole, and she scrambled for traction. “Because it’s in the will. I get one on my twenty-sixth birthday, just like all of you.”
“And I’m the executor of the estate,” her brother said. “It’s my job to make sure everything our parents built doesn’t disappear.”
“It’s my restaurant. How is that destroying the other seven? Nothing changes for you guys or the flagship.”
“It’s our money, Delilah. We’re the ones investing in it.”
The world spun like it did on a playground Merry Go Round. Her brothers, her sisters…they didn’t believe in her. “It’s not your call to make. Mom and Dad wanted me to have the eighth franchise.”
“Mom and Dad wanted us each to have a Da Nonna’s. That’s not what you’re going to do.”
“Fine. Okay? You win. I’ll make the signature dishes.” Way to play hardball, guys. “Jesus.” What a crappy way to send a message. On my birthday.
“Maybe in the beginning you might.” Her brother’s tone softened. “But, over time, you won’t be able to help yourself. You’re going to experiment. Put your own spin on the dishes. And, before long, it won’t be Da Nonna’s.”
“You can’t help yourself,” her sister said. “It’s who you are. You’re inventive and playful and—”
“You don’t want this, keiki,” the brother closest in age to her said quietly. “You don’t want to churn out the same menu night after night.”
Tears blurred her vision, but she wouldn’t let them fall. “Yes, I do. I want it more than anything.” They were threatening her entire future, and it wasn’t right.
Besides, she’d earned it. She was the only one who’d gone to the Cordon Bleu, who’d apprenticed with great chefs in Tokyo, London, and Florence. She was the only one who even cared about cooking.
But she guessed that was their point, wasn’t it? The only way to run a franchise of the family restaurant was to make the exact same food every night—never deviate from the “signature dishes.”
Dammit, she’d waited her whole life for this gift, and she had to fight for it. “Even more than I want to try lemon curd in the tiramisu, I want to be part of this family’s legacy. Mom and Dad wanted all of us to share it, so I’m asking you not to shut me out. Don’t make me the only one who doesn’t get a restaurant.” Why were they staring at her like that? “I’ve worked in the kitchen since I was twelve. I can make those dishes in my sleep. I won’t let you down.”
“But you’ll let yourself down,” her brother said. “You have so much potential as a chef. You’ll never realize it at Da Nonna’s.”
More dirt gave way beneath her feet. “I don’t have anything else. If you take this away from me, what do I have?”
“You have talent.” Her brother reached for her, but those sturdy arms that had picked her off the floor when she’d had food poisoning, that had jerked her when she’d stepped off the curb in front of a cab, offered no comfort. “Now, you just have to find the best way to use it.”
Why hadn’t she listened to him? Just last week, she’d added three different cheeses to the pasta e fagioli, and her brother had steamed over to her, shaking the bowl so hard the soup sloshed over the sides. “This isn’t pasta e fagioli.”
She’d ignored him, confident she’d knocked the dish out of the park. It had happened too many times to count, and she’d never listened.
“Starting tomorrow, I swear on my life I’ll run the kitchen exactly how Dad taught me.” She watched her siblings carefully, waiting for even one of them to soften. They had to. They would. “Come on.”
Her sister looked sad but resolute.
“You guys?” This is not happening. They wouldn’t take this from her. “Please.”
“I’m sorry,” her brother said. “You won’t be getting a franchise.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
In her childhood bedroom, Delilah stared out the window into the darkness. The top corner of a brownstone in Greenwich Village, it afforded a view of the little gated park across the street. Clusters of teenagers hung out at the fountain, mostly obscured by trees, and late-night dog walkers hurried by.
She was in freefall.
What am I going to do?
“You okay?” Callie sat behind her on the blue velvet chaise longue.
Pressing closer to the cool window pane so she didn’t have to see her reflection, Delilah stared at the patch of light pooling around the street lamp. “I’m…” Lost. Totally and completely lost. “I don’t know how to fix this.”
“You’ve got two choices,” Marco said. “You either get a job in another kitchen—which won’t be hard to do—or you go out on your own. Start your own restaurant.”
“I don’t have any money.” Her mind raced ahead. “I need a job.” Because in that moment she knew she couldn’t go back to her brother’s kitchen. “I’ll start making calls in the morning. My friends from the New School, the Culinary Institute, NYU…someone will have a lead.”
“Well.” Callie got up. “There’s a third option.”
Delilah waited, tense with hope.
“Go to Calamity.”
Okay, so not what she’d expected. “You want me to go to Wyoming?”
Marco chuckled. “That’d be hilarious. Delilah in shitkickers and a cowboy hat.” He tipped his head back and laughed. “Delilah on a fuckin’ horse.”
“Calamity’s much more than that,” Callie said. “Though, at its heart, it is a ranch town, it’s also—thanks to Yellowstone and the Tetons—a vacation destination. We’ve got a huge artist population. Which means we’ve got great restaurants and shops.”
“I’m not…I can’t…” She loved her friend, but she really didn’t need to hear about her hometown right now. “I have to get my life on track.”
“Listen to me.” She tugged on the hem of Delilah’s blouse. “That networking you need to do? You’re not going to find better than what’s happening in Calamity this summer. You know how competitive the Bowie brothers are, right? So, instead of just hiring a chef for the spa restaurant, they’re having a competition. They’ve flown out five of the best chefs in the world, given each one a cottage for the summer and a stipend for expenses. It’s a big deal.”
“Why would a world-famous chef want to run a restaurant in Calamity, Wyoming?” Marco asked.
“They might not. The point for the chefs is the free PR. The judges are all food critics and travel writers, so there’s going to be lots of press around. But, also, they get to interact with other world-renown chefs and enjoy all Jackson Hole has to offer. It’s a vacation from their usual routine. Besides, the prize isn’t running the spa restaurant—that’s for the board of directors to decide. But, come on, how fun would that be? Hanging out with those chefs? And, you never know, you might hit it off with one of them—”
“Hey, now,” Marco said.
“I meant professionally,” Callie said. “I know for a fact that one of them runs a Michelin-starred restaurant in Italy. If you hit it off with her, who knows, she might offer you a job. What do you have to lose? Go to Calamity, hang out with the chefs for a couple of weeks, and make some new and interesting connections. If nothing else, you’ll have tried new cuisine and gotten some time away from here. Why not?”