Lost in Rome

by Cindy Callaghan

  Hmmm . . . I should probably start keeping good notes to share with her.

  In the kitchen with me was Vito, the cook who didn’t speak English. He packed a meat mixture into balls and hummed loudly.

  Then I heard something else, a sound coming from a vent near one of the ovens.

  It was Gianna’s voice from Jane Attilio’s apartment upstairs.

  I listened harder, but AJ came into the kitchen and interrupted my eavesdropping.

  He had tied a red bandanna around his head in a rock star kind of way.

  “I want one,” I said about the bandanna. He pulled one out of a drawer. My hands were floury, so he tied it for me in a Little Red Riding Hood style—under my chin.

  He laughed.

  Even I chuckled a little before saying, “Come on, like yours.”

  He switched it to the back of my head over my long, curly hair. I took a quick peek at my reflection in the stainless-steel oven door; it actually looked cool.

  Just then Meataball rubbed against my legs. “Is there another bandanna?” I asked AJ.

  He handed one to me, and I tied it around Meataball’s neck, so he could be included. He purred.

  “So, what are we doing here?” AJ asked.

  “Making samples, just like the food court at the mall. It works there. Maybe it will here.” I brushed on more sauce, making sure to get all the way to the edges. I dipped a spoon into the sauce and put just a smidgen on my lips. “I just love it. I swear I could sit in this pot all day, like a sauce hot tub.”

  “I’d go in with you,” he said. “We’d need a big pot.” He rolled out his own crust and swirled sauce on it.

  “What’s your fave topping?” I asked.

  “Duh! Anchovies.”

  “Really?” This was a drag. In my experience, ham and pineapple wasn’t a match with anchovies. At least I didn’t think so. After all, I was still a beginner at this matching stuff.

  I finished off my pizza with fresh mozzarella and Italian sausage, with a dash of Parmesan cheese and oregano.

  AJ put my masterpiece on a wooden board and showed me how to slide the pizza into the oven and take the board out.

  “Do you have little plates that we can serve the samples on?” I asked.

  “White paper pie plates?” He indicated a stack resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which I’d called the Leaning Tower of Pizza until, like, two years ago.

  If Gianna was here, she’d have used fancy scrapbook scissors to give each plate pretty edges and then decorated them with markers and glitter, and maybe hung ribbon from the bottom. “They’ll work.”

  AJ looked into the pizza oven. “It’s done.” He went to open it, but I put my hand on the silver handle keeping it closed.

  “A few more seconds for extra crispiness.”

  “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four—get the pizza cutter—Mississippi,” he said.

  I grabbed the rolling pizza cutter.

  “Five—I think this is a good idea—Mississippi,” he said. “Six—and it smells good—Mississippi.”

  I said, “Seven—but you also liked Pizzeria de Roma’s yucky pizza—Mississippi.”

  He said, “Eight—I was really hungry—Mississippi.”

  “Nine—you’re going to love this—Mississippi.”

  “Ten—can we stop now—Mississippi?”

  “Yes—Mississippi.”

  AJ opened the oven door and in one quick swoop slid the wooden board under my rectangular pizza, gently removed it, and carried it to a cutting board that was lightly sprinkled with flour. AJ smacked the round cutter into the crust and quickly ran it from one side to the other, making bite-size squares. I put each one on a paper plate.

  Soon I’d filled a tray. “Are you going to try one?” I asked.

  “Duh.”

  We each took a square. I crunched into mine and enjoyed the melted cheese and salty Italian sausage.

  AJ said, “Mmm. So good.”

  “That’s the reaction we’re looking for. Let’s go before it gets cold.”

  On our way out, a deliveryman who reminded me of a tanned Santa Claus came in the back door with bread. “Buongiorno!” he cried with a huge smile.

  “Buongiorno!” I returned the same excitement and gave him a sample.

  “Delizioso!” His stomach shook like a bowl full of jelly.

  We left the cook and deliveryman speaking in rapid-fire Italian and strolled down the alley. I looked in each of the closed shops and thought about how sad it was that these businesses had closed because more modern stores had opened on the main piazza. That was sad with a scoop of bummer on top.

  We stood at the end of the piazza opposite Pizzeria de Roma, in sight of the crowds of people—both tourists and locals.

  I called, “Amore Pizzeria here! Free samples!”

  People looked but didn’t come over. I tried again, “Come and get your free sample from Amore Pizzeria!”

  A couple of tourists—fanny packs are a dead giveaway—came over.

  “Help yourself.” I held out the tray.

  I saw a girl looking at me from a distance. I called to her, “Would you like to try a free sample? Bring your friends, too.”

  Soon I was surrounded by people. When other people saw the crowd, they came over to see what was going on too. I called out, “This pizza is from Amore, which is behind me at the end of that cute street. It’s traditional pizza made with a signature secret sauce that’s been passed down for generations. My aunt Maria won’t even tell me what’s in it. That’s how secret it is!”

  (Like I said, a good story has a select few perfect details. Like telling them the sauce was from a secret family recipe. People love that stuff!)

  Everyone smiled and seemed to enjoy their pizza samples. Several started walking down the quiet little alley.

  I said, “Maybe you should get crust ready at the shop.”

  “Roger that,” AJ said, copying my trademark phrase I’d used earlier. He grinned at me, showing off his dimples.

  I can’t believe someone this cute could like anchovies.

  8

  I entertained the sample-eating crowd. “Aunt Maria goes to the vegetable auction every three days for the best, naturally ripe tomatoes.” I added, “To keep the recipe secret, she does it late at night when no one’s around. She learned from her mother, who learned from her mother. It’s written down and locked in a safe that can only be opened upon her death. Her last will and testament specifies which family member will inherit the recipe.”

  I didn’t know that any of this was true, but I didn’t know for a fact that it was untrue.

  The crowd oohed and aahed about the samples and listened to every word.

  I said, “Amore Pizzeria is just at the end of this street. Come on down for some traditional Italian pizza. I can smell it from here!”

  My tray was empty, and a small group of people started moving toward the alley.

  With part one of my two-part plan complete, I hustled back to the restaurant, where three tables had seated themselves and more customers waited by the door.

  AJ took orders and delivered drinks. When he walked past me, he said, “More samples are finished in the oven.”

  “Roger that,” I said. I quickly swished the board under the rectangular pie and cut it the way AJ had shown me. Then I walked around the shop, making personal deliveries and refilling drinks—mostly Cokes and fizzy water that they called acqua frizzante. I pointed to the family pictures on the walls and explained who was who. There were some people I didn’t know much about, so I made up stories about them to keep customers amused until their lunches arrived.

  “Grab those dishes and follow me.” AJ indicated steaming bowls of spaghetti—of course Amore served more than pizza—that Vito had set on the counter between the kitchen and dining room.

  Aunt Maria walked in the front door, followed by a man in a business suit.

  “My goodness,” she said. “Busy lunch today.”
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br />   “Yes,” I said.

  She introduced the man, “This is Eduardo Macelli from the bank.”

  I smiled. “Hi. Welcome to Amore Pizzeria. Will you be having lunch?”

  “Sì,” he said.

  “Follow me to this table just beneath a beautiful painting of the very port that my grandfather sailed from on his way to America. His name was Luciano. I was named after him,” I said. “My name is Lucy.”

  Eduardo Macelli sat down. He was a petite man, bald and thin.

  “Let me guess,” I said, studying him. “Acqua fizzante?”

  “Sì.”

  I returned to the kitchen, where Aunt Maria checked her sauce supply. “Be sure he gets the best service,” she said to me about Eduardo Macelli.

  “I will.” I took him the last sample with his fizzy water. He bit into it. I waited for a reaction but didn’t get one.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Sì.” It seemed Eduardo Macelli wasn’t much of a talker.

  I asked, “Do you know what kind of pizza you want?”

  “Surprise me,” he said with a thick Italian accent and a straight face.

  “I’ll do that.”

  I wrote down one ricotta cheese and one salami. Those might be unusual in America but were pretty standard here in Rome. I gave the order slip to AJ, because I wasn’t sure where it was supposed to go next.

  Then I watched the customers and started making couples in my head. Since the pizza toppings here were so different from the ones at home, I sort of had to start from scratch. I had pepperoni, mushrooms, and meatball all worked out, but ricotta cheese and salami were new territory for me. This required serious concentration.

  A pretty woman with a cute pink purse was speaking French with her female companion while savoring bianca (that’s white pizza) with asparagus and burrata mozzarella—a cheese with a smooth, creamy center that’s spreadable. It is majorly delizioso.

  A table of four men nearby had ordered a table-size margarita pizza. (Margarita is topped with olive oil, garlic, fresh basil, tomatoes, and mozzarella and Parmesan cheeses.)

  When I passed them, my stomach fluttered like a butterfly had just burst out of a cocoon. And an idea hit me.

  AJ had added up checks for the tables. “I’ll deliver those,” I offered.

  First I gave Eduardo Macelli his pizza. Then I placed a leather folio containing a check on the table with the French ladies and gave another to the men eating margarita.

  Then I watched and waited.

  When the ladies realized I’d given them the wrong bill, they scanned the tables for the order matching the food on the check.

  Mademoiselle bianca with asparagus and burrata mozzarella approached one of the margarita men. “Pardonnez-moi,” she said in French. Then in English she said, “I think this is your check.”

  Mr. Margarita opened the folio. “And this is the one for you,” he said with an Italian accent.

  They traded, pausing for only a second when they each had a hand on the same folio.

  The butterflies in my stomach flapped their wings.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Murielle.”

  He said, “Would you and your friend join us for coffee, Murielle?”

  “Bien sûr. Of course.”

  The ladies fitted chairs around the men’s table, and AJ brought them espresso and cappuccino.

  My first match!

  I found a pad used for taking orders and jotted notes about matching margarita and bianca pizzas.

  AJ leaned on the counter. “What happened there?”

  “Remember I told you that I had two ideas? The samples were just to get people here. That”—I pointed to the table—“is my second idea. You see, I’m kind of a . . . a bit of a . . . I guess you’d call it a . . . romance coordinator. I—”

  “Lucy.” Aunt Maria waved for me to come into the kitchen.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said to AJ, and headed to Aunt Maria.

  AJ called after me, “Uh, yeah. You will. You can’t just tell someone that and walk away.”

  I turned. “Sorry.” Once in the kitchen, I asked Aunt Maria, “What’s up?”

  “What was that with the check?”

  “I thought I would introduce them”—I indicated the women—“to them.” I indicated the men.

  “Why?”

  “Well, because of the pizza they ordered,” I confessed. “You see, I kind of guess things about people based on how they like their pizza. Something told me that the margarita and bianca people would make a good romantic match.”

  “Mamma mia!” Aunt Maria exclaimed. “Who taught you to do that?”

  “No one. It was just like a feeling I had in my gut one day at home at a pizza shop. And I went with it. First it was just in my head. Then I tried it for real. And it worked!”

  “It is the matchmaking. It is not good. Do not mess with the love.”

  “But it could be good for business,” I said. “Look around. They’ll totally Instagram and tweet this stuff.”

  “What is this ‘tweet’? Like a bird?” She shook her head, not really wanting an explanation. “No. No more, Lucy. Understand? Capisce?”

  I sighed. “All right. But it seems a shame to let this skill go to waste.”

  “No more! Don’t mess with the love.”

  “Okay,” I said. I walked back out to the dining room, angry and confused. Why did it bother her so much?

  I walked right past AJ without explaining anything and approached Mr. Macelli. “Did you like the pizza?” I asked him.

  “Yes. Buono. Now I’ll try”—he pointed to two items on the menu—“this and this.”

  “You’re still hungry? Super!” I said. “I’ll get that for you.” I took his glass. “And I’ll refill this.”

  I put the order in, brought the drink, and waited on other tables. As the lunch crowd faded, I wiped down tables and reset them for dinner.

  Eduardo Macelli sat for another hour, determined to try as many menu items as he could before exploding. He had taken a pen and paper out of his briefcase and wrote things down.

  “Can I get you anything else?” I finally asked him.

  “Sì. Your zia Maria.”

  “Okay.” I thought he was going to file a complaint about my waitressing or the food. “Is everything okay? This is my first day.”

  “Everything is buono. I want to talk.”

  I pulled Aunt Maria away from the food prep area, where she was peeling garlic, and sent her to Eduardo’s table. She wrung her hands nervously as she approached him.

  I walked past the table several times, lingering to catch what they were saying, but I couldn’t translate their hushed Italian tones.

  What was going on with those two?

  9

  After all the customers had left, I was so tired that I would’ve been happy with a cereal bar and a bed. But then I saw the spread of Italian food that Aunt Maria had set on a table in the dining room, and I forgot all about a cereal bar.

  A mountain of homemade pasta with an Aunt Maria–invented sauce that had a pinkish tint to it, a chopped salad with vegetables of every color, and crusty bread wooed me to sit at the table set for seven.

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  “We will eat together,” Aunt Maria said. She poured olive oil on little plates and sprinkled it with seasoning. “Sit.” She broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the oil. No one butters bread in Italy.

  As if on cue, Gianna, Jane, and a young guy my age, looking absurd in a mid-length black skirt with many layers of pink tulle underneath, entered Amore Pizzeria through the back door.

  “Ah, Rico. Here is Lucy. You remember her, sì?” She dashed into the kitchen, calling for AJ and Vito.

  “Remember what?” I asked him, confused.

  He shrugged. “I guess she meant that she told me you were coming. It’s all she’s talked about for days,” he said. He popped a chunk of bread in his mouth.

 
; “You don’t have an Italian accent either,” I said to Rico.

  “Nope. I was born in the US. But my parents are Italian. We moved back when I was, like, six,” he explained. “A lot of tourists come into Amore Pizzeria. It helps Maria to have fluent English speakers around.”

  That all made sense to me.

  AJ sat down and asked Rico, “You the model again?”

  Rico said, “Seems that I have the best legs.” He jutted his bruised and battered typical boy leg out for everyone to see.

  As far as banged-up boy legs go, I guessed his were pretty good. But it wasn’t his legs that struck me; it was something about his eyes—dark, dark brown—that was strangely familiar. He reminded me of a boy I sometimes put in my stories.

  Did I know him from somewhere? Were we online friends?

  I didn’t think so. A cute Italian boy who didn’t mind wearing a skirt seemed like something I would remember. I got a weird feeling in my gut. Was it telling me to match him with someone? I didn’t even know what kind of pizza he liked.

  Rico said to me, “I know this might look weird to you, but I’m an unusual guy. I like football, snakes, loud music, horror movies, and”—he indicated the skirt—“I happen to have a knack for fashion. And, FYI, I don’t usually wear skirts.”

  “You’re right. That is unusual. But I like that.” I whispered, “I’m a little different myself.”

  “Yeah? How?” he asked.

  “Maybe I’ll tell you one of these days.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Gianna looked at me talking to Rico and raised an eyebrow. Recently she’d been asking me if I thought there were any cute boys at school, if I liked anyone, etc. Maybe she thought it was somehow her responsibility as my older sister to show me how to meet boys. She dropped her brow and said, “Dinner looks great. I’m so hungry.”