Lost in Rome

by Cindy Callaghan

  12

  The next day, well rested and refreshed, Gianna and I walked from Aunt Maria’s apartment to Amore Pizzeria.

  “You think it’ll work?” she asked.

  “Yep,” I said. “When I give you the sign, you go for it. Until then, act totally normal.” I handed her the slip of paper she would need to get Aunt Maria out of the pizzeria for a few hours.

  “Fine, but for the record, I don’t like this.”

  I said, “Okay. I’ll make a note in the official record.” I pretended to open a big, heavy book. I grunted when I opened its huge cover. I dipped an imaginary quill pen in ink and as I wrote, I said, “Gianna doesn’t like it.” I put the pen back in the ink cup, closed the giant book, and said, “Done.”

  Gianna rolled her eyes at me.

  We found Aunt Maria kneading dough as AJ filled salt and pepper shakers.

  I gave Gianna the signal—a thumb in my ear and wiggling my other four fingers.

  Gianna flipped through some papers and said, “Oh, Aunt Maria, there’s a phone message here for you.”

  Aunt Maria was up to her elbows in dough. “What’s it say, the message?”

  “Um—it’s from the bank, I think. Um, I’m not sure.”

  Snap! Gianna was gonna crack under the pressure; I could feel it. Gianna Rossi could sneak around with Lorenzo from Pizzeria de Roma, but ask her to feed a fake phone message to Aunt Maria, and she crumbled like a block of extra-sharp Asiago cheese.

  I took the slip of paper and read it. “It’s from Eduardo Macelli. He wants to meet you at the bank at one o’clock. It says you should bring your business plan.”

  “The business plan?! That is all the way across the city with my friend Anna. She is very smart with the numbers.”

  “Maybe she can e-mail it to—” Gianna started saying, but I stomped on her foot. “Ah!” she cried.

  Aunt Maria ignored her. “E-mail? Pfft! I take the bus. That’s how we get things done. On the bus. I do not need the e-mail or the wonder web.”

  “You mean the World Wide Web?” Gianna asked. “The Internet?”

  “Neither of these. If I want to tell you something, I call on the telephone. Not this kind”—she pointed to my cell phone with floury hands—“the regular kind. Or I write a letter with the paper and pen. Remember paper?”

  “Yes. I remember paper,” I said. “So, if you have to take the bus all the way to your friend’s apartment before the bank, you should probably leave around noon. And I guess you won’t be back until two, right? Because you’ll have to bring the plan back to your friend.”

  She studied the wall clock. “Sì. Two. Mamma mia! I’ll miss lunch. That is no good.”

  “Don’t you mamma mia yourself. We’ll be cool,” I reassured her. “We can totally handle it. It’s like, mega cool.”

  “What is this ‘mega cool’?”

  “She means it’s all fine,” Gianna said. “We can handle it. Jane, Rico, and I will help.”

  Aunt Maria looked at AJ.

  “It’s okay,” he added. “I’m all over it.”

  “All over what? I just want you working at the lunch. Do not go all over anything,” Aunt Maria said to him. She stirred sauce, checked on a tray of lasagna that was cooking in the oven, and gave a whole bunch of instructions to Vito, the cook who didn’t speak English. At exactly noon, she hung her apron up and left through the back door.

  “What are you gonna do when she goes to the bank and Eduardo Macelli doesn’t know what she’s talking about?” Gianna asked.

  AJ interrupted, “Do I want to know what’s going on?”

  “No!” Gianna and I both said to him.

  I said to Gianna, “Don’t worry about Eduardo Macelli. He won’t be at the bank. I took care of that.”

  The back door opened. It was Rico. “Aloha, pizzeria peeps,” he said to AJ and Vito. “And Madame Big Idea.”

  “Big idea?” AJ asked. “Are you talking about the matchmaking?”

  “I was talking about the redecorating,” Rico said. “But matchmaking sounds . . . well . . . weird.”

  “I don’t believe in matchmakers,” AJ said.

  Rico said, “I definitely want to hear more about this, but I understand there’s a rogue chair cover needing attention pronto.” He held up a staple gun as if it was a chain saw. “It had better prepare to be stapled.”

  “I’ll get that.” Gianna took the stapler from him. “We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

  “You can use a staple gun?” Rico asked her.

  “You should see what I can do with duct tape.” She ran out and pounded the silver stapler into the chair. That flapping piece of fabric didn’t stand a chance.

  I asked AJ, “How do the samples look?”

  He said, “Almost done!”

  There was a knock at the back door. Rico opened it and held it for the deliveryman with the big Santa Claus belly. Santa pushed in a wheeled cart stacked with pasta—gnocchi, linguini, ravioli, and cavatelli. “Buongiorno!” he cried.

  Then the front door opened, and potential matches walked in. Through the opening between the kitchen and dining room, I said, “Welcome to Amore Pizzeria.”

  I glanced at Gianna. She sighed. “Go ahead. Do your thing.”

  “Now? You’re doing it now?” AJ whispered. “The matchmaking?”

  “Yep,” I said. “Here it goes.”

  “I gotta see this,” Rico said. The three of them stood at the counter between the kitchen and dining room, leaned on their elbows, and watched me work my magic.

  13

  “What kind of pizza do you like?” I asked the first pair of women.

  “Kalamata olives,” one of them said. “We get it every time, but we’ve never had it here.”

  “You’ll love it.” I started thinking about a match for kalamata olives. People in America usually don’t get that, so I figured it would be the same as black olives, which I would probably match with mushrooms, but it wasn’t an exact science. I had a hunch about what else might do the trick. And if my plan worked like I hoped it would, the match I was looking for would come through the door soon.

  I put the order in and sat more tables.

  “I’m heading out with samples. Vito can read English, so give the orders to him,” AJ said. “Gianna will handle drinks, and Rico will clear dirty dishes.”

  “Gotcha.” AJ left, and the next customer walked in. It was the person I was waiting for—Eduardo Macelli from the bank. “Welcome back,” I said.

  He asked, “Is your zia here? I received the message to meet her.”

  “You did?” Of course he did—I’d left him the message to come here. “I think maybe there’s been a mix-up, because she went to meet you at the bank,” I said. “I’ll call her on her cell phone.” I knew Aunt Maria didn’t have a cell phone. “Why don’t you eat while you wait for her?” I was going to set him up with more than lunch.

  “Sì.” He looked around the dining room. “Looks different,” he said. “Buono.”

  “Thanks. It’s a work in progress.” I hooked my arm into his. “You know, some of the glue on the chairs is still drying.” I didn’t even know if the chairs had any glue. “I hope you don’t mind if I seat you with these two ladies just for a little while.” Before Eduardo Macelli or the ladies could object, I dashed to get him fizzy water. I remembered that Eduardo had liked the ricotta that I’d brought him yesterday. It wasn’t a precise match with kalamata olives, but I had a feeling about this—bubbles in my gut. It felt right.

  I told Gianna the drinks I needed. She pointed to Eduardo Macelli. “Why is he here?”

  “So that he won’t be at the bank when Aunt Maria gets there.”

  “Oh. Makes sense,” she said.

  “And who knows. Maybe he’ll meet a lady,” I added. I’d made a mental note yesterday that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “Oh jeez,” she said, and delivered the drinks.

  When I returned with Eduardo Macelli’s pizza, he and the tw
o ladies were busily chatting about banking and football—that’s soccer to you and me.

  I continued to seat people in the newly decorated dining room.

  A group of four giggly girls came in, holding white paper pie plates from AJ’s sample tray. One said, “We’re here for—” She hesitated.

  “Pizza?” I asked.

  “Our love match.” They sounded American. Probably here for summer vacation or a school trip. She said, “The guy handing out samples told us to come here to meet the matchmaker.” She glanced at the customers and asked me, “Can I get him?” She indicated a certain guy.

  “Well, it doesn’t really work that way,” I explained. “What kind of pizza do you like?”

  “That depends. What kind of pizza does he like?”

  “He hasn’t ordered yet, but I need to know your favorite kind in order to match you.”

  “You’re the matchmaker?” she asked.

  I nodded. “In the flesh.”

  “Huh. I thought you’d be an old lady with a crystal ball or something. You’re not even Italian.”

  “Nah,” I said. “More twenty-first century. And American matchmakers have come a long way since the Victorian era.”

  One of the girls, whose mouth was full of complicated orthodontic equipment, asked, “Why do you need to know our pizza?”

  “It’s just the way it works,” I said. “What kind do you like?”

  The first girl tapped each of her friends’ shoulders one at a time, telling me their faves. “And Riley”—that was the girl with the braces—“she likes bacon, piled real high. And I just like mine plain.”

  “Well, in Rome we have an Italian bacon called pancetta. You’ll love it,” I said to Riley.

  She smiled, revealing the metal.

  I wrote down the orders. I already had a few ideas for three of the girls, but I didn’t know what I was going to do with a pile of pancetta. I had never even dealt with regular American bacon. “Wait here,” I said.

  I walked around and looked at the pizza orders. I got a good feeling when I passed a table of four younger guys who all spoke English and looked like American tourists. I thought maybe I could match two of the girls. Fifty percent wasn’t too bad for a beginner.

  I pulled an empty table next to the boys’ and said, “Hey there, I have a bit of an issue. I hope you can help me out. We just redecorated, and the tiles on the floor are loose in some places where we repositioned them. Do you mind if I put this table closer to yours so that no one trips?” I didn’t let them answer. “Of course you don’t mind. You look like nice guys.” I pointed to one of them. “If you could just move down here to this chair—” The boys looked at each other, confused, but one of them started getting up. “Oh, not you.” I pointed to a different guy. “You.”

  “Why me?” he asked.

  “You have—um—a better—um—center of gravity. It will help equilibrate the tile sitch we’ve got, if you know what I mean.”

  “Gravity?”

  “Yup. It’s all about gravity. Am I right or am I right?” I rambled. “Very scientific.”

  One of them said, “Luke, dude, it’s scientific. Just move.”

  Luke moved where I’d said.

  “And you.” I pointed to another one of them. “You sit here.” He moved where I said. I waved to the girls to fill in the empty seats. “These girls have higher gravity and better—um—cerebellum. It’s a girl thing, you wouldn’t understand.” Everyone got comfy. “Thank you all so, so much! You have no idea how helpful you’ve been.” I scooted away before anyone could object.

  AJ returned with his empty sample tray and helped Vito cook. This lunch was going well.

  At one o’clock Murielle duPluie from the Rome newspaper walked in with a photographer on her heels.

  She and I sat at the two-top (that’s a table for two) near the door, so I could hear if any more matching requests came in.

  She said, “I always record interviews so that I’m sure to get the quotes just right.” She turned on a small tape recorder. “So tell me. How does this all work? The matches? And how did you get into this?”

  “Well, I guess it all started because I like to be around people. If I’m ever home alone, I walk down the street to visit my mom at the office where she works. It’s next to a pizza place. She gives me money to get a slice. Sometimes I hang out there and watch people. I started to notice things about people and their pizza.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like personality stuff.”

  “For example?”

  “People who like everything on their pizza—I call them ‘Everythings’—they’re probably the easiest to describe. They’re really outgoing, talkative, maybe a little loud.”

  “And who do these Everythings match with?” Murielle duPluie asked.

  “Well, there are a few possibilities. I can’t really reveal my secrets, if you know what I mean. Plus, it isn’t an exact science.”

  “I understand. If you gave out all your formulas, anyone could be a Pizzeria Matchmaker.”

  “Too true. But it’s not just the pizza. I get a certain, I don’t know, like a feeling from people. When I mix that feeling with the pizza—KABOOM!—I make a match.”

  I saw her write “kaboom.” “And you knew when I ordered that I would match well with Angelo?”

  “I looked at the pizza options in the room and went with my gut,” I said. “When I mixed up your checks, it was sort of an experiment to see if there was a spark. I provided the intro, and you did the rest.”

  Just then I glanced over Murielle duPluie’s shoulder to the window that looked out on the cobblestone street. Aunt Maria was coming back, earlier than planned.

  Oh. No.

  14

  My thumb went to my ear, and I wiggled my fingers.

  “Are you okay?” Murielle duPluie asked.

  “Fine.” I called, “Gi!” into the kitchen.

  Gianna saw my signal and Aunt Maria. She raced to the door to intercept her. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said to Aunt Maria. “Mmmm . . . errr . . .”

  Gi, think fast.

  “It’s the sauce,” Gianna blurted out.

  Meanwhile, I pointed to the pictures hanging on the wall facing away from the door and said to Murielle duPluie, “Let me tell you a story about this picture right here. You’ll love this, really.”

  I said, “That one is the house where this restaurant started.”

  I glanced over to Eduardo Macelli. He was in such deep conversation with the two ladies I’d sat him with that he didn’t notice Aunt Maria.

  I continued, “People came from all around. . . .” I heard Aunt Maria say, “Mamma mia! What is this about the sauce?” She hurried toward the kitchen without noticing Eduardo Macelli, the reporter, or someone taking my picture. That’s how important sauce was to Aunt Maria.

  AJ appeared with a stack of take-out containers. “You must be in a hurry,” he said to Murielle duPluie and the photographer. “I wrapped up some tiramisu and rum cake for you guys to take with you.” To me, so that Murielle duPluie could hear, he said, “We have a matchmaking request for you. High priority. A complicated case.”

  “Duty calls,” I said.

  Murielle duPluie looked at her watch. “Just one more question. What’s your favorite topping?” she asked me.

  I smiled. “Umm. I, umm . . . I like ham and pineapple. But you really can’t find that in Rome. It’s an American thing.”

  “Maybe you can introduce it to Italy.” She held her mic near AJ’s mouth. “And you? What’s yours?”

  “I’m an anchovy guy. All the way. And you can quote me on that.”

  She smiled and asked me, “Is anchovy a good match with ham and pineapple?”

  “That’s more than one question,” I said quickly. “I’ll just say, ‘Come to Amore Pizzeria, and maybe you’ll find your love.’ ”

  Murielle duPluie clicked off the recorder. “Thank you. Merci. This will be formidable. Maybe I can do a fo
llow-up story in a few days and see how your skills are improving?”

  “Sure.” I led her to the front door. As she walked away, I listened to her stiletto heels clickety-clack down the cobblestones.

  When she was a safe distance away, I spun around. “That was close,” I said to AJ.

  “You said ‘duty,’ ” he said. “You know, like doody. Like poop.”

  Boys!

  15

  I flew into the kitchen. Aunt Maria was tasting the sauce. “It is perfect.”

  “Oh, phew,” Gianna said. “I thought maybe it wasn’t warm enough.”

  “Oh, you worry too much,” Aunt Maria said. She looked at the dining room and saw Eduardo Macelli. “He here?”

  “I know,” I said. “If you had a cell phone, I could’ve called you to tell you.”

  “No cell phone.” She went to talk to him. I held my breath for a minute and watched them talk. They laughed, hopefully over the confusion of the meeting place.

  When the lunch rush slowed down, Gianna and I sat at the corner near the register with one of Amore’s menus. She had an assortment of glitter pens, stickers, and stampers. Meataball sat on the extra menus.

  I studied menu items. There were so many wonderful traditional Italian dishes. I wondered if maybe Amore could add a few American-inspired pizzas. I wrote descriptions of three combos that I missed in Rome, while Gianna doodled around the edges.

  “How about we name these after American cities?” I suggested. “This one will be the New York, this one the Philadelphia, and this one the Los Angeles.”

  “I love that idea. And I’ll draw something from each city next to them—the Empire State Building, the Liberty Bell, and the Hollywood sign.”

  The new menu was going to look great and offer some items that no other pizzeria in the area had.

  “So,” Gianna began. “Rico’s cute.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “You know, it doesn’t make sense to me that you’re a matchmaker, yet you’ve never had a match of your own,” Gianna continued. “I mean, shouldn’t the matchmaker have some experience in romance?”