I couldn’t help but laugh, and as hard as she tried, my mother couldn’t keep a straight face. “Do you think she’ll go to jail?” I asked between chortles.
“I don’t think so. But she’ll surely go to hell.”
“That would be redundant.”
“Come on. I have to hear the rest of this.” My mother resumed her position next to Nonna and Aunt Maria, and I easily fit my ear at the door above their three heads. I’d never heard Uncle Tony so mad or heard him speak to his mother like this.
“You’re telling me you spent your social security and the allowance I give you, a total of over nine hundred dollars a month, in a bingo hall and you needed to pinch pennies from the poor box? How could bingo cost that much? Jesus, it was only a dollar a card the last time I played.”
“I played more than one card, Anthony.”
“How many cards can you play? Five? Ten? That still doesn’t account for all that money.”
“Aiuda, Jazzugeet.” I thought it was an inappropriate time for Mrs. A to be asking Jesus for help since they were his pennies she’d swiped, but she was probably not in a rational frame of mind.
Uncle Tony’s tone became gentler. “I’m trying to help you, Ma. But I can’t help unless you tell me what’s going on.”
“It wasn’t just Bingo, Anthony,” she admitted. “Mrs. Colasanto won this big amount of money playing the horses. She told her nephew what horses she liked and he played them for her. She said he’d do it for me if I wanted. So sometimes he’d come to the church on bingo night and I’d give him some money. When he didn’t come, I’d tell my picks to Mrs. Colasanto and she’d tell him. Sometimes I’d call him on the phone. He’d play the horse and then collect the money later if I lost. I didn’t realize I was losing so much, and sometimes he wouldn’t wait for his money. I didn’t always have enough to pay him back.”
There was a frightening pause and then Uncle Tony absolutely exploded, sending the four of us cowering away from the door. “Colasanto? Carmen Colasanto? For Christ’s sake, Ma. Carmen Colasanto’s a bookie. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Watch your mouth, Anthony. Forgive him, Father. He isn’t really a bookie. He just loaned me money as a favor to his aunt.”
“That’s what a bookie, does, Ma! Mannaggia a l’America. Mannaggia. How much did she take, Father?”
“Well, it’s not really about the money, it’s—”
“How much?” Uncle Tony was really steaming.
“About two hundred dollars. It will have to be paid back. And Mrs. Alfano is not allowed back in St. Michael’s.”
I would have thought that was exactly where she should be, on her knees. You know, purging her soul of sin and all that. But what did I know?
“Maria! Bring me the checkbook.” We stepped back from the door so Aunt Maria could take the checkbook to Uncle Tony. My mother whispered to her to leave the door open so we could get a look at what was going on. Mrs. Alfano, head bowed, was sitting at the table. Her black dress was singed in several spots. Uncle Tony, his face beet red, was pacing and muttering behind her. Old Father Joseph, pale and washed out as usual, was standing—or, I should say, swaying, since he does drink a little—a few feet from the side of Mrs. A, with his hands folded so the tips covered his mouth as if in solemn prayer, or perhaps to cover any odor of the Jack Daniel’s he preferred.
“Do you intend to press charges, Father?” Uncle Tony asked before he signed the check.
“I’ve been thinking about that and don’t know what to do. Perhaps I have to speak to my superiors. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“Oh, come on, Father. Don’t you remember guys tipping over the baptismal font, trying to get into the poor box with a penknife, drawing dirty pictures in the Mass books?” Uncle Tony was never a fan of Father Joseph’s; now he seemed to be as put out with him as he obviously was with his mother.
“No. I don’t remember any of that.”
“Well, then you don’t remember Frankie DeCesare and Vinny Guccione.”
“I never liked that Vinny Guccione.” Mrs. Alfano was probably hoping the conversation was now turning to someone else’s sins.
“I’m going to have to think and pray about this,” Father Joseph said without uncovering his mouth.
Probably seeing this as an opportune moment, my mother picked up the plate of cannoli and went into the room. “Would you care for one, Father?” Her attempt at a bribe was totally blatant, but the priest took a cannoli anyway. I thought that was in poor taste. He really should just have left without eating pastry as though this were a christening celebration instead of a robbery-and-candle-snuffing confrontation.
In the end, it was Nonna who put a stop to any talk of pressing charges. “Oh, she’s just an old woman, Father. And how do we know that money would have gone to the poor and not for a little bourbon for the rectory? Now eat your cannoli and let’s forget this ever happened.” Father Joseph ate his cannoli.
BEFORE I WENT TO bed that night, I called Jonathan. There was no answer, so I left a message on his machine saying that I hoped he was okay. As difficult as he could be, I wouldn’t want to do the show without him. I didn’t know how to make brown beautiful with parsley.
Chapter 14
Who’s foolin’ who?
—Delbert McClinton
The next morning, even with a stop at the buffet, I was the first one in the kitchen. Danny was second. He poked his head in the door. “Is this late enough? I’ve been hiding around the corner for twenty minutes so everyone would see that you got here first.”
“Never happened,” I said.
“Sure it did. I saw you come in with your Danish and coffee.”
I held up my empty plate. “They were muffins.”
He came into the room. “I thought you only took muffins on your second buffet run.”
“I mix it up to confuse anyone spying on me.”
“You just can’t count on people anymore,” he said, sitting down across from me. “By the way, I got my first Ella delivery. The chicken came wrapped prettier than a present from Clery & Co.”
“From where?”
“Clery & Co. One of Ireland’s oldest department stores. The chickens were wrapped individually and laid out neatly in the box. I think I got Ella, Ella, Ella, and Ella.” That made me laugh. “He also sent me some of his eggs to taste. You should have seen the yolks. They were almost orange. He must give the chickens some leafy greens with their feed.”
I squinted at him. “Do you know that because you spent summers on your grandparents’ farm?”
“It’s the truth,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. “I swear.”
“Okay. I believe you.” I looked at the clock. It was almost a quarter of six. “We should get started.”
“Where do we begin?”
“First of all, did you bring a change of shirts?” He was wearing black jeans and a faded blue chambray shirt, which would be fine, but he needed a different shirt for each of his three shows.
“Oh! I left them on a chair around the corner.” He walked out the door and came back in carrying several hangers. “Sonya said I could wear a chef’s coat or street clothes. I decided to go with the street clothes, but I wasn’t sure what would be best, so I brought a few choices. Should I try them on for you?” He laid the selection of shirts on Romeo and began to unbutton the one he was wearing.
“No!” I said a little too emphatically. “Sonya will be the one to decide.”
“So you don’t want me to undress?” he asked, grinning at me.
“No. I do not. I want you to cook.” I took two aprons from the linen draw and handed him one. “Here. And you should keep the bib up in case you need that shirt for the show.”
“Yes, Chef.” Most male chefs fold the bib of a chef’s apron under and tie the apron around their waists, which leaves their tops unprotected. I don’t have linen service, so I keep the bib up. I slipped my apron over my head without realizing that the neck str
ap had a knot in it. Mae must have worn it last and knotted the strap so the apron would be the right size for her. The knot raised it too high for me to tie the straps at my waist, so I reached behind my head to undo it. It was stubborn, the way knots are after they go through the wash, and I was having a hard time with it.
“Here, let me do that.” He stood close to me and reached behind me and began to work the knot. His knuckles kept brushing the back of my neck and I think my heart stopped, or at least my breathing did. I wondered if he could feel the little tiny hairs standing up. I bet he could. He was grinning that grin at me again.
“There,” he said. “You seem to have a lot of trouble with your clothing.”
“Only when you’re around, but don’t take it personally.” If I didn’t move away from him soon, I was afraid it would become more personal. Now that I had made it clear to him that I did not want to get involved, I actually enjoyed the flirting. I just wasn’t certain that my body was clear on the message. I picked up my tote bag and dug out the scripts. “You want to work on the lamb?”
“I’ll do anything you want, love. You know that. Just give me the word.”
I pulled four racks of lamb out of the refrigerator. “This one we leave untrimmed so you can show what it looks like from the market. This one needs to be completely trimmed; that’s the one we’ll cook ahead of time. Trim all the bones but one rib on this one. That’s the bone you’ll clean on TV. And trim this one completely but do nothing with it.”
“What’s that one for? I didn’t see it in the script.” He had done his homework.
“That’s in case you can’t get the bone trimmed fast enough.”
“I will,” he said.
Mae walked in followed by two Tonys. Her hair tuft was sprayed kelly green and she wore a bright orange ruffled skirt and a white tank top. She looked like the Irish flag and I was glad for her that Danny picked up on it.
“Well, look at you, love, sporting the colors.”
“I thought it’d be cool in your honor.”
“Where did you ever find a skirt that color?” I asked. I meant for my question to sound more inquisitive and less incredulous, but Mae didn’t seem to notice.
“I dyed it. I have more of the dye at home if you want me to dye something for you.”
“Thanks. It is an absolutely amazing color.”
She smiled in acknowledgment that it was amazing and then asked, “Where should I begin?”
“With the tuna tartare, and let’s go over it first.” Because the tuna spot was essentially two separate recipes, the tartare and the wonton cups, we had to lay out the ingredients carefully. The cameras would shoot the tuna from one angle, then swing over as Danny moved to another spot on the set. We had to make sure that he had what he needed in each position, so he wouldn’t be moving back and forth. We’d need salt in both places so he wouldn’t have to reach. We’d decided that he should make the tartare and leave it in the bowl where it was made. Then he could move to the wontons, assemble them, pop them in the oven, and return to a third spot on the counter with a twin bowl of tartare and already baked wontons. He would then fill one and put it on a plate with the triangles. Danny knew what he was going to do at each spot; we had to make sure that what he needed to do it was in the proper place.
Mae marked trays according to position on the set and then began to make the wonton cups. It was still too early for Jonathan to be there, if he was coming, but I began to worry a bit since I knew a substitute designer would not have a key to his cabinet. We had some dishes and platters in the kitchen but nothing like what was in Jonathan’s private stash. I began to rummage through cabinets to see what I could find.
Danny finished trimming the lamb and I set him to work on cooking shallots and mushrooms for his swap. I gave him a Tony all to himself so he wouldn’t have to hunt for equipment or peel his own shallots or wipe his own mushrooms.
A little after six-thirty, Sonya came into the kitchen, greeted us all, and then said, “Casey, I have to fill in as line producer today, so I won’t be around much. Can you manage here?”
“Not a problem. I was wondering about Jonathan, though. Have you heard from him?”
“No. But if he doesn’t show up, let Lisa know and she’ll stand in as stylist.” Lisa was primarily responsible for keeping the living room set seasonal: pumpkins and leaves in fall, holly and red candles in December, tulips in April—that kind of thing. I knew her answer to styling the food would be to scatter blossoms around it.
Once Sonya left, the first thing I had to deal with was Danny’s wardrobe. “Okay, O’Shea. Looks like you’re going to have to take your clothes off for me after all.”
He laughed and put down his knife. “You first.”
Mae looked up from her capers and said, “Did I miss something?”
“Since Sonya won’t be around, we’re going to have to decide what he should wear for the three spots.” I crossed my arms over my chest, grinned, and said to him, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He grinned right back at me, took off the apron, and began unbuttoning his shirt.
“Not here. Around the corner.” I picked up his hangers and led him out the door and around the corner to a small alcove at the right of the kitchen door. It was secluded enough for a quick change, and we all used it in a pinch. Otherwise, he would have to use the bathrooms, which are upstairs, or change in the kitchen. A few years ago, we had a chef change in the kitchen. He was so proud of his upper body that he kept his shirt off longer than necessary, and it was extremely distracting. I wasn’t sure how distracting a bare-chested Danny would be to me, but I wasn’t willing to take any chances.
I hung the shirts on some wiring hanging from the wall and started to walk back to the kitchen.
“You leaving?”
“It’s not a two-person job. Come into the kitchen when you’ve changed.”
“Feel free to peek if you want!”
He returned shortly in the black polo shirt he had worn the first day we’d met.
“I like that for the salmon spot. The contrast will be good. What do you think, Mae?”
“Definitely.’”
“Next,” I said to him.
Danny tried on three more shirts. We decided on the faded chambray shirt for the lamb and a bright blue polo shirt that made his eyes seem even bluer for the tuna tartare with fried wontons.
“Okay, Danny, don’t put any of those three back on until shooting.”
It was great having the extra set of hands, especially his. He knew his own recipes by heart and worked through them more quickly than either Mae or I could have. A little after seven, Jonathan arrived in a neck brace.
“Jonathan. How are you?” I said with real concern.
“Don’t ask. I’m lucky to be alive. If that brute ever comes on the show again, I am definitely quitting.”
“Did his front man see you after the show?”
“Please! That asshole! He tried to give me a cookbook. What nerve! I told him my lawyer doesn’t cook.”
“I’m glad you’re well enough to be here,” I said.
“I’m not well enough,” he said, touching the brace, “I’m dedicated.” He reached into his pocket for the key to his cupboard.
“What happened to you?” Danny asked.
The question was music to Jonathan’s ears. He leaned on the counter next to Danny and gave him a blow-by-blow description of his ordeal. Danny listened and commented but never stopped working. When he’d finished his medical analysis, Jonathan switched topics. “I’m so glad that we are going to put potatoes and vegetables on the plate with the lamb. You have no idea how difficult it is to make brown appealing. But,” he said, throwing his chin in the air, “no one listens to me.”
Even with Jonathan drawing out the details of his near-death experience and making his color point yet again, Danny’s help moved us along a lot faster than I had expected, and we finished well ahead of time. By seven forty-five we were done. I sent Da
nny up to makeup and returned to the buffet alone.
DANNY WAS AS RELAXED with the cameras rolling as he was working in the kitchen. He trimmed the last bone on the lamb rack, explained what he was doing, smiled for the cameras, and charmed the pants off Karen all at the same time. Still smiling and explaining what he was doing, he put the lamb in a hot skillet—we could hear the sizzle—chopped some shallots, turned the lamb, and chopped mushrooms. He transferred the lamb to the oven, drained the excess fat from the pan, added a few tablespoons of butter, and then tossed in the shallots and mushrooms. A little salt, pepper, and an explanation that it should cook until the mushrooms released their liquid, and then he switched to the pan that held the already cooked shallots and mushrooms and added some stock. When he poured the Madeira into the pan, he put his arm across Karen’s chest, said, “Step back, love,” and tilted the pan so that the Madeira exploded in a burst of flames. It was a great piece of food television and totally ad-libbed. He removed an already cooked rack of lamb from the oven, sliced one rib chop from it, put it on a plate that already held cooked asparagus and mashed potatoes, and napped it with the Madeira sauce. A star is born! Danny sailed through his two taped spots with equal ease, in one take.
Sonya came into the kitchen to congratulate him. “You’re a natural, Danny.” She beamed. “That was terrific. And, all of you, the food looked fabulous. Thank you.” She turned back to Danny. “I’d love to have you back sometime.”
“Brilliant. I’d love to do it again.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Sonya said as she left.
We all went on about him in the kitchen until I had to leave. I still had so much to do before I was ready to leave for Italy tomorrow. “I’ll walk out with you,” Danny said.
Out on the street, he said, “I was wondering. Are you expecting a long mourning period?”
Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance Page 16