The Queen of Minor Disasters

by Antonietta Mariottini

  Luckily, we keep a stocked fridge.

  “Hello,” I greet the first couple in line with a smile. I grab two menus and seat them at a table in the back corner.

  As I walk back towards the hostess stand I touch my hand to my dress. Still damp. I adjust the napkin.

  I look towards the next group and notice Trisha Motley standing with her friends. I’d roll my eyes but she’d see me. Trisha and I used to run in the same circle down the shore, but to be honest, we never really liked each other. Of course, we pretend to.

  “Trisha!” I squeal. “It’s so good to see you. You look amazing,” and really, she does. God, she must have grown since last summer. I don’t remember her being so tall. Or so thin. She probably doesn’t use Food Therapy, or eat for that matter.

  Already bronzed for the summer, Trisha is wearing a light green off the shoulder mini-dress and four inch heels. She towers over my petite frame and bends to give me a hug while her equally tall Amazonian supermodel friends watch.

  “Stella how was your winter?” she asks. I can only imagine her winter jet-setting to exotic places while I was stuck working lunches at my parents’ restaurant. I need to think of something good.

  I can tell her I traveled to India and worked with impoverished children.

  Only that’s not as glamorous as say, spending the winter in Buenos Aires. That’s it. Perfect.

  She’s looking at me strangely, as if waiting for an answer.

  “Oh, it was great, I spent so much time in New York,” I mutter. Shit. I meant Buenos Aires.

  “I love the city.” She pauses to look at her friends. “I just moved up there for my job.”

  “Nice,” I say politely, though I could care less what fabulous job her daddy got her.

  “Are you still dating Drew?” she asks suddenly and I feel my face get hot. I know that at twenty-seven I should be more secure and not let petty things like that bother me but I can’t help it. Trisha and Drew went to this uber-exclusive private school in Philadelphia, and were prom king and queen or something. Apparently, they were the “it” couple in high school, and even though that was ages ago, it still makes me uncomfortable. The fact that Trisha is the one who introduced me to Drew makes it all the worse.

  “Of course,” I snap.

  “I guess you’re just waiting for a ring then?” she asks in the bitchy-but-friendly tone that she’s mastered. One of her friends snickers a little. I give her a tight smile. Just wait until I get that ring, then I’ll flash it in her face. I grab the menus and begin walking them to their table.

  As I walk back, I look around to see what people are eating. People love specials and tonight, Lorenzo made two terrific ones: Chicken alla Patria, a chicken breast topped with fresh tomatoes, spinach and melted mozzarella cheese, and Filet Mignon topped with a wild blueberry sauce.

  God, the boy is talented.

  Sometimes he makes me feel inadequate. I mean, we are twins and all. Actually, all four of my brothers are talented. Dante is an awesome teacher, Pietro is a big lawyer in New York City, Mario is the general manager of the restaurants, and Lorenzo is an amazing chef. Then there’s me.

  ***

  Two hours later, as I’m counting the money in the office, Lucy arrives, flustered.

  “Five hours in traffic,” she whines in the doorway of the office. “You almost done? I need a drink.”

  “Yeah.” I divide twenties into swift piles. “How are the waiters doing out there?”

  “It looks like they finished all their side-work. They’re all folding napkins.”

  “Good. Can you tell them I’ll be out in a minute?”

  “Sure,” she says, leaving the office.

  I gather up each waiter’s pile of tips and write it all in my book. I look at my phone as I walk out into the dining room. No calls from Drew. He must still be working. Or maybe he’s on his way down. He probably changed his mind and decided to blow off work and surprise me. Not that he’s ever done that, but you never know.

  The waiters are all sitting in chairs, folding napkins to restock the side stations. They look like a strange bunch of businessmen, ties loosened or removed and crumpled into balls on the table, shirts unbuttoned and untucked. Lucy is right in there with them, folding napkins with precision and chatting with Dante about some school stuff.

  “Great job tonight guys,” I say. They all look up and shuffle around for their things. I hand them each their tips and say goodbye.

  “Where’s Drew?” Lucy asks when all the servers are gone.

  “He’s not coming. Did you bring the wine?”

  “That sucks,” she says and stands. She moves over to her purse and lifts out a brown paper bag. “I did better than wine,” she removes the bag dramatically. “I brought Andre.”

  I laugh. Andre is the cheapest of all champagnes, good for nothing except maybe cooking, yet the two of us love it. It’s our little secret. I stand and take the bottle from her hands, hugging it. “The only man who never lets me down.”

  “It’ll go perfect with some chocolate.”

  “I like the way you think,” I say and move towards the dessert case. Since Drew is not coming, I may as well scarf down an extra-large piece of Chuck’s chocolate cake. Not that I’m heartbroken or anything.

  By the time I return, Lucy’s already put the bottle on ice and cleared away the place settings from the table. She looks so at home in the restaurant that it’s hard to believe that we’ve only been friends for four years. She just fits into my family, which is not an easy feat. Plus, she’s a natural beauty, with long lean legs and wavy chestnut hair. No wonder my mom has been trying to get her and Dante together. I sit down next to her and place the cake in the middle of the table.

  “Why isn’t Drew coming down?” she asks taking a fork.

  “Work” I wave it off and take a sip. The champagne instantly makes me feel better.

  She smiles sympathetically. “It’s just temporary. Drew’s a great guy and he loves you.”

  I take a bite of cake. She’s right. I really did luck out with Drew but sometimes I get impatient about the whole marriage thing. “Luce, I thought tonight was the night,” I confess.

  “Don’t worry Stell. It’s coming. I can feel it.”

  I smile but a small part of me can’t help but wonder if it is true. I stab another forkful of cake and shove it in my mouth.

  Recipe: Chocolate Cake for a Heartbreak

  Yields 8 servings*

  If you’re following Food Therapy, this is the Tylenol of Cakes. It can fix just about any ailment you might have, from a hangover to a heartbreak (which, by the way, usually go hand in hand).

  *If, by chance you see that you’ve eaten the entire cake, don’t worry. Just don some elastic pants and nurse yourself back to health. You can always diet tomorrow.

  8 oz semi-sweet chocolate

  1 oz unsweetened chocolate

  1 3/4 sticks of butter

  2 oranges (zests and juice)

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  5 large eggs

  1 tablespoon flour

  1 tablespoon dark cocoa powder

  1) Preheat oven to 375. Butter an 8” cake pan and line with parchment paper. Butter the paper and set prepared pan aside.

  2) Using a double boiler, melt together chocolate, butter, orange zests, orange juice, and vanilla. Stir to incorporate.

  3) Remove chocolate from the double boiler and allow to cool for 5 minutes.

  4) Add eggs, one at a time, stirring well to incorporate. Add the flour and cocoa powder and stir until dissolved.

  5) Pour batter into prepared pan. Place pan in middle rack of the oven and bake for 20-25 minutes, until set.

  6) Removed pan from oven and allow to cool for 15-20 minutes. Gently invert the cake onto a serving platter. Remove parchment paper and dust with powdered sugar.

  This cake will keep in an airtight container at room temp for 5 days. It also freezes nicely.

  Chapter 2

  When I board th
e bus in Atlantic City on Monday morning I’m full of nerves. Only a few hours until I see Drew.

  The Casino busses to and from New York are about as high class as the Andre Lucy and I like, but it’s yet another strange thing that relaxes me. I’ve always loved bus rides, and the trek from the Jersey Shore to New York City gives me three prime hours to relax and read.

  As much as I normally love my bus rides, I do not like getting stuck sitting next to people, and if I time things correctly, I can usually get my own seat. The trick is to sit relatively close to the driver, so as people board the bus, they see the empty seats in the back rows and move towards them. The other trick is to sit in the aisle seat, making it difficult for people to get to the free window seat. As selfish as it sounds, it’s the one area when I think of myself before others. A relaxing three-hour bus ride can be hellish if seated next to someone who is

  a) Weird

  b) Extremely overweight and thus requiring more room than normal,

  Or

  c) Talkative.

  The Atlantic City to New York busses are usually full of all the aforementioned folks, so I stick to my guns. If all else fails and someone is still trying to snag the seat next to me, I usually breakout it an uncontrollable fit of coughing. Even the freaks and degenerate gamblers are scared of germs nowadays.

  But today I hardly care at all. My stomach is in knots and my mind is racing. Luckily, the bus is pretty empty, so I’m able to get a good seat. Before boarding, I bought a bunch of gossip magazines at Quick Mart, but not even Brad and Angie’s new baby can hold my interest for very long. Still, I open a magazine to distract myself.

  Things have been so awkward since Friday night that I’m a little nervous to see Drew today. He’s been sort of weird. I don’t know how to explain it, but something is off. I can tell. He’s been pretty short on the phone the past couple days and he didn’t really sound too excited when I said I was coming up to visit.

  Of course, this could all be a plan to distract me.

  Maybe he wants me to think he’s working all day, but really he’ll be waiting for me in his apartment.

  I can imagine it already.

  I’ll unlock the door and make my way into the apartment only to see flower petals strewn all over the floor. Then I’ll look up and see him, kneeling on the floor, ring in hand…

  I must have fallen asleep in the midst of my fantasy because before I know it, we are pulling into Port Authority Bus Terminal. I look at my watch. It’s 2:45, which gives me plenty of time to go grocery shopping and get a head start on dinner before Drew gets home.

  I step off the bus and take a deep breath of the city I love. New York feels like an entirely different world from the Island, though I suppose Manhattan is actually an island too. Anyway, it’s a different kind of island, and the rushed pace of people around me is a nice change.

  Yes, this is where I need to be. This is our city. It was made for Drew and me.

  And the other eight million people here.

  I make my way through the labyrinth under Port Authority without getting lost and walk towards the subway. I only have to wait two minutes before the 1 train arrives.

  I ride the train up to 72nd Street and Broadway. I get out there, forty blocks away from Drew’s Harlem apartment, but only two blocks away from Fairway Market, where I can find the best olives and cheese in the neighborhood.

  I don’t want to waste too much time in Fairway, so I walk right over to the cheeses and pick up some fresh Parmigiano Reggiano and ricotta salata. There’s nothing better than being able to make my boyfriend’s favorite pasta dish to surprise him.

  He’ll probably think I want to go out for dinner, but tonight I feel like staying in, because if tonight is the night, I want him all to myself.

  I walk back towards the produce and pick out seven Roma tomatoes, an onion, and an eggplant. Before walking to the check-out I grab a box of penne and some sparkling water.

  Don’t worry; I haven’t forgotten dessert.

  I walk a few blocks and pick up some crisp Riesling on 79th Street. Then I trek up to Café Vola, my favorite spot in the entire city. It’s pretty much the happiest place in on earth. Always brightly lit, the café sticks out like a Christmas tree in a street full of dimly lit trendy bars. The brick walls are covered with vintage posters filling the ambiance with bright orange, bursting red, and sunny yellow hues. This place exudes happiness.

  Tiny bells jingle when I walk in. See what I mean? Who in New York still has bells on their doors? In June?

  Two cute girls in black Café Vola t-shirts greet me.

  “Can I help you?” one of them asks as I eye up the pastries in the big glass case.

  Finally, I decide on two chocolate Napoleons and four mini apricot tarts. Perfect Food Therapy treats.

  I make my way underground at 86th Street. The subway platform is surprisingly empty for a summer afternoon. Sometimes I forget most people are at work at this hour. When the 9 train arrives, I take a seat on the cold plastic chairs and search around in my bag. Even though I live with my parents in the suburbs of South Jersey (pathetic, I know, but I’m saving up to buy one day), I’m proud to say that I carry the keys to two very posh New York City apartments. Ok, one posh one (my friend Julie’s in the village) and one not so posh one (Drew’s in Harlem).

  When Drew got the job at Connective, I thought he’d move to a better neighborhood, but instead, he bought himself a BMW convertible and pays to keep it in a garage. It’s a little frivolous to have a car in New York City, but Drew says it’s a sign that he’s “arrived.” I’d rather arrive in a nice apartment, but I keep that thought to myself. Besides, once we’re married we’ll have to move.

  I get off the subway at 116th Street, right near Columbia University and walk three blocks up Broadway. Drew lives on the third floor of a five story walk up, and by the time I make it up the steps I’m drenched with sweat.

  God, I need to start working out or something. I wipe my brow, thankful that he’s not home to see me like this. And if he is, he’ll be too wrapped up in the moment to care about a little sweat.

  My heart pounds as I put the key in the lock. This could be it. This could be the moment…

  I open the door to an empty apartment, which honestly looks more like a college dorm room than the apartment of a successful businessman.

  His studio apartment is organized with small messes here and there. The Ikea coffee table/dining room table is littered with papers and old copies of The Wall Street Journal; there’s a small pile of socks at the foot of the bed, and an almost empty water glass rests on a pile of mail on the nightstand.

  Even though I know I shouldn’t, I let my eyes scan his mail. Looks like some boring bills and…

  Wait a minute. It can’t be.

  I rush towards the nightstand and pick up the glass of water. Under all the bills is a lovely light blue catalogue. I knew it. I can recognize Tiffany Blue anywhere.

  My heart starts racing as I flip it open. The entire booklet is devoted to engagement rings, which can only mean one thing.

  Oh my God. He bought a ring. HE BOUGHT A RING!

  I knew it. I knew it was coming!

  Quickly, I shove the catalogue back under the pile of mail and do a little happy dance right there near his bed.

  How did he know to go to Tiffany’s? I bet his mom helped him. She’s a bit stuck up at times but at least she has good taste.

  Or maybe he called Luce?

  Who cares, really, the point is HE BOUGHT A RING!

  Suddenly, the entire apartment looks different. Each little quirk will be an element in our story, and when I retell it to our kids in a few years, I won’t forget to mention how Daddy left his gym socks under the bed to make it look sloppy so Mommy wouldn’t suspect a thing.

  As I walk towards the micro-kitchen I try to calm myself down.

  I shake my head as I unload the groceries and get to work. Cooking for someone is an intimate experience; it’s a chance to share y
ou innermost thoughts and feelings, without words. My cooking most always reflects my mood and tonight I’m feeling saucy and spicy, anxious to see my beautiful boyfriend for the first time all week. Plus tonight is THE NIGHT!

  Ok Stella, you need to act surprised. Just calm down and don’t think of the ring.

  Got it.

  Only, how can I not think of a Tiffany’s ring? That’s like asking the Pope not to pray, or Joan Rivers not to get any more plastic surgery.

  I concentrate on cooking and start by dicing the onion into small pieces, which will eventually crisp up in the hot oil until they caramelize to a golden brown. I move on to the eggplant, which I cube in small pieces with the skin on and then throw into the pan with the onions. Once that cooks for a bit, I add slices of Roma tomatoes and fresh basil, reducing the heat to low and allowing the vegetables to simmer together. I take a taste.

  As the sauce thickens, I jump in the shower to rinse off the bus ride film I’ve collected in my travels. I change into a flowing green circle skirt and white tank top. Not exactly what I always pictured I’d be wearing when I get proposed to (this is so not Marc Jacobs), but it’s all I’ve got. Plus, I’m not supposed to know anything anyway. If I got too dressed up, I’d blow the whole thing.

  I pull my hair into a low bun, dot on some concealer and swipe mascara on my lashes. I wear heels even though we are staying in. I’m sorry, I just can’t get proposed to wearing flats for God’s sake. I’m not that kind of girl.

  I take a look at myself in the mirror. I’m the future Mrs. Dzinski. Stella Dzinski.

  DiLucio sounds so much better.

  Maybe I can keep my last name.