My phone starts vibrating the minute I get my cappuccino.
“Stella, how are you?” my mom asks, and for a split second I’m tempted to break down and tell her everything, but I stop myself because she already can’t stand Drew.
“I’m ok,” I lie. “I just left Julie’s apartment.”
“I wanted to tell you some good news,” she says in a voice that is a little too chipper for this hour.
“What’s up?”
“Roberto is back from Italy.” She pauses and waits for my reaction. Thankfully she can’t see me roll my eyes.
She’s talking about Roberto Lancetti, the only son of our bread providers, who also happen to be our close family friends.
Roberto spent the last eight years in Rome doing a PhD in Latin or something, and apparently just got home.
Since I’ve been about five, my mother and Mrs. Lancetti have been planning an arranged marriage between Roberto and me, even though the kid made my childhood a living hell. One time, he threw gum in my hair and laughed while his mom had to cut it out. I had to get my hair cut all short to even it out, and my brothers called me “shaggy dog” for an entire year. The whole thing was pretty traumatic. Granted, I was eight, but still, these are the things that stick with you. I could have been permanently damaged. Come to think of it, I haven’t had short hair since.
The wedding talk went on hiatus when Roberto left for Rome, but apparently it’s still fresh in my mother’s mind. “That’s nice,” I reply.
“Maybe the two of you can see each other. I think he’s living on the Island this summer.”
“I’m sure we’ll bump into each other then,” I start walking down the steps of the subway. “I gotta go, Mom. I’m meeting Gina in the Bronx.”
When I get to Fordham Road in the Bronx, Gina is waiting in her car at the subway stop. She’s dressed like a bride in a light pink strapless sundress with a white mini cardigan on top. Her long chestnut hair is freshly highlighted and pulled into a low ponytail and she’s even taken the time to curl it so that the ends unravel like a ribbon on a gift box. She wears the large diamond studs my brother gave her last Christmas. Her makeup is fresh, as would be expected on a Bobbi Brown makeup artist, enhancing her naturally thin nose, bright eyes, and pursed lips.
I’m dressed exactly how I feel, dark and depressed.
Honestly, I have no idea why I packed black wide leg trousers and a black tank top. It’s like I knew I’d be getting dumped or something.
But that’s in the past. Today is a new day and I have a fresh take on life.
“What’s wrong?” Gina asks in her nasal New York voice as soon as I take a seat. “You look like death.” She fishes through her purse and pulls out a concealer stick and some light pink cream blush. “Dab this under your eyes, and dot this on your cheeks.”
I do as I’m told. Gina has been working the Bobbi Brown counter at Saks for three years now and knows how to make a girl look good in a pinch. Instantly, my eyes look bigger and brighter. I hand them back to her.
“Keep them,” she says. “What happened to you?”
“Drew dumped me,” I reply, still in a sort of shock. “He thinks we’re not right for each other.”
“What?” She rolls her eyes and then says exactly what I hoped she’d say. “It’s just cold feet. You’ll get him back.”
The New York Botanical Gardens are vivid with luscious pinks, golden yellows, deep purples, and fields of green. As we walk through the flagstone paths, Gina describes every detail of the reception, pointing out the outdoor cocktail hour area before we get to the restaurant. “Pray for good weather,” she says as we pass it.
We’re meeting the caterer in the private ballroom to go over a few options for the cocktail hour. Pietro and Gina already selected the menu choices, but the caterer called last week, about new options for the hors d’oeuvres.
The room was designed specifically for weddings and other special events, so I should have expected it to be beautiful, but as we enter the opulent room, I’m stunned. The walls scream elegance, with their hand painted murals, soaring windows, and Palladian Architecture.
Ok, I’m not really sure what Palladian Architecture is, but the brochure says that it adds elegance to the room.
And, believe me, it does.
“Do you love it?” Gina asks.
“It’s amazing!” I squeal and for a minute, I actually try to imagine Drew and me sitting at a sweetheart table, on our wedding day. I did go to Fordham, and that’s right across the street. We could get married in the church there and take pictures next to Keating Hall.
My head starts to spin remembering our break-up. But as Gina pointed out, it’s just a minor glitch in the plans. No big deal.
***
I arrive on the Island on Thursday evening just before sunset. After New York, I spent a few days at home near Philadelphia, and then came down the shore a day early. This is the last time I’ll have the house to myself all summer and I want to savor every bit of it. Plus with Operation-Get-Drew-Back in the works, I needed to get out of my parents’ house.
Of course, they found out about the breakup even before I got home. That’s the problem with my family—no one can mind their own business. As soon as Gina dropped me off at Port Authority she called Pietro and told him the news, who in turn called Mario, who just happened to be at Lorenzo’s apartment. Dante was the last of my brothers to know, as usual. Of all of us, he’s the only one who sort of steers clear of family drama. I’m not sure who exactly told my parents, but as soon as I walked through the door my mother came running up to tell me how I’m better off. My father added that, even though he liked Drew, I’d be better suited with an Italian. I ran up the stairs before my mother could start matchmaking. So you can see why I needed to get to the Island as fast as possible. Plus, just being there has a calming effect on me.
Our house on 99th Street, which overlooks the bay, is prime real estate. My grandparents bought the house in 1952 back when this town was nothing more than a bunch of shacks on the beach. Land down here was cheap because, unless they were going to Cape May, no one ventured this far down south, especially no one from Philadelphia. In those days Atlantic City was the place to be, but my grandparents couldn’t afford a piece of land on those beaches.
Over the years, my grandparents, and eventually my parents, put a lot of their money into the original little shack, which has now morphed into a four-bedroom home, with bay views in three of the bedrooms. Not that it’s even big enough for everyone though.
My room is the smallest in the house but the best view, and when I wake up the first thing I see is water. It’s lovely, it truly is.
I open the door and step inside. The floor boards creek to welcome me. I switch on the lights and see that the house has remained exactly as I left it on Monday morning. A flannel blanket is draped over the plush plaid sofa, the coffee table is centered perfectly in front of it, and the woven rug sits firmly in place. The TV cabinet doors are shut. To the right, a big wooden staircase leads to the upstairs bedrooms.
To the left of the living room is the dining area, which is home to our old kitchen table and eight chairs. When we were young the dining set was in our kitchen, but since all of my brothers have moved out of my parents’ house, they downsized to a smaller table. The big table looks out of place in this small dining room, yet also surprisingly comforting. The kitchen is modest to say the least, but since we’ve opened the restaurant, we never make anything more than a bowl of cereal, some toast, or a sandwich in here.
I open the fridge to see what we’ve got. I really hope there are some meatballs in there. Whenever I’m stressed, I need a meatball.
It’s empty besides a large tank of water, some mayo, and a jar of Dijon mustard. I make a mental note to hit the grocery offshore later on.
I pour myself a glass of water and flip through the mail. We never really get anything important at the house. Most people know to send stuff directly to the restaurant. But still
, there’s something calming about looking through the mail.
I flip through grocery store flyers, and a Val-U-Pack addressed to Dear Residents, and the postcard invitation to the Lancetti’s Fourth of July barbeque.
Honestly, I don’t know why they even bother sending out the invites, they know we go every year and have been for the past fifteen years. It’s a staple of the summer. I guess Roberto will be there this year. I have to admit, I’m curious as to what he looks like nowadays. In my head he has an overgrown beard and long hair pulled into one of those man ponytails that people with PhD’s in Latin have. Gross.
I hang the postcard on the fridge and throw the rest of the mail out, then decide to call Lorenzo to see if he wants to come off shore with me.
Out of everyone in my family, Lorenzo is the only one who doesn’t love the shore house. Well, I shouldn’t say he doesn’t love it, he probably does. But what he doesn’t love is the fact that my family eats together, works together, and sleeps all in the same place.
I don’t blame him. It’s a bit much at times.
Anyway, last year, he nearly gave my mother a heart attack when he announced that he found his own apartment to rent for the summer. She thought it was ludicrous to spend money on a tiny apartment when we have a big house. “No one’s even there during the week!” she shrieked and looked at my dad for support. My dad listened to Lorenzo’s side of the story and finally agreed with his son. My mother still hasn’t gotten over it.
The phone rings three times before he answers. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Do you want to go grocery shopping?” I ask.
“I’m still in Philly,” he replies.
That’s strange. Lorenzo never comes down the shore on Fridays. “Really?”
“Yeah, I wanted one last night out in the city before the season starts.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know yet. I gotta see what Biv and Jason want to do. Thursday nights are good in Old City.”
Lorenzo and I used to have the same group of friends, but when I started dating Drew I sort of lost touch with everyone. Besides, Lorenzo’s friends are hit or miss; they’re great, loyal guys, but sometimes they’re really immature. Then again, so are Drew’s. “All right. Have fun.”
When we hang up I walk through the den, and outside to the bay, where I take a seat in our chaise lounge and watch the colors of the sky turn to night. The sun is a big rosy ball, ready to make its descent into the horizon.
There are beach people and there are bay people and really, the difference comes down to whether you enjoy a sunrise or a sunset. My grandmom Stella was alone in her beach preference, because we DiLucio’s are definitely bay people, though since we’ve opened the restaurant, we’ve hardly caught a sunset.
But still, we love them.
It’s the third week in June but the air still has a slight chill to it so I pull my knees to my chest and hug them for warmth. I think about the week, and try not to replay the events of the breakup.
Then, for some reason, I start thinking of my grandmother. It’s times like these, times of high crisis, that I wish she were still around. She’d know exactly what to say and do to get Drew back.
Even though everyone says I take after her, there’s one important element that I’m missing. My grandmother was the spunkiest woman I’d ever met, and I unfortunately lack that spark.
Recipe: Meatballs
Yields 4 dozen medium sized meatballs
Perfect for when you’re stressed. Just try them, you’ll see.
1 pound ground beef
1 pound ground veal
1 pound ground pork
3 eggs, beaten
1 cup breadcrumbs
1/2 cup milk
2 gloves of garlic, finely chopped
1/2 cup Italian parsley, finely chopped
1 cup pecorino romano cheese, grated.
1) Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.
2) In a large bowl mix all the ingredients together until thoroughly incorporated.
3) Roll meat into a small, tight ball using the palms of your hands (some people use a small ice cream scoop to get meatballs that are all the same size).
4) Place on a baking sheet.
5) Bake for one hour, or until fully browned and cooked through. Allow to cool before eating (I know it’s hard).
Chapter 4
Ok, it’s been exactly 3 days, 16 hours, 36 minutes, and 57 seconds since Drew broke up with me.
The bad news: he still hasn’t called.
The good news: Food Therapy works. Last night after sitting on the bay for a few hours, I got tired of thinking, so I walked over to the restaurant and cut myself a slice (or three) of Chuck’s chocolate cake. It really did make me feel better, and it helped to formulate a plan of action for operation Get-Drew-Back.
Ok, here’s the thing. Drew thinks we’re not compatible because I am just a lowly waitress/restaurant manager working for my parents, while he is a big bad marketing executive (aka, slave to the cubicle in some shitty office).
Obviously, he doesn’t understand just how much effort and expertise it takes to deal with people all night long. Honestly, if he could only see what I do on a daily basis, he’d realize that I’m not some slacker, mooching off of her parents, but a highly motivated, well rounded woman, capable of multi-tasking and, eventually, achieving global domination. All of that, and I can stand on concrete flooring in six inch heels for eight hours straight, seven nights a week.
Not that restaurant management is my life’s dream or anything, but I am working with what I’ve got.
So, my plan is simple. I’m going to show Drew exactly what I do.
And since tonight officially kicks off our full time season, I’ll have plenty of opportunities to show him my brilliance.
The only glitch in the plan is that Drew is in New York City and I’m on the Island, so how could he possibly see what I’m doing?
Other girls would end right there. They’d throw in the towel and accept defeat. But not this girl. No way.
In a sheer stroke of brilliance I’ve decided to film myself in action, doing what I do.
When I called Lucy at six this morning to tell her the plan, she brought up the point that customers might not want to be caught on film when they enter a restaurant. But I figure I can get around that by blurring out faces, just like they do on reality TV. And once I’ve gotten enough footage, I’ll post the videos on YouTube and email Drew the link. Once he sees me in action he’ll be begging for me back.
I can imagine it already.
He’ll be at his desk at work and open the YouTube link, thinking it’s stupid video of a cat dancing or some other nonsense, and he’ll be mesmerized by me, in a Kelly green Theory dress (tonight’s outfit), answering phones, greeting customers, flirting like a champ (hopefully a cute guy will come in—that’ll make Drew jealous on top of proud), and handling the unexpected situations that will surely arise. All while looking fabulous (thanks to Gina’s crash course in make-up the other day).
He’ll be so awe-struck, in fact, that he won’t even hear his boss standing over his shoulder. And once he does turn around, his boss will say “who’s that girl” to which Drew will respond “my ex.” His boss will shake his head, confirming what Drew already knows; that he lost a gem. Then his boss will say “she’s a star,” and send the link to all of his bazillion contacts. The video will go viral in a matter of minutes and I’ll have agents phoning me about TV shows and movies. I’m sure of it.
So sure of it, in fact, that I went off shore to buy a larger memory card for my camera. Right now the thing can hold thirty minutes of video. That’s a lot, considering the average YouTube video is fifty-seven seconds. But I figure I’ll have to scrap some footage.
I’ve set the camera up right next to the hostess stand on my left (my better side) to optimize the light and angle from which I’m shot.
The only thing is, tonight we have another packed house, and with my fam
ily coming in, I’m busier than usual. Both Dante and Lucy are late getting down. School ended and their grades were due by 3:00 p.m. They jumped in the car together and made it here thirty minutes after the other waiters. That set us back a bit. I tried to help Michelle and Ryan get the side work done but the phone just kept ringing.
My main job as manager of Lorenzo’s is to control the reservation book. I’ve got it down pretty well; I assign each table a two-hour time slot so in theory we can seat the same table at 5:00 p.m., 7:00 p.m., and 9:00 p.m. With seventeen tables we have the potential of seating 180 diners a night. Now, of course, there are tables (like two tops), which are in and out in less than an hour, and others (like parties of twelve) who will sit for forty minutes before even ordering a thing, but for the most part, my method works. When it doesn’t and people have to wait for their reservation, I find that the only thing to do is flirt.
I’m a master flirt. I don’t discriminate between men and women, though the tactics differ greatly from person to person. I mean, you have to be smart about it. You can’t just bat your eyelashes like they do in the movies. Flirting is an art form.
Take, for example, these two scenarios.
Scenario one: a middle-aged woman comes in to check on her table, which is nowhere near ready. No need to panic. Just quickly find something you like about her outfit and divert the conversation that way. You must be sincere though, you can’t say you love her Lily Pulitzer pants if the only color you ever wear is black. No, no, no. On the Island, you must dress the part if you want to be a successful restaurant manager, even if that means sporting the occasional Capri pants with embroidered umbrellas on them, straight out of page twenty-six in last year’s J. Crew catalogue.
Scenario two: an elderly gentleman comes in after waiting fifteen minutes for his 7:00 reservation. He’s not accustomed to waiting like younger people so he’s pretty angry. Just gently touch his hand and explain how sorry you are. Then, with a big smile tell him the people who are currently sitting at his table have their check and should be paying the bill soon. Even if this is a little white lie, it generally calms down the customer. It’s really pretty easy.
The Queen of Minor Disasters Page 4