The Queen of Minor Disasters

by Antonietta Mariottini

  When all else fails and the customer is really mad there’s nothing left to do but start giving stuff away for free. As you know, this infuriates Lorenzo (so don’t tell him). Not that this happens often or anything. Usually flirting works just fine. I’m an expert; remember?

  The phone rings again at 5:00, just as we are opening for the night. “Thank you for calling Lorenzo’s how may I help you?” I say looking directly into the camera. I’ve restarted recording because I figure the opening footage was mostly boring stuff.

  “I need to make a reservation,” the man on the other end says.

  “Ok, when would you like to come in?” I flip through the reservation book busily, as if the man on the other end is very important. Then I hold a pencil between my fingers as if it were a cigarette, and do my best to channel Audrey Hepburn à la Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

  “How about 7:00? There are six of us.”

  “Tonight?” I ask wide eyed. I drop the pencil to look like I’m in shock.

  “Yeah, tonight.”

  I look down at the reservations and see that our tables are all booked up.

  “I’m sorry sir, I don’t have 7:00 available. My only available times are 5:00, 5:30, or 9:15.”

  “What about 7:30?” he asks.

  Obviously he’s not paying attention.

  “I’m sorry sir, I don’t have that either,” I try to be peppy for the camera.

  “Listen,” he says frankly. “It’s my wife’s birthday and I forgot to make a reservation. Is there any way you can squeeze us in?”

  Now I just feel bad. His wife’s birthday. How could he have forgotten? Drew would never forget. For a minute I’m flustered, remembering the three birthdays I spent with Drew.

  “Hello?” the man on the phone says.

  Oh right.

  “I’m really sorry.” I sigh. “If you want, I can take your name for the waiting list. If we get any cancellations, I’ll give you a call.”

  He quickly gives his name and cell number then hangs up without saying goodbye.

  It’s not my fault he forgot to make a reservation.

  “I hate people,” I mumble to myself as the front door opens. Oh crap. I’ll have to edit that out.

  My parents arrive with boxes of food from La Cucina. They’ve decided to close on weekends for the summer. The restaurant is in my hometown, which is just a little speck on the map outside Philadelphia and the town pretty much dies from June to September so it makes sense for them to close.

  I look at the boxes my mom and dad are carrying and assume Lorenzo doesn’t know about the food they’re bringing in. He’s not going to be happy about it. I turn off the camera and stash it in the hostess stand before they start asking questions.

  “Stella!” my dad beams when he sees me, even though I was just home two days ago. I walk over to hug them and take a box out of my mom’s hands.

  “What’d you bring?”

  “Don’t even ask,” my dad whispers rolling his eyes. My mom shoots him a look.

  “I made baked rigatoni,” she says. “We can use it for a special or eat it ourselves, if Lorenzo doesn’t want to serve it.”

  They move past me and into the kitchen. I see that they’ve also brought two bags of spring mix, seven zucchini, two oranges, and a gallon of milk.

  I follow them into the kitchen.

  “What the hell, Mom?” Lorenzo shrieks when he sees the food. “I told you not to bring anything down.”

  “I had these things left over,” she says, her voice getting loud. “What was I supposed to do? Let it spoil?”

  We all know the baked rigatoni was not leftover. My mom is always making things purposely to bring down. It drives Lorenzo crazy.

  Lorenzo takes the box out of my hands and looks through it. This could get ugly.

  “Mom, I don’t even use zucchini,” he says, hovering over the boxes. “And I have three bags of my own spring mix. What am I supposed to do with all this salad?”

  “You’ll figure it out,” she says, detonating the bomb. “You’re the chef.”

  I leave the kitchen and move towards the waiters’ station where they have all convened. “Go a little heavy on the salads tonight guys,” I say, trying to solve the produce issue before walking back to my podium. Damn I wish that was on film.

  My parents emerge from the other kitchen door. “We’re not staying to eat here tonight,” my mom says. My dad is holding the baked rigatoni pan in his hands. “I’ll be cooking dinner at home.” She’s flustered and red in the face.

  My dad shrugs.

  Lorenzo must have won.

  “Cancel our spot, and if Pietro and Gina come here, just send them home,” my mom says.

  They leave before I can protest. I erase their reservation from the book, and notice that a 7:00 spot is now open. I look at the man’s name on my waiting list but decide not to call him back.

  Rudeness gets you nowhere. Besides, I know I’ll fill the spot with walk-ins.

  The rest of the night goes off without a hitch, and to be honest, it was pretty boring. I mean, there was nothing to film. Not an angry customer, or a waiter flub. The only slightly eventful thing was Mr. Beister, a once a week regular, telling me how beautiful I look. Luckily I caught it on film, but it’s hardly worthwhile. I mean, the man is in his seventies, so I doubt if Drew would get jealous about that.

  When I get home at night, my mom has already divided up the bedrooms. Mario and Dante are sharing one room. Pietro gets the other. Gina gets my room (no rooming with Pietro), and Lucy and I are on the couch.

  “Hello,” my mom yells as I open the door. Somehow it’s impossible for her to keep her voice down, even though it’s after midnight.

  My parents, Gina, and Pietro are sitting in the living room, pawning over wedding invitations, which is pretty much the last thing I want to do after work. But Gina was so nice to me the other day, and has been texting me strategies for getting Drew back, that the least I can do is look at an invitation or two.

  But knowing Gina, she’ll have brought the entire book.

  “How was it tonight?” my dad asks, looking thankful that he can take a break from the wedding talk. Honestly, I don’t blame him.

  “Busy.” I place my purse down on the table. The pan of baked rigatoni is still in the kitchen. I make my way towards it. Only the smallest bit of baked rigatoni remains and I scoop it out and pop it in the microwave.

  It’s past midnight and I’m just eating dinner. That’s the funny thing about the restaurant business. The owners and workers rarely eat during service hours. Lorenzo serves family meal to the staff every night after his last order, but I was talking to a few tables and missed it. Lucy offered me half of hers but I said no, so now I’m starving. I pick at the pieces of pasta stuck to the pan while my dinner heats in the microwave.

  “You want some wine?” Pietro asks. Even he looks thankful for a small break.

  I survey the situation and decide that yes, I do.

  If we are going to talk wedding talk at midnight after a long night of work, I’m going to need alcohol to get me through it.

  He pours me a glass and brings it into the den. I take my dinner out of the microwave and follow him.

  I shrug. “What are those?” I ask placing my plate on the coffee table and taking a seat on the couch next to Gina.

  “They’re our top two choices for invitations. We’ve narrowed it down to these. We need your input,” Gina explains.

  I take a bite of pasta. “Ok, let me have a look.”

  The wedding colors are pumpkin, oak, and cream, an unconventional combination, which somehow works. The first invitation reflects the colors nicely. It’s brown cardstock with cream- colored embossed writing. The typeset is casual, and gives the invite a playful tone. A large orange chiffon bow sits on top. The invitation screams modern and sophisticated, which is exactly what Gina wants the reception to be. She does work at Sak’s for God’s sake.

  The second is totally traditional. It’s
a textured cream cardstock that unfolds to reveal a different textured cardstock with brown embossed cursive script. The pumpkin is decidedly absent from the invite. This is more for the Bergdorf Goodman crowd, and honestly, I like it better.

  I take another bite and survey the situation. Since I am the Maid of Honor, I should think of what the bride wants, and the first invite has Gina’s imprint all over it. I know my mother probably likes the second one, and for that reason I put my finger on the first. “This is the one.”

  Gina beams. “I told you,” she says to Pietro and he shrugs his shoulders. My mom looks at me strangely.

  “I’m glad that’s settled,” my dad says standing up. “Now I can go to sleep.”

  “Antonio!” my mom shrieks as if my dad is being rude. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to be left alone with the wedding brigade.

  “Teresa it’s midnight, I’m going to bed.”

  He waves his hand at all of us and embarks up the wooden staircase. My dad is so cute. Gina holds her invitation and admires it a bit more as I polish off the rest of the pasta.

  Lucy and Dante come in together. I’m usually the last person to leave the restaurant, but Lorenzo offered to close up. Everyone in my family has been so nice since Drew dumped me, it’s like they think I’m suicidal or something. Regardless, I was happy to get a chance to leave early.

  “Lucy, I hope you don’t mind, we’re sharing the pull out couch tonight,” I say as she enters the living room.

  She smiles at everyone as she walks into the den. “I’m actually going to stay at my aunt’s tonight. My dad’s coming down for the weekend.”

  Lucy rarely stays at her aunt’s house because it’s usually more packed than ours. Her family goes to bed early so by the time we finish work, they’re all asleep. I look at her.

  “My dad’s awake,” she says. “I just called his cell.”

  “That’s nice Lucia,” my mom says. She has the habit of turning everyone’s name Italian. Though, now that I think of it, she never did that with Drew’s.

  “I’m just going to get my stuff,” Lucy says and moves towards the stairs. She comes back a few minutes later, still wearing her waiter uniform. She’s carrying a small duffle bag and her hair is hanging loose around her shoulders. She smiles at us. “Goodnight guys,” she says and waves.

  I don’t remember Lucy telling me about her dad being in town, but I’ve been so preoccupied that maybe I just forgot. Still, I’m disappointed. We haven’t had much of a chance to talk this week with her students taking finals and all and I’d really like her advice on the whole Drew situation.

  I watch her leave and turn towards Gina who is still admiring the invitations. She catches my eye and winks.

  “Babe, why don’t you go to bed?” she says to my brother. “I want some girl time with Stell.”

  Pietro gets up a little too quickly, like he’s been waiting for her permission to go to bed for hours. I told you the girl was good.

  “Goodnight guys,” he says, and follows Dante up the steps.

  We both wait to hear his bedroom door close.

  “Ok, has he called yet?”

  I slump a little lower on the couch. “No. It’s been five days!”

  “Stop it!” she replies. “You’re sounding desperate. Trust me, you do not want to sound desperate in this situation. Remember you always want to have the upper hand.”

  I give her a look.

  “You called him didn’t you?” she asks.

  “No,” I lie. I mean, technically I did call, but I blocked my number from caller ID so there’s no way he knew it was me. Plus it went right to voicemail anyway.

  “Stella, I know it’s hard not talking to him now. In fact, this is the hardest part of the whole plan. But if you can make it one month without calling him, I’m positive he’ll come running back.” She looks so confident that I almost believe her.

  “But what if he doesn’t?” I say in a small voice.

  “Then we pull out all the stops with my no-fail back-up plan.” She smiles, proud of herself.

  Recipe: Baked Rigatoni

  Yields 4-6 servings

  Though this can certainly be eaten any time of the day, somehow, it tastes even better at midnight, when you’re ravenous.

  This pasta really relies on the sauce, so you’ll need that recipe first.

  Meat Sauce*:

  2 28oz cans of tomato puree

  1 small onion

  1 carrot

  1 stalk of celery

  1/4 cup of olive oil

  1 teaspoon salt

  1/2 teaspoon black pepper

  2 tbsp fresh basil leaves (chopped)

  1) Finely chop the onion, carrot and celery (this can be done in a food processor).

  2) Heat olive oil in a large stockpot and add the onion, carrot and celery. Cook until golden, stirring occasionally. (This should take 3-4 minutes.)

  3) Add the tomato puree plus one can of water per can of tomato (just fill the can after adding the puree to the stockpot and add the water).

  4) Add salt, pepper, and basil. Simmer on medium heat for one hour, stirring occasionally.

  * Any leftover sauce can be frozen in an air-tight container for up to 1 month.

  For the pasta:

  1 pound of rigatoni

  1 pound of fresh ricotta cheese

  1 cup of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese (grated)

  1) Bring 10 cups of salted water to boil. Cook the rigatoni for 10-12 minutes, until al dente.

  2) Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

  3) Pour one ladle of sauce onto the bottom of a large baking dish.

  4) In a large bowl, toss pasta, ricotta cheese, and 1/2 cup Parmigiano Reggiano cheese together. Add enough sauce to coat the pasta. Toss again.

  5) Pour pasta into prepared baking sheet. Top with the rest of the cheese.

  6) Cover loosely with aluminum foil and bake in oven for 20-25 minutes.

  7) Uncover the baking dish and cook for an additional 5 minutes (or until pasta gets golden brown).

  *Technically there is no meat in the meat sauce. We call it meat sauce because you can add meatballs to it, which gives it an amazing flavor.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning I awake to the smell of bacon frying. My mother’s already dressed, her short dark hair freshly washed and neatly combed. She is making her fantastic bacon and eggs, and the smell radiates through the kitchen and tickles my nose in the den.

  I follow it into the kitchen. “Good morning,” I grumble and look at the clock; it’s 8:30. I don’t know why my mother gets up so early. It’s Saturday for God’s sake.

  “Good morning,” she says. “Your father and I are having breakfast on the deck, do you want to come out?”

  “Sure,” I say fixing myself a cup of steamed milk from the stove. I pour a shot of espresso into it and swirl it around on the counter top. Then I look at the spread that my mom has made. There’s crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, and rosemary grissini. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Since five.”

  I look at my mother to make sure she’s okay. Usually she’s a really late sleeper, and, like me, my mom uses a sort of food therapy when she’s stressed. Only instead of eating the food, she just cooks it. “Are you ok?”

  “Yes, why?” she asks, as if it’s normal to get up at five on a Saturday morning. She turns back to the stove and fixes a plate for my dad. Then she takes a mug and fills it with hot milk and espresso for herself and moves through the kitchen. I follow her. We’re almost in the den when she turns, looks at my empty hands, and says, “You’re not eating.”

  To my mother, not eating can only mean two things: snobbery or sickness. Once, Drew’s parents came over for dinner and his mother didn’t clean her plate (she’s one of those women who is perpetually pushing food around on the plate to make it look like she’s eating). This was the greatest offense to my mother, who, from then on, referred to Drew’s mother as “la strega,” roughly translated as “the b
itch.” I tried to lie and say that she was sick, but my mom saw through the entire thing.

  Obviously, I’m no snob, so according to her theory, I must be sick. Forget the fact that I might just not be hungry. Before she can check my pulse and diagnose me with depression, I walk back into the kitchen, grab a breadstick, and take a hearty bite.

  “I’m just tired,” I say and with my mouth full.

  She seems content with my answer because she turns and walks through the den, and out the sliding doors.

  “Good morning Stella,” my dad says when he sees me. He’s reading the newspaper and already sipping on a mug of hot coffee. My mom places the plate down in front of him. “How did you sleep?”

  “Ok.” I take a seat facing the water

  “Did you hear Roberto Lancetti is back from Italy?” my mom says looking at me.

  “Yes, you told me.” I take a sip of coffee and stare out at the bay.

  “Maybe you should give him a call,” my dad begins. “You can go to the beach together or something.”

  I try my hardest not to roll my eyes. Honestly, my dad still acts as if I’m twelve and all I care about is body surfing until the sun goes down. Doesn’t he know that I’m a mature, hardworking, career-driven woman?

  “That’s a great idea,” my mom nods.

  “I don’t want to go to the beach with Roberto Lancetti!” I whine. “I just want to be left alone.”

  I can already imagine what would happen if I did call Roberto. He’d greet me in Latin and then look at me from behind his dorky glasses, waiting for a response, to which I would say “Mihi licet ire ad latrinum,” which translates to “may I use the bathroom,” which is the only phrase I retained from three monotonous years of high school Latin. Of course, he’d then go off (in Latin) about the bathrooms in ancient Rome—or something equally as enticing—and I’d literally die of boredom. I’d rather not.