“Stella, we just want you to have a friend. We know this is a hard time for you.” My dad looks at me with sincerity. Obviously they have no idea about my master plan to win Drew back.
“I’m totally fine,” I snap. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that in a few weeks everything will blow over and Drew and I will get back together.” I replay the details of Gina’s master plan in my head. Like I said, that girl is good.
My parents look at each other.
“Stella, why don’t you try to forget him? Move on with your life,” my dad suggests.
Honestly, they are taking this a little far. I mean, we broke up a week ago. They’re acting as if it’s been months.
“Dad, there’s really no need to lecture me. If Mom dumped you, would you just try to move on?”
My parents look at each other again.
“Stella, he’s not right for you. It’s for the best,” my dad says.
“Look at his family,” my mother chimes in. “They’re a bunch of stuck up snobs.”
“Oh, and I suppose someone like Roberto Lancetti is good for me?” I stand up from the table. “Get this straight,” I say with conviction. “I will never date Roberto. Never.”
I walk back into the house, wishing that I had someplace to go besides the den. It’s not as dramatic of an exit when you’re only walking a few feet away, and there’s not even a door you can slam.
After the fight with my parents, I spent the rest of the morning on Craigslist, looking at New York City apartments. Honestly, Drew was right, I need to move out of my parents’ house, even if it means spending 1,500 dollars a month to live in an East Harlem two bedroom with three other girls and seven cats, which, by the way, was my best option. I’m waiting for them to email me back. Apparently by the time I left for work, seventeen other people were interested and we may get into a bidding war. I’m remaining hopeful.
Now it’s 9:30 and service is almost over. Even though it’s a Saturday night, nothing, and I mean nothing noteworthy happened. What a waste of a perfectly good dress. I’ll have to trash all of tonight’s video and at this rate, I’ll never get this YouTube clip up and running. Maybe it’s for the best.
When I told Gina about the whole idea, she was totally against it, saying that it was borderline creepy and how would I feel if Drew sent me a link of himself at work. I didn’t tell her, but actually, I’d kind of like it. I’ve always wondered what they do at those board meetings.
The phone rings as I’m saying good-bye to Mrs. Junip and her friends. You’d think that a table of five cougars would have made some sort of scene, but not even Frankie could capture their attention. I think one of them is going through a divorce because they were all somber looking and kept saying things like “you’re better without him” and “ milk him for all he’s worth.” The saddest part was that the woman in question looked totally out of touch with her friends. You could just sense that she wasn’t listening to them, but since she didn’t confide in me, I wasn’t about to just send over the chocolate cake.
“Thank you for calling Lorenzo’s, how may I help you?”
“Hi, is this Stella?” a male voice asks me.
“Yes.”
“Hey Stella. It’s Rob.”
I frantically start thinking of all the regulars who come in, yet I can’t think of anyone named Rob. I’m about to pretend like I know who it is, when the voice stops me.
“Lancetti,” he says and I can tell he’s smirking on the other end.
I’m so going to kill my mother.
“Oh, hi! How was Italy?”
“It was great. Listen, I need to make a reservation for tomorrow night. Do you have 7:00 available for two?”
“Are you bringing your dad in for Father’s Day? I ask as I scan the reservation book. We don’t have room, but I’ll have to squeeze them in somehow. My parents take personal offense if I ever deny one of their friends a seat.
“Oh shit, tomorrow is Father’s Day, isn’t it?” he pauses as though he’s thinking. “Um, okay forget it. I’ll see if she’s free next weekend.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll let you know. Thanks,” he says and hangs up without waiting for a reply. Weird.
I walk through the dining room looking for Lucy and finally find her in the kitchen laughing with Lorenzo.
“What’s going on?” I ask and they both seem to jump a bit.
“Nothing, we’re just laughing at something dumb this lady at my table said,” Lucy replies. I wait a second for her to tell me what the lady said but she stays silent.
Ok.
“Do you want to grab a drink after work?” I ask. “We can keep it chill and just go to Bob’s.”
Bob’s is the biggest dive bar on the planet and only exists on the Island because it’s been there for like fifty years or something. Basically it is a small, windowless room with a huge center bar. The only entertainment is an old Jukebox filled with songs from the seventies and eighties, but the drinks are nice and strong. Lucy and I love the place.
“I don’t know,” she hesitates. “My family is all in town for Father’s Day.”
Since Lucy’s mom died her family has gotten really close and always seems to be around for holidays, no matter what they are. I totally understand, but still, I haven’t really gotten a chance to talk to Lucy all week.
“Please. Just one drink. I really need it.”
“Why don’t we just have a drink here?” she suggests, even though she knows it’s not the same.
“Fine,” I say because I’m not into begging.
Sunday mornings are always a rush to get to church, no matter what time Mass starts, and this morning is no different. It’s Father’s Day, so there will be extra people filling the pews at St. Luke’s and my mom seems on edge. She hovers over me while I sip my coffee.
“It’s 9:35,” she says.
She’s already dressed in a lavender pants suit and cream colored blouse and looks much younger than her sixty-two years. I really hope I’ve inherited her genes.
My father comes down the steps looking sharp in a crisp white shirt and grey slacks. His hair is more salt than pepper, but it looks great on him, and he’s gotten some sun over the weekend (I don’t know how, since he never steps foot on the beach).
He walks into the kitchen wringing his hands. “You almost ready to go?” he asks looking at me.
I’m still wearing my yellow and white pajamas and haven’t even thought about a shower yet. Last night was a late one, and we didn’t get home until after 1:00 a.m. “I’m getting in the shower right now,” I say getting up from the table. I walk across the den still holding my coffee cup. I still haven’t talked to them much since the whole fight about Drew, but I’ve let the whole moving out thing go. Who wants to live with strangers anyway?
“You better hurry up or we’re going to be late,” my mom calls after me.
Mass doesn’t start for another hour, and it takes all of five minutes to walk to church, so I have no idea why my parents are so concerned about time. I peek into Mario and Dante’s room and see that they are both still asleep. Typical. No one’s telling them to get a move on. That’s the way it is in an Italian family though. The boys can do no wrong, and the girls get dumped on.
Pietro comes out of his bedroom, wearing dark jeans and a blue polo shirt. He absolutely refuses to dress up during the weekend, saying that he wears enough suits during the week. He’s wearing sneakers, which I’m sure Gina will veto once she sees them.
“Gina’s in the shower,” he says as he passes me. “She should be out in a minute.”
“Nice sneakers,” I mumble and walk to my room.
I decide on a pale blue cap sleeve dress and brown wedge sandals. We’re going to brunch in Atlantic City after Mass and I’m not sure if I’ll have time to change before work. This dress is versatile enough to wear to brunch and work.
My parents were right. St Luke’s is packed with families. There are new fathers holding tiny infants in hand, youn
g fathers with rows of small children dressed in their best, and mature father’s like my own, who enters the pew followed by his four tall sons, wife, daughter, and future daughter-in-law.
Fr. Jim gives a wonderful homily about the importance of fathers as role models for their families. As he talks, I look at my brothers, each one so different, yet they all seem to know what they want in life. They all have direction. Whereas the only thing I know is that I have no clue what I want to be when I grow up. At eleven, this would be a problem, at twenty-seven it is a disaster.
By the end of Mass, we’re all hungry. The ride to Atlantic City takes about forty minutes and we arrive just in time for our 1:00 reservation at the Hilton.
You’d think that we are big foodies since we have two restaurants in the family, but the truth is, we don’t get out to each too much. You wouldn’t either if you owned a restaurant. Most of the time, when we do go out, we’re disappointed and wished we’d just stayed home.
The exception to this is Atlantic City.
My parents are secret degenerate gamblers.
Ok, maybe not degenerates. They never lost a house or anything.
But the point is, they love to gamble. And they spend big bucks at the Hilton, their favorite spot in AC. Which means one thing: they get lots of comps.
So usually, when we go out to eat, it’s in a casino, and today is no exception.
We take our seats at a long alcove table, which is perfect for my family. It gives us the right amount of privacy, since we have a tendency to get a little loud. It seems like there is always something to scream about, but today, we can just enjoy each other’s company and the delicious food on the buffet table.
Gina places her Louis Vuitton clutch on the seat next to mine before getting in line with my brother. I wait for my parents and walk with them.
Typically, buffets are crass, especially brunch ones, which usually serve dried out eggs, soggy hash browns, and greasy sausage links, but this buffet is different.
Solid ice sculptures line the tables and fruits and vegetables are transformed into colorful flowers filling giant vases along the buffet. There are three carving stations serving prime rib, French cut lamb chops, and porchetta, which my mom lines up for first.
Tuxedo clad servers man the chafing dishes, which are filled with different kinds of pasta, but none of us will get in that line.
Two chefs work the omelet station while another serves fresh Belgium waffles hot off the press. The faint smell of brandy hits me and I see the flambé station. I make a mental note to save room for Bananas Foster.
Dante makes his way towards the salads, where servers are tossing torn romaine leaves with house made Caesar dressing. He lifts his plate to receive some.
Mario and I tackle the raw bar, where a chef freshly shucks the oysters and sets them on our plates. I scan the ice packed shrimp cocktail and take three jumbo pieces then move towards the red slivers of Ahi tuna. I take a cup of soy sauce for dipping.
Back at the table, Gina patiently waits for everyone to sit. Her plate is full of greens dressed in raspberry vinaigrette, grilled vegetables, and one thin slice of prime rib. She’s been off dairy for a month now, saying it’s better for the skin, and, I have to admit, she is glowing. Maybe I’ll try to give up dairy. I don’t eat too much of it anyway. Except for my morning cappuccino. And the occasional gelato. Oh, who am I kidding? I’d rather have raging acne than give up cheese.
“Champagne?” the waiter behind us asks.
We both look at each other and smile. “Yes please,” I say.
The waiter proceeds around the table and once everyone is served, my father stands to make a toast. “To my family,” he says raising his glass. “May we always love and respect one another, no matter what the future brings.”
We clink glasses but I can’t help feeling this toast is ominous.
I look at my mother, who nervously picks at some French toast, then at my father, who is working his way through king crab legs.
Something’s up.
My second round at the buffet is for dessert, and I proceed to the flambé table for my Bananas Foster. The chef sautés the bananas and then adds the shot of brandy, making a large red flame in the pan. My stomach turns as I watch it burn.
Somehow, I can’t shake the feeling that my life is quickly going up in flames. I mean, I am twenty-seven, with no career path, and worse, no boyfriend.
As soon as I take my seat, my dad stands up again, and clinks his fork on his wine glass. Pietro and Gina kiss, as if practicing for their wedding.
Honestly, sometimes they’re too much.
“Your mother and I have an announcement to make,” Dad says.
My heart begins to pound.
I knew it. Something’s wrong.
Instantly my mind reels and I start thinking of the worst-case scenarios.
I can imagine it already. They’re getting a divorce. After thirty-nine years of marriage my father’s taken a girlfriend, and he’s about to break the news. Of course, my mother will play it cool and act like she’s okay, but later on tonight, I’ll have to feed her chocolate cake and vodka while she cries. Come to think of it, that’s not really likely.
Oh God. My dad is sick. He’s probably got some incurable illness that can’t even be treated. I’ll have to drop out of school to care for him. Wait, I graduated college five years ago.
Has it really been five years? It seems like just yesterday I was walking down the steps of Keating Hall surrounded by my closest friends. I really need to figure out my life. What have I been doing for the past five years? I mean, look at Julie. She’s built a career while I’ve been wasting the time away, slinging spaghetti and meatballs…
The sound of my dad clearing his throat knocks me back into the moment.
I close my eyes. Here it comes.
“We want to thank our wonderful children for all the hard work that you’ve done over the years at La Cucina and now, at Lorenzo’s,” my dad begins.
He stops to look at each and every one of us with a smile.
Tears are welling up in his eyes.
Oh God. I knew something was wrong. I knew it. I’ve always had a sixth sense about these sorts of things…
“Your mother and I appreciate all the years of sacrifice that you’ve put into the business. When we first opened La Cucina, your mother was scared that it would tear the family apart. Instead, we’ve both been impressed at how it’s made all of us stronger.”
My mother smiles and squeezes my father’s hand. They lock eyes and she nods for him to go on. “But your mother and I are tired. We want to enjoy our old age.”
“And grandchildren!” my mom pipes in, winking at Pietro and Gina.
“So that is why we’ve decided to sell La Cucina,” my dad says with a sigh. “We wanted you all to be the first to know.”
My father keeps talking but I’m not listening.
He can’t be serious.
My brothers and I have invested so much of our time into the restaurant. It seems crazy that my parents would even think of selling it.
This is worse than an incurable disease.
Ok, I don’t mean that. But still, this is bad.
Slowly, images of the restaurant start filling my head like leaves falling from a tree. I see the first day we opened, watching my parents cut through the ceremonious red tape over the front door. Then I flash to Lorenzo and I playing war in the storage room, then, years later, stealing drinks from the bar. I literally grew up in that place, and just the thought of it closing is too much to handle. How could they do this?
“How could you do this?” Mario echoes my thoughts.
“It was time to sell,” my dad responds as if he is talking about an old car.
“When did you decide this?” Mario asks. He looks flustered and I don’t blame him. He’s the general manager of the restaurant. How could my parents make the decision without even telling him first? I mean, talk about pulling the rug right out from under ya.
>
“A buyer approached us about a month ago,” my dad says remaining calm. He takes his seat and reaches for an apricot tartlet. “And he made us an offer we couldn’t refuse.” He winks at his own reference to The Godfather. I image Luca Brasi holding a gun to my dad’s head, while Don Corleone assures him that either his signature or his brains will end up on the paper. Clearly he was pressured into it.
We don’t have to stand for this. I’ll go to the feds if I have to. Rat out whatever goon was behind this.
“So you already sold it?” Mario asks just as I’m imagining myself as Connie smashing all of her dishes. It’s always been a secret fantasy of mine to be able to recreate that scene. Minus the whole husband beating the hell out of me part.
My parents look at each other. “Yes. He wanted a fast deal,” my mom explains. Her voice sounds as if she’s pleading with Mario. She knows her son well.
Mario stands and throws his napkin on the table. He moves to leave the table.
“Mario, sit down,” my father says standing up but my brother doesn’t listen and walks right out of the restaurant. My father follows him.
The rest of us just sit there in shock, and I’m pretty sure not even this dessert is going to make me feel better.
Recipe: Bananas Foster (for when your life goes up in flames)
Yields 4 servings
This is a simple version—your life is complicated enough. But trust me ladies, you’ll love this one.
1 stick butter
1/2 cup light brown sugar, packed
4 firm bananas (peeled and cut into 1/4” rounds)
1/4 cup dark rum
1) Melt butter in a large saucepan over medium heat.
2) Add brown sugar and stir until dissolved.
3) Add bananas and cook until caramelized (about 5 minutes).
4) Add the rum and, using a long lighter, ignite the flambé. (Be careful, the flame will rise pretty high.)
The Queen of Minor Disasters Page 6