The Queen of Minor Disasters

by Antonietta Mariottini

  5) Let the flame die down on its own, then spoon the bananas in individual bowls and serve with vanilla ice cream.

  Chapter 6

  Ok, just to recap. It’s July 1 and in exactly fifty-nine days, I’ll be twenty-eight. Which wouldn’t be such a big deal if I

  1) Had a fiancé

  2) Had a job.

  But since both prospects are out the window (It’s been three weeks and Drew hasn’t called once. And to make matters worse, my parents really are selling La Cucina, which means that come Labor Day when Lorenzo’s closes, I’m jobless), I’ve hit freak-out mode.

  I just keep telling myself to calm down.

  There are plenty of jobs I can do.

  Plenty.

  I mean, I went to college for God’s sake. That has to count for something.

  I’ve been trying to think of this rationally, once the initial shock wore off and all. Pietro and Dante have made me see that this is a good thing.

  An opportunity.

  Granted, neither one of them depends on the restaurant like I do, but there’s no need to panic. I mean, if my brothers can get decent jobs so can I.

  Maybe I can get a job at Pietro’s law firm. I know I’m not exactly a lawyer, but I’m sure I can do something in the office. Like file. And type things.

  I’d probably be very good at that. And I’d get to wear classy suits and kitten heels.

  Not that I really like suits or kitten heels (they make my legs look really short).

  And I’ve never actually worked in an office. Or filed anything.

  Hum.

  Maybe I can be a teacher like Dante. That way I’ll have summers off to come back to work at Lorenzo’s.

  If Lucy can do it, I certainly can. And who cares that St. Iggy’s is all boys. I’m used to that. I have four brothers.

  Yes, perfect. I’ll become a teacher.

  I can even ask Luce what to write on my résumé. I’m sure she’ll find some way to finagle it.

  It’ll be great. Luce and I can have lunch together in the teacher’s lounge every day! And I can get a cute pair of glasses (not the matronly librarian kind). Of course, I’ll have to practice my handwriting on a chalk board, but there’s plenty of time to do that.

  My brothers were right. This is a good thing. An opportunity.

  I just wish Mario would see it the same way.

  He hasn’t said a word to Dad since Father’s Day, and I worry that their relationship is permanently damaged. Lorenzo and I talk about them a lot, and even though he’s upset as well, he respects my parents’ wishes.

  “It’s their place,” he says, and I agree.

  Lorenzo is surprisingly not that worried. He actually seems happy about La Cucina closing. He’s been wanting to open a small restaurant in Philadelphia, but hasn’t been able to leave La Cucina. He’s thinking that this is his big opportunity. He even drove back to Philly to start talking with real estate agents.

  Again, my twin is showing me up. But that doesn’t matter. I’m going to be a teacher or something.

  About a week after Father’s Day, my mother calls to tell me the exact date of the closing. La Cucina will officially close on September 30, exactly three months from tomorrow. It’s impossible for me to think that we won’t have another Christmas there, or that I won’t be working on New Year’s Eve.

  Lucy tried to be optimistic about it and even suggested we go up to New York City for New Year’s this year. But as much as I complained about working all those years, I love ringing in the New Year with a restaurant full of regulars wearing cardboard party hats and throwing paper streamers in the air. They were like an extension of the family, and partying at some lame bar in New York just doesn’t feel right.

  To avoid thinking about La Cucina and Drew, I throw myself into work and with the Fourth of July right around the corner, that’s pretty easy to do. This year, the holiday falls on a Wednesday, which we thought would be bad for business, but as it turns out, it’s ideal. Both this weekend and next are jam-packed. It’s nice to know that we’re in high demand, but I do wish we had some slots open, since I’m the one who has to deal with the phone calls.

  Since today is Friday and the kick off to a busy weekend, I’m here earlier than normal. I don’t mind it though; there’s something peaceful about an empty restaurant. And I get full range of the kitchen, even though I almost always make a salad. Did you really think I eat restaurant food every day? I’d be 800 pounds by Labor Day.

  In the kitchen, I’m in a zone, dicing roasted red peppers and tomatoes to add to my salad bowl. I’ve been dreaming of an arugula salad with jumbo lump crabmeat all morning. Just as I walk towards the fridge to get the crabmeat, I hear a knock on the back door.

  “Come in,” I yell stooped over by the fridge. Usually we don’t get deliveries until a little later, but I can check the order and sign for it, no problem.

  “Hey Stella.”

  I turn towards the door and almost drop my salad bowl. Roberto Lancetti is standing in the doorway carrying a large bag of bread. My eyes flicker over him because, even though I’m sure it’s him he looks completely different than the Roberto that I remember, or the one I imagined. The Roberto standing before me looks confident and strong, his skin is sun kissed, his hair is a controlled mess, and his smile teases me. A large scar travels diagonally from the left corner of his bottom lip to the base of his chin, making him look rougher than I remember. And sexier. For a minute, our eyes lock and I forget all about Drew. If I were comparing the two on looks alone, Roberto would win, hands down.

  Not that I’m interested or anything; obviously, I have Drew (sort of). Besides, Roberto is so not my type. He might be smart, but if you ask me, he totally wasted his talents. I mean honestly, a PhD in Latin? I can see him now, standing in front of a classroom wearing ripped jeans and Chuck Taylors, trying desperately to be a non-conformist while teaching a bunch of half-wit college freshman how to conjugate verbs. It’s a shame really, because Roberto is the heir to the Lancetti bread company, which supplies the best Italian rolls to restaurants in the tri-state area. He’d be walking on easy street.

  Now Drew, on the other hand, went to Wharton for his MBA and, given the opportunity that Roberto has, would take the bread company and make it a global sensation. They’d be eating that bread in China, Chile, and even Italy for God’s sake.

  “I have your delivery.” He smiles and places the bag on the work station. He reaches around to hug me and I awkwardly reciprocate. His arms pull me in close enough to smell the cologne on his neck. It is a mixture of spicy musk and lemon, which smells both exotic and familiar at the same time.

  “You look good,” he says pulling away. Yeah right. I smile but can feel my face getting hot. I look down at myself. I’m wearing blue running shorts, a yellow tank top, and purple flip-flops, the official uniform of a fifth grader. I couldn’t be more un-sexy if I tried. And the worst part is, my scoop neck Theory dress is hanging in the waiters’ station; I was going to change as soon as I finished lunch. Not that it matters.

  The only comfort I have is the fact that he’s wearing a similar outfit of dirty Nikes, a white t-shirt, and yellow mesh shorts. Still, on him it somehow works.

  “Come in,” I wave. “Do you still need that reservation for this weekend?” I ask, remembering that he never called back.

  Roberto makes his way into the kitchen and looks at me again. “Na, she cancelled on me.”

  “Sorry.”

  He keeps looking at me but doesn’t say anything.

  “So, what have you been up to?” I ask because I’m suddenly flustered and can’t think of anything else to say.

  “I just got back from Rome. I finished my PhD actually.”

  “In what?” I ask though I already know.

  “Translation. I translate ancient poetry.” He smirks at himself, and I can’t tell if he’s cocky or what.

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “Yeah, I’d tell you all about it, but it’d probably put
you to sleep.” He laughs. “What are you making?”

  “A salad,” I reply, and before I can stop myself I ask if he wants one.

  “Only if I can help.” He grabs an apron off the rack and ties it on. I can’t help but laugh at him.

  “What? You don’t think I can cook, Stella? I was in the kitchen before you were even born.”

  “Ok Dad,” I mutter and stick my head in the fridge. He laughs. Lorenzo put the crabmeat on the bottom shelf, right next to the sauce. “Do you like crabmeat?” I ask.

  “I thought we were having salad.”

  I close the door of the fridge. “What kind of operation do you think this is Lancetti? We’re in a restaurant, I’m not going to give you some mixed greens and call it a lunch.”

  He laughs. “Ok, get the crabmeat. Got any filet mignon?”

  “Ha ha.” I walk towards the stove and grab a sauté pan from the rack on top. I turn up the heat, pour some olive oil in the pan, and once it gets hot, throw in the garlic.

  “Not too much garlic, I have more deliveries to get to.”

  “Oh, and I guess you pick up a lot of ladies in your bread truck?”

  Roberto laughs.

  “Make yourself useful and plate those salads.” I sound just like Lorenzo in the middle of service.

  Once the crabmeat is done sautéing I spoon it over the two salad plates and drizzle a little balsamic reduction on top.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  “Almost perfect,” Roberto replies and walks over to the bread bag. “We need a little Lancetti on this plate.” He grabs two rolls and gives me a wink.

  I ignore him and carry my plate into the dining room. He follows me to the back table, closest to the waiters’ station. We both sit, still wearing our aprons.

  “This is delicious,” he says after just one bite. “You should write a cook book.”

  “Yeah right,” I roll my eyes and stab a piece of crabmeat.

  “I’m serious,” he insists. “You could be ‘the salad chick’ or something catchy like that.”

  I entertain the thought for a minute and envision myself on the cover of some girly cookbook, wearing a frilly pink apron and a fake smile, holding an oversized bowl of mixed greens and chopped veggies. But the thought is ridiculous. Even the most remedial home cook knows how to throw a salad together. See, this is exactly the difference between Roberto and Drew; Drew has foresight and brilliant ideas, while Roberto studied a dead language and has dead-end ideas.

  “So how’d you get stuck delivering bread?” I ask trying to change the subject. “Shouldn’t you be translating something?”

  He looks at me and laughs. “Well the job market for a Latin translator is a little slow right now, so I’m helping my family. I thought of all people you’d understand that.”

  “I just don’t get it,” I say. “Why would you get a PhD in a dead language when you have a bread empire all to yourself?” I wave a roll in the air to dramatize my point. I’m not sure why I’m asking him this. Honestly, it’s not like I care or anything.

  “You sound like my mother,” he says and takes a bite.

  “Seriously though,” I continue. “Latin?”

  He sighs. “When I graduated college I was expected to run the family business. But I needed a change. So I packed up and moved to Rome for a year and got a job bartending.” He looks at me, and forks a piece of crabmeat, then pops it into his mouth.

  “And the other bartenders spoke Latin?” I ask.

  He laughs. “No, I realized that I wanted something different. And I’d always been interested in Language. So I enrolled in a PhD program and got a degree.”

  “In Latin?”

  “In translation. I had to study Latin, Greek, and Italian.”

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I will take over the family business. Or maybe I’ll get a job doing something else. Who knows?”

  I roll my eyes. He makes the future seems like a simple thing, when instead, it’s so very complicated.

  As we’re finishing lunch the phone rings. “Lorenzo’s,” I say. “May I help you?”

  “Hello, my name is Shirley Johnston and I’m calling from the Villa Hotel and Casino.”

  It’s unusual that we get a concierge calling from Atlantic City. This reservation is probably for a high roller.

  “Ok.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Roberto cleaning off the table. He picks up the plates and disappears into the kitchen like he belongs here.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Lorenzo DiLucio if possible,” says Shirley, bringing me back to the conversation.

  So she really is making a VIP reservation. They always ask to speak to the owners when they’re dealing with a VIP.

  “He’s not in at the moment, may I take a message.” I reach for a pen and paper and write her name down.

  “Who am I speaking with?” she asks.

  “This is Stella DiLucio. I’m the manager here.”

  “Then perhaps you can help me. I’m calling in reference to Mr. Charles Verton.”

  My head starts to spin. Mr. Charles Verton? Chuck? She’s calling about Chuck?

  She continues, “How long has he been employed with you?”

  Then her words click. This is a reference check.

  “Where are you calling from?” I swallow.

  “The Villa Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City. Mr. Verton applied for a position with us and I just need to check his references.”

  “Ok” I say. Damn, the Villa is nice.

  “How long has Mr. Verton been employed at your establishment.” The way she says it makes it seem like she knows her job is better.

  “He’s worked with us for three years.” I can barely speak.

  “And what does he do there?”

  Roberto walks up to the hostess stand, carrying the keys to his delivery truck. I hold up a finger, motioning him to wait.

  “Chuck’s the sous-chef and is in charge of all the pastries as well. Can I put you on hold for a moment?”

  I click the hold button and look up at Roberto. “Sorry, this is a pretty important call.”

  “It’s okay. I have to run, actually.” He smiles at me. “We should grab a drink sometime.”

  I’m caught off guard and before I can stop myself I blurt out something about having a boyfriend.

  For a second, he looks taken aback. Then he flips his keys around his finger and smiles. “Oh, I thought I heard you guys broke up. Sorry.” He turns to leave and I roll my eyes. I am such an idiot.

  The hold button beeps. Thankfully.

  “All right Bella Stella. Thanks for lunch,” he says looking back at me.

  I give him a wave as he walks towards the kitchen. I click back to the phone call.

  “Sorry to keep you on hold.”

  “No problem. How would you rate Mr. Verton’s performance over the last three years?” she asks.

  Where can I even begin? Chuck has been a dedicated employee, an amazing chef, and a great friend. He’s never missed a day, and until this moment, has been loyal to my family. My eyes start to fill with tears.

  “Hello?” Shirley says.

  “He’s great,” I mumble.

  “So you would recommend him?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  When I hang up the phone, I call Lorenzo, and ask him to come to the restaurant early. I need to talk to him before Chuck arrives.

  The back door opens about twenty minutes later and I hear Lorenzo turn on the kitchen ventilation system before entering the dining room. Maybe I don’t need to tell him. I should just leave it up to Chuck.

  “What’s up,” he asks sitting down. Since my parents made their big announcement, he’s been more willing to talk.

  “I got a weird phone call this afternoon,” I blab.

  “From who?” he asks, suddenly suspicious.

  “A lady from the Villa. She was calling about Chuck.”

  “Yeah,” he says sitting down. “So what?”


  So what?

  “She was doing a reference check on him.” I can just imagine Lorenzo flipping out and throwing things all over the kitchen. God, it’ll be a nightmare.

  Lorenzo doesn’t look concerned. “It’s probably for the fall.”

  “Then why would she be calling now?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Chuck wouldn’t leave in the middle of the summer.”

  “You should ask him.”

  The phone rings and when I stand up to answer it Lorenzo goes into the kitchen. I look at my watch. Chuck will arrive in about five minutes. He’s never late.

  ***

  The night goes smoothly despite the tension in the kitchen. Everyone has picked up on it. Lucy asked me three times if everything was okay, and even Frankie seems on edge. I’m the only one who knows what’s going on, and I still don’t know when Chuck is leaving, or if he even is. All I know is that the kitchen is quiet, there are no jokes tonight, no one laughing or shouting, no music blaring from the speakers.

  The restaurant is full of regulars, which makes it easier. With regulars, there are never any complaints, and even if the service is a bit slow, like tonight, no one seems to notice.

  Joe and Diane Shefferd, a couple in their late sixties who always come in for eggplant parmigiana, are among the first guests of the night. They are always quick to smile and seem to be excited to eat out, though they come in at least twice a week. They greet me with a hug and follow me to their favorite table in the back of the restaurant, close to the waiters’ station, or “the action” as Mr. Shefferd puts it.

  The Hermans are sitting in the front window with their five kids, calmly eating ravioli and laughing together. They remind me a lot of us when we were little. Our parents taught us to be well behaved at restaurants and in church. We knew to sit quietly, talk in low voices, and not play with our food. None of us would ever dare to throw anything on the floor of a restaurant any more than we would have at home, so it always shocks me when customers let their kids run wild here. The Hermans would never do that.

  Mr. and Mrs. Moore sit at the table closest to me. They are not the kind of couple who sits at a restaurant without talking. Instead, they really enjoy each other’s company. They even flirt with each other, which is reassuring given the fact that they’ve been married for so long.