As I collect their menus Mr. Klean raises his eyebrow and looks at his friends. Do I have something on me? “Your table is right this way.” I flash them a big smile.
They follow me to the back of the restaurant. Table fifteen is the last on the right, before the waiters’ station. They don’t look too happy with it, but since the restaurant’s packed, they don’t have another option. Brittany is their server, so hopefully her bubbly attitude will rub off.
People just love her.
Whenever we have new guests in the restaurant, I try my hardest to impress them. Usually people love the food, and are used to the tight atmosphere. Most shore restaurants pack their guests in like tuna in a tin.
At best, people finds this cozy and intimate.
At worst, they complain about the noise and having the waiter reach over them to serve the table.
I agree that it’s not exactly fine dining, but we try to make it work.
Tonight, however, the heat is an added insult to the tight seating.
The waiters are doing a great job pushing tables along. Some tables are in and out in less than an hour, and it’s working out perfectly. The most people have to wait is about five minutes and so far people seem to be dealing well with the heat. I’ve noticed a lot of salads being ordered, which is not the best for sales, but at least people are happy.
You can’t expect people to eat too much when they’re dripping with sweat.
I’m so focused on seating my guests that I almost don’t notice Brittany standing next to me with tears in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her. I can only handle so many disasters in one night.
“That guy is such an asshole. He humiliated me in front of the entire table.”
I assume she’s talking about Mr. Klean, because the rest of her tables are regulars who would never do such a thing. “What did he say?”
“He keeps calling me Barbie,” she explains. “And when he needed more bread, he told me to ‘shake my tail’ and go get him some.”
I hate to admit it, but it is kind of funny. Brittany does look oddly similar to the famous doll, especially now with her deep tan and sun bleached hair.
Still, his remarks are rude.
“Don’t let him bother you. I’ll check them out in a minute,” I assure her.
She walks away and I notice, for the first time, how she does put a little shake in her hips as she moves. I’ll have to talk to her about her walk another night.
A small group of diners gathers at the door. They must be the 8:00 reservations.
“Excuse me,” a voice to my right says. I turn to look and Mr. Klean is staring me in the face. “My friends and I would like some towels.”
The crowds have moved in and are waiting at the podium. “Oh I’m sorry, did something spill? I’ll send the bus boy over right away.”
“No, nothing spilled. It’s just that it’s so hot in here we feel like we’re sitting in a fucking sauna.”
My eyes widen. The other guests look appalled.
If ever there were a time for an explosion, this would be it.
No. Try to keep calm.
“I’m very sorry about the heat sir. It’s usually not like this in here, but it seems that the power is waning tonight. Sea Breeze had to close,” I remind him.
“I don’t care what the excuse is. It’s way too hot.” He storms off without giving me a chance to respond.
I look down and see my hands trembling a bit.
“Nice guy,” the guest in front of me says and I smile.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s hot in here,” I apologize.
“It’s hot everywhere, at least we’re not cooking at home,” the wife chimes in. I seat the couple and move back to the hostess stand to seat the rest of the reservations.
Lucy comes running up. “There’s a guy in the waiters’ station fiddling with the air conditioner,” she says.
Before she can even finish, I feel something inside of me snap. I walk through the dining room in a rage and glare at Mr. Klean.
“Who do you think you are?” I yell. “You have no right to touch our air conditioner, or anything else in the restaurant.” At this point I don’t even care that service has stopped and people are starting to stare. I’ve had enough of this shit.
“This says it’s eighty-three degrees in here. That’s ridiculous!” he screams.
I take a deep breath. “Have you eaten dinner yet sir?”
“No, we’re waiting for our entrées.”
“Well then you can march back to your table and tell the rest of your party that you’re being kicked out before dinner. We don’t need your business here.”
He turns pale and storms off to his table. Michele laughs but I’m not in the mood. To be honest, I’m in utter shock. I imagine the Yelp review already. Zero stars, we complained about the heat and the bitchy manager kicked us out for no reason. Don’t go there!!!
Mrs. Klean approaches the waiters’ station sans sweater. “I apologize for my husband’s behavior,” she says to me. “He’s having a bad night. We’d appreciate it if you allowed us to stay and eat dinner.”
I soften. “Fine. But keep you husband under control.”
Mrs. Klean smiles and returns to her table. I watch her reach for her wine and shoot a nasty look at her husband. Somebody’s sleeping on the couch tonight.
Imagine having to deal with a husband like that. Poor lady.
The rest of the night goes smoothly. To make amends Mr. Klean leaves Barbie a big tip, so she’s smiling as she does her check out.
Everyone is buzzing around, doing his or her side work but for some reason, I’m still feeling frazzled. Between breaking up with Drew, my parents’ big news, the heat, and the stress of the business, I just want to crawl into bed. Thankfully tomorrow is the Fourth and we’re closed.
“Want to go to the beach tomorrow?” I ask Lucy as we are folding napkins.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” she replies distantly.
What’s with her lately?
“Is your family down again?” I snap.
“Yeah, they actually are.” She stands to put her stack of napkins away. “I’m meeting them out tonight.”
I don’t believe her. All of my anger comes back. “Oh yeah? Where are you going?”
She looks put off. “I don’t know, I’ll call them when we finish.”
It’s already 1:30 a.m. but the bars are open until 4:00 a.m., and should be fun, especially on the night before the Fourth.
I wait for her to invite me.
Instead, she takes her money off the table and grabs her bag. “Everything’s done.”
The other waiters pick up their money and head for the door. Lucy moves along with them and waves goodbye as she exits.
“What’s up with Luce?” Mario asks. He enters the dining room just as the waiters are leaving.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Her family’s down.”
“Don’t they usually rent out their house until the end of August?” he asks sitting down.
He’s right. They’ve never spent a full summer here. This makes me even madder than before. Then it clicks. Lucy has a boyfriend. I know it.
But why would she hide him from me?
“Want to grab a drink at Bob’s?” I’m practically begging my brother to hang out, because honestly, I just don’t feel like going home.
“Stella, I’m beat. If I even have a sip of wine, I’ll probably pass out.” He stands. “Do you mind waiting for the dishwashers to finish up? I want to go home.”
“Where’s Lorenzo?” I ask. Usually he waits for the kitchen staff to finish.
“He left already. He said something about going out with friends tonight.”
Again, I’m hurt. My best friend is being shady, and now, even my family doesn’t want to hang out.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll wait.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Gina and Pietro are down for the night, so you need to sleep on th
e couch.”
Lovely.
I hear the Russian pop music blasting through the kitchen doors so I figure they’re mopping the floors by now. I take the time to think about Drew and before I know it, my eyes start to mist.
Why hasn’t be called?
I mean, honestly, how can you go from loving someone for three years to just totally shutting them out?
This is craziness and it has to end.
I see Ivan the dishwasher’s cell phone on the table and reach for it. Before I can stop myself I dial Drew’s number and hit send.
My heart pounds as the phone rings once, twice…
“Hello,” he says. Just hearing his voice makes my heart leap up into my throat. He answered! I knew he would answer! “Hello?” I can hear really loud music in the background and it’s obvious that he’s out at a bar. Well, good for him.
“Hey Drew,” I say hesitantly.
“Stella?” he asks as if he’s not sure. Has he forgotten my voice already?
I hear some muffled noise in the background and some high-pitched laughter.
“Yeah, it’s me,” I reply calmly. “How are you?”
“It’s almost two a.m.” He sounds angry. It’s not like he’s in bed or anything. “Christ.”
This is so not going as planned. For a minute I contemplate hanging up, but that would just be weird. “Sorry. Am I disturbing you?”
“Well it is July 3. I’m at a party.” I hear more laughter in the background and what I think is some girl calling Drew’s name. She sounds like a slut.
I’m about to ask what his plans are for tomorrow, when I hear the music in the kitchen shut off. Stefan and Ivan come out, their shirts drenched in sweat and dishwater. “We are done,” Stefan says in his thick Russian accent. I just stand there paralyzed holding Ivan’s phone in my hand. Then, in one swift motion, I click it shut and place it back on the table, and pretend that I was only looking at it.
The Russians look at me as if I’m nuts.
“Ok.” I walk towards the doors hoping they’ll follow me. “Have a good night.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ivan tentatively pick up his phone and follow me. I hold the door open while they exit.
“Happy Fourth of July,” Ivan says. I smile because I think I’m in the clear. This is their first American holiday and they’re very excited about it. Earlier in the week, Stefan told me about the barbeque they’re planning to have on the beach. All of their Russian friends are going. I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help feeling pathetic. Even the Russians have plans, while the only thing I’ve got going on is the Lancetti’s stupid barbeque.
Recipe: Penne all’ Arrabbiata
Yields 4 servings
The name of this pasta translates to “angry penne” and honestly, it is. Even though Lorenzo and Mario were making fun of me with this one, it was really fitting. I was mad. No, in fact, I still am.
1 lb penne
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1 28oz can of crushed tomatoes
1 tablespoon crushed red pepper flakes (as hot as you like them)
2 tablespoons basil, chopped
salt to taste
1) Bring 10 cups of salted water to boil. Add pasta.
2) While the pasta is cooking, heat the olive oil in a large saucepan over high heat.
3) Add garlic and cook until golden.
4) Add the crushed tomatoes, pepper flakes, basil, and salt. Lower the heat and let the sauce simmer for 10-15 minutes.
5) Drain pasta and toss into the sauce.
6) Top with grated cheese and more pepper, if desired.
Chapter 8
It’s not even 9:00 a.m. when I hear my mom and Gina talking about the wedding.
Not that I don’t love wedding talk, but seriously, isn’t there anything else to talk about?
I try to roll over into a more comfortable position but it’s no use; the couch is as old as the house, and every way I turn, I’m hit by a different spring. I get up and walk into the kitchen.
“We need to buy a new couch,” I announce bitterly.
Mom and Gina look up at me as if I have three heads. “Good morning,” my mom says. “Did you sleep well?”
I shuffle towards the coffee pot and pour myself a cup. “No.”
“Well you can sleep on the beach,” Gina replies. “I bought these beautiful beach towels at Saks. They’re amazing.”
“I think I’m just gonna stay in today.” I rub my eyes.
They both stare at me. “Are you serious?” my mom asks. She knows how much I love sitting on the beach long into the evening hours, and this is the only chance I’ll have to do that until September.
But somehow, the thought of sitting on the beach with my entire family is not appealing. Not after everyone abandoned me last night.
“Yeah. I just don’t feel like it.”
“Siete tutti pazzi,” my mom mumbles. Whenever my mother wants to badmouth her children, she does so in Italian, even though we all understand exactly what she’s saying. Today, apparently all of her children are crazy, not just me. This makes me feel better.
“What’s going on now?” my dad’s voice booms as he enters the kitchen.
“Nothing,” I say.
“All of our children are weird.” My mom starts. “Lorenzo’s not coming to the barbeque and Stella doesn’t want to go to the beach. Gina and Pietro came all the way down to stay with the family, and now everyone is separated.”
Gina lowers her head. It’s not fair that my mom threw her under the bus, but Gina should know this is one of my mother’s famous tactics. Whenever she’s upset about something, she tries to place the blame on someone else, instead of just admitting that she’s mad. Again, it’s probably another form of repression. We DiLucio’s are famous for it.
I move to the couch and turn on the TV. I plan to veg out right here in my pajamas for the rest of the day. Maybe I won’t even go to the barbeque. Lord knows I don’t want to deal with Mrs. Lancetti force-feeding everyone carbs all night long. Plus, I’m sure Roberto will be there and I can’t take the embarrassment of having to explain that I actually don’t have a boyfriend.
When Gina and my mom leave, I try to call Lucy to see if she wants to come over, but her phone goes straight to voicemail.
Honestly, I’m still a little mad that she didn’t invite me out last night. If she does have a boyfriend why is she keeping him secret?
Is she scared I’ll judge him?
I would never judge.
Unless he’s a total loser. But that’s what friends are for right? I mean, if I started dating someone horrible, I’d want my best friend to intervene.
At around three, after I’ve watched about fifteen episodes of Judge Judy, I decide that I should go to the Lancetti’s party. For one thing, if I don’t I’ll never hear the end of it. And for another thing, the food is usually amazing and after last night I could really go for some Food Therapy. Plus they always have an open bar stocked with plenty of top shelf stuff. Part of me wants to see Roberto too. Just for some innocent flirting to boost my ego after the blow it took last night. I still have every intention of getting Drew back, I just may need to change my strategy a bit.
By the time my family gets back from the beach, I’m already showered and ready to go to the barbeque.
While the rest of the house showers, I take time to apply make-up. The downstairs powder room is small but has the perfect mirror, and for once, I think I look good from any angle. Miraculously, my hair is set in loose waves, without even the suggestion of frizz. My face is clear despite all the milk I drink (take that Gina), and the kiss of sun brings out the deep olive hues in my skin.
As usual, Gina has brought her entire make-up kit down for the night, and she lets me use whatever I want, so I browse through the various shades of eye shadow, settling on a translucent mushroom shade called “brownstone.” I like it so much that I consider asking Gina if I can keep it. After all, she can
pick up a new one at any time.
I’m wearing jeans tonight, since I spend most of my days in dresses. I choose a dark pair and wear a tight white tank top, with a pearl colored chiffon shell on top. I like the effect of the cool white, contrasting with my skin. I finish off the look with extra tall wedges, gold hoops, and a Fendi clutch.
“You’re wearing jeans?” my mother asks in shock when I step into the kitchen.
“Mom, I wear dresses every day,” I whine like a twelve year old.
“Let her wear whatever the hell she wants,” my dad chimes in. He winks at me.
“She’ll look out of place,” my mother squeals. She always has to have the last word.
Still, I don’t change. I’m wearing jeans. Period.
At 8:00 my parents and I walk directly across the Island to the Lancetti’s house. Much to my mother’s dismay, Pietro and Gina left for New York right after the beach. Mario and Dante said they’d go to the barbeque later and Lorenzo has stuck his ground. He’s not coming to the Lancetti’s this year.
The Lancetti’s house is located right on the 99th Street beach so we’re on opposite ends of the island, but since it’s only one mile from beach to bay it’s a very short walk. The house is enormous and makes ours look like a shack. It’s built of yellow stonewalls, reminiscent of the villa in Tuscany where Mr. Lancetti originally wanted to retire. The roof is my favorite part, because its terracotta tiles remind me of a Spanish hacienda.
As if being right on the beach weren’t lavish enough, they have a large pool in their back yard, facing the ocean. I used to imagine living in that house, and spending each night in the pool, listening to the ocean in the background.
The entry way is paved in Italian tiles and the skylight in the foyer makes it seem as though you’re still outside. The professional grade kitchen, with its Sub-Zero fridge and Viking Stove, looks like it’s not used too much. I don’t think the Lancettis come down the shore all that often. It’s a shame to waste a house like this.
Mrs. Lancetti greets us at the door. She’s wearing a flowing strapless maxi dress and has turquoise stones on her sandals. For not coming down the shore much, she has a pretty flawless tan, and the black of her dress only accentuates it. She’s a classic beauty, slightly younger than my mother, though they look about the same age. The one thing I love about Anna Lancetti is that she’s never confined to one look. Some women, especially women in their fifties and sixties, tend to stick with what they know, but Anna is a chameleon; each time I see her she has a new look. Tonight she’s sporting a Cleopatra hairdo, complete with thick bangs cut straight across her forehead. I can’t help but think how much better it looks on her than it would on me. “Come in DiLucios, come in!” She squeals, hugging each one of us as we enter her kitchen.
The Queen of Minor Disasters Page 9