A small crowd is gathered around the buffet, which is set up on the island in the kitchen. They turn to look at us, and continue on with their conversations.
“Where’s Lorenzo?” she asks.
My mother huffs. “He might stop by later.”
“Oh, it’s a shame he’s not here, I have the perfect girl for him.”
I find it strange whenever someone wants to set one of my brothers up. If the girl is perfect for Lorenzo, why not set her up with Mario? Or Dante? There’s really not too much surface difference between them. Still, she doesn’t offer this match to either of my other brothers, so I’m guessing the girl has been to the restaurant and tasted his food.
I’m surprised my brother is still single. Everyone knows women are suckers for a man who can cook.
Mr. Lancetti comes in from the sliding glass doors. He’s a short, round man, with a big bald head and warm smile. He smells slightly of smoke and charcoal and I wonder if he’s been manning the grill. Usually this is a catered event. I really hope they’re not skimping this year. I only came here for the food. Barbeque ranks pretty high on the Food Therapy list.
“Antonio!” he yells and gives my dad one of those manly hugs that end with a loud pat on the back. “So good to see you all. Who wants a drink?”
Um, me.
We all follow Mr. Lancetti to the bar area, where a bartender is mixing drinks. I look around casually to see if I know anyone, but the guest list pretty much only includes well to do people in their sixties. Hopefully none of our customers are here. I secretly plan on getting drunk.
My dad orders a Bombay Sapphire martini with olives; Dante and Mario, who arrived by car two minutes after us, opt for beer; and my mom orders a white wine spritzer like the other women here. I really want vodka, but opt for a glass of champagne instead. All I need are the town gossips saying I have an alcohol problem. Plus, I can just down this and sneak back for a martini in a few minutes.
Drinks in hand, we disperse. My dad hangs back with Mr. Lancetti, my brothers go outside by the pool, and I mingle in the kitchen with my mother. I’m by far the youngest of the women here, and the most casually dressed. I feel a little childish in my jeans, and secretly wish I had put on one of my dresses.
“So Stella,” Mrs. Lancetti says to me over the poached Salmon. “I heard about your boyfriend. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
I shoot my mother a death look. She looks back innocently and takes a sip of her drink. “We’re just taking a little break,” I mutter.
The women all look uncomfortable. Some exchange glances with each other, others looks down at the salmon, and still others give me an apathetic look, as if to say “yeah right.” What the hell do they know anyway? We are just taking a little break. I mean, we talked last night didn’t we?
“My Robbie says he saw you the other day.”
Now all the ladies, including my mother, turn their heads to look at me.
“Yes, he came to deliver the bread.” I shrug my shoulders and pop a fried olive in my mouth like this is no big deal, but I can feel my mom staring at me.
“He’s been living in Rome you know,” Mrs. Lancetti says, as if she’s trying to sell him.
“That’s nice,” I reply. “Rome is a beautiful city.”
The ladies start talking about Italy and all the vacation hot spots they’ve been to. I excuse myself and exit through the sliding glass doors, making my way towards the grill.
My dad, Mr. Lancetti, and a few other men are smoking cigars near the pool. Dante joins them while Mario talks to some man I don’t recognize. I’m sad that my brother is avoiding my father, and hope that their relationship can be mended. If there’s one thing about my brother, it’s that he’s a testa dura. As stubborn as a mule.
The chef manning the grill is replenishing the stock of hamburgers, sausages, and hot dogs on the buffet. A waiter refreshes the fixings, placing new spoons in both the mustard and ketchup, rearranging the slices of lettuce, tomato, and onions, and fluffing the rice salad. This year, the Lancetti’s have arranged an impressive array of bread to accompany the meats. I take a plate off the buffet line and reach for a multi-grain bun.
“Bella Stella,” I hear Roberto from behind me and I can’t help but turn around. “You look great,” he says.
“Thanks, you too.” I stand there for a minute, holding my plate. For some reason, I’m nervous and can’t think of anything to say. “Great party.”
“I guess,” he shrugs. “It’s a little lame, but I missed it while I was away.” He looks down at my plate. “Did you get something to eat?”
“I was about to,” I say awkwardly. There’s something about this whole scene that’s making me uncomfortable. I glance towards the house and see all the ladies in the kitchen staring at us. They quickly look away, but it’s obvious. Suddenly I feel my face flush. I may have been dumped by my boyfriend, but I’m certainly no charity case. If Mrs. Lancetti and my mom have plotted to set me and Roberto up, they’re in for a big disappointment.
I move towards the spread of meats, as if to say to Roberto that I’m done talking. Hopefully he can take a hint and realize that I’m not interested.
“So, how about that drink?” he says from across the meat table.
I’m about to throw out the old boyfriend excuse, but that would just be weird since Drew and I technically aren’t together. Instead, I pretend not to hear him and focus on building the world’s most decadent hamburger, topped with crispy pancetta, provolone cheese, sautéed onions, and mushrooms.
I can feel Robert looking at me, waiting for an answer. “I work every night,” I mumble, and top my burger off with a thin slice of tomato. Finally, I reach for a large piece of red onion because I will not be kissing anyone in the near future.
“Well how about tonight?” he insists.
Why is he being so persistent? And why won’t I just have a drink with him? He is kind of cute, and it’s not like I have anything else going on. I hold up my burger and look at is as if it has the answer to all my questions. As I’m about to take a bite, I hear the clinking of glasses and the music is cut.
A bartender is passing out glasses of champagne to each guest in preparation for a toast. I take one off the tray, eager to gulp it down. Once everyone has a glass Mr. Lancetti taps on his to get everyone’s attention. Thank God.
“I’d like to make a toast to my good friends Antonio and Teresa DiLucio. As all of you know, they’ve had the best restaurant in the Philadelphia area for the past twenty years.”
“With the best bread,” Mrs. Lancetti shouts. Everyone laughs.
“And now, they have decided to sell it. Let’s raise a glass to them for cent’anni of happiness in their retirement.”
Everyone clinks glasses. I look at my mother whose face is pale. Up until now, they haven’t told anyone besides the family of their decision. Mr. Lancetti just made it public.
I scan the area looking for my dad, and see Mario, leaving the through the pool gate.
Shit.
Roberto looks at me as I place my plate and glass on a nearby table. “I have to talk to my brother,” I mumble and walk towards the gate.
I exit and step onto the beach, fumbling in my wedges. Mario is nowhere in sight. He must have gone home. I take a deep breath and walk towards the water. The sky is beginning to darken and in the half-light the ocean looks completely black.
I take a seat in the sand, close my eyes, and listen to the rhythm of the waves.
“You okay?”
I look up to see Roberto holding my plate and two glasses of champagne. He sits in the sand next to me.
“I’m fine,” I say though truthfully I don’t feel fine.
“Have something to eat,” he says handing me the plate. “It’ll make you feel better.”
I give him a funny look. Could he be a supporter of Food Therapy too? I reach out and take the plate from his hands and eye up the burger. It does look delicious.
“So I finally get to have a dri
nk with Stella DiLucio,” he says handing me the glass of champagne.
“I’m not really great company at the moment,” I reply and take a swig of champagne. “What would you do if your parents closed the bread company?”
“I would toast their retirement. I’m not really into taking over the business. You should figure out what you want to do aside from the restaurant.”
Again, he’s shocked me. Here he is sitting on a fortune and he’s so happy to walk away from it. Sometimes I wish it was as easy for me to walk away from the restaurant, but I’d feel so guilty abandoning my family.
“I don’t even know what life is like without a restaurant,” I sigh.
“You’ve got the perfect excuse to find out now,” Roberto replies and for a second, I feel better.
Just as I’m about to say thank you, the first firework erupts in the sky.
Tonight, it sounds like a bomb.
Mr. Lancetti wasn’t the only person to announce the closing of La Cucina. A few days after the Fourth, Amanda Hut, the restaurant reviewer for the Philadelphia Explorer, wrote a full-page article about our twenty years in business, complete with vintage pictures of the restaurant before we remodeled in 2001, and glorious description of the food. She was nice enough to include Lorenzo’s address and phone number in the article, so business has been booming.
My parents are also in over their heads at La Cucina. The article prompted people from all over the tri-state area to come out for one last dinner. One woman showed up with a gift certificate from 1989. Back when we were hand writing them, we sometimes forgot to write an expiration date on the back, so my mother had to honor it. We laughed about it over the phone that night.
You see all types of people in this business. That’s for sure.
Amanda Hut’s article placed an emphasis on our homemade items, especially the time consuming pastas and intricate desserts, so I’ve been getting up really early and going into the restaurant to bake, which is the perfect excuse not to think about Drew and the fact that he hasn’t called.
So far, I’ve not been so successful.
It’s okay though, because I have a plan. By Monday, it will be four weeks exactly since we broke up, and, as you know, Gina and I have formulated the perfect, get-Drew-back plan.
But never mind about that now. I have cakes to make.
And to be quite honest, making cakes is not as easy as it originally sounded.
Of course, it’s nothing I can’t handle. It’s just a little different than I imagined.
I kept Chuck’s amazing chocolate cake in the repertoire, and with a few instructional phone calls, was able to perfect it.
Well, almost anyway. I mean, who cares if it had a big crack down the middle. The point is, it tasted good.
The tiramisu and ricotta cheesecake also remained on the list because they are and always will be crowd pleasers.
But they’re easy. I’m looking for something more complex to introduce to our tray, something that would produce a wow factor.
Something like profiteroles.
There’s this amazing restaurant in New York City that makes huge profiteroles. One time Drew and I went just for dessert, and I’m not like that.
But seriously, profiteroles are the Food Therapy equivalent to Xanax. They’ll make you numb to your problems. Which is exactly why I’m making them.
And they’re actually quite simple to make.
The dough is so easy, in fact, that it can be done while making other desserts, which is exactly what I’m doing this morning. As my eggs and ricotta are combining in the mixer, waiting to be transformed into cheesecake, I drop one stick of unsalted butter into a small saucepan. To that, I add one cup of water and let them simmer together over a low flame.
Told you it was easy.
I switch back to the ricotta cheesecake, which is ready to be poured into the spring form pan. When I get back to the stove, the butter is all melted into the water, and the mixture is just beginning to boil. I drop in a cup of flour and stir like mad, making sure that all the flour cooks off.
It’s supposed to “sizzle” when it’s done, so I stand above the stove and wait for it.
After a few minutes, I don’t hear anything.
Maybe the flame is too low. I turn it up just to speed up the process a bit.
While that’s getting hot, I place the cheesecake into the oven and shut the door. Even though I forgot to preheat, I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s a gas oven for God’s sake. How long can it take to heat up?
Back at the stove, I see that the bottom of my mixture is almost black.
Crap.
I didn’t hear any sizzling.
I look at the lump of dough and decide that I can salvage it. I tip over the saucepot and the dough plops out onto the worktable.
Oh yeah, I can totally fix this. No problem.
I grab a knife and just cut away the black parts until only about a third of the dough remains.
Who needs thirty-six profiteroles anyway? Twenty-four is plenty. Or, um, twelve.
Plus, I can always make more tomorrow.
I lay the dough flat on a plate to cool for a few minutes, while I check on the cheesecake.
It’s a carefully choreographed dance, this baking business, but I love every minute of it. In the kitchen, I feel so totally focused on what I’m doing that I don’t have time to think about Drew or my job.
What I really need is to talk to Luce about all this, but she is never available anymore. She sleeps at our house about once a week, with the excuse that she stays at her aunt’s the other nights. I know she’s lying but what can I say? I can’t force her to be my friend.
“That looks good,” Lorenzo says after opening the oven door and seeing my cheesecake. Any sort of culinary praise from him is always welcome. If he thinks it looks good, it must.
Only, is it supposed to bubble up like that?
Maybe I should’ve preheated the oven.
“Thanks,” I say looking at him. He smiles, snaps his fingers and makes a motion like he’s throwing dice.
I know exactly what he’s talking about. “No.” I shake my head. “I don’t have any money.”
“Come on,” he replies. “Mario and Dante are in. You can even invite Lucy to come along.”
The thought of a night out in Atlantic City with my brothers and best friend is appealing, but I doubt she’d go for it. Plus, I really don’t have the money to waste; especially now that I will be unemployed come October 1.
I’m not worried or anything but the other night when I couldn’t sleep, I calculated all of my expenses for the year. The wedding is adding a major debt to my finances. This whole Maid of Honor thing is costing a lot.
“Don’t be a loser,” he snaps and puts on his apron. I take the cake out of the oven and set it on a wire rack to cool. The bubbles have left large holes in the top, making it look like the surface of the moon. Maybe when it’s cut it won’t look so bad.
Lorenzo keeps staring at me, as if he’s waiting for me to agree.
“I’m going home to shower.” The profiteroles will have to wait. Or better yet, maybe I should just throw out the dough and try again tomorrow.
“Ok, but think about AC,” he calls after me.
Recipe: Profiteroles
I’ll have to get back to you on this one.
Chapter 9
All night, every time I go into the kitchen, Mario and Lorenzo make an Atlantic City reference. Even though it’s a Tuesday, I know that we won’t be finished with work until at least midnight, then we have to shower, and drive forty minutes to get there. “It’ll be too late,” I protest on one of my trips in the kitchen.
“It’s open all night,” Lorenzo replies. “Even Chucker is meeting us.”
Ok, it would be nice to see Chuck. I imagine the scene. It would be like our first years of the restaurant, where the crew would go gambling at least once a week after work. It didn’t matter if we got home at 7:00 the next morning. We’d sleep until 2
:00, shower, and go back to work.
“We can even get scallion pancakes for breakfast.” Mario’s eyes light up, referring to the Chinese food we inevitably get at 5:00 a.m. before the long drive home.
“No,” I say firmly and leave the kitchen.
Midway through the night I pass Lucy in the waiters’ station. “Are you going to Atlantic City?” she asks.
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“I sort of want to go,” she says with a smile.
This trip could be the perfect opportunity to talk to Lucy. I start to think more seriously about going, when the phone rings.
It’s Mr. Lyndon, a regular who comes in often with his wife. Unexpected guests showed up at his house and he places a giant take-out order. I assure him that everything will be fine, and that he can pick it up in one hour.
When I hand the order to Lorenzo he makes the same throwing the dice gesture.
“Maybe.” I smile.
By the time Mr. Lyndon comes to pick up his take-out, we’ve calmed down for the night. All of the reservations have been sat, and it looks like the flow of walk-ins has died down a bit. I look at the clock; it’s only 9:45.
“Thank you so much,” he says signing his credit card receipt. “You really saved us tonight. My son came in with six of his friends and my wife barely had enough food to tide them over until dinner.” He smiles and closes the check presenter. “We’ll see you during the week.”
The Queen of Minor Disasters Page 10