The Queen of Minor Disasters

by Antonietta Mariottini

  “Great. Thank you.”

  When he leaves, I open the check presenter to retrieve his credit card slip. I have to look at it twice to make sure I’ve read it correctly.

  He’s left me a $100 tip on his $97 check.

  Did you hear that? One hundred dollars!

  It just goes to show how appreciated I am.

  “It’s a sign,” Mario says when I run to the kitchen, waving the credit card slip. “We’re going to AC.”

  And just like that, I’m in.

  * * *

  I bet you want to know what happened, don’t you?

  Well, let’s just say, someone (aka Stella DiLucio) had a hot hand at the craps table.

  And when we left the casino at 5:30 this morning, I was fifteen hundred dollars richer than before.

  That’s right. Fifteen. Hundred. Dollars.

  I still can’t believe it.

  But no matter how much money you win, mornings are still rough. Especially when you go to bed when the sun is coming up. Still, I have work to do. I’m a professional.

  The only downside of last night is that I didn’t really get the chance to talk to Lucy. I think about making her a mug of coffee to wake her up, but decide against it.

  As I sip my breakfast I wonder when exactly I should execute the plan. I mean, I got lucky last night, maybe I’m on a winning streak. Part of me wants to pick up the phone and dial Drew right now, but the other, more cautious part of me decides against it.

  To distract myself I start to think of all the possible things I can buy with fifteen hundred dollars. I’m usually very responsible with money (besides the time I bought that extra-large Louie, but that’s an investment piece), but since I’ve won this, I figure I can blow it on anything I want. I’ve been wanting another Fendi for a while, and with fifteen hundred, I can get a nice large tote. Or, I can treat myself to a day at the Borgata’s spa, complete with an extra-long massage and relaxing facial. I’ve also been wanting a beautiful leather jacket, and with this kind of money, I’m sure I can get a buttery soft one. Pure luxury. I imagine myself walking through the streets of the Upper West Side in the fall, when the weather is crisp enough to wear leather.

  Maybe I can use the money as the first month’s rent for an apartment in Manhattan. Once I’m there I’m sure I can find a great job doing…well. I’m sure I can find something. Plus, this way I can live close to Drew and we’ll see each other every day. It’s strange but as I’m thinking of New York, images of Roberto keep popping into my head.

  I take a few extra minutes applying concealer to my eyes and dusting bronzer on my cheeks, just in case Roberto stops by with a bread delivery.

  By 10:00 a.m. I’m in the restaurant, already whisking egg whites into stiff peaks to mix into my cake batter. Today I’m making the Money Cake, the end-all-be-all of cakes, which my mother has made for every single one of my birthdays. I’m sure she’ll be making it in August, but I can’t wait until then. This is my cake and today, when I’m finished assembling it, I’ll cut a thick slab and eat it for lunch. I’m that happy.

  The Money Cake looks like your average Strawberry Short Cake. You know, the tall ones piled high with pound cake and whipped cream. Only this is different because the cake is Pan di Spagnia, Italy’s version of Angel Food Cake. It’s light and spongy with a slight hint of sweetness that makes the entire cake heavenly. Stuffed with fresh strawberries, the cake screams summer. I’m not sure why we haven’t thought of putting it on the dessert list before.

  I follow the recipe exactly and it looks right. This time I preheated the oven as soon as I got here, so there’ll be no mistakes.

  As the cake bakes, I make myself an espresso and look out towards the street. There are crowds of people walking along the sidewalks, some stopping to read our menu or peek inside the window. I smile.

  The restaurant business is hard work but it’s worth it. We endure the long hours and seemingly endless summer so people can enjoy themselves when they walk through our door, and sometimes, the smiles on their faces are the only thanks we get. But still, I can’t imagine what my life would be like without a restaurant. Already, it will be so different with La Cucina closing. My heart pounds as I realize, once again, that I will not have a job at the end of the summer. Maybe winning that money was a sign from God, giving me a little savings before I’m dropped on my head.

  Miraculously, the cake bakes evenly, and by noon, I’m finished dressing the cake and am ready to taste it. I cut myself a slice, ignoring the calories and fat in each bite, and sit down to enjoy it. I don’t even take my apron off, as it feels more authentic to reap the fruits of my labor while still being dressed the part. I take a bite of the moist cake and savor the burst of strawberries in my mouth.

  A tap on the window startles me out of my trance. I look up to see a teenage boy holding a large vase of flowers. Every so often, a customer will have flowers sent to the restaurant for their table. This happens about four or five times a season and is usually for a table of twelve or larger. I don’t remember any big parties reserved for tonight. I open the door to let him in.

  “I have a delivery for Stella DiLucio,” he says, awkwardly carrying the vase into the restaurant. He places it down on the hostess stand and hands me a slip to sign.

  I take the piece of paper from his hand, sign it and give it back to him without a word. I’m mesmerized. The square vase is full of giant orange gerbera daisies, peach and white roses, plush amaryllis, pink snapdragons, and delicate white orchids. The signature brown and white polka-dot bow tells me they are from Dot and Bloom, the Island’s premier florist and my immediate thought is that this grand gesture is from Drew. He’s finally come to his senses and wants me back. Good thing I didn’t put the plan into action.

  I tear open the card.

  For the most beautiful Star on the island.

  The minute I read the card I know they are from Roberto, and I have to admit, a tiny part of me is elated. At the very least, I know that if things don’t work out with Drew, I have a nice back-up plan. Not that I’m giving up hope on Drew just yet.

  ***

  “You look happy tonight,” Mr. Godil comments as I seat him at his regular table.

  “That’s what flowers will do to a girl,” I say. His wife smiles.

  Even though I’m tempted to daydream all night, I need to focus on work. My brothers and Lucy are all sluggish, which can mean a disaster for reservations. If we don’t move people in and out of the restaurant, I’ll be backed up once again. I walk into the kitchen. “Who wants espresso?” I ask.

  Lorenzo raises his hand.

  “A double,” Mario says.

  I walk by the waiters’ station and ask Lucy if she wants one. She’s been quiet all day and barely took notice of my flowers. “No thanks.” She walks past me as I fiddle with the espresso machine. I know something is up, but I won’t let it get to me. Not in front of the flowers.

  Back in the kitchen, my brothers are arguing about veal. Lorenzo generally serves two pieces per portion and it’s one of the many things Mario is trying to change since he’s been in the kitchen. I place their coffees on the line and walk back to the dining room.

  By 7:45 I’m calm. Michelle and Brittany have been picking up the slack and have each turned their tables quickly, making my life a little easier. The tables for 8:00 will be available without even a five-minute wait.

  The rest of the night progresses smoothly and I’m amazed at how my brothers do it all. Since the article, our numbers have jumped to almost 200 dinners a night. We’re not open longer hours, so those extra people are being brought in all at the same time.

  And since the money seems to be pouring in, I’m thinking of asking my parents for a raise. It’s the least they can do considering they’ve decided to sell La Cucina.

  By 11:30 I’m running on an espresso-induced autopilot. Good thing I’ve got this money counting thing down to a science. In the office, I swiftly divide all the bills into piles and tap the numbers
into my calculator with ease.

  “Do you have our tips yet?” Brittany asks coming into the office.

  I hand her envelopes for her and Michelle. “What about Lucy’s?” she asks.

  “I’ll give it to her later,” I say.

  “She asked if I could just get it.”

  “Oh.” I hand over Lucy’s envelope.

  I follow Brittany out into the dining room and walk towards Lucy. “Want a glass of wine by the bay?” I ask.

  “I’m actually going to my aunt’s again. I’m really tired.”

  I don’t understand why she has to go to her aunt’s if she’s tired, but I let it go. Obviously she’s hanging out with someone else, and my gut is telling me it’s some big-time loser.

  Recipe: The Money Cake

  Yields 12 servings

  This is the end-all-be-all of cakes, ladies. It should be a staple in your dessert repertoire. Trust me on this one.

  Pan Di Spagnia

  (This cake can also be used when making Italian Rum Cake, or simply, as angel food cake.)

  5 eggs, separated

  1 cup sugar

  3/4 cup all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon Baking powder

  1) Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Line the bottom of a 9-inch spring form pan with wax paper. Set aside.

  2) In a large bowl, beat egg yolks with sugar until soft yellow (about two minutes).

  3) In a different bowl, beat egg whites until they form stiff peaks.

  4) Sift together flour and baking soda.

  5) Alternate folding the egg whites into the yolks, adding a small bit of flour after each incorporation. Repeat until all the egg whites and flour have been added.

  6) Pour into prepared pan and tap the pan against the counter a few times to settle any air bubbles.

  7) Bake for 25-30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

  8) Cool completely before removing from the pan.

  To assemble the Money Cake:

  1 quart of heavy whipping cream

  8 tablespoons powdered sugar

  1 cup simple syrup

  2 pints strawberries, sliced

  1) Whip the heavy cream and powdered sugar together until it forms stiff peaks. Set aside in fridge.

  2) Cut the Pan Di Spagnia in thirds lengthwise. Pour simple syrup onto each layer to moisten.

  3) Starting with the bottom layer, spread whipped cream over the inside of the cake, add sliced strawberries.

  4) Top with the next layer and repeat. Don’t worry if the layers are crooked, it gets sliced anyway.

  5) Place the top layer over the cake. Spread whipped cream over the entire surface of the cake, smoothing with a spatula. Place remaining strawberries on top.

  6) Refrigerate until ready to serve.

  Chapter 10

  The bridesmaids’ dresses are in. When Gina called and left me a message about it last week, I scheduled an appointment at Bella Sposa’s to get my first fitting. But when my dad calls to remind me this morning, I completely blank.

  “Your dress appointment is today,” he says when I answer.

  “Oh God,” I say fumbling for my clock. It’s 6:30. “I’ll be on the road in twenty minutes.” I get out of bed.

  “Drive safely.”

  My dad is so cute sometimes. Despite being busy at the restaurant, he’s offered to drive me to Maryland, where my dress is waiting. Even though there are many dress shops in Long Island, Gina chose to get her dress at Bella Sposa’s in Townsend, Maryland, because the shop is owned by two of our good customers. She was skeptical at first, but when we drove there with our mothers in March and she saw their selection, she knew it was the best shop around. And Maria and Charlene, the owners, fawned over her just enough to convince her of the right gown for her. Even the sample dress was stunning. When she walked out in a satin Am Sale ball gown, my mother teared up. It didn’t matter that it was three sizes too big and pinned tight in the back; we could all envision her as she’ll be in just a few months.

  Luckily, Gina allowed me to have a say in the bridesmaids’ dresses and we decided on a delicious chocolate brown silk gown, with a slight mermaid shape. I love the low V in the back, and envision wearing my hair in a low bun to highlight the cut of the dress. I may be short, but I’ve got a great back.

  I make a fast stop at Quick Mart for a twenty-ounce coffee before heading home to meet my dad. It doesn’t make sense to drive north only to go south, but there’s no way to get to Maryland from the shore, and this way my dad can do the bulk of the driving.

  On the road, I think of the flowers. After analyzing the situation through multiple text messages to Gina and Julie, I realized that Roberto sending me flowers was the best thing to happen to me all summer.

  “Stella,” my dad greets me as I pull into the driveway. “You ready for some Baltimore crabs?”

  Now I know the real reason he offered to drive. My dad is a sucker for crab cakes. “Sure,” I say. “But let me try on the dress first. I don’t want to be bloated for my first fitting. It’ll throw everything off.”

  He gives me a look like he has no idea what I’m talking about.

  Within minutes, my mom is trying to feed me. It’s just before nine and she’s headed to the restaurant to start the day. Unlike Lorenzo’s, La Cucina is open for lunch, which means her hours are much longer than ours. I can’t help but notice how tired she looks lately, and even though I don’t want to admit it, maybe selling the restaurant really is the best thing.

  She thrusts an English muffin in my face. “You don’t eat enough,” she says. Ironically, she’s right. I tend to slim down in the summer because Lorenzo is not as generous with his food as my mother. He could care less if you’re fed or not.

  I take the toast out of her hand and reach for the raspberry jelly on the counter. I take a seat at the breakfast nook and butter my toast.

  “You ready?” my dad says, coming into the kitchen.

  “Yep,” I jump off the barstool, ready to roll.

  We get to Bella Sposa’s just before 11:00 a.m. Maria and Charlene greet us at the door.

  “How’s my girl,” Charlene asks giving me a hug.

  “You’re going to die when you see this dress!” Maria exclaims.

  Charlene leads my dad to the couch in the lobby and talks to him about the drive while I follow Maria upstairs to the dressing rooms. My dress is waiting in its plastic garment bag. She unzips it. I take off my top and fold it neatly on the chair.

  “You’ve lost weight.” She scans me with her eyes.

  “I’m down the shore. There’s no time to eat.”

  “That’s funny,” she says walking towards me with the dress. “Whenever I walk into your restaurant I gain five pounds. It’s those damn gnocchi. They’re so good though, I don’t even care.”

  The gnocchi at our restaurant are legendary because they’re handmade and unlike any you’d buy. I laugh. “Well I don’t get to eat those too often.” She slips the dress over my head and lets it fall dramatically to the floor.

  “Beautiful. You look beautiful.” She’s right. Besides the length, the dress is an almost perfect fit and won’t require much work at all. I step onto the platform for fittings and realize I’ve forgotten my shoes.

  “Crap,” I whine. “I didn’t bring my shoes.”

  “Cinderella, you came to the right ball. What size are you?”

  “Six.”

  “How high were your heels?”

  “About six inches,” I say. She raises her eyebrows. “I’m short; I can get away with it.”

  “I don’t want you dancing around the reception in flip flops because your feet hurt.”

  Does she know who she’s dealing with?

  “I won’t,” I reply with a smile. “Trust me.”

  She shakes her head and goes to fetch me a pair of shoes. I turn to look at myself in the three-way mirror. The dress accentuates all the right places, making my bust look big, my hips small, and my butt round.
I envision Drew and me dancing at my brother’s wedding, and then suddenly, Roberto comes to my mind.

  Eva the seamstress comes in to start pinning me, and Maria watches her approvingly. “If your dad wasn’t waiting, I’d bring up some wedding gowns for you to try on.” She winks.

  I smile and refocus on getting Drew back.

  “It’s only a matter of time before that hot little boyfriend of yours pops the question.”

  I relax my shoulders. My thoughts exactly.

  Vince’s crab shack is packed with a lunch crowd. People are rushing by us and the hostess doesn’t greet us when we walk in the door. She seems frantic and stressed. My dad and I look at each other and smile. She’s broken the dream, but luckily, we’re pros. We don’t dine for the ambiance, or the service like others, because that will almost never satisfy us. We dine solely for the food and Maria assures us this place serves the best crabs in Baltimore.

  We both order crab cake sandwiches and unsweetened iced tea. My dad and I are so similar that sometimes it’s scary. I stare at the servers in their workstation and think about the long night ahead of us. My dad reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asks.

  “Nothing. The business.”

  He nods his head, as he understands.

  “Your mother is excited to finally retire,” he says. I look at him and can see that he is also excited by this. It’s strange to think of my parents without the restaurant. I wonder what they’ll do with all of their time, but more often, I worry about what I’ll do.

  “It’s weird to think about not having the restaurant,” I say.

  “I know, but it’s too much damn work. Besides, you have the shore.”

  “But what am I going to do the rest of the year? And what about Lorenzo and Mario?” Without even meaning to, I’m getting angry.