Death of an Italian Chef

by Lee Hollis

  For most of my formative years, into my teens in fact, my addiction to pasta was basically confined to mass quantities of boxed mac and cheese or canned Chef Boyardee, or if Mom was especially ambitious, pasta shells with a simple meat sauce. That all changed my sophomore year in high school when I was invited to New York with my best friend Liddy and her mother. Mrs. Crawford, or Celeste as she insisted I call her while in New York so she could feel like one of the girls and not so old, took us to her favorite Italian restaurant downtown in Little Italy for a late-night dinner following my first Broadway show, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream-coat at the Minskoff Theatre. When people asked me what I thought of the show, I gave an honest answer. “It was nice, but it paled in comparison to the spaghetti carbonara that changed my life that night in Little Italy!”

  We arrived at Capri Ristorante on Mulberry Street after eleven o’clock at night, which to me was the most glamorous thing in the world. At home we usually were done eating by five-thirty. As the maître d’ led us to a table inside, I swooned at the aroma of garlic and spices that permeated the air. I actually bumped into a table, knocking over a man’s wineglass because I was so distracted by waiters passing by, loaded up with plates of antipasto, focaccia bread, and every kind of pasta imaginable. But one dish delivered to a woman at the table next to us as we sat down caught my eye above all the others: Stringy spaghetti piled high on the plate and covered with a thick, rich, decadent, creamy white sauce. It was a work of art and I knew I just had to have it!

  The time between pointing it out on the menu for the waiter to write down and him setting it down in front of me was interminable. I had to endure both Celeste and Liddy’s maddening indecision on what they should order, the salad course, Celeste sending her white wine back because it tasted “vinegary,” but finally, the main courses were delivered to our table, and I could barely contain my excitement as I snatched up my fork and began twirling the noodles around on it. I can recall in exquisite detail that smooth, silky Parmesan sauce with the pieces of crispy pancetta clinging to the noodles as I drew it closer to my wide-open mouth.

  It was love at first bite.

  And I have been hooked on spaghetti carbonara ever since.

  The first thing I did when I got home was set out to re-create that magic that I had discovered in Little Italy. I thought it would be a cinch: Just follow a similar recipe I cut out of People magazine, but it turned out to be an ongoing process that required a lot of failures and a tremendous amount of patience.

  For months, I remained frustrated that I was unable to produce a batch of spaghetti carbonara that even came close to my experience at Capri Ristorante. Finally, as I was about to run away from home and go to New York so I could personally grill the chef at Capri Ristorante on his secret ingredient, Liddy’s mother Celeste suggested the cup of grated Parmesan I was using might possibly be my fatal flaw. A good carbonara doesn’t rely on store-bought, processed cheese from a green container. No, fresh blocks of Parmesan you grate yourself was the key! That had to be it! My mother tried convincing me store-bought was just fine; the blocks in the gourmet food section were too expensive and unnecessary. She reminded me that Liddy’s mother Celeste never had to worry about money, ever! But I was on a singular mission, so I took the money I made scooping ice cream that summer and bought a huge block of fresh Parmesan that would feed . . . well, our whole block.

  That did the trick. Well, it got me closer, anyway. It took a lot of tinkering with my own recipe throughout the years, adding my own little twists along the way, but now I can finally say with confidence, my spaghetti carbonara is pretty darn special.

  So special, in fact, it’s usually the first dish I prepare whenever I want to impress a date. Of course, now I’m married, and my husband Bruce will eat just about anything I put in front of him, so I don’t have to try so hard.

  Things were quite different during the years between my first husband Danny and when I finally got it right with Bruce. There was one dinner date a few years back with—Well, I am going to withhold his name for privacy’s sake, but let’s just say he worked with animals (I can hear you all guessing as I write this!). I invited him over for dinner, hoping to impress him with my culinary skills, specifically my spaghetti carbonara. Of course, I knew food alone would not do the trick, so I also took the time to fix my hair, slap on some makeup, and do my nails.

  The way he lit up when I answered the door immediately built up my confidence, and things just got better from there. The Manhattan cocktails also certainly helped, and he appeared quite happy as I led him out to the candlelit table on my outdoor deck. He excitedly tore into my homemade focaccia bread, moaning with pleasure as he dunked it in the plate of olive oil and balsamic vinegar in front of him and continued sipping his Manhattan.

  Enough of the preshow. It was time for the main attraction. With great fanfare, I breezed outside from the kitchen and presented him with Hayley’s Famous Spaghetti Carbonara.

  He dug in with gusto, and I could tell from his euphoric expression, he was not disappointed. As I sat back to enjoy my resounding victory, silently raising my Manhattan to toast myself for a job well done, that’s when things took a dark turn. He was on his third or fourth bite, shoveling it in so fast it was as if he had just been plucked from a desert island, half-star ved, when I heard a loud crunching sound. That was followed by another in quick succession. My date sat back in his chair, a confused look on his face. He placed his napkin up close to his mouth and spit out something that looked plastic. He looked down at his napkin, dumbfounded, then back up at me.

  “Are you missing something?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. What do you mean?” I replied.

  That’s when he held his hand out and I could see one of my press-on nails in the middle of his palm. Oh no! I had been so focused on my cooking I didn’t have time to visit the salon and have my nails done professionally that day, so at the last minute as I was preparing dinner, while hurrying to get ready, I went with my fallback position of just slipping on some press-ons. I looked down at my right hand. Three of them were now missing! Were they all in the pasta? I wasn’t about to take any chances. I jumped up, grabbed his plate off the table, ran inside to the kitchen, and scraped the rest of his carbonara into the trash. Then I grabbed the pan off the stove and emptied what was left into the trash can as well.

  I will admit, he was remarkably understanding, and he did hang in there with me for quite some time after that ill-fated evening, although eventually we mutually agreed that we were better off as just friends. I also learned a valuable lesson. Never wear press-on nails when cooking for a date. It sounds like common sense, but I learned that one the hard way.

  Today, I’m sharing my nail-free spaghetti carbonara recipe with you so you can impress a loved one too with a memorable meal, as well as one of my favorite cocktail recipes, which will add pep to any special date night.

  HAYLEY’S SPAGHETTI CARBONARA

  INGREDIENTS

  1 pound of thin spaghetti

  8 ounces pancetta or bacon, chopped

  2 cloves garlic, minced

  3 eggs

  1 cup fresh grated Parmesan cheese

  Fresh ground black pepper

  Pinch of red pepper flakes (optional)

  Whisk the eggs, Parmesan, and black pepper in a bowl and set aside.

  In a large pan, cook your pancetta over medium heat until crisp, then remove from pan and add your minced garlic and red pepper flakes, if using. Cook for one minute. Add back pancetta.

  Meanwhile, cook the pasta in salted water until al dente. Reserve 1 cup of the pasta water, then drain the pasta and add it to the pan with the pancetta and garlic using your tongs to combine. Remove pasta from heat and add the egg mixture. Mix well with tongs, adding your pasta water as needed.

  Plate and add extra Parmesan if you like, then dive in and be prepared to pat yourself on the back for a job well done.

  As you know by now, when I eat spag
hetti carbonara, I always crave a Manhattan cocktail. I find it the perfect accompaniment to a hearty pasta meal. And Manhattan is also where I had my first taste of spaghetti carbonara that would change my life!

  MANHATTAN COCKTAIL

  INGREDIENTS:

  2 ounces bourbon (your choice)

  1 ounce sweet vermouth

  2 dashes aromatic bitters

  Cherry for garnish

  Combine your ingredients over ice in a shaker. Shake and strain into a cocktail glass over ice, or no ice if you prefer. Garnish with the cherry and enjoy!

  Chapter 6

  Hayley restlessly paced back and forth in the Bar Harbor Hospital waiting room, worried and not sure what she should do. Two paramedics had arrived at the Criterion Theatre within minutes, and carefully lifted Randy, who was moaning and in obvious pain, onto the gurney and into the back of the ambulance before whisking him off to the hospital. Hayley had followed closely behind them in her own car.

  Once they wheeled him into the emergency room, the admitting nurse had to only take one brief look at him to assess the severity of his condition, and quickly got on the phone to call a doctor, which managed to send Hayley into even more of a state of panic. After what felt like an eternity, a doctor finally appeared, Dr. Robert Cormack, whom Hayley had met socially a few times. He was handsome, with dark hair that was graying at the temples, and kind eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He asked Randy a few questions, none of which Hayley could hear, and then he instructed a couple of orderlies to take him to exam room one pronto.

  The orderlies rushed him through some swinging doors and he was gone from Hayley’s view.

  She decided against accosting Dr. Cormack for information because she didn’t want to distract him from taking care of Randy. After a few seconds conferring with the admitting nurse, he too disappeared through the swinging doors. The waiting room at the hospital was typically quiet on this Monday night, one elderly man sitting in the corner, flipping through a Game & Fish magazine. Hayley tried to sit and wait, but she was a fidgety mess, worried about what was wrong with her brother. She decided to wander down to the cafeteria for a snack, but it was closed, so she got some coffee from a vending machine and continued her nervous pacing.

  During her interminable wait for any news of his condition, she considered calling Sergio down in Brazil, but opted to at least hold off until she had something concrete to tell him, besides the fact that there was something seriously wrong with him. She knew Bruce was probably back in his hotel room in New York City after a long day covering the trial, but again, he would also want a medical update as to what was happening, and she had nothing to tell yet. So she took a deep breath and kept walking back and forth, back and forth, compiling a number of worst-case scenarios in her mind that only made the worry lines on her face deepen. Even the elderly man perusing his outdoor magazine glanced up a few times, annoyed by her constant pacing. But he chose not to complain about it and just tried to concentrate on the article he was reading.

  Finally, Dr. Cormack emerged through the swinging doors and approached Hayley.

  “Hi, Hayley, I’m Robert Cormack.”

  “Yes, Doctor. We’ve met. My husband Bruce and I sat next to you and your wife at the Woodworth-Gabbard wedding reception at the Harborside last summer.”

  “Of course,” Dr. Cormack said with a knowing smile.

  “How’s my brother?”

  “It’s his gallbladder.”

  A wave of relief washed over Hayley. “Oh, thank God. That’s not too serious, right? I mean, there is a simple operation to take care of that. I know lots of people who had gallbladder attacks and were back to work within a week.”

  “Normally, yes. But your brother’s situation is a bit more complicated, so we cannot proceed with a typical laparoscopic surgery to remove it.”

  Hayley swallowed hard. “What do you mean by complicated?”

  “Not only is he suffering from an inflamed gallbladder, but unfortunately he has also developed gallstone pancreatitis.”

  “Oh no . . .” she whispered.

  “It’s a bit like the age-old question: Which came first, the chicken or the egg? I am not sure if the inflammation of the gallbladder was caused by the pancreatitis, or vice versa. But they’re both aggravating the other. All I know is we cannot operate until we get his pancreatitis under control.”

  “But he’s going to be all right?”

  “I’m not going to lie to you. It’s a very dangerous time, and we are doing everything we can to curb the inflammation, but I’m optimistic he will come out the other side of this as good as new. In the meantime, we’re giving him morphine to take care of the pain and keeping a close watch over him.”

  “Can I see him?”

  Dr. Cormack shook his head. “He’s out like a light right now, but I will tell the nurse to come and get you when he wakes up, okay?”

  Hayley nodded, fighting to keep herself from dissolving into a puddle of tears. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Dr. Cormack gave her a reassuring smile and then turned and disappeared back through the swinging doors.

  Hayley felt so alone. The admitting nurse at the desk was on her computer, tapping her keys, oblivious to her presence, and when Hayley turned around to the elderly man in the corner who was watching her, he immediately averted his eyes back to his magazine article.

  Hayley rummaged through her bag for her phone and tried calling Sergio. She expected to get his voice mail since he was all the way down in South America. She had no clue what the time difference was. To her surprise, a woman answered the phone.

  “Ola?”

  “Hello, hello, who is this?”

  “O que?”

  Hayley sighed, frustrated, not knowing any words in Brazilian Portuguese. “I need to speak to Sergio!”

  The woman spoke rapidly in her native tongue, but it was all gibberish to Hayley.

  Hayley spoke louder, as if increasing her volume would make the woman understand what she was saying. “This is Sergio’s sister-in-law, Hayley!”

  “Hayley?”

  Finally she was getting somewhere.

  “I’m calling from the United States.”

  “Hayley?”

  “Yes, Hayley!”

  “Esperar,” the woman said.

  Hayley strongly suspected she was talking to Sergio’s mother, with whom he was visiting.

  There was a long pause and then another woman, who sounded much younger, got on the phone.

  “Is this Hayley?”

  “Yes, Randy’s sister!”

  “Hello! This is Fernanda, Sergio’s cousin. We have all heard so many nice things about you.”

  “Thank you! Same here!” Hayley gushed, relieved to be communicating with someone who spoke English. “Fernanda, I need to speak to Sergio. Is he there?”

  “No, I am sorry, he is scuba diving in Fernando de Noronha with his brother. He will be back quarta-feira . . . Wednesday.”

  Hayley’s heart sank.

  Wednesday seemed so far off.

  “And there is no way to reach him? It’s an emergency.”

  “No, there is no service where they went, that is why he did not bother to take his phone. He was afraid he might lose it. Hayley, what is wrong?”

  Hayley debated whether or not she should say anything until she spoke to Sergio personally, but she had already worried his family with her call, and so she felt it was better to just be open and honest. After quickly filling in Fernanda on what Randy’s doctor had told her, Fernanda promised to get word to Sergio just as soon as she possibly could. Hayley thanked her and hung up, and then went back to doing something she had always been terrible at.

  Patiently waiting.

  Whoever said patience was a virtue did not have a clue as to what he or she was talking about.

  Chapter 7

  “I’m so sorry, Hayley, we did everything we could.”

  Hayley stared numbly at Dr. Cormack, confused.

 
“What did you say?”

  “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean, gone? You said earlier he had a pretty good chance of getting on the other side of this.” Tears began pouring down her cheeks. There was a lump in her throat and a knot in her stomach. This could not be happening.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Powell?”

  She looked up at Dr. Cormack. She had heard him speak but didn’t see his lips moving. He simply stared at her grimly, mustering up a sympathetic look on his face even though she could see in his eyes that having delivered the bad news, he was anxious to get back to his other patients, ones still living.

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  She waited for him to speak again but he just stood there.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Powell?”

  The doctor’s lips still had not moved.

  Where was this disembodied voice coming from?

  Hayley glanced around, but there was no one else in the waiting room. Not even the old man with the fishing magazine. She turned back to the doctor and was struck by how transparent he suddenly appeared, slowly dissolving, as if his whole being was suddenly vanishing from earth, like half the world’s superheroes in that big Avengers movie.

  “Mrs. Powell?”

  Hayley’s eyes popped open.

  She had fallen asleep in a chair and was dreaming.

  Leaning down in front of her was a young, dark-skinned man with black wavy hair in sea-foam green hospital scrubs. He had a hand gently placed on Hayley’s right arm.

  “I was told to come get you when your brother was awake,” he said softly.

  Hayley found his voice oddly soothing.