Death of an Italian Chef

by Lee Hollis

  He was finally home.

  As she flung the wadded-up sheets and her goose-down comforter off her, and sat up on the edge of the bed, sliding her feet into a pair of cushy moccasin slippers, she could smell the aroma of bacon in the air. She closed her eyes, picturing it sizzling in a frying pan on the stovetop downstairs.

  Her husband was making her breakfast.

  She knew she had married him for a reason.

  Hayley stood up, threw on some baggy sweatpants and a wrinkled T-shirt, and stopped by the bathroom to inspect her face and hair. Bruce had seen her at her worst. But if he was going to the trouble of cooking for her, the least she could do was make sure she didn’t have any sleepy seeds in her eyes when she welcomed him home. She tied her frizzy hair in a ponytail, splashed water on her face, and padded down the stairs.

  Bruce was in the kitchen, standing by the stove, scrambling some eggs, adding a dash of pepper, a pinch of basil. Leroy noisily lapped up the wet food in his doggie bowl near the back door, completely oblivious. Bruce didn’t see her at first. By the time she reached the archway to the kitchen, he had finally sensed her presence, and broke into a wide grin. “Well, hello, beautiful.”

  Hayley held up a hand. “Stop. You don’t have to overdo it. You’re feeding me. You’ve already scored major points.”

  Bruce bounded over and enveloped her in a big bear hug, then kissed her softly on the lips. “Miss me?”

  Hayley pretended she had to think about it. “I suppose so. Cold cereal and a banana just weren’t cutting it.”

  He kissed her again, then returned to his eggs.

  “I didn’t hear you come home,” she said.

  “Flight was early. I was tiptoeing around, trying not to wake you. You looked so serene when I got in. It’s so rare that you’re not talking, so I didn’t want to disturb the peace and quiet.”

  Hayley playfully picked up an oven mitt and threw it at him. It bounced off his shoulder and landed on the counter.

  “What happened with the trial?” Hayley asked, snatching a piece of bacon from a plate on the counter and taking a bite.

  “Hung jury, can you believe it? I may have to go back to New York all over again next spring. The prosecutor is promising to refile the charges.”

  Bruce plated the eggs, bacon, and wheat toast and poured two mugs of coffee, and they sat down at the kitchen table together to enjoy his efforts.

  Bruce recounted aspects of the trial for a few minutes, but he could tell something was on his wife’s mind. “Okay, what’s up?”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking—”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Hayley chuckled. “I know, whenever I get an idea in my head, your life is usually upended.”

  “I knew marrying you would never be boring,” Bruce said, scooping up a forkful of scrambled eggs and shoveling them into his mouth. “What is it this time?”

  Hayley took a deep breath. “How would you feel about me completely changing course?”

  “You want pancakes instead?” Bruce cracked.

  “No,” Hayley said, smiling. “I want to stop working at the paper, do something new, maybe start my own business.”

  Bruce leaned forward, intrigued. “What kind of business are you thinking about?”

  “How does Hayley’s Kitchen sound?”

  “Aren’t we in Hayley’s Kitchen right now?”

  “I am imagining something a little bigger.”

  Bruce nodded knowingly. “I see.”

  “Liddy says she could get me a good deal to rent Chef Romeo’s space. I’m sure I could get approved for a small business loan for start-up costs, I pretty much have a staff already in place . . .” She stopped, anticipating Bruce’s reaction.

  He seemed to be mulling it over, not sure.

  Hayley braced herself. “You think it’s a terrible idea, don’t you?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Can I be in charge of the wine list?”

  Hayley finally exhaled, jumped up from the table and wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck, showering him with kisses on his head and face before she stopped and said, “Just make sure to keep your day job in case I’m a spectacular failure!”

  “That’s never going to happen,” Bruce said reassuringly.

  Hayley grabbed her phone.

  “Who are you calling?” Bruce asked, chewing on a piece of toast with strawberry jam.

  “Sal, before I lose my nerve.”

  She heard Sal’s gruff voice after the first ring. “You better not be calling in sick! I have two reporters out with the flu already!”

  “No, I’ll be in soon, Sal, but we need to have a talk—”

  “Can you pick me up a cinnamon bun on your way?”

  “Yes, I can do that, Sal, but—”

  “I’m going to need a little comfort food, if you’re going to up and quit on me!”

  Hayley gasped. “Sal, how did you know?”

  “Please, Rosana’s been preparing me for this ever since you took over for Chef Romeo. She said, ‘Sal, it’s only a matter of time. Hayley needs to spread her wings’—whatever the hell that means. You know how flowery my wife can get with her words! ‘She’s a natural chef who needs an outlet for her innate talents,’ she told me, so I’m guessing she’s right. She’s always right. At least that’s what she tells me day in and day out.”

  “She’s right, Sal,” Hayley said, smirking.

  “I can find a new office manager, but what about your column? You have a lot of fans around here. I’d hate for you to just walk away from them.”

  Hayley had not even thought about that. She had just assumed that if she left the Island Times, then she would also have to leave behind her column. She loved writing that column and if there was any way . . .

  “So do you think you could run your new restaurant and still write for me? Think of it this way, Hayley: The column would be free advertising. People could read your recipes and then come and taste them the same day at your restaurant?”

  “Of course I could still write my column. Sal, thank you!”

  “Now don’t go leaving me in the lurch! I expect two weeks’ notice, enough time to train your replacement!”

  “Yes! Yes, Sal, whatever you say!”

  Bruce beamed, excited for her.

  “And I expect given our history, how magnanimous I have been—I’m not always this supportive and understanding—I expect that my wife and I will get preferential treatment when we come in to your joint. Guaranteed reservation, good table, maybe a free dessert every now and then!”

  “You got it!” Hayley cried.

  “Oh, and Hayley, one more thing,” Sal said, lowering his voice, appearing to get serious.

  Sal had always been like a father to her.

  She suspected what was coming.

  He was going to tell her how proud he was of her.

  “Don’t forget my cinnamon bun!” he yelled.

  Close enough.

  “I won’t. Thank you, Sal,” Hayley said before ending the call.

  Bruce was already on his feet, giving her another hug.

  Her mind was already racing, full of thoughts and ideas.

  There was so much to do.

  A new chapter in Hayley Powell’s life was about to begin.

  Island Food & Spirits

  BY HAYLEY POWELL

  News travels fast in a small town and Bar Harbor is no exception.

  As I’m sure many of you have heard by now, I will be leaving my office manager position at the Island Times to pursue a new career path, which I am very excited about, and I will let you know all the details just as soon as I can.

  And for those readers who have been asking me about the future of my column, well, let me reassure you, thanks to the best boss in the world, Island Times editor-in-chief Sal Moretti, I will be continuing my daily column uninterrupted, coming up with new and exciting recipes to share with you for the foreseeable future.

&
nbsp; As I make this transition, I cannot help but look back at all the fond memories I have accumulated as office manager at this newspaper. I have developed lifelong friendships with so many talented reporters and photographers, copy editors and columnists. And although I’ve known my husband Bruce since high school, our whirlwind romance that led to us finally tying the knot really got started right here at the Times office where we were both employed. However, of all the wonderful people this newspaper has brought into my orbit, there is one person who really stands out above all—my boss, Sal Moretti.

  Sal is a one-of-a-kind character, to be sure. True to his Italian heritage, he likes to yell and wave his hands around, and that can sometimes be a little intimidating, but deep down he’s a pussycat. Now, that does not mean his moods can’t be a little challenging to navigate. I’ve known plenty of pussycats whose personalities are, shall we say, mercurial. So as Sal interviews possible replacements to take over my duties as office manager, I would like to share a little advice to the lucky person who ultimately lands at my old desk in the front office of the Times. It might make your trial period go a lot smoother!

  The first time I ever stepped foot into Sal’s office for my own interview, I was a struggling mother of two small children, in desperate need of a job, with a husband who was once again out of work and a marriage that was, to be blunt, quickly heading down the toilet.

  Sal was on the phone with his back to me, barking at some poor soul on the other end of the call. His booming voice could be heard through the entire building. I pitied the poor person who was on the receiving end of his earsplitting tirade, and as I stood there, I began to reconsider my decision to apply for this job. I was about to spin around and hightail it out of there, when suddenly this giant of a man slammed the phone down in its cradle, and without even turning around, bellowed, “Well, get in here and sit down because I don’t have all day!” I glanced around my shoulder, hoping he might be talking to someone else, but unfortunately no one else was around, so I scooted in and plopped down in the chair in front of his desk, my stomach doing flip-flops.

  Finally, Sal slowly swiveled his chair around and stared hard at me for a few seconds, then growled, “You got a car?”

  Words failed me, but I managed a nod.

  “Good. Where can you get the best bagel in town?”

  This was a curveball.

  I thought his first question might be about my references. I was prepared to hand him a letter of recommendation from the First National Bank, where I had worked briefly as a teller some years ago.

  I cleared my throat, hesitating out of fear this might be a trick question. Then I figured I might as well just plow ahead with an honest answer. “Well, the Eden Bakery claims to have the best bagels in town, but in my opinion, the Morning Glory’s taste better, hands down.” He glared at me in silence, and nervously I repeated, “In my opinion . . .”

  Still no reaction.

  He just continued glaring so I continued talking, or more pointedly, rambling. “I personally love their cheddar bagel with the jalapeño-cilantro cream cheese spread, it’s really to die for. I mean, it’s so good you don’t even need to get it toasted. One day last week they were out of them, and my whole day was ruined . . .”

  I wanted to kick myself.

  Why couldn’t I stop talking?

  Sal rubbed his chin with his chubby hands and stared at me. I could feel myself starting to sweat a little. He slammed both hands down on his desk and pushed himself up into a standing position. He looked me square in the eyes for another full minute. Now I was so nervous I could feel trickles of perspiration sliding down from the top of my forehead. I just wanted to get out of there.

  Then suddenly, in his loud and booming voice, he said, “Be here at eight AM sharp tomorrow morning, don’t be late, and I’ll have a cheddar bagel with jalapeño-cilantro cream cheese.”

  Did this mean I had the job?

  Without taking some time to process, I figured it was best just to get out of there before he changed his mind. I jumped up and made a beeline for the door when he hollered my name, which stopped me dead in my tracks. Without turning around, I managed to squeak out, “Yes?”

  “I want mine toasted!”

  “Okay,” I whispered, rushing out.

  I was halfway home before I realized he had never even asked if I could type.

  That was our first meeting.

  I’ve learned lots of little things about Sal over the many years we’ve worked together, and I’m sure whomever you are who ultimately takes over as office manager, you will too. However, just allow me to fill you in on a few key details that might make your life easier. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did in the beginning.

  First, when attending the annual August work picnic, a green salad with summer veggies has no place on the table. I know you’re probably thinking that others might enjoy it. Well, don’t! According to your new boss, only salads loaded with pasta and mayo are acceptable, so save yourself the trouble and bring a dessert. A yummy, sugar-loaded caloric dessert will always be a win-win!

  Second, and this is very important, when Sal mentions that his wife has him on a diet (and this will occur at minimum three times a year), do not under any circumstances bring any baked goods like brownies, cookies, or muffins to the office, even if they are wrapped in heavy tinfoil, stuffed in your brown-bag lunch, and hidden in a drawer of your desk. Sal Moretti has an uncanny sense of smell when any baked good is within a hundred-yard vicinity! He will find it and it will be gone when you return from your midmorning break. If this happens, do not, I repeat, do not confront the man. It will only turn ugly and your day will become endless torture, filled with cranky grumblings and carrot sticks flying through the air like heat-seeking missiles.

  Third, when Sal mentions yet again that his wife has him on another new diet (usually postholidays in January, late spring before the summer season, and early fall after most of the restaurants close for the season), try to schedule some time off to avoid the stress. If vacation days are not possible, then your best bet is to eat your lunch away from the office. The last thing you want to happen (which I learned the hard way), is to warm up your pasta puttanesca leftovers from dinner the night before in the microwave and eat in the break room next to a hungry bear eyeing you with contempt as he crunches angrily on a rice cake with peanut butter.

  And finally, always remember, if you are running late for work and decide to stop at one of the bakeries for a delicious treat to enjoy with your morning coffee when you get to the office, always, always buy two. Trust me on this.

  Oh, I almost forgot! A good bottle of scotch goes a long way at the secret Santa Christmas party! Sal loves his scotch!

  You may have noticed that I never mentioned the actual job duties, but I’m sure you’ll learn along the way, and I’m always available if you have any questions. I’m sure I will be stopping by frequently with some yummy pasta puttanesca leftovers and a few delicious baked goods to share with my old boss and dear friend Sal.

  SAL’S GO-TO COCKTAIL

  INGREDIENTS

  One bottle of good scotch, your choice, and a short cocktail glass.

  Add 2 ounces of scotch to the glass! Simple, but gets the job done!

  SAL’S FAVORITE PASTA PUTTANESCA

  INGREDIENTS

  2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

  ½ cup finely chopped onion

  3 cloves garlic, minced

  2 tablespoons tomato paste

  2 to 4 anchovies, chopped up

  1 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

  1 28-ounce can crushed tomatoes

  2 teaspoons dried oregano

  2 tablespoons capers

  ¾ cup pitted black olives, chopped roughly

  1 pound spaghetti

  Salt

  Extra-virgin olive oil for drizzling

  Freshly grated Parmesan for topping (optional)

  In a large pot, bring salted water to a boil and cook your
spaghetti al dente.

  In a large pan, heat your oil and add the onions, anchovies to the oil and sauté until soft. Add garlic and sauté 2 minutes until very fragrant.

  Add in your tomato paste and stir together. Then add crushed tomatoes, oregano, crushed red pepper flakes, olives, and capers and mix well.

  Bring sauce to a simmer on medium-high heat, then lower to low and simmer slowly for 15 minutes.

  If your sauce is too thick, add some pasta water to thin it.

  Reserve a cup of pasta water in case needed to thin sauce, then drain your pasta. Place in a large bowl and add a cup of sauce to the pasta and mix, then fix yourself a bowl of pasta and add more sauce to the pasta on top. Sprinkle Parmesan if using, then dig in and prepare to swoon!