Chapter Thirty-Four
chapter thirty-four
RAFAEL
“I don’t know if I trust you with a blowtorch.”
“Why not?” Nico asks, bringing the torch up so the flame is right in front of his face. “I’m a professional.” And then he blows on the flame like an idiot.
I try so hard to keep my smile in, but I can't. And it makes me wonder why I feel like I need to.
I’ve always felt like I needed to keep my emotions under lock and key, like maybe I don't deserve to be happy, to smile after everything that I've lost. But in the last few months I've realized I have a lot to be happy for, and that maybe it’s okay, that I am allowed to move on.
This kid in front of me has a lot to answer for in that department. His infectious personality drags a smile out of me every time I see him. But so does the fiery blonde who I can still taste on my tongue.
“The deconstructed lemon meringue pie is actually one of my nonna’s favorite recipes.”
Nico tilts his head. “Why isn't it on the menu?”
I think about it as we move over to the anti-griddle. “I'm not sure. So many of her other recipes are on there for everyone to enjoy. I think maybe I just wanted to keep this one for myself. ”
Nico nods, but his brows are furrowed. “Then why are you showing me?”
The question throws me. I don’t know exactly why I am showing Nico. Up until now we haven’t done much one-on-one training, but I decided since the restaurant is still closed that we may as well take advantage of the empty kitchen and work at a pace where I can teach him without the pressure of the dinner rush on my shoulders, and it feels good.
I haven't had the urge to teach anyone anything since nonna died, feeling stuck and shackled to running the day to day of Olive&Vine. And I'd never want to give it up, but doing this with Nico makes me think I can have the best of both worlds. Maybe I don't have to choose teaching or this restaurant, maybe I can integrate them together. Teach kids like Nico everything, from the basics of running a restaurant to how to make a deconstructed lemon meringue pie.
“Someone has to teach you blowtorch safety.”
He just snorts. “Alright then, teach me.”
We move over to the prep table. “Okay, get your filling in there,” I say, bringing out a bowl for him to assemble the dessert in. My insides smile as I think about the way that May would appreciate this bowl. It’s not boring like my mugs. It’s unsymmetrical, and part of a set Nonna got from a local potter years ago where every piece is unique. It would make May happy.
It’s been a couple of nights since we saw each other at the bar, and since, well… everything. And even though I was so upset with her, so angry at the way things came out, I wouldn't change it. This is us—fire and passion and everything else that we are. I don’t want anything else but her, and now I have her, she’s in. I'm still grappling to believe it.
“What?” Nico's voice pulls me back to the present.
“What?”
“Why are you smiling at the bowl?”
I shake my head. “I wasn't, was I?”
“You were. ”
He just eyeballs me while I try to find a way to explain. “Just start assembling, would you?”
He snorts once more, ignoring my change in tone. His eyes turn concentrated as he uses the piping bag to evenly distribute a small amount of the sour lemon filling into the base of the bowl.
“Perfect,” I say. “Now time for the meringue.”
Nico grabs the bowl of whipped meringue we prepared earlier and spreads it over the top.
“Not too much,” I say.
He uses the spatula in his hand to collect some of it off the top before smoothing it over again. “Is that okay?”
“It’s great.” I mean it.
Nico has a natural talent for food. For something I was taught by my nonna, he has a natural knack for knowing what to do and how to do it. Don’t even get me started on the odd flavors he puts together that just work .
“Thank you for sharing this with me.” I just nod in response. “I’ve never really tried to make many desserts,” he says as he walks over to grab the crumble that's sitting in the fridge. “I love dessert, don't get me wrong, but I never really tried my hand at making any. I’ve mostly stuck to savory.”
“The thing with desserts,” I say from the other side of the counter, “is that it's all about proportions. They need to be correct if you want the customer to get the perfect mix of flavor, texture, and visual appearance all in one spoonful.” I grab a handful of the crumble out of the bowl. “Now we would usually put a crumble in something like a cheesecake, but in this case, it adds that crunch that we are looking for.” I sprinkle it over the top, just enough to get a taste of that biscuity flavor in every bite, combined with the mellow tones added by the white chocolate mixed into the crumble. It’s simple, but so good.
“Time to put that blow torch to use.”
Nico lets out a breath. “Okay. How do I not burn it?”
I chuckle. “You'll be fine. Just start with it further away and get closer until it browns comfortably. ”
“Okay.” He switches the torch on, cautiously bringing it closer to the dessert until it starts to brown, the meringue forming a crispy top layer, and the crumble turning darker in color, enhancing that crunch even further.
Just when I go to tell Nico it’s enough, he stops, letting out another breath. “Is that enough? Too much?”
“It’s perfect.” The smile he gives me is infectious. “Now, before it gets cold, bring me the rest of that filling.”
He does as I ask, grabbing the discarded piping bag and bringing it to where I now stand in front of the anti-griddle. A machine that basically freezes whatever you put on top of it in an instant.
“This is where we add another element,” I say, grabbing the piping bag from him. “Temperature.”
Nico stays silent as I pipe the lemon filling onto the top of the element, creating crisscross shapes and little pearls of that zingy lemon flavor before I put the bag down and instead pick up a little metal spatula.
“Grab the bowl,” I say, fully concentrated on getting these decorations off the element without snapping them.
“Here,” he says as he appears next to me with the bowl of our deconstructed lemon meringue.
“This step has to be timed perfectly. We want the meringue to stay warm, but not so hot that these little guys melt on contact,” I say as I drop the pearls on the top of the dessert.
“Wow,” he says as I finish it off with the crisscross decorative pieces.
I look up to see him staring at me in wonder and I can't help but think that this is that feeling. That spark I’ve been missing, it’s here in this room teaching this kid how to make what to me seems like a simple dessert, but what to him could be something he takes home and shows his family, and maybe they’ll look at him with the wonder that’s in his eyes right now as he looks at me.
“Shall we?” I say, pulling two spoons out of the door and handing one to him.
That wonder turns into a greedy smile. “Fuck yes.”