Chapter 9
James
As I entered my family’s restaurant, the familiar scents of garlic, tomatoes, and warm pizza dough enveloped me.
It instantly transported me back to being nine years old, standing on a stool in the kitchen next to my Nonna and Nonno.
I could almost hear Nonna’s soft Italian lullaby of instructions as she showed me how to knead the dough just right, whispering that it was a secret—one I could never share with anyone but family.
I could taste the salty-sweet sauce simmering on the stove and feel the heat of the oven warming the kitchen, everything coming together into the meals that shaped my love for food.
That scent always made me feel like I was home, no matter how far I’d wandered.
On a Sunday afternoon, only a few people occupied tables—a far cry from the bustling restaurant it once was. Times had changed. People had moved out of the neighborhood and flashier places had popped up round the corner, taking customers away from Rossi’s despite it being a Brooklyn staple.
My father seemed to have realized that it was sink or swim for the pizzeria. My aunt, uncle, and grandparents still believed that the legacy they had already built would carry them on.
“James, hey!” Brandon bussed one of the few dirty tables in the restaurant. A white apron tied around his waist. He worked a shift nearly every day to help him pay for tuition at NYU. He was studying business, intending to take over this place from his parents one day.
I only hoped it was still around then.
As I walked in, I noticed his younger sister, my cousin Emilia, carrying a tray of drinks to a table near the back.
She was wearing a simple black apron over a volleyball t-shirt, the same shirt she wore to every shift after coming from practice.
She had that quiet determination about her that made me respect her work ethic more than she probably knew.
Even though she was still in high school, Emilia was a fixture in the restaurant, always helping when she wasn’t on the court.
“Is my dad in?” I shifted my satchel farther up on my shoulder, glancing at Emilia as she made her way past me.
After Brandon’s twenty-first birthday party, I’d been thinking about how I could make a difference to my family’s restaurant.
I’d put together an entire business proposal that I was certain my father and uncle couldn’t say no to.
Especially when they saw the projected figures I’d worked on for revenue.
Money was a language everyone could understand.
Even if my father and uncle specialized in the art of pizza.
She flashed me a quick smile before heading to the kitchen. “Dad and Uncle G are in the back office,” she called over her shoulder.
“Thanks.” I nodded before turning my attention back to Brandon.
“It’s been a slow day,” he said, adjusting his apron as he wiped down another table. “Do you want me to put an order in for you?”
“Sure,” I told him before I made my way toward the back of the restaurant.
Today’s visit was unannounced. I hadn’t told my father or uncle what I’d been working on. More to avoid hearing a no before I could even get started. Because if there was one thing the Rossi clan was good at, it was being stubborn with asking for help.
Voices that spoke in hushed tones on the other side of the door quieted when I knocked.
“Come in,” my father’s heavily accented voice came from the other side.
“James!” Uncle Antonio exclaimed when I opened the door. Both my uncle and my father wore mirrored looks of surprise.
Nowadays, it was difficult for me to come all the way to Brooklyn to visit the restaurant.
Most weekdays and some weekends I spent in the office crunching numbers and analysing market trends.
But that didn’t minimize how important my family was to me.
No client was more important than my family’s well-being and happiness.
“What are you doing here, son?” My father sat forward in his chair behind the only desk in the cramped office that was covered in so many bills and various pieces of paper that I wasn’t sure how he could tell heads from tails.
“I wanted to talk with you and Uncle Antonio. Here’s a proposal I’ve prepared for you both to review.” I took my satchel off my shoulder to grab my laptop with all my notes.
“A proposal?” When I looked at my father’s confused face, I saw myself thirty years from now—thick eyebrows with different shades of gray, thick curls that were turning from silver to white, wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that hinted at a life full of laughter and happiness.
“I know how we can keep up with the current social media trend in the market.” Uncle Antonio let out a chuckle as he settled back into his seat, his eyes bouncing between my father and me as if he knew he was in for a show.
My father waved me off as I set up my laptop and pulled up the presentation I’d made. “We are fine, figlio .”
I’d come prepared for a fight. Brandon had already mentioned how little importance our parents placed on social media and how little they believed it could get meaningful results. But numbers don’t lie, and surely they would both see that.
“If you’ll just let me show you what I was thinking.
” Opposition was nothing new to me. I faced it daily in the office.
There was a reason people nicknamed players in finance “sharks” or “wolves”.
When they smelled blood, they went in for the kill.
Everyone around me wanted to be the pack leader, the one on top, and they’d do anything to make sure that you didn’t succeed so they could.
I was used to dealing with stubbornness—especially from my father.
To his credit, he leaned back in his chair and allowed me to continue.
I laid it all out—hiring a social media manager, hosting a night for influencers to come in for a meal on the restaurant in exchange for a review, using social media to stay on trends and reach more customers, hiring a food photographer to create a curated page that would have thousands of followers tuning in to the colorful feed.
I even laid out the numbers it would take to franchise the restaurant or work with major manufacturers to create a frozen pizza option that could be in grocery stores.
Every suggestion I made was supported by data and actionable steps.
But when I finished and was met with silence, I knew they would ignore my suggestions.
“This is great, son. But we don’t have it in our budget to hire a social media manager or pay a photographer.
” It took everything in me to keep my face neutral and not show my disappointment.
I’d taken the time to show my father and uncle how they could rearrange their expenses to fit this into their current budget.
My father’s excuse wasn’t a reasonable one. He leaned forward and pressed his forefinger into my chest. “Have faith, figlio . We are in the business of making food with love. People will recognize that.”
“But Dad—” My retort died on my tongue when I saw the look in my father’s eyes. He had made up his mind; his decision was final.
Uncle Antonio, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up.
“James, the business you’re in is very different from ours.
We don’t run numbers, we run ovens. Food is about bringing people together, not spreadsheets.
You’re good with those numbers, but here, it’s about the heart.
Focus on your work, leave this to us, and we’ll fix it the way we always have—by making the best damn food in Brooklyn. ”
“I’ll just leave this here.” My fingers fumbled for the printout amidst the towering avalanche of papers on my father’s desk, each rustle a potential threat to its survival. “In case you change your minds.”
“I’ll see you for dinner tonight?” My father asked as I stood to leave. Hoisting my satchel back on my shoulder, I gave him a terse nod before exiting the room.
As I re-entered the dining room, Brandon placed a pizza, freshly removed from the brick oven, upon one of the many unoccupied tables. Emilia was clearing a nearby table.
Brandon studied my face, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Didn’t go well?”
I shook my head in defeat.
Emilia gave me a quick nod, her ponytail swishing as she walked past me. “The food’s still the best part of the place, right?”
My cousin pulled out a chair for me, then sat next to me. Not a soul remained in the restaurant. If what Brandon had shared at the club in Brooklyn a week ago was true, this place couldn’t afford too many more empty days.
“I tried to give them some numbers on the benefits of hiring a social media manager.”
Brandon snorted as he bit into a slice of pizza.
“Now I understand why it didn’t go well.
I’m sure you droned on about facts and figures.
By the time you were done, Uncle G gave you some sad excuse that you’d already disproven in your presentation because he’d zoned out as soon as you started talking about ROI. ”
“Were you listening through the door?” I joked, taking my first bite. An explosion of flavors burst across my taste buds. I wasn’t being biased when I said Rossi Pizzeria was one of the best pizza places in all five boroughs. The food spoke for itself.
“Did they give you some speech about how the right people will find this place?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Yep. Same old story.”
I used to think Brandon was irresponsible, his constant partying and inability to find a job outside the family restaurant a testament to his immaturity.
I believed a portion of his past hostility toward me resulted from his misunderstanding of my non-participation in the family restaurant.
But when it came down to it, the two of us weren’t all that different.
We both cared enough to see this place last—whether that was against our parents’ better judgment or not.
Emilia came over to join us, a tray in hand with a fresh batch of drinks. “Don’t worry, James. We’ll figure it out. Maybe we can start by getting some influencers in here—get people talking.”
My phone dinged in my pocket. Two notifications—one for Sophisticate and one for Hallie’s food blog.
I’d set up web alerts earlier this week, as I told myself it was only to keep tabs on the articles that she put out.
But as I read her latest piece, a chuckle escaped me.
Her wit was as sharp as ever, and the playful jabs she threw in were a testament to the humor I’d come to expect from her.
Each article highlighted the latest guy she was trying to get a date from, using witty nicknames, and ending with some sort of interruption.
Only she and I knew the source of that disruption.
Her blog post featured a list of the best ramen places in Manhattan.
It was full of clever quips, intelligent remarks, and clear expertise on what made good food.
But what I found the most compelling about her writing was her ability to highlight the story behind the food—whether that be the chef, the cultural impact of the restaurant, or how a family-owned chain became a giant.
She didn’t just review food; she told its story.
Wait.
Why hadn’t I thought of this before now?
“Emilia,” I exclaimed, leaning over to drop a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re a genius.”
“I already knew that,” she said.
Maybe my father was right, and the right people would love this place if they just knew it existed. Luckily, I knew an infuriating, annoyingly beautiful aspiring food critic who could help make that happen.