Chapter 2
LORENZO
“Move,” I bark, though the driver of the big minivan monstrosity ahead of me clearly can’t hear me. A second later, a hole opens in the traffic and I shoot the gap.
Grr. My Ducati growls between my thighs, easily overtaking the van and leaving them in my wake, and for a moment, I feel free.
I consider speeding up even faster, riding until my thighs give out and I need to piss.
Maybe never stopping, just continuing on forever on the open stretch of road before me.
Me, my bike, and zero plans other than exploring and seeing which way the wind will blow me.
I’ve done it before, taken off to ride throughout Europe, cooking in everything from fancy hotels to food trucks and learning so much along the way.
Maybe it’s been too long since I’ve done that?
Perhaps I could do the same here in the States?
Find new cuisines to delve into, new flavor profiles to create, and see what other opportunities the world might have for me.
My eyes glance down to my wristwatch.
Shit, I’m going to be late.
Do you even care?
The truth is, I’m not sure. I’ve been in the States for months now, lured here by the promise of running my own kitchen for an established restaurant.
Sergio, the owner of Avanti Ristorante and my boss, had seemed excited to welcome me, assuring me that he was more than open to my culinary creativity, and living near my US-based extended family had seemed like a way to have some roots for a change.
The proposition had been one I couldn’t refuse.
The reality, as it so often is, is lackluster compared to my hopes.
Yes, it is ‘my’ kitchen, but I work side-by-side with a co-chef and kitchen manager, Roberta.
We get along surprisingly well considering we’re both accustomed to being the top dog in the kitchen, but it still gives a sense of it not being wholly mine.
And Sergio, while a good front man, has the palate of a four-year old and shows zero appreciation for my food, actually turning up his nose at the most basic of ingredients.
“I do not eat spices,” he told me, and I’d been shocked. Though my English is perfect, it’d taken me too long to decipher that he’d meant he doesn’t like spicy food. Understandably, some people don’t like heat with their food, but to Sergio, even simple black pepper can be too spicy. Ridiculous.
And then there’s the family aspect of living here.
While my cousin, Violet, has been quite welcoming, she has a new husband and baby to attend to, along with her interior design business.
She simply doesn’t have time to escort me around town, and to be honest, she’s rather boring with her talk of baby milestones, and disgustingly enough, my niece’s toilet habits.
Calling it ‘poopy’ doesn’t make it cute.
It’s still shit, even if it’s from a baby, and the last thing I want to discuss is what its color and consistency might mean about baby Carly’s health.
Which means I’m left to invitations from the aunts.
And ugh, they seem to have taken a page from Mama’s recipe book and believe that me plus any available single woman between the ages of twenty and thirty-five will result in a delicious dish of love.
I’ve refused the last three dinner invitations, unwilling to be ambushed by another blind date.
Still, I have made a commitment to Sergio.
Just get through tonight, I bargain with myself.
Avanti is hosting a private dinner for a local golden boy who’s getting married.
Kennedy something or other. I imagine he’ll show up in a pink polo shirt with a popped collar beneath a navy blazer, have hair sprayed blond hair, a tan from golfing, and overly white teeth.
So quintessentially American, I think wryly.
I pull into the back lot, parking my bike in the reserved space.
There’s no sign, but everyone knows where Chef parks and wouldn’t dare to infringe.
I turn off the machine, and the silence is deafening.
I sigh, looking up to the cloudless sky for motivation to do this again tonight.
It’s not the cooking that annoys me but the set prix-fixe menu with zero room for creativity.
A necessary evil for a dinner party like this, but I’d rather create something special for a guest, something they don’t even know they want but fall instantly in love with from the first bite.
That won’t be happening tonight.
In the kitchen, the hustle and bustle of preparation is well underway, the scents and steam combining to create a wave of delicious and comforting aroma. “Hello,” I say to the assembled white-coated crew.
“Chef!” sounds out in a chorus.
I toss Roberta a wave, which she returns with a head nod, her hands never stopping their chopping motion as she dices carrots.
She makes an amazing carrot soup that tastes like rich, earthen spring in a bowl.
It’s a recipe I learned the first week I arrived.
I haven’t told her that if she increases the nutmeg to a full tablespoon, it’s even better, but that’s how I make it at home for myself now.
And how I’ll make it when I leave Avanti.
Milo and Alessandro, two Greek-American men with near identical dark hair and eyes, sidle up to me as I wash my hands and pull on my white coat.
Though they resemble one another, they couldn’t be more different in personality—one kind and gentle-hearted, solely devoted to his lovely wife, and the other .
. . well, Milo. There’s a Milo in every kitchen the world over, I’ve found.
“Chef, have you heard who’s coming tonight?” Milo asks, his lips twisted into a hungry smile.
I shrug, not getting drawn into his lecherousness.
“Kennedy? Some sort of wedding pre-game.” Pre-game, an American tradition I learned about in the South, though they call it ‘tailgating’, a fascinating event where they grill meat in parking lots, drink an excessive amount of cheap beer, and boast loudly about their team’s abilities.
I’d been confused when Roberta had described tonight’s dinner as such an event, but apparently, it’s a broader term that just means a pre-party.
Milo snorts. “Who cares about that cunt? I mean the bride!” He cuts an eye over his shoulder, making sure Roberta is focused on her soup, and then pulls his phone out of his pocket.
He clicks for a moment and then spins the phone around to show me a couple, both blonde and young and near sparkling with the glow of love.
“I’d watch her do yoga all day. Self-care, indeed.
” He makes an obscene jerking gesture with his hand and I grin. Milo is vulgar, but he is amusing.
Before I can do much more than chuckle, Sergio comes barreling into the kitchen, the proverbial bull in a china shop. For all his eating preferences, he is a rather large man, and the space between the stove and the food line is already narrowed by the line cooks prepping for tonight.
“Lorenzo! There you are, my boy! Are you ready for tonight?” he booms, smiling widely. “Tonight, Avanti will be on everyone’s lips and by morning, we’ll have people begging for reservations to dine at my restaurant.” He looks to the ceiling, lips moving in silent prayer.
He means reservations with me. And Roberta. Hell, even with Milo and Alessandro. All Sergio does is greet people like the consummate owner, shaking hands and kissing babies like a greasy politician. He’s barely one step above a used car salesman.
I sigh, knowing that’s harsher than Sergio deserves. He is good at his role, and it’s one I’m not interested in playing myself. I’m just in a mood.
At least cooking, even recipes I know by rote, is a stress relief, so I get to it.
Garlic . . . minced. Pasta . . . made from scratch. Parmesan . . . hand grated.
“Like this?” I ask, my small fingers kneading the pasta dough carefully, slowly, dutifully as Aunt Sofia supervises my awkward new movements.
She intends it to be punishment, a penance for misusing her best wooden spoon as a makeshift sword to fight with my friend, Emilio.
He’s likely at home washing dishes as his own consequence.
But this . . . this isn’t a punishment. This is magic. Blending ingredients together, working them until the result is somehow greater than the sum of its parts.
“Yes, Lorenzo. Good boy,” Aunt Sofia encourages me. “Harder. You must use your hands to squeeze. Then we will roll it out.” She’s tossing a light layer of flour onto a wooden board, prepping for that step as I’ve seen her do hundreds of times. I never knew it was so much work just to make dinner.
That night, when she tells the family that I made the pasta, they praise my efforts and the pasta itself. I bask in their words, though I can tell the noodles are clunkier than the delicate strands Aunt Sofia usually creates.
That night was when my love affair with cooking began.
For the next several years, I worked side by side with Aunt Sofia, her tutelage difficult but enlightening.
By my late teens, I was creating menus beyond even what she was capable of and seeking out more.
Always more flavors, experiences, textures, and blends.
Yet, it always comes back to this . . . my fettuccine alfredo, the signature dish that has been my pass into kitchens the world over. For such a seemingly simple dish, there is a refined balance to the flavors.
Alessandro steps up beside me. “Thirty minutes until apps, Chef. Guests are already in house.”
I look up to the clock on the wall. “Heard. I’m going to step out for a smoke before service starts.”
He nods, moving into my place and keeping the process of cheese grating going. We’ll go through several wedges of parmesan tonight and do not want to run out mid-service.