Chapter Six #2
Have I mentioned the traffic in Rome? Drivers here are nuts. Like, certifiable. Too fast, careless, reckless. Worse than drivers in Massachusetts, and that’s saying something.
“You said you needed romantic inspiration, and one of the things I find couples enjoy greatly is taking a cooking class together.”
“Okay, you’ve piqued my interest,” I admit.
“Good.” We don’t have to go far. In about fifteen minutes, we reach our destination—a small restaurant that I probably wouldn’t have even noticed if I was hurrying down the street. Marina holds the door open for me. “Let’s cook.”
It’s a pasta-making class. I can see that as soon as we walk in and are led to the back of the tiny restaurant, then down a very narrow flight of stairs.
There are a few other people there, and the space is surprisingly large, given the small area we just went through upstairs.
There are six tables set up, three on each side, and one in the front where a woman stands.
She’s wearing a white chef’s coat and a smile, which gets even bigger when she sees Marina, and she squeals like a teenager at a boy band concert.
Marina goes to her and they hug, clearly happy to see each other, babbling in Italian and laughing. After a moment, Marina holds out an arm to me and says, “Anna, this is my friend, Lily Chambers.”
I hold out a hand to shake Anna’s but she waves it away and hauls me into a tight hug. “Any friend of Marina is a friend of mine,” she says in perfect, accented English. “Welcome.”
I thank her and she indicates one of the three empty tables for us.
The other three are occupied by what I observe to be a married couple (they’re wearing matching wedding bands), a family of three (the young daughter looks just like the father), and another couple, marital status unavailable to me.
Two burgundy aprons are folded neatly on the table, along with utensils and bowls.
Marina hands me one, then puts the other on herself.
It looks great on her, of course. She pulls her hair back into something messy and cute as what looks to be a family of four filters in from the staircase: a mother, father, and two twin boys of maybe eight or nine. They take the table behind us.
“I think we’re all here,” Anna says. “We’ve got quite a mix today, and everybody speaks English, so that’s what I’ll teach the lesson in, okay? Let’s go around the room and say where we’re from, shall we?”
“Introvert’s nightmare,” I whisper to Marina, who grins at me. The first couple is from Australia, the family of three is from Germany, the couple behind them is Canadian, and the family of four is also from Australia. “I’m from the United States,” I say. “Specifically New York.”
Anna gives a nod. “We usually have more Americans, so you’ll have to represent your country on your own.” She smiles at me, then looks at the class and holds out her arms as she says, “Today? We make pasta.”
From a doorway to her right, which I hadn’t noticed before, three more people in chef’s coats enter the room carrying trays. They supply each table with ingredients. Eggs and water and semolina, to name a few.
“Have you done this before?” I ask Marina.
Her smile is instant. “I’ve taken Anna’s class dozens of times, and I’ve made pasta with my mother about a million.”
I frown. “I hope it won’t be too boring for you.”
“No way. I’m going to enjoy watching you make pasta.
” She bumps me with a shoulder, and for reasons I can’t explain, I like her answer.
Then she lowers her voice and leans close.
“I think you should pay attention to that couple.” She indicates the married pair from Australia.
He’s tall and a little gangly, and she’s cutely plump.
They haven’t stopped smiling since we got here. “Anna says they’re on their honeymoon.”
“Well, that explains the canoodling,” I say in a whisper.
Marina’s dark brow furrows. “Can—what?”
I laugh quietly. “Canoodling. Like, being touchy-feely, heads close together, that kind of thing.”
“Oh. Being in love, you mean.”
I blink at her once before nodding. “Yeah. That.”
She holds my gaze for a beat before Anna interrupts us with her first instructions, and soon, I am knuckle-deep in flour and eggs.
“You can mix this with a fork if you like,” Anna tells us. “Some people find that easier. But my mother and my grandmother used their fingers and hands.”
“Mine, too,” Marina chimes in.
“I think it’s better. Gives the dough a bit more love.
And who can’t use a bit more love, eh?” Murmurs of agreement and soft chuckles go around the room.
I do a scan to find the twins behind me both with their hands in dough.
The young girl across the aisle is concentrating hard, her tongue poked out at the corner of her mouth, and I’m impressed with the effort they’re putting in.
Both sets of parents are helping, and it’s sweet to watch.
Also, Marina’s not wrong about the newlyweds.
They’re also supplying me with an example of how this can be a romantic thing.
Their heads are close together, their voices soft, both mixing the dough.
I can’t make out specifics of what they’re saying, but I know they’re talking.
Every so often, the woman giggles, and the man looks very satisfied at having cracked her up.
“Good research, yes?” Marina says quietly.
“I forgot how wonderful it can be to have somebody make you laugh,” I say kind of absently as I watch the couple.
“It’s the best.” There’s a beat of silence before she adds, “This pasta isn’t going to make itself, you know. Get mixing, woman.”
I laugh and turn to look at her. She’s smiling at me and gives me a wink and points at my unfinished pile of flour and eggs. “Yes, ma’am.”
We each have a pile that we’re mixing, and it’s surprising how quickly it becomes a dough. Marina is much faster and better at it than I am, of course, but she’s also patient. When I get frustrated, she moves to my dough and demonstrates how to knead.
She has great hands.
It’s a fleeting thought that zips through my mind and then is gone. But I noticed it.
“Like this,” she says as she rolls the dough back, then pushes it forward with the heel of her hand. “You try.”
I do my best to imitate her movements. Anna strolls down the aisle. “Nice, Lily. Perfect.”
I glance at Marina and smile like a kid who just got the math lesson correct.
“If your dough is too dry, you can add a teaspoon of olive oil to soften it up,” Anna says loudly to the class. “If it seems too wet, add more flour.”
Marina is standing close to me, and a glance across the aisle shows me that the newlyweds are nearly touching. Okay, yeah, I can see how this class could be kinda romantic.
“What are you smiling at?” Marina asks.
I shrug and shake my head. “Nothing. Just happy.” It’s true, I realize. I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in quite a while.
“Good. Me too.”
And then Anna is telling us we need to let our dough rest for an hour, and if we follow her through the mysterious door I didn’t see, she has a light snack of charcuterie and wine for us.
“I love charcuterie and wine,” I whisper to Marina.
She smiles that smile at me, and I can’t help the thought that runs through my head: oh, yeah, this is definitely romantic. I picture my pastry chefs and wonder if putting them in some kind of class together would start some sparks flying.
“Ready?” Marina’s voice pulls me back to the present. The rest of the room has filed through the doorway behind Anna’s station, and Marina has her arm out, waiting for me to go first.
With a nod, I follow the others through the door.
The charcuterie and wine was nice, but nothing rivals the actual dinner we have.
While we were rolling and cutting our pasta dough, preparing it for cooking, the assistants were setting the table in the other room for the eleven of us, and it’s gorgeous.
Formal place settings, candles, a huge bowl of salad and a pile of fresh bread, complete with olive oil for dipping.
The assistants take our fresh pasta away while we all grab seats. It’s snug, and Marina and I sit quite close, our knees bumping here and there. The room buzzes with conversation, everybody talking and laughing. The atmosphere is happy, excited.
“I’m having such a good time,” I say quietly to Marina, and it’s true. “This is the best time I’ve had so far on my trip.”
“Really?” Marina smiles, and her cheeks tint just the slightest pink. “I’m so glad to hear that. Are you getting what you need?”
I hold her gaze for an extra beat. I know what she’s asking. Am I getting inspiration for my writing? And I am. But I’m getting something more as well, something I’m not ready to examine quite yet. I nod. “I am. Thank you. Grazie .” I try my hand at what tiny bit of Italian I’ve picked up.
“ Prego ,” she says quietly. And then the assistants arrive with our dishes and the room is filled with gasps of delight and scents of tomato sauce and basil and I am honestly so happy to be here that I feel my eyes well up a bit.
I feel Marina’s hand on my thigh and then she’s leaning in close. “Hey. Are you okay?”
I turn to meet her gaze, and the concern in her eyes is so real, so genuine, and that doesn’t help the wetness in my eyes. I do my best to smile and reassure her. “I’m actually great. Just…enjoying the moment.”
Her response is to smile and pat my thigh, and I can admit that I’m a little bummed when her hand leaves.
Dinner is fun, with lots of cross-table conversations, all in English with various accents attached.
It really is a study in international friendship, and I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself so much.
We finish up, and when I try to pay, I’m told it’s not necessary.
I can’t tell if Marina already paid or if they let us participate for free, but either way, they won’t take my money.
I finally talk them into letting me leave some extra to tip the employees.