Chapter 4
Monday is the only day Gia closes the restaurant. I have the whole day off, since my offers to come in and do cleaning or prep work were met with a terse locking of the front door and instructions to not come back until Tuesday.
My usual morning of sitting on my balcony and reading cookbooks with tea suddenly isn’t enough. Maybe it’s knowing the whole day is stretching in front of me with nothing to do. I guess I eventually have to stop pretending that I’m living my normal life with a normal restaurant job.
I should go out.
But baby steps. I walk outside the main walls of the town and see a street lined with little shops.
A few older people sit on plastic chairs, animated and gesticulating.
It reminds me of people on stoops in New York, only they’ve pulled over their own chairs instead of having one built in.
It projects a certain rustic charm that has me waving at everyone.
They wave right back—and look at me gleefully in a way that makes it clear they know who I am.
The shops are all lovely in their simplicity. The flower shop, named Piante e Fiori, is next to a cheese store named Casa del Formaggio. There’s an alimentari on the corner selling produce and other groceries. Across the street on the edge is a pasticceria named Belpagna.
I could certainly go for some pastries. I walk into Belpagna, and a small bell chimes above the door, but none of the customers sitting at small tables with café chairs even notice. It’s busy but in a muted way, like this is the calm place where everyone can gather.
I notice reams of awards and magazine articles lining the wall. For it being such a small-town shop, I’m surprised this place has garnered so much attention.
“Would you like something?” I hear a voice say behind me in English, and I turn to the counter. A woman with a dark bob pulled back with a blue top-knotted bandana is staring straight at me. Her angular face is a sharp contrast to the twee hairstyle.
“How’d you know I speak English?” I say, curious.
She raises one eyebrow with a sly look. “You haven’t figured out yet that everyone in this town knows you, even if you don’t know them?”
I laugh and walk closer to the counter, surveying the case filled with pastries. “I have noticed that, yes. It’s a bit jarring.”
“That’s what happens when a famous chef comes to a boring town with nothing else to talk about.
” Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow, but she immediately volleys back: “What part of that do you disagree with? Maybe you haven’t ventured enough to know we’re boring yet.
But you of all people aren’t going to argue with ‘famous chef,’ no? ”
I like how she’s baiting me a bit.
“Not going to argue with anything,” I say with a smile.
“I’m mostly interested in eating whatever you’re making, since it seems like you’re a bit of a hit yourself.
” I gesture to her wall of accolades, and she grins.
I wasn’t going to pretend I don’t know I’m a well-known chef (in the circles that care about chefs), and apparently she’s not going to downplay her own success.
I like her already.
She pulls out a plate and puts three items on it. “Sugar bombolone, pistachio cream–filled sfogliatella, and a slice of apricot ricotta cake. My husband Antonio makes all the gelato—do you want an affogato?”
There it is. I knew there was no chance I could make an Italian acquaintance without immediately being shunned for not liking coffee, even if it is poured over gelato. But might as well bite the bullet and be honest.
“Actually, I was wondering if you have tea.”
I brace for the reaction, but she simply says “Of course,” then grabs a tea bag and pours hot water over it.
“I thought Italians only drink coffee?” I ask, wondering about her nonresponse.
“Eh, most do, but you aren’t Italian, so what do I care.”
I nod, enjoying the backhanded acceptance, and pull out my wallet. “What do I owe you?”
She waves me off, as though I’m insulting her.
“Please, I’m glad to have you in my pasticceria. Sit at that counter and eat your pastries so I don’t have to feel bad when I make you commiserate with me later.”
“Thank you . . .” I pause, but she catches on quick.
“Emilia.”
“Thank you, Emilia.”
I do as instructed and pull my plate over to sit at one of the stools against the counter.
I take a bite of the sfogliatella and practically melt.
Each little layer of the pastry is like a light fluff of carb heaven, brought together by the velvet airiness of the pistachio cream inside.
The whole thing is gone in under a minute.
“You really aren’t messing around here,” I say with my mouth still a bit full. “This is incredible.”
“Coming from you, that’s a real compliment,” she replies, leaning against the counter opposite me.
“Have you spent any time in New York?” I ask. She seems to be more familiar with me than I would expect of any chef in Italy.
“Oh yeah, I love New York. I grew up in Milan, so it’s a bit of a kindred spirit. I ate at your restaurant a few years ago, and it was practically a religious experience.”
I’m used to people complimenting my food, but there’s something about this woman and her no-nonsense demeanor paired with really fucking incredible pastry skills that makes the compliment particularly satisfying.
“I appreciate that. One pastry in and I might say the same for you.”
She smiles that sly smile again, confidence brimming. She wanders over to her espresso machine and makes herself a small cup and then comes back to the counter. No one else is currently ordering anything, so she can take advantage of the lull to have a break of her own.
“I was sorry to read that your restaurant had a fire. But I do have to ask why you decided to spend time in Manciano of all places?”
It’s the fairest of questions. I think no one else has asked me yet because I haven’t allowed myself to speak to anyone other than Gia for more than a minute at a time.
But for some reason, now I want to. I find myself explaining it all to her—and not only the sanitized version I would’ve expected, but the whole thing.
I tell her about John breaking up with me, and Anita pushing me out the door to Gia.
I give her the rundown of the scut work I’ve been doing since arriving, and she seems to enjoy that part the most.
“Gia doesn’t cut anyone slack, so I’m not surprised she hasn’t let you touch the pasta yet. But I bet you like working for someone who isn’t impressed by you.” She finishes the espresso and eyes me.
“Yeah, I think it’s actually my more natural state, to be proving myself.” I shrug, caught, but sort of thrilled to be able to speak honestly. “I like to work and I like a challenge. So this was better than any New York kitchen where there would be expectations.”
“Do you like living in New York?”
I try to think of how to possibly explain my relationship with my city.
“So,” I start, “there’s this comedian, Billy Eichner, who does these abrupt, sort of rude-man-on-the-street interviews.
And one time he goes up to this woman and is like, ‘How does it feel to be an elitist, New York piece of shit?’ And without batting an eye she goes, ‘It feels awesome.’” Emilia laughs, and the sound makes me smile.
“And that’s kind of how I see my life. I know New York is a weird city and we’re all sort of snobs about everything, but we work hard and we are good at whatever we do, so it’s kind of great if that’s what you’re into. ”
She nods along, a smile still playing on her lips, but she seems to not be surprised in the least. “Yeah, it’s a special quality of New Yorkers that you share with the Milanese.
But we’re ruder I think. We wouldn’t even answer someone accosting us on the street.
Now in Manciano, phew, your Billy Eichner would get pulled onto a chair and have someone talk his ear off for an hour about the pros and cons of life.
” There’s tenderness in both observations, as though both locations hold a key to her heart. “So you’re a New Yorker, then.”
I nod. “Yeah, I’ve lived there for almost twenty years now.
I didn’t grow up in New York, but I’ve always known in my bones that it’s my place.
My demeanor fits it. I’m blunt, but I’m not complicated.
I say what I mean. I don’t go back on my word.
I gain energy from crowds. I feel like that’s a pretty good summary of a New Yorker. ”
“But you needed a break?”
“Forced into one,” I say dismissively.
“So when they rebuild, it’ll all be the same as before?” she asks. “Your kitchen, your menu?”
“I’m sure I’ll have a few new things to add that I’ve learned here,” I say, that familiar itch to create always present.
“But always NYC for you,” she says with a smile.
“Yeah.” Even though I’m enjoying this town, nothing warms me like the thought of home.
“And then what?”
“After I’m back?” I ask.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I mean later. Like, in five years.”
I fidget with a napkin. “Well . . . I hope eventually the restaurant group will make me a co-owner in something I get to design,” I say, surprised by my honesty.
I haven’t even admitted that to Anita. But something about Emilia’s bluntness makes me comfortable handing over my story the same way she’s easily handed over her sfogliatella.
“But that goal really is years away—I’m still paying my dues. ”
“That’s like the final video game level for you,” she says, understanding.
“And I’m just happy to be in the game,” I chuckle.
“Winning the game on double speed,” she counters. But then tilts her head. “Well, maybe with a side quest after a fire.”
That knocks a real laugh out of me. “You get it.”
I take a bite of the bombolone and have a similar reaction as with the first pastry. A delectable dusting of sugar tops an airy ball of dough. I’m in love.