Chapter 7
Much as I’ve tried, by the third week here I’ve now fully succumbed to not living my mornings in isolation.
I still climb the stone steps once I’m up to get my body moving, but I’ve stopped pretending that swinging by Belpagna is only an occasional activity.
It’s daily now. Even within a few weeks of being here, I have to admit it’s become an essential balm in my life.
What can I say? I’m a control freak who needs a routine.
I like to think it’s because Emilia doesn’t give me shit about my tea, and her pastries make me want to kidnap her and drag her back to my restaurant when we reopen.
But for now, I’ll settle with parking myself at her counter and peppering her with questions between customers.
To be fair, she gives as good as she gets, because she has her own unending questions and minutiae to lob at me.
We’re two food nerds with no hobbies except our jobs, finding a way to spend even more time being nerds.
And now most days Nico comes and sits next to me and joins in the peppering.
His presence still makes me physically on my guard, but there’s something about the melancholy I saw that day at his groves that subsequently made it easier to view him head on.
And I like the camaraderie of this morning, food-obsessed friendship trio.
In New York, my days are all spent in my kitchen.
While I have friends at the restaurant, I’m everyone’s boss, so the dynamics are different.
Outside of that I have Anita, and I always had John around, but neither of them wants to get into the molecular structure of butterfat content.
So instead of holing up in my room and reading technical treatises, I’m discussing them with two humans.
“Modernist Cuisine has done a lot of work on studying that, you know,” Emilia is saying to us with enthusiasm as we debate the merits of whole wheat. “Whatever nutrients are found in the bran aren’t really doing anything for us, so we might as well just eat white bread.”
“Says the person currently pushing white flour–filled pastries on her entire town,” Nico teases.
I look at him, my mouth stuffed full of a bombolone, with sugar clinging to my lips, and try not to laugh.
“I appreciate the pastry pushing,” I say in Emilia’s defense.
It’s a bit muffled from the carbs taking up residence in my mouth, but I think I’ve still gotten the point across enough that Emilia looks pleased.
“I’m merely pointing out that the higher price point is a racket,” she continues, undeterred. “Did you know when they did fecal analysis and blood tests, they saw our bodies don’t really absorb any extra vitamins and minerals in whole wheat anyway?”
Nico puts his head in his hands. “We’re talking about fecal analysis at breakfast?”
A customer comes up, and Emilia seems delighted to step away.
I swallow the rest of my bombolone and turn to see Nico watching me. “You didn’t ever come see me at the frantoio,” he chides with a small smile.
“I don’t bother people,” I say, brushing his comment off as simply as I brush the remaining sugar from my hand.
The truth is, the more I’ve gotten to know him, the more I’m dying to see Nico’s mill and learn about the olive oil process. Nothing could be more obvious, based on the amount of time we spend delving into the tiniest details of food.
But there’s something about the ease I’ve found with Nico in these mornings that I’m afraid of rocking.
That day we walked alone together unsettled me, and I very much do not need to be unsettled; a widower related to both my best friend and my current boss is quite possibly the worst person to be inconveniently attracted to.
Although, maybe now that we’re friends, it wouldn’t matter as much. Now that I’ve seen him as a fellow food nerd, those sparks have probably faded. I’ve never actually been attracted to anyone who’s shared my interests.
“That’s very kind, Kit, but you’re really never bothering me,” he responds. “It truly is the slowest time of the year. I think you’d love seeing it.”
His modesty is so disarming. Most men I’ve known—especially most chefs, my god—want to beat you into submission over how lucky you are to have one second of their time.
Nico’s actually making something extraordinary, and yet all he wants is for me to enjoy seeing it. It’s hard to not say yes to that.
So that’s how I find myself late on a Monday afternoon parking my scooter next to Nico’s mill (with a much smoother parking job this time, if I do say so myself) before wandering inside.
“Anybody home?” I shout. Complex steel machinery stares out in front of me. There’s a conveyor belt that leads to a cylindrical structure that must be twenty feet long. It feeds into more equipment, and I can’t quite tell from here what the order of operations is.
Nico walks into view, and that beam of a smile wallops me.
Damn it, he just is cuter out here in his element.
He’s in one of his many flannel shirts, again rolled up at the sleeves, and this time, adorably, it’s buttoned one button off, so the shirt is sitting a tiny bit askew.
He’s almost breathless with excitement at the prospect of showing off his beloved mill, and I need to ignore how much that passion for his work makes my heart stutter.
“You came!”
“I told you I was coming today, didn’t I?” I ask, although any worry that I’d gotten the wrong message is placated by his clear happiness at my arrival.
“You did, but I’m excited to show you.” That part is clear enough from how he’s practically bouncing on his toes.
“It’s not very often I get someone in here who will actually appreciate it.
Growers bring me their olives and dump them in crates without a second thought.
Importers or investors just want to know the stats behind our scores at international competitions and what the end product could mean for them.
My crew is wonderful, but they’ve been doing it forever and nothing is novel to them. So it really is a treat for me.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder, which should read as friendly, but all I can think is how big his hand feels on me. It lingers even after he moves it, like ice on a burn that stings as your skin comes back to its normal temperature.
I take a deep breath and shake it off. Thankfully he doesn’t seem to notice any of my weirdness, because he’s already standing in front of me, a ringmaster ready to let his performers show off.
“Okay, so the thing you have to realize about olive oil,” he starts, “is that it’s long and then an instant. You take a year to grow the olives, but making it takes only a single day. You can harvest in the morning, take the olives to a mill, and by that night, you have oil.”
“Like magic,” I say, wanting to lean into his enthusiasm.
“Truly,” he replies giddily. “But that day is everything. The miller ensures the quality much more than the specific olives.”
“Says the miller,” I retort, with a light nudge on his shoulder that makes him grin.
“I’d say it’s about eighty-twenty.”
“You’re saying the olives—the olives you spend the entire year growing—are only worth twenty percent of the process?”
He shrugs, his eyes full of that endearing mischief that’s waiting for me to argue. But I’m not going to bite.
“So each machine you see here has a different role,” he continues, easily shifting the subject.
He walks over to the first one, which looks like a conveyer belt, and gives it a pat.
“It starts with washing and removing leaves and debris. Then this is the malaxer.” We walk over to one of the more cylindrical machines.
“That crushes the olives and stirs them into a paste. Then there’s a separator that removes all the excess materials and then a centrifuge to extract water from the oil. Then we filter.”
“And Emilia thinks your filter is better than anyone else’s,” I point out.
He shrugs again, but a small blush warms his cheeks.
His humility always startles me—I’ve noticed it in all our conversations, whenever Emilia and I get going at Belpagna.
Nico doesn’t speak half as much as we do, but when he has something to say, it’s always incisive and measured.
Yet the man can’t take a compliment whenever we praise his well-earned insights.
It’s an unexpected quality in a man so assured in every other aspect of his life.
“Well, the filter has helped, yes,” he continues, deflecting. “But so much of it is just watching the machines. The speed, the temperature, the time . . . it all changes, depending on different olives. There are hundreds of parameters that change all day long.”
I suddenly realize how close we’re standing.
In a mill the size of a large soccer field, we’ve ended up at a small panel of screens that measure and showcase all his “parameters.” And as he talks, we slowly drift, static balloons that somehow find each other.
I can feel the rub of his shirt against mine, and even through the material he feels so solid.
We’re close enough that I can smell the way the outdoors mixes with his simple soap. He’s once again unnerving my insides.
I clear my throat. “It’s like being a chef,” I finally say, looking at the machinery instead of him, because I’m trying to swallow back whatever his nearness is doing to me and focus on what he’s saying. “The ingredients are the start, but then the difference is in the technique.”
“Exactly!” he says, jubilant at the understanding.
I turn toward him and try to avoid his eyes, but I’m close enough to see that little freckle above his lip that I try so hard not to notice.
I’m always trying so hard.
But when I look up, his gaze has found mine, and it’s clear he’s also realized how close we are. Despite the cavernous space and cold machinery surrounding us, the air suddenly holds a heaviness to it, like rain clouds about to break.
I hadn’t noticed before how quiet it is in here.
I imagine in the fall during production, this room must be roaring with life when every machine is at full speed.
But for now it’s empty. It’s blue skies coming through the glass windows, blocking out all sounds from outside.
Only our breathing registers, and I wish I could hide the nakedness of how much deeper I currently need to inhale.
Although when he swallows, I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing, even if I can’t read his expression.
I can feel his hand lingering right next to my waist—close enough he’d only have to move an inch to brush against me.
He’s so close I can practically hear his pulse racing as fast as mine is.
But some spooling tension is holding him back.
I rub my hand on my pounding heart to try and calm it down, but it’s not working.
I wonder if I should close the gap.
I’m trying to remember all the reasons why this is a bad idea.
“Nico!” a loud voice calls, and we jump apart, scalded before ever touching.
A large man the shape of an oversize bowling ball is shouting rapidly in Italian and striding toward us. I use the convenience of the noise to take the deep breath my body’s been needing and blink to shake off the haze that overcame me.
Nico’s stance is completely changed—maybe I only imagined that heaviness before, because now he’s entirely on guard.
His voice is sharp when he starts talking again.
He always sounds distinct in Italian, looser.
But this feels different. Even without the words making sense to me, it’s clear this person isn’t someone Nico wants to see.
They go back and forth for a bit, the tone oscillating between civil and openly hostile. Then the man finally looks at me.
“Bonjourno, chi sei?” he says, eyeing me up and down.
“I don’t speak Italian,” I reply, unsurprised by the coldness in my tone. There’s something about this guy and the way he’s speaking to Nico that has my hackles up. Nico is among the mildest men I’ve ever met, so how could I not be suspicious of someone who’s put him on edge?
“Ah, you’re the American,” he says, looking amused, and I throw up my hands. Seriously, does anyone have anything else to talk about around here?
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure who you are,” I respond.
“Tommaso,” he says, holding out a hand. I skeptically shake it back. “Nico and I were just discussing boar hunting season. I was reminding him again of how important it is this time of year to the town’s economy.”
Nico’s expression is thunderous, and I almost want to laugh because it’s such an unexpected look for him. But maybe it’s naive to think that spending a few weeks chatting over pastries could make you know someone.
Still, I feel strangely compelled to show which side I’m on, even if I have no idea what that side’s supposed to be.
“I’d think Nico has a pretty good grip on the town’s economy,” I say, trying to be as dismissive as possible over something I know nothing about.
Nico puts his hand on my shoulder, and I can’t tell whether I’m helping or hurting. I wish I didn’t once again notice his hand so much.
“Tommaso, you need to leave,” he says quietly but firmly. “My stance on this isn’t going to change.”
Tommaso ignores him and turns to look at me instead. “You tell Gia she doesn’t get to order everyone around, eh?”
And then he storms right out.
Nico’s eyes are closed, his hands on his hips. He reminds me of a preschool teacher trying to gain back his composure after dealing with a roomful of toddlers.
“What was that about?” I ask. He gives himself a moment to take a heavy, deep breath, but then opens his eyes.
“Want to come on a walk?” he asks, a hopeful note in his voice.
“Of course.”
He shuffles into an office, and I hear him throwing something in a bag. He comes out, and apparently we’re on our way.