Chapter 18
The precision required of simplicity has gotten me through a lot of nights lately, but it’s especially what I need tonight.
Running a Michelin-starred restaurant made me more and more susceptible to gussying up.
Why not add an impressive ingredient or master another complex technique?
Why not make the dish that requires extensive sourcing or seven hours of prep?
The challenge is exhilarating. It’s an ego boost to feel like you’re innovating.
And the constant feedback loop of social media—which rewards out-of-the-box ideas—makes it seem inevitable that you’ll keep striving for some brass ring always just out of reach enough that you push even harder.
But the longer I work with Gia, the more I’m coming to appreciate that stripping down is often more impressive.
A perfectly grown local snap pea has a sweetness a grocery store version won’t have.
Blanching it for the exact proper timing keeps your crunch but still cooks it just enough.
The right drizzle of olive oil, the right dash of salt, the right cuts on the bias to create beautiful but even shapes and textures—every little piece counts when you’re keeping it simple.
And when executed perfectly, nothing’s more satisfying.
Nothing tastes as good as fresh pasta cooked in briny water pulled at the exact right moment, topped with those precisely blanched snap peas and a dollop of local ricotta whose cheesemongers make it late in the afternoon so it’s freshest for Gia.
Getting simplicity right is hard.
But I think I’m getting better at it inch by inch as every day goes by.
When I look at the clock and see that it’s ten, I peek out into the dining room. Gia left twenty minutes ago, and the only people still here are three friends huddled around a table with empty espresso cups. The kitchen is closed, and they’re lingering without a need or care.
I’m out of excuses to be late to Beppe.
I wash my hands and take off my apron. I’m in rubber shoes, a T-shirt, and my stretchy-waisted work slacks. My hair is sticking out on the sides from the humidity of staring over pots of boiling water all night. I’ve put no makeup on.
I wonder if I should run home and at least freshen up. But then I cringe, thinking how embarrassingly obvious that would be.
With nothing left to delay me, I push myself off the wall and walk the thirty steps to the bar next door that’s only distinguishable by a small sign above the entrance that says Il Bar.
It’s the perfect run-down but cozy place that you would expect in a town like this.
A long, worn wooden bar with frayed stools gives way to a back area with simple metal chairs and tables, with wine racks covering the side walls.
Behind the bar, an elaborate espresso machine sits next to all the bottles of liquor.
There’s a TV mounted to the wall, playing a soccer match, and a vending machine with cigarettes.
Multicolored fairy lights have been strung up haphazardly in one corner.
Have I mentioned I love it? It’s the Italian version of every dive bar I went to after a shift in New York.
And I love that on a Friday night deep into July, it’s filled with locals ranging in age from sixteen to eighty.
There’s a whole crew of high school age kids crowding a table while sipping on beers, heads down, showing each other whatever they’re finding fascinating on their phones.
Gia is sitting with two of the guys who regularly come into the restaurant for pasta and are among the only people she trusts to take mine (without pay I’m still assuming, although I’ve seen them throw money in the container a few times, either as a gesture to her or to me, who knows. But I’m guessing her).
My stomach drops when I see Nico in the back, swirling a glass of wine with Emilia’s husband, Antonio.
I don’t think he notices me as I come in; his focus is solely on whatever Antonio is saying.
I fidget for a moment, wondering if I should say hello, but I decide against it. Not the distraction I need tonight.
Instead, I turn my attention toward the bar, where Beppe is sitting with two glasses of wine.
The colored lights are dancing across his face, yet he somehow maintains an air of assurance even in this most unserious of settings.
It’s hard not to notice his innate rugged handsomeness in this strange neon lighting.
I could be into this. I can ignore the other people swimming through my mind.
He waves me over when he spots me. “You look like you could use a drink.”
He slides one of the wineglasses over as I sit down on the stool next to him.
“Wow, don’t shower me with compliments all at once,” I jibe, lifting up the glass and taking a sip of the always-present local white wine I’ve grown more than accustomed to.
He laughs as though I’ve told the best joke in the world. “See, this is why I like you,” he says, the directness of his laughter and compliment momentarily jarring me. “You’re very frank.”
I shrug. “I think being a chef does that to a person.”
“How so?” He seems genuinely curious.
“It’s a pretty hierarchical job,” I admit. “You can’t have bullshit between you and your coworkers when you’re on the line, standing next to fire, trying to get dishes out one after the other in rapid succession. There’s no room for platitudes.”
“And you like that?”
I nod. “It fits me, I think.”
“See, I would’ve thought the frankness comes from being American,” he says, chuckling.
I tap my fingers on the counter, considering it. “Probably both,” I admit. “But harder to notice when you’re surrounded by each other.”
He leans toward me, brushing his hand across my whirring fingers. “And how do you feel around Italians?”
He’s flirting, lightly, making it clear he intends for this to not simply be a drink among friends.
And it should be working. He’s cute. The closer I am to him, the more apparent that is.
He’s suave without it crossing the line into cheesy, the way I normally write these kinds of men off.
But I’m willing there to be a spark that I don’t yet feel.
I ignore the implications and barrel on. “Considering the amount of crap Gia still gives me after so many weeks, I’m going to assume kitchen culture is the same across all languages.”
“I know I said it before, but I really do dread a scolding from her.” His affection for her lines his words, and it makes me warm to him a bit more.
“I get one most days, but I take it as a compliment.”
“And see, that’s the kitchen culture you’re used to. What would you do if she gave you an actual compliment?”
I huff a surprised snort, and I can see how much my reaction delights him. “Not possible.”
“You don’t think at some point this summer you’ll get a ‘Nice job’ out of Gia?”
I think about her razzing on my pasta even though it’s practically perfect at this point. “Not a chance,” I say through a smile.
“How’d your gnocchi turn out?”
I’m surprised he remembers that offhand comment from earlier. “Gia took a bite and told me ‘Not bad,’ so I think it was my best work yet.”
He chuckles. “What made it particularly great?”
“I think the ricotta here makes a huge difference,” I answer automatically, always ready to delve into the minutiae of food.
“We get two types at the restaurant—one is a creamier version we use for sauces and accents. But the other is denser, it has less liquid to it. So it adds a fluffiness to the texture of the pasta but doesn’t make it all fall apart once it starts cooking.
The whole recipe is really just flour, eggs, ricotta, and parm, with the right balance of salt and pepper.
So the type of ricotta makes or breaks it. ”
“And what did you put on top?” he asks, curiosity still beaming out of him.
“Extremely charred eggplant. I love the smokiness melding to the creaminess.”
“But Gia wouldn’t use the gnocchi you made?”
“Absolutely not,” I laugh.
“But she took your eggplant and let it top her gnocchi?”
“She deigned to allow it, yes.”
“I’d take that as a win,” he says, eyes dancing across me.
I haven’t had a man look at me like I’m fascinating in a long time.
John liked sex (obviously), and he could get deep into conversations about restaurants.
But he never seemed to delight in me the way I think Beppe is now.
And I’ve seen attraction wash over Nico; I’m not blind.
But there’s always a resignation behind it that takes away the fun of his gaze for me.
When it’s friendly, it’s friendly, but when things start to dip into something more, I can see the electric fence go up.
The conversation with Beppe is easy, and we carry on chatting through a few more drinks.
He asks me about my life, and it’s all so fluid, never delving deeper than I want to go.
He shares easily about his life in Rome, giving me a better picture than I got the other night, when we both stayed so focused on the town and the Palio.
It’s nice existing beyond these stone walls with someone and being reminded of the world outside the vortex of this place.
I can imagine returning to New York in the same way Beppe can extricate himself from all this insularity and live fully in a big city, even when a little piece of his heart will always be here.
It’s comforting in a way—I haven’t thought a lot about what going home will mean, probably because I can’t imagine these two places coexisting. Yet this conversation makes me think maybe there’s a world where I can have both.
But that nagging sense of absence is lurking through the evening.
Not the absence of enjoyment or good conversation.
There’s an absence of chemistry. He’s willing it to be there, but it’s not.
There’s nothing shimmering in the air between us.
There’s none of that delicious tension when you wonder if someone is feeling it too.
At one point he puts his hand on my knee, casually.
The bar is crowded enough and we’re sitting close enough and he’s tentative enough that I don’t dislike it, per se.
It doesn’t give me the ick in the way I’ve felt on some dates with men.
But when he does it, my instant, subconscious instinct is to look over to Nico, as though another man touching me has flipped an unwanted switch.
And when my eyes snap to his, for just a second, I see that he’s already watching me. There’s that tension. That’s the heaviness. His stare is a furnace on a cold day. I immediately look away.
Beppe’s hand doesn’t linger, and the moment passes.
I have one more drink. I try not to bite my nails.
I’m still enjoying the conversation, but now that I’ve seen Nico looking at me, I don’t think I can focus on anything else, and I have to get some air.
I need to shake the sensation off me so I can go back to shoving that spark down to where it belongs, buried.
“I’m really glad you suggested this,” I say to Beppe, genuinely. I have enjoyed chatting with him, even if I’m no longer able to imagine anything more than a drink with him.
“Thank you for taking me up on it,” he says.
“I have to work tomorrow, and we both know Gia’s not going to let me off the hook for even a second,” I say, pumping lightness into my voice as much as I can. “So I should probably get going.”
He nods, as though that was a foregone conclusion.
He takes my hand and kisses the top of it, like an old-fashioned gentleman who seems to understand that this is where the night has taken us.
And of course I’m not interested in the chivalrous and apparently perceptive man.
No, that has to be reserved for the one person who’s not interested in taking me out as anything more than a friend.
I try to pay for my drinks but Beppe waves me off, standing up to say goodbye while insisting he invited me out. I get two friendly kisses on the cheek, and then I wave goodbye.
I wish I didn’t notice that Nico’s already left.