Chapter 25 #2
When you’re in. So casually, like there’d never be a reason to say no.
We both know there isn’t a reason—that I’ve worked my entire career for something this big, and it’s surreal that it’s happening at all, let alone this early—but I hate that the trade-off means he thinks he’s got me automatically back, as though I’m exactly the same as when he dumped me on my doorstep.
“Take care of yourself, Kit.” And with that, he’s hung up, efficient and to the point as always. As we always were with each other.
I open the door harder than I intend to, and it makes a noise that causes Gia to look up. I know the walls in these old buildings are probably too thick for her to have heard anything, but she seems to know that I’m a little riled up.
“Renovation update,” I say, brushing it all off and getting back to my onions.
Gia nods and we settle back into our quiet work, me with my prep and Gia with her speedy hands making pasta.
A few minutes later, though, Gia starts uncharacteristically talking.
“I was reading the Modernist Cuisine bread book last week,” she says out of nowhere.
“Why?” I can’t pretend like this is a normal thing for her to just pop out with.
“Emilia finally finished it and she said I should read it, too, that I might find some similarities between bread research and pasta.”
“Normal bonding over a five-volume food science book.” She gives me a sly smile, and I can’t help but internally cheer at almost making her laugh.
The book series she’s talking about really is a deep dive into the science of bread-making by one of the most famous voices in food.
And it’s not light reading you’d just pick up; it’s a deeply researched and data-driven tome.
She writes it off, but I love knowing that this bastion of tradition and simplicity still wants to keep learning and adapting and fine-tuning.
It’s what I aspire to be. I can’t imagine Gia ever resting on her laurels, and I relate to that so deeply.
It’s why John’s words have no chance of leaving my head anytime soon.
“I really loved this section about baguettes,” Gia continues.
“They’re only made with four ingredients—flour, water, salt, and yeast—so the writers did this test where they took every written baguette recipe they could find to see if they could get the most common ratios of everything, an average.
But there was no average! No clear right way to do things.
Temperature vs. containers vs. ingredient ratios vs.
hydration . . . The hydration ranged between twenty to one hundred twenty percent.
There were so many ways to make a successful baguette. ”
“And?” I ask, tired of everyone in this town loving a food metaphor rather than getting to the point.
“A baguette is really just anything that looks like a baguette,” she says. “There’s no right or wrong way to make it.”
“So you heard my call then,” I say dryly, no longer having faith in the thickness of these particular walls.
“I did,” she says without looking up from her pasta.
“You want me to be whatever baguette I choose to be.” By this point I’m sautéing the onions and getting them caramelized for later, but I still sneak peeks at Gia.
“Don’t be daft,” she says.
“I’m the one being daft?”
“It’s not about baguettes; who cares about the French anyway?” She tsks, as though bringing up the French was my uncouth idea.
“So what’s the point?”
She sets her knife down and wipes her hands on her apron before catching my eyes. “There’s so many ways to be great. My way is no better or worse than yours. Take the job in the restaurant that you want. Not what you think you should take.”
“Oh, so now you’re a wise old lady?” I ask, itching to stay in our kitchen shit-talk pattern and not go out any further.
“Definitely old,” she says, going back to her pasta.
“It’s complicated,” I retort, not wanting to let her dismiss the conversation the way she always does when she’s done talking.
“It always is.” Her hands move fast across the pasta, the muscle memory making it so she barely has to look at it.
We go back to working, no more words needing to be said. I love this about Gia. She makes her point and moves on. She’s not going to try and convince me of anything. I’m not even sure what she wants me to do here. But I respect that she wants to make sure I’m thinking things through on my own.
Once the onions are done, I go to roll out and stamp ravioli for the onion mixture to go inside.
My phone pings with a message, and I pull it out, hoping it’s Nico but expecting it to be some more bullshit from John. Instead it’s from my dad.
Just checking in. How’s the construction going? Thinking of coming to visit for whenever you open again.
Quite the timing for that check-in. I look up at Gia, still silently making her pasta, and turn my phone over.
I’ve never been able to keep things from my dad—he’s always the person I bounce things off of. But maybe being here under Gia’s influence is making me want to not run anything by anyone for once.
Now that I’ve had some space away from my regular life, the realizations that made me panic when I left no longer seem so daunting.
I’m not going to pretend like I’m not grateful for the way my dad and then John smoothed the past for me so I could focus.
I’ve always been about the work. I don’t like any of the bigger-picture stuff.
I’m not into marketing or promoting myself or being anything other than the leader of a team.
In some ways I’ve been lucky to have had people to block out the noise for me.
When I wanted to be a rower, I had a cheerleader who could also make sure I had up-to-date techniques and equipment and the best training regimen to follow.
I didn’t need to do any of that research, so I could focus on executing.
He transitioned to researching everything culinary and got me from school to internships on the best path.
With John, I got someone who would handle the business so I could make sure all the output was flawless. I showed up for media interviews or picked between new suppliers, and all my mental load could stay on the food.
But I’ve let them be a crutch.
Crutches can be good while we need them—training wheels or pool floaties or even scaffolding while you’re being built.
But I need to transition to letting those helpful people be less crutch and more part of the machine—gearshift on a bike, goggles in the pool, or new paint on a building.
I need to be ready to make this choice on my own.
I take a breath and finish making the ravioli. I shut everything else out and focus on making the best damn pasta I can make. If I can do anything, I can compartmentalize. I let the question of my future go for the moment and instead put all that energy into my work.
And I can’t help but notice later, when Gia puts my pasta in the same drawer as hers for the first time.