Chapter 20
EMILY
As soon as Ernesto swings the limousine up Tenth Avenue, a large restaurant comes into view.
It’s a long, low facade of black glass and brushed steel that somehow looks misplaced during daylight hours.
But it matches perfectly with the vibe of Dante’s Inferno across the street. In my mind’s eye, I see myself there last night.
Standing in line and hoping to get into the club without having to use the Ricci family name. Or worse, announcing myself as the boss’s wife.
“So what do you think?” Gina asks, as we get out and walk toward the restaurant’s front door.
“Very sleek,” I say diplomatically. “Are you planning on luncheon service?”
“Oh yes.”
I smile and briefly turn away.
With Gina in such a delicate condition, she does not need to know the lesson I learned from a course I took at BU.
The instructor covered a lot of key points, but the main one was that operating a fine-dining restaurant that offered luncheon service as well as dinner service was a recipe for disaster.
It will be difficult to make the economics work.
But that’s a discussion for another time and place, if there’s ever a discussion about it at all.
Ernesto stops the car and Gina and I walk to the restaurant entrance.
Gina favors me with a little glance of excitement as she fits the key in the lock and gestures for me to enter.
The smell of fresh paint hits me first.
I take another hit of it, getting off on its promise of new beginnings. Corny, I know.
Yet there’s something about a fresh restaurant space, that gets my creative juices going.
This restaurant has good bones, I think to myself.
I study the space the way an aspiring restaurateur would look at it.
On the positive side, the restaurant is large and airy, with large oversized windows and a tall ceiling.
The open kitchen is state-of-the-art.
I can imagine a fleet of young sous-chefs sweating behind the glass facade.
On the negative side, the restaurant’s in the middle of freakin’ nowhere.
I’m not a New Yorker, but it’s smack dab in an industrial concrete jungle, characterized by warehouses and storage space rentals.
Then again, Dante’s Inferno is just across the street. So with Lorenzo’s charm and a whole lot of luck, they’ll have a ready-made customer base.
Once Gina knows she has my attention, she snaps on the recessed overhead lights.
Then she stands back with a proud smile.
“Voilà,” she says, gesturing toward what I assume to be her murals running the length of two walls, ceiling to wainscot. “What do you think?”
“I’m impressed.” I examine the first panel of a satisfied-looking chef with exaggerated features. “So this is what you mean by caricature art.”
“Yes,” she says, stroking Biscotti as she admires her own work.
“The chef figures took an enormous amount of time to design. Dante even brought me to Little Italy so I could capture their personalities and characteristics. But looking at it now, it was all worth it.”
“I love it! I can see the personalities of these chefs in their expressive eyes. But who’s that man in the big black-and-white photo on that wall there?”
I point toward a large framed portrait hung on its own wall.
“Salvatore Ricci. Dante and Lorenzo’s great-great-grandfather.”
“I like his face,” I say, walking closer.
The sketch looks a bit aged beneath the glass. But oddly, the man himself looks vibrant and bursting with life.
As if it takes just a sprinkle of fairy dust to make him burst out of his frame.
Looking at him up close, I notice that Salvatore’s expression is sharp. His eyes seem to look directly into mine, as if questioning why I’m looking at him so closely.
And he looks eerily familiar.
“Is it my imagination, or does Lorenzo look just like his ancestor?”
“Not your imagination. Dante and I always tease Lorenzo about it. And legend says that Salvatore was a charmer in his time. Just like Lorenzo.”
“What was his profession?”
“He was a bootlegger and a gunrunner. But even so, the Museum of the City of New York saw fit to honor him as one of the city’s founders.”
“You’re serious?”
Gina nods. “Well, I’m sure some payola went on to get him honored in such a way. But he’s a notable figure, for sure.”
“Only in Manhattan,” I say. “But anyway, I love that face. You should use him in restaurant marketing.”
Gina’s eyes widen. “You think so? Why?”
“Restaurants need a strong brand. Especially in today’s competitive environment.”
I gesture toward Salvatore’s portrait. “Something like him. A face that people remember.”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” Gina says, tilting her head.
“I majored in restaurant management at Boston University.” I turn back toward Gina’s mural, running my eye along her row of caricatured chefs.
“Three years of my professors drilling it into us.”
Gina lets out a short laugh. “Professors and textbooks will do that to you.”
“Yeah, but in my case, it wasn’t all textbooks. My family was in the restaurant business.”
“What restaurant?”
“Have you ever heard of the Fisher House? Dates back to 1899. It was located near the Boston Common.”
“Sounds familiar. But maybe I’m mixing it up with those Fisher House rolls I always see advertised.”
“It was our rolls that made our family’s restaurant famous. This goes way back before technology. When other rolls were hard inside and out. Fisher House rolls were moist and buttery.”
“Wow. I had no idea I had a celebrity for a sister-in-law.”
“The fame didn’t last that long,” I say. “But thanks for the flattery.”
“I’m impressed that your family were culinary pioneers. Did you have a patent? You must be so wealthy …”
“Rolls can’t be patented. No monetary value. Just an obscure fact for musty history books.”
A wave of sadness comes over me as I think of Teddy and the generational inheritance that should have been his.
Uncle Eton insisted on selling the restaurant when my parents died, since they were the ones who managed it.
Back then, I was too young to inquire about what happened to the proceeds. Teddy and I never saw a cent.
Well, that’s one more thing to be sorted out at the appropriate time.
I take another glance at Salvatore Ricci. He’s magnetic.
“Gina,” I say, turning to her. “You say you haven’t named the restaurant yet. The more I think about it, the more I believe you should make Salvatore Ricci the restaurant’s official mascot. And design the restaurant concept around him.”
“How do you mean?”
“Give the restaurant a theme that sets the tone. Like the way customers know what to expect when they step into Spago’s pizza restaurant.”
“Spago? Early 1980s kitsch?” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“No. You’re not thinking the right way. Before Wolfgang Puck, pizza was a piece of puffy dough. A blob of sauces. His claim to fame was making pizza fancy by rendering the crust cracker thin. Then brushing it with olive oil and garlic.”
“But what does naming the restaurant after Dante’s ancestor have to do with the menu?”
“The concept defines the menu and all the choices that follow. What’s your concept?”
“Upscale Italian. White tablecloths. $100 tab per person with a killer all-Italian wine list. Yet upbeat and fun, with a DJ spinning tunes,” Gina says, feeding Biscotti a treat.
“So you mean the restaurant will be ‘relaxed and approachable,’” I say, still studying Salvatore’s image.
“Exactly. And even though I disparaged Wolfgang Puck just now, we also planned to serve pizza. We even had a chef lined up. A friend of Luca’s. But that deal fell through.”
“Too bad,” I say, walking toward her. “You’ll find another chef.”
“Not so sure. I’d been searching for a chef doing something special in the pizza space. I have a computer file filled with research, but I had to abandon the search.”
“You can continue your search afterward,” I say.
“Technically,” she says, petting a squirming Biscotti on her lap.
“’Technically’ meaning what?”
She lets out a slow breath.
“In an ideal world, yes. It would be a challenge to continue alone, now that Lorenzo is focused on both the club and casino. But I could do it. The problem is the license.”
“What about it?”
“The State Liquor Authority gave us the permit. The clock doesn’t stop because I’m pregnant. We have to be serving food and pouring liquor before it runs out. If we reapply, we go back to the end of the line.”
“The Ricci family must have powerful friends …”
“Won’t help. Not in today’s world. As of now, the restaurant’s fate is uncertain.”
I look at the whimsical murals, bursting with color and energy.
Gina’s art, and her effort, needs to be seen.
“What must be done to get on track?”
“The first thing we need is to secure a chef,” she says, looking at me more closely, as if to see if I’m serious. “The number one candidate is Antonio Rodriguez. They call him “The Rod.” He has this underground place so secret you need to know someone to get in. I’ve been dying to check it out.”
“I think one of my BU professors mentioned him,” I say.
“Would you be willing to check him out?”
I feel my gut swirl as I look at her. What had I unconsciously promised? I’m only going to be in this city another few weeks.
“I’ll consider it… “
“Fantastic! But there’s so much more ….”
“Hey, first things first, right.”
“Right,” says Gina, bringing her forefinger to her lip.
Biscotti lets forth an enthusiastic bark. We both laugh.
What have I gotten myself into?