Chapter 31
EMILY
“Mike, Paul, good morning,” I say, stepping inside Salvatore’s kitchen. The morning light streaming in from the skylight is already reflecting off the copper pots hung above the prep station.
The yeasty aroma of rising dough hits me before I’ve even cleared the doorway.
It’s only been two days since Dante hired Mike and Paul. Yet the two men communicate as if they’ve been working together for a decade.
Mike looks up from his clipboard and gives me a friendly smile. He negotiated the hell out of Lorenzo, but now that his contract has been signed, he moves through this kitchen like he owns it.
Paul is quieter than I expected in a chef. Still a student, he’s clearly finding his footing. Yet I’m impressed. He handles every task with confidence.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Paul says, working with the precision of a ballerina as he shapes the thin Neapolitan-style pizza onto a round silver pan.
“Call me Emily,” I say with a smile.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says Angie, taking me by the elbow. “Now it’s time for boss lady to take a seat and experience the tasting.”
Angie pulls a chair out for me. Mike sits across from me.
“All right now,” says Angie, taking her seat with us. Then she claps her hands in Paul’s direction. “Let’s have at it.”
We all turn to watch Paul as he takes a fresh pizza out of the oven. The air is immediately infused with a waft of perfectly charred dough, spicy roasted tomato, and sharp oregano.
I skipped breakfast, so I’m quick to take my knife and fork and cut into my slice.
“What the fuck is this? Pick it up and eat it like a normal person,” Angie says.
“No,” I say. “We’ve already established it’s going to be a hundred-dollar-a-person kind of place. These will be the Ricci brothers’ customers. They’re not going to eat pizza with their hands. And what about the salads? I’d like to try the Caesar salad we discussed. Paul, can you bring one over?”
“Sure thing, Emily,” he says. He returns a few minutes later with the salad already assembled with cheese, croutons, anchovies, and the classic dressing.
“No!” I say, turning to Mike. “We already agreed on a classic Caesar salad prepared tableside.”
“I did agree,” says Mike. “But that was before I ran the numbers. “We can’t afford for the extra staff to spend fifteen minutes putting on a show for an appetizer.”
“But the ‘show’ is exactly what will draw people to an establishment like Salvatore,” I say. “You’re saying a twenty-five-dollar salad won’t see a profit?”
“We’d have to charge thirty-five to even break even,” Mike says.
“Then do it!” I say, standing. “Three years of restaurant management school taught me the guest experience is the most important element of any restaurant.”
“Right,” says Mike. I don’t know him well enough to understand if he’s humoring me or not.
“And our target clientele can afford it when they spend twenty-seven dollars for a cocktail. You have to get your head out of that pizza chain and start thinking premium service.”
More than once, I considered that Mike’s background could be a barrier to the restaurant’s success.
But then I realized that his cost-conscious mentality is exactly the counterbalance this restaurant needs.
“All right,” Mike says at last with a reluctant grin. “We’ll price it both ways. If the tableside Caesar makes money, you win.”
“Deal,” I say.
With the tasting finally over, I excuse myself to review the sample china that had just arrived for approval.
I settle on the ivory pattern with the narrow gold rim.
Just as I’m signing off on the order, the front door opens.
Lorenzo walks in.
Suddenly, the Caesar salad argument no longer seems important.
“Well, handsome,” I say, smiling as I walk toward him and inhale his familiar cedar-and-musk cologne. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Yes,” he says, holding himself in the same, stiff posture that’s his habit when in public, even though the ‘public’ is just Mike, his cousin, and Paul.
“I have a surprise for you. Ernesto’s waiting outside. Grab your things.”
“Where are we going?”
“The Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
“Art …” Lorenzo’s never impressed me as a patron of the arts type. “What’s there?”
His dark eyes twinkle. “You’ll see.”