Chapter 31 The Big Circus—er, Night
The Big Circus—er, Night
In the entryway to Il Minerva, Bianca kissed Corrado’s cheeks. “The big night.”
“That’s right.” He couldn’t have been any more handsome in his chef uniform and black clogs. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his tattoo and muscular forearms.
She hoped he didn’t notice her nerves. She’d thought about him far too much lately, wondering whether he’d ever give her another chance, and now that she stood facing him, her heart was vibrating.
“You seem very calm,” she said.
“Inside, I’m screaming.” He looked at the others: George, Sandy, Harold, and Moira. Bianca had texted to see if she could up the number in the reservation, and he’d welcomed it. “Please, please, welcome. Alfonso will take you to your table.”
Alfonso, dressed impeccably, opened a door, and a burst of jazz and conversation came rushing in from the dining room. As the others entered, Bianca hung behind.
“You do look even keeled,” Bianca said to him. “That’s how you know you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing.”
“Maybe wait till after you try the food.” He clasped his hands together. “I must get back to the kitchen, but please know how happy I am that you’re here.”
“Si, si,” she replied. “Felice di essere qui.” We’re happy to be here.
Perhaps she was hoping for more. Maybe something like, “I missed you.”
He clearly had his focus elsewhere, so she found his eyes and said, “Buona fortuna.”
“Grazie.” Joy filled his face, then he was gone.
Alfonso appeared again and led her in.
It was 9:00 p.m., rather early for Italians, but most of the tables were occupied.
Along the back wall, close to the huge painting of the woman with the flock of birds forming a V between her thighs, a sommelier scaled a ladder in the glass wine cellar to retrieve a bottle.
Each marble-topped table hosted a small abstract sculpture and a table lamp and was neatly set with modern and elegant stemware and silverware.
George handed Bianca a menu. “Can you believe it? Nine choices of water. Look at that last one.”
She scanned the menu. Each water had a place of origin, along with a description and price. The last was a steep fifty euros, melted glacier water from the Arctic Circle. “I’m up for it.”
“Dear God, no,” George said. “I’m fine with tap.”
A server appeared in a white shirt and black vest, carrying a bottle of wine.
“Good evening, I’m assuming English is preferred.
” A few nods. “Very well. Corrado would like you to start off with a Col Fondo from Bele Casel, which is an older-style Prosecco from the Asolo DOCG.” He smoothly and quietly opened the bottle and poured the cloudy wine into each glass.
“Unlike normal Proseccos, this wine experiences secondary fermentation in the bottle. Col Fondo means ‘with the bottom,’ meaning including the sediment or lees. You’ll find the result slightly funky, and even sour, but ultimately, transporting. ”
Once the server vanished, Bianca held up her glass to the others. “I’m so glad to have everyone join tonight, for what is my father’s last in the city. I’m going to miss you, Dad. Cin, cin.”
“Hold up,” Harold said thirty minutes and several dishes and glasses of wine later. “You got those scars fighting a squirrel?”
“Don’t make him feel like a hero,” Bianca said, laughing.
Her nerves had fallen away after that first glass of Prosecco, and she’d been laughing ever since.
What an exquisite evening, and it was even more marvelous that she’d started writing a new book today and that her dad was doing better than she’d ever seen him. What a perfect way to send him off.
Her mom wouldn’t believe it.
George rolled back down his sleeve. “Mr. Nutz is no squirrel. If I know him, he’s in my jacuzzi bath right now, sipping on a martini in my finest crystal.”
A burst of laughter.
“And the squirrel feeder idea,” Harold said, “it’s brilliant. I’d fund that if I had any money, but I don’t.” The Prosecco and the other four or five glasses of wine had clearly gotten to Harold, but he wasn’t alone. They’d all not eaten all day, so they were easy victims to alcohol.
In an instant, five servers appeared with the next dish. Before each person, they set down a series of small clay cylinders of various heights, each topped with a different delicacy from the sea.
The lead server pointed to each of Bianca’s selections with his pinkie, saying, “This is a Hokkaido scallop laid back in its shell, topped with a blue shrimp caviar from Quebec. Then we have a tentacle tip of Italian octopus grilled over charcoal from our local forests and finished with a brush of black garlic–infused olive oil. And here, we have a sea urchin steamed custard, made with dashi and cream, drizzled with a warm saffron licorice butter. Lastly, a single shucked Ostriche di San Teodoro from Sardinia, the finest oyster in Italy, presented inside a half shell resting on crushed ice, studded with edible flowers. It’s topped with a black pearl sphere, which is a frozen orb of squid ink and sake that will melt into the brine after you pierce it with your teeth. ” He gave a chef’s kiss.
There was barely a blink between the diners.
Another server handed him an opened bottle of wine. “And to pair, we’ve included from Emilia-Romagna an Albana, which is a white wine dressed in a red body, quite muscular and taut, very nice with the seafood. Please enjoy.”
After pouring each a half glass, the server and his colleagues disappeared, leaving Bianca and the others to gawk at Corrado’s mastery.
“Out of this world,” Sandy said, lifting her fork.
“No can do on the octopus,” Moira said, clearly buzzed. “They’re smarter than me. I can’t eat the tip of a tentacle. Not after I read Remarkably Bright Creatures.”
“I’m the same,” Harold agreed. “Did anyone else see My Octopus Teacher? No way.”
“How about squid?” George asked. “Are they equally as smart?”
“It’s their ink, though,” Bianca said. “You have to at least try it.”
“Oh, I will,” George said. “I’ll try every single thing, trust me. This promises to be the best meal of my entire life. It’s not the same as the food back in Scottsdale, but the Italians definitely know how to cook.”
“Um, yeah,” Bianca said.
George raised a glass of the Albana. “This is a heck of a night, guys. Thank you for having me.” After a sip, he said, “I must admit, Italy used to drive me crazy. Traveling used to drive me crazy. But I can see why you’re here.”
“So you’ll be back soon?” Sandy asked, and Bianca thought she heard a twinge of hope in her voice.
“I’ll certainly be back. You know, it’s not every day you find community. What I’ve seen since I’ve been here, what I had the pleasure of witnessing yesterday. You don’t find that everywhere. Maybe it’s not Italy. I think it’s that bookstore.”
“That’s what I keep telling Sandy,” Moira said.
“Speaking of yesterday,” Harold said, slightly mumbling his words, “Bianca and I came clean. Maybe this is a good time for everyone else too. Anyone else have secrets?” He slid his eyes to Moira, who shook her head.
“Bad idea,” Sandy said.
Harold took another sip of wine. “Oh, c’mon, we’re all friends here.”
Silence.
Then a hand went up.
It was George, and all eyes went to him. “Actually, I have to get something off my chest, if you’d allow.”
Oh, God, Bianca thought, don’t do it. He was about to confess his love to Sandy.
The wine had gotten to George. He wasn’t quite swimming, but he’d had enough to care very little about what might leave his mouth. Besides, he’d scrapped his plan to pull Corrado aside and had recommitted to telling Bianca the truth.
Might as well be now.
George cleared his throat and loaded the chamber. “I’m going to get in trouble, but I can’t go home without coming clean.” He stopped himself from having another drink and put his attention on Bianca. “Shortly after we came back from our trip, our father-daughter adventure, I . . .”
A sobering freeze hit him. “Shit, I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said.
“Of course you should,” Harold slurred. He’d clearly taken Bianca’s orders to heart not to eat all day. Poor kid probably weighed only one thirty.
George turned back to Bianca, feeling like the most epic of failures. “I ran into Corrado on the street. Told him that the two of you weren’t a good fit, that he was acting selfishly if he continued any relationship with you.”
“What?” His daughter’s eyebrows crinkled. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m so sorry. It’s none of my business, and I screwed up, and I .
. . I don’t seem to learn, but believe me, I’m trying.
And this is me trying to make it right. I have no right to get in the way of your life.
You have things figured out far more than me.
” His throat tightened. “I was trying to get you back home. You’re all I’ve got left, B.
” He stopped there, unsure what else to say.
Bianca felt everyone watching her, waiting for her to snap at her dad. Their lovely night had possibly reached its conclusion. Her mind spun. When and how and why? Well, not why. She knew why.
Her father wouldn’t learn.
“When was this?” Her words were arrows dipped in poison.
“The day we got back from Florence.”
Bianca nodded. She’d gone to see Corrado a day after that. Was that why he’d rejected her?
“And you think getting in the way of my love life, or my life here, will make things better between us? You think that’s what will bring me home?”
No one else at the table moved.
“Old habits, honey. That’s all. That wasn’t the man I want to be. That wasn’t the man I am. It was like this leftover remnant of the me who came here, that shell of a man who nearly took his own life.”
Sandy gasped, worry painting her face. Harold and Moira stared down at the table. Bianca hated hearing Geore say it out loud, but there was strength in admission.