It’s set. Go to Moretti’s tomorrow around one.
Lorenzo shot a quick text back and envisioned his uncle telling some tattooed hipster that he had no choice but to listen to the new man in charge. Vowing to be firm but fair, the next day Lorenzo reached the restaurant as the sun still hung high in the sky. The aroma of garlic met his nostrils as he made his way in through the back, where he spied a slim girl with honey-colored hair and brown eyes. What was this? A waitress looking for the rest of last night’s tips?
He cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, miss?”
The girl turned to face him with a raised eyebrow and an enigmatic expression on her pink lips.” Are you Lorenzo?” she asked.
“I… yes,” he said. “And you are?”
The woman stepped toward him, her eye catching a ray of fresh sunlight as she looked him up and down and finally sighed.
“Michelle Moretti.”
“Moretti. So, you—”
“I’m the chef.”
2
Michelle had half been expecting the news for far too long. Her skills with a knife and flavor aside, she was no fool. Her father’s restaurant was losing money hand over fist since the moment she started to bus tables. And the dire situation grew darker when one in a long line of chefs took off in the middle of a service.
That was the first time she started to peruse the provisions scattered about the kitchen. For so long, she had imagined diced onion enhancing the soup or milk in place of water to poach the chicken breasts. With no one to hold her back, and with her father having no other choice, Michelle pulled back her hair and got to chopping and seasoning. Not to say that her first service was a complete success. The chicken was a bit dry, and the bread could have done with a moment or so less in the oven. But the customers still paid, and the waitstaff earned their tips.
Mich, you did… okay.
Thank you, Pop.
I can’t make a habit of it though.
Can’t you?
It was a challenge and a promise in the space of the same breath. So what if she lacked the right CV? Hadn’t she lived in and out of kitchens for the better part of her life? She knew flavor. And with a little more time, the chicken would be moist, the bread perfectly brown.
And when her father still needed a chef the very next day, Michelle wowed the diners and earned the waitstaff some of the largest tips that they had ever seen. Success gave her carte blanche in the kitchen. She left the accounting and the “business end” of the business to her father.
Which brought all of them to this moment.
“I…,” Lorenzo started, struggling for the next word. Michelle was barely able to suppress a smile as she smoothed her hands down the front of her apron.
“Didn’t expect a woman?” she challenged.
“I… well, no,” Lorenzo admitted. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“So that means you’re an evolved man?” she asked. Michelle studied his face carefully as she watched his mind work its way around his answer.
He settled on straightforward and safe. “Yes,” he finally said. “And I’m more than pleased to meet you.”
That was somewhat surprising. Derogatory as it was, she always thought of the Parisis as tough guys who strong-armed to get what they wanted at all costs. There were whispers about some recent blowback with Fiorenza and his crew, but the rivals were no better. And a part of Michelle loathed the lot of them for using their guns instead of words. But to his credit, Lorenzo did not appear to be packing…
…at least when it came to a firearm.
“I hear you intend to manage my Pop’s joint,” she said.
“I… well, yes.”
Cute. He blushed and ran one set of fingers through his dark hair, shuffling his feet before regaining his composure and somehow managing to meet her eyes.
“But I… I’m all about the money,” he said.
“Meaning that you won’t interfere with my recipes?” she asked.
“No. Assuming they’re good.”
Michelle was almost on the verge of walking back into the kitchen to show Parisi her realm when she had to turn back, doing a double-take.
“Assuming?” she echoed. “Do you have some doubts?”
She watched Lorenzo’s hands. He fiddled with his tie before straightening it and lengthening up the back of his neck.
“Well, a taste wouldn’t hurt.”
He formed the statement like a challenge, and Michelle was more than ready to rise to the occasion. She turned on her heel and made her way toward the kitchen.
“Now let’s see… what will take the words right out of your mouth?”
Michelle’s eyes quickly darted from the commercial stovetop where a sauce seasoned with garlic and pecorino Reggiano cheese simmered and where, in the oven below, eggplant roasted in an array of oils and spices.
“It all smells great,” Lorenzo offered.
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” she asked, turning back to him with a small smile. Lorenzo started to speak when he seemed to regain his footing within the aroma of the seasonings and the rising steam. Pressing his hands into his pockets, he leaned forward, his heels just lifting off the ground as his minty breath, mingled with the air emanating from her own lips.
“How else to take it?” he asked.
“That everything is simply passable, and nothing is extraordinary.”
Which is something that no chef ever wanted to hear. Something had to stand apart from the other dishes, the pièce de résistance. Michelle held his gaze for a few more seconds before starting to pull the eggplant from the oven… along with a beautiful roast chicken doused in lemon juice and white wine. She could almost hear him lick his lips and was about to offer him a taste when he turned his attention back to the sauce.
“This,” he said.
“That?” she shot back.
“Why not?” he countered. “It’s the glue that holds the lasagna together.”
“That’s not on the menu tonight,” she pointed out.
“But you catch my meaning.”
She nodded by way of a response and picked up the nearest wooden spoon. Ladling just enough of the red liquid from the pot, she cupped one hand to prevent and drippings and turned back to his fresh breath.
“You might want to blow on it first,” she gently warned.
“I like it hot,” he said with a smile. “And this isn’t my first time tasting gravy.”
“Then you’ll love this.”
She watched his lips curl around the bowl of the spoon, and he slurped the sauce, or “gravy” as most Italians called it, down. She turned her focus to his sapphire stare and watched him brave the heat before the combination of flavors danced across his tongue, lingering there before they slid down his throat. For a brief second, Michelle felt certain that she had him won over with one taste when he licked his lips and recovered his stance.
“It’s a standout,” he started. “Think you should ditch the lemon chicken in favor of parm.”
That was unexpected… and it threw her off her game. Why couldn’t he just say that she had the goods and leave it at that?
And who was he to correct her menu?