The Summer of Everything, page 12
She found a container of sliced chilli at the prep station and threw a touch in, then sliced a lemon and squeezed the juice into the pan, catching the seeds. She tasted the sauce, adding more dry white wine and cherry tomatoes, then she corrected the seasoning. Before finishing, she checked the prawns’ firmness to ensure they were cooked, satisfied that they were perfect, and that the linguine was not overdone. She gave the frypan another good shake, reached for a clean fork, twirled it in the pan, then carefully transferred it to a new plate.
When the linguine held its position she grinned, adding bright green rocket leaves, a grating of lemon zest and a good grind of pepper. She finished it with a drizzle of olive oil and fresh parsley and was out of the kitchen and back to the customer’s table before Uncle Benito had any idea she’d been there.
When she set the plate down, the man’s eyes infinitesimally widened, and a small smile tugged at his lips. He nodded and thanked her. She promptly delivered his complimentary glass of wine and returned to the bar, finally releasing a trapped breath.
Andre glanced up at her as he worked the coffee machine. ‘Are you okay? You look worried.’
She shook her head as she nervously watched the man eat his meal. ‘I’m fine.’
New customers walked in and were shown to tables in her section, and she became distracted again, taking orders. She didn’t notice the man rise from his table and speak to Uncle Benito at the pass until it was too late. The man was smiling, smacking his lips against his thumb and forefinger with a resounding belissimo! Then he turned and pointed her out.
Uncle Benito looked past him to glare at her, as her stomach lurched sickeningly into her throat. The man eventually left the pass, paid the bill with a wide grin, and thanked her on his way out.
Although the rest of the evening passed uneventfully, Belle felt like she was moving through fog, so distracted with thoughts of getting into trouble, that she could hardly concentrate. She’d disobeyed Uncle Benito and had let herself into his kitchen, a place that everyone knew was off limits. Maybe she’d even insulted him, transforming one of his dishes into something the customer had loved. Compliments to the chef were rare at Valentina’s, Uncle Benito holding fast to his collection of safe, plain dishes that he could solely manage in the kitchen.
She hardly ate at the staff dinner, feeling his eyes boring into her the entire evening. Any hope of scurrying out the door unnoticed was dashed when, after the meal, he threw his napkin down and called her into the kitchen. She rose slowly from the table and followed him in through the swinging doors, aware that everyone was watching her. Oh, God! She was about to be fired. She’d blatantly disobeyed him and now she was to suffer the consequences. Her heart thumped as she stepped into the kitchen, her mouth as rough and dry as sandpaper.
When he stood before her in front of the stove, his hands on his hips, asking her exactly what she thought she’d been doing in there, her voice shook in reply.
‘It’s just that… I mean the prawns were…’ She cast her eyes down. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m sorry. You were busy and I didn’t want to disturb you.’
He stared at her while she stood waiting for his lecture, the repercussions, the loss of her job, but then he smiled. It was a small smile that started in his eyes, lifting his cheeks, and finally pulling at the corners of his mouth. ‘Where did you learn to cook like that?’
She was still waiting to hear that she’d been fired, and she sputtered for a moment, wrong-footed. ‘Uh… it’s just something I’ve always enjoyed.’
‘You’re not a trained chef?’
‘No.’
‘How did you know what that dish needed?’
‘I’ve cooked it once before. It’s a summer dish, so it should look like summer on the plate. Colour, flavour, and it should be light to eat.’ She shook her head. ‘Wait, am I fired?’
He grunted, then grabbed her elbow and tugged her towards the pantry, a long narrow room at the back of the kitchen. He flicked on the light and led her inside. ‘Tell me, what do you see in here?’
She glanced around at the shelves of tinned food, bottles of oils and vinegars, bags of coffee beans, and jars of herbs and spices. As one would expect of a commercial pantry, there was a plethora of produce in there, but it was haphazardly arranged, without a clear system. Oils were scattered higgledy-piggledy, baskets of garlic, potatoes and onions mixed together, and containers of flour and sugar were void of appropriate expiry labelling. She didn’t want to offend Uncle Benito, but she was shocked at the disarray.
‘It’s a pantry with lots of stuff in it,’ she said politely.
‘Ha! It’s a mess!’ He threw his hands up in the air. ‘Everything is everywhere. There is never time to fix it.’
She took a step inside, inspecting the shelves closely, running her fingertips along packets of ladyfingers and amaretti stacked precariously on top of packets of dried bay leaves, that were stacked again on top of blocks of dark chocolate and a tub of what she was fairly certain was arborio rice. How he found anything in that clutter was a miracle. If his pantry system was failing him, the rest of the kitchen would feel the stress. Was it any wonder he was serving undercooked prawns?
‘What are some small things I can do to make it better?’ he asked, watching her intently.
She scratched her head. ‘Uncle Benito, I’m not an expert in commercial kitchen management.’
‘Just some thoughts.’
‘Well,’ her eyes swept the shelves, ‘if it were my pantry, I wouldn’t attempt shortcuts here. I would pull everything out, clean the shelves, go through all the produce, throw away expired goods, and put it all back. I would properly label these containers, put similar foods together, place bulky items at the bottom. You have lots of large tins, but let’s face it, they don’t stack well. You need tin racks. They will change your pantry!’
He narrowed his eyes but allowed her to continue.
Her confidence grew for if there was one thing she could pride herself on, it was her organisational skills. Her pantry back at the Pyrmont terrace had always been immaculate. Albeit it was of a smaller scale than this one, but a system was a system, and she revelled in order. She moved to the random jars of herbs and spices scattered chaotically. ‘You use lots of dry herbs and spices. You need to store these properly, in ingredient bins. You can put flour and rice in them too. You don’t need to try and pour from these heavy bags.’ A large bag of flour rested on the floor, and she kicked it gently with the toe of her shoe.
Uncle Benito was still staring at her, and she blushed suddenly at the uncertain look in his eyes. Had she gone too far?
‘Anyway, that’s what I would do,’ she said quietly, chewing her bottom lip.
He cleared his throat. ‘And you know how to do this kind of thing?’
‘I kept an organised pantry back home and at the small café I used to work at. This is on a grander scale, but yes, I could do it.’
‘You could come in, say, every morning for one week and do this for me?’
A small smile played on her lips. ‘Yes. I could reorganise your pantry in a week if you’d like me to.’
He nodded slowly. ‘And how much would you expect me to pay you for this?’
She glanced around the pantry. There was a lot to be done. She’d have to design a new stacking system, pull everything out, transfer most of the ingredients to appropriate storage, label it all, sort through the root vegetables, discard what had perished, then put everything back again. There were hours of work there, plus her double shifts in the dining room straight after. She faced him again. ‘Aside from the cost of the ingredient bins and the tin racks and any additional shelving you might need, I don’t want money for my work.’
He looked confused. ‘You don’t want me to pay you for this?’
‘No.’ She smiled. ‘I want something far better. I want to cook in your kitchen.’
Sixteen
‘And he said yes?’ Andre looked gobsmacked as he walked Belle through Piazza Navona to Avery’s apartment, and she relayed all that had happened that evening.
‘He did!’ Belle was just as astonished. ‘He’s going to let me help him prep every morning for one week.’
It had taken a long time to convince Uncle Benito to allow her to cook in his kitchen in exchange for organising his pantry. After some hours, and after all the staff had left and Andre waited patiently at the bar to walk her home, he’d finally relented.
To anyone else, it would appear she was giving her time away, rearranging his pantry, then helping at the prep station for not a single extra euro. Most people would consider her mad, but Belle felt as though she’d struck gold. Somehow, she’d worked her way into Uncle Benito’s fortress, even if through the entire negotiation he’d worn the look of someone in extreme discomfort.
‘This won’t be easy for him.’ Andre confirmed her thoughts, as they strolled through the deserted piazza, a light breeze whipping up. It was already three am, but Belle wasn’t tired. On the contrary, adrenalin coursed through her so that she felt neither the late hour nor the cool night air. ‘He’s protective of his kitchen. He hasn’t had a person in there to cook with him since Valentina’s opened. Not even me. I just get the fun jobs, like cleaning the ovens.’
‘It’s only for a week. I’ll go in early, work on the pantry, then help him with some prep before my shift starts. I’m hoping he’ll see the value in my work and offer to let me do it permanently.’
Andre whistled softly. ‘I hate to disappoint you, but it’s unlikely. That pantry is a mess, and he’s been desperate to fix it. Letting you reorganise it is one thing, but he will never let you keep cooking with him beyond the week. He’s too set in his ways for that.’ He glanced at her with a mix of apology and admiration. ‘Still, you must have impressed him tonight with that con gamberetti you fixed. You even impressed me. I didn’t know you could cook like that.’
Andre touched her hand gently to let her know he was halting. He fished in his pocket for a coin and tossed it into the Fontana del Moro, the coin breaking the fountain’s surface before sinking to the bottom, the promise of a fulfilled wish too much for even a local to resist.
‘I thought he was going to fire me,’ she said, shaking her head as they continued walking. She recalled the moment she’d been led back into the kitchen, expecting to be yelled at. ‘I never thought he’d ask for my advice about the pantry.’
‘Papà is struggling,’ Andre said. ‘He cannot run the trattoria, do all the cooking by himself and make the business a success. It’s too much for one person. I know he’d love to cook different dishes, better dishes, dishes that he can take pride in, but he is too stubborn to let anyone help!’ His voice rose with frustration.
‘He’s a good cook,’ Belle said. ‘A great cook, in fact, but you can get traditional pizza and pasta everywhere in Rome. He needs to shake things up, modernise the menu, or Valentina’s won’t last.’
‘Modernise the menu?’ Andre repeated with a chuckle. ‘This is Benito we’re talking about, right?’
Belle smiled. ‘I know Valentina’s means a lot to him. But it could be so much more if he let people help him.’
Andre’s expression grew serious. ‘I agree. We’re in terrible debt, the bills are paid late, and there’s never any money for renovations or new furniture. We struggle to get customers in. We are simply existing. Sometimes, I don’t know how we stay open.’
Belle knew things were difficult at Valentina’s, but she hadn’t realised the full extent of it. Late bills, simply existing? Uncle Benito’s pride, ‘ways’ or whatever it was that he held fast to were sinking his beloved trattoria. Protecting his late wife’s legacy by keeping a tight rein on every aspect was doing more harm than good.
‘Now, tell me about your cooking,’ Andre said. ‘Did you work in a restaurant back in Sydney?’
‘No, just the café. I served coffee and pre-made sandwiches.’
‘Have you never felt the desire to work in a commercial kitchen?’
‘Oh, I have,’ she said. ‘But I put a lot of things on hold for someone I loved, thinking we might start a family. It was stupid, of course, for after twenty years he left me.’
They exited Piazza Navona, rounding the corner into Corsia Agonale, a mantel of mist settling over the lane. Moments later, they arrived at Avery’s apartment block and sat down on the front steps. Andre slid out of his jacket and placed it around her shoulders to ward off the chill. Belle nestled into it, smelling the fresh soapy scent that clung to the fibres. She’d grown accustomed to his smell, having worn his jacket on previous cool evenings, and she liked it, one that she associated now with comfort and familiarity.
‘Did he not want the same things you did?’ Andre asked.
‘I thought he did, but then he ended it and I realised how unhappy he’d been. Ben was my first love, my only love. And I was his, until I wasn’t.’ She glanced down at her hands, the sting of humiliation still raw, even after all these months. ‘He cheated on me with another woman. Before I’d even had a chance to get my head around it, she’d moved into our house, and I’d become homeless. Then the café I worked at was going to put people off, so I was about to become unemployed too. Everything unravelled quickly.’
‘And now here you are.’
‘Now here I am,’ Belle said, smiling. ‘And it was the best thing I ever did. Scary, but worth it.’
Andre’s gaze was still fixed on her. ‘That Ben is a fool.’
Belle shrugged. ‘I used to think that too, not so long ago. But as hard as it was at the time, I’ve come to realise that he did us both a favour. I loved our life together, but he was never going to ask me to marry him. I was just someone he was passing the time with.’ It surprised her to utter those words, until she realised how true they were.
‘Do you feel like you wasted all those years?’
She took time answering the question, for it was something that couldn’t be defined so easily. ‘Yes and no. I don’t regret my time with him. He was my best friend, my soul mate, the person I went home to every day. I loved him with my whole heart. But did he waste my time? Did he ruin my chances of meeting someone, marrying and having a family while he spent all those years working out if I was the one? Yes, he did. I have to start all over again.’ And for someone who was thirty-five and had wanted children for as long as she could remember, it was a bitter pill to swallow.
‘I’m sorry this happened to you, Belle,’ Andre said.
She shook her head. ‘Don’t be. It was my fault. I was living in a dream, taking his monogamy for granted. I didn’t put enough effort into maintaining what we had.’
‘This is not your fault. There were two people in your relationship.’
‘Or in our case, three.’
He smiled sadly at her quip. ‘Don’t be disheartened, signorina. He wasn’t the one for you. Your one is still out there somewhere.’
‘Maybe. Or maybe not. It scares me a little to find out.’ She may have made peace with the collapse of her relationship, but she’d be lying if the thought of giving her heart to someone new didn’t make her anxious. Handing it over so completely, with the explicit trust that they’d handle it with care, filled her with unease.
A few dry leaves scattered across the cobblestones, the mist swirling on the corsia. It was almost dawn.
‘I was engaged once,’ Andre said.
Belle turned to look at him. ‘You were?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ Her interest piqued. ‘How long ago?’
‘Earlier this year. I broke it off with her the day I left for London to bring Avery home.’ He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.
Belle tried to hide her surprise. She’d never considered that Andre might have had another life before she came to Rome. A relationship. A fiancée. And so recently. ‘What happened?’
He shrugged. ‘We grew apart. Some things aren’t meant to be.’
‘What was her name?’
He seemed amused by her question. ‘Mary. Her name is Mary.’
The way he referenced Mary in the present when Belle had referred to her in the past made her back stiffen. As if Mary were still in his life. ‘Do you still see her?’
‘Yes. We’re good friends and our parents are close. It didn’t end on bad terms.’
Belle concentrated on the zipper of his jacket, an uncomfortable clarity prickling beneath her skin. She was jealous of Mary.
‘So it seems we’ve both suffered the loss of a relationship,’ Andre said.
‘Will you and Mary ever work things out?’
He glanced at her, his eyes deep pools of brown that she couldn’t tear her gaze away from. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Not now.’
His words sent her heart soaring and clenching at the same time. Not now? Not now because he’d met Belle? Or because he still loved Mary in his own way and was trying to figure it out? She remembered their ‘almost kiss’ in Venice and felt more confused than ever. They shared a special friendship, but Andre was hard to read sometimes, and she wasn’t sure her heart was ready for such a perplexing dance.
Andre tore his gaze away and looked up at the sky. ‘The sun will be up soon.’
‘Yes,’ Belle said regrettably. But she didn’t want the sun to rise. She wanted their moment on the steps to stretch forever.
‘Are you tired?’
She shook her head.
‘You should try to get some sleep anyway. You have a double shift today.’
He rose to his feet, and she did the same, slipping out of his jacket, which she handed back to him. He accepted it and leaned forward to kiss both her cheeks. She met him halfway, savouring his touch on her skin. When he pulled away, his eyes locked on hers, his gaze so complete that her breath caught.
‘Buona notte, Belle,’ he said.
‘Goodnight, Andre.’
He closed his eyes, then opened them again, sighing, it seemed, with indecision. A moment passed, then two, until he nodded. ‘Yes, I should go.’
