The Summer of Everything, page 13
Belle wilted with disappointment, as she watched him turn and walk towards the piazza, a thousand unsaid words still on her lips.
Seventeen
On Belle’s first morning working in Uncle Benito’s kitchen, she arrived promptly at seven. She’d only managed a few hours of sleep the night before, and still had a double shift afterwards to get through, but this didn’t prevent her from skipping across Piazza Navona with a grin on her face.
Uncle Benito was already in the kitchen when she entered. He grunted at her, a sign that his heart had still not caught up yet with the agreement they’d made, no matter how desperately his pantry needed reorganising.
‘The ingredient bins and tin racks you ordered arrived yesterday,’ he said, pointing to a stack of boxes next to the pantry door. ‘I put everything over there.’
‘Great!’ she said, slipping out of her jacket and scarf.
She wasted little time getting to work, clearing shelves, and shifting produce to ingredient bins, throwing it away if it had expired, or repositioning it in a more suitable spot. She concentrated on one shelf at a time, keeping the area tidy while she moved items around, aware that Uncle Benito still needed access to the pantry, and that creating a mess during the reorganisation would only irritate him.
The previous week, she’d designed a system for the pantry, transferring her ideas to a sketch. She’d taken suggestions from Andre too, before getting Uncle Benito’s tick of approval. She worked methodically now and at a swift pace until Uncle Benito walked into the pantry two hours later.
He put his hands on his hips and assessed the shelves she’d been working on. ‘Yes, this side looks good. Mi piace molto!’
Belle grinned with relief. He liked it very much.
‘Now, come have coffee and calzone,’ he said, ‘then we start cooking.’
They ate together at the stainless-steel bench, but the meal was quick. Uncle Benito wasn’t accustomed to pausing for breaks, and Belle’s mind was already on the prep task ahead. When they finished eating, he showed her around the rest of the kitchen, cautiously at first, explaining where the knives and pots and pans were kept, how to use the oven and stove, and most importantly, how not to get in his way while they worked. Then he seemed to warm to the idea of her presence, moving about with ardour, showing her what foods they prepared early, how the pass was run, and lastly, how he managed the refrigerators and product orders, which Belle noted were also a mess.
At nine-thirty, he slipped his apron on and collected another from a drawer, handing it to her. ‘Let’s prep!’
They worked side by side for the next few hours. While she sliced vegetables and herbs—menial tasks—he prepared batches of fresh pizza dough, tossing it through the air with agile hands. He was a joy to watch, his preparation like pure theatre. Belle set her knife down, paying rapt attention, as he explained the importance of twirling the dough, for it was the best way to form a thicker crust, as opposed to rolling it out which produced a thinner one. Next, he moved onto a batch of fresh pasta dough he’d prepared earlier, separating it into several smaller portions, then dusting the bench with flour and rolling each portion out with the longest rolling pin Belle had ever seen.
‘Wouldn’t a pasta machine be easier?’ she asked.
He grunted his offence. ‘Pasta machine? Ha! The worst invention ever. Find me a nonna in Italy who has one and I’ll give you my trattoria.’
She giggled to herself, watching him roll the dough into thin circles. Once he was finished, he began to slice the pasta into strands and drape them over damp tea towels. She suspected, from the thickness and shape, that he was cutting strands of tagliatelle and linguine.
‘I could put a pot of potatoes on, and we could whip up some fresh gnocchi,’ she suggested, feeling emboldened. She had finished slicing the vegetables and herbs and they were set neatly in containers on the prep station ready for service.
He shook his head emphatically as he sliced the pasta, sweat gathering on his brow. ‘Gnocchi is not on my menu. And besides, it takes too long. There’s no time.’
‘But I know how to make it,’ she insisted. ‘I could have it ready for the dinner service. We could put it up as a special. Gnocchi with tomato and mascarpone or gnocchi with lemon, garlic, and parmesan.’
‘No!’ he said with vehemence. ‘We stick to the menu.’
Although he’d cited lack of time, Belle had finished her prep well before the lunch service and could easily have made the gnocchi. She was left looking for things to do, watching enviously as he draped long strands of pasta over the tea towels. What she wouldn’t give to be allowed to help. She offered to make the pizza sauce for him, or to prepare the dough for the garlic bread, or to throw together a batch of biscotti. All her attempts to be useful were met with resistance until Uncle Benito finally shooed her out of the kitchen and told her to help Andre instead.
The rest of the week passed by in the same way. She finished her work in the pantry, then helped Uncle Benito prep in the kitchen. She easily completed the humble tasks he gave her, like chopping or slicing the vegetables, and always finished well ahead of schedule. Every day she offered to help him with the pasta or pizza dough and was even brave enough to suggest creating other meals that weren’t on the menu—mussels in white wine and garlic broth as well as individual tiramisu pots and a ricotta and jam crostata. There were no desserts offered at Valentina’s, other than biscuits and dessert liqueurs. Belle had to bite her tongue every time an idea whirred in her brain, or she risked being kicked out of the kitchen at the mention of something new.
When she raised the idea of stuffed calamari or pan-roasted artichokes as an entree, Uncle Benito grumbled that her time was up, and she should help Andre. Belle sighed defeatedly, hung her apron on the hook and pushed through the kitchen doors into the dining room. It was too early for the wait staff to arrive; only Andre was behind the bar, setting up.
He smiled sympathetically at her downcast face and placed an espresso in her hand. ‘Here, I had this ready for you.’
She took it from him, appreciating his thoughtfulness. ‘You knew I was going to get kicked out of the kitchen again?’
He shrugged. ‘Benito is Benito. He will never change. But I like that you’re trying.’ He picked up his espresso and a copy of the culinary magazine Romeing and nodded towards a table. ‘Shall we sit and drink?’
‘Sure.’
They pulled out a chair each and sat. While Andre perused the magazine, Belle played absentmindedly with her braids, her thoughts returning to the kitchen. Her work in the pantry was almost finished and she had one day left of prepping with Uncle Benito before their agreement expired. While she’d enjoyed the experience, it had also been frustrating—his unwillingness to consider new ideas, to improve the menu or to accept help. Belle hadn’t suggested anything outrageous, just a dish here and there to pull Valentina’s out of its slump, but his stubbornness seemed almost irrational.
Then she berated herself. Who was she to march in and demand changes? She’d only been there four months and was hardly positioned to cast judgement on the way he ran his trattoria, nor was she an expert in Italian cuisine. She enjoyed cooking it and was proficient with the basics, but Uncle Benito had lived and breathed it his entire life.
She argued back and forth like this until the whole situation gave her a headache.
‘Mama mia!’
Belle jolted from her reverie and glanced up sharply as Andre’s mouth fell open. ‘What? What is it?’
‘This can’t be.’ His eyes swept frantically across the page he was reading.
Belle craned her neck for a better look. ‘What? Tell me.’
He glanced up, a smile spreading across his face. ‘The con gamberetti.’
‘Huh?’
‘The con gamberetti. The one you corrected for that man.’
‘What about it?’
‘He was a Romeing reviewer. He reviewed the dish and gave it four-point-seven stars out of five. He’s put Valentina’s in the magazine.’
‘Let me see that.’ Belle pulled the copy of Romeing towards her. Although the article was written in Italian, she translated the headline easily. ‘Style Meets Tradition at Valentina’s.’ Beneath it was a photograph of the man she’d served the con gamberetti to and, next to that was a shot of the outside of Valentina’s, as well as a close-up of the dish Belle had served him. The rocket looked glossy, the prawns fat and pink, the cherry tomatoes bright and the parmesan flaky.
Belle gaped in disbelief as Andre laughed. ‘You have to read it to me,’ she cried. ‘I can’t possibly translate it all.’
Andre pulled the magazine back towards him and began reading. ‘Valentina’s may just be the next hidden gem,’ he began, ‘tucked away off Via di Pasquino, in the historical part of the city, with somewhat unassuming décor. The menu is basic and dated, but with all the classics one might crave mid-week.
‘The linguine con gamberetti was the highlight of my visit. It came to life on the plate, a tantalizing fusion of style and tradition—old meets new—served by dedicated and passionate wait staff. I would go as far as to say it was the best con gamberetti I’ve ever tasted. Please don’t tell Nonna.’
‘Oh my God.’ Belle was on the edge of her seat, listening to Andre’s translation.
‘Silky linguine, zesty sauce, crisp, bitter rocket, and perfectly-cooked prawns all delivered with sublime plating. Although I had to send the meal back initially for corrections, it was returned to me completely revitalised with the perfect balance of sweetness, saltiness, citrus, and spice. An utterly resplendent and colourful dish. Rome, you are on notice. With more dishes like this, Valentina’s could be the next big hit.’
Belle sat back in her chair, her mouth gaping open with disbelief. ‘Is that really what it says?’
‘Yes!’ Andre was beaming, his lips caught between a smile and a laugh. ‘I can honestly say Valentina’s has never made it into Romeing before. This is incredible.’
The kitchen doors swung open, and Uncle Benito emerged, his forehead shiny with sweat and his apron splattered with sauce. ‘Andre,’ he called, wiping his hands on a dishtowel before flicking it over his shoulder. ‘Make your papà an espresso.’
Andre jumped to his feet and held out the magazine. ‘Papà, you have to come see this!’
Uncle Benito pursed his lips. ‘What is it?’
‘Come.’
He walked to them as Andre held up the review in Romeing. ‘Read this.’
Uncle Benito reached for the magazine and held it far out in front of him, squinting as his eyes swept over the words. He was silent for a moment, his face impassive. Belle couldn’t tell if the review pleased or agitated him. Finally, he glanced up at them. ‘Did you know this was going to happen?’ he asked.
Belle and Andre shook their heads in unison.
‘So, you didn’t put this in the magazine?’
‘The man Belle served was a Romeing reviewer,’ Andre explained. ‘And he loved the dish. He wrote the article.’
Uncle Benito glanced at the magazine again, eyes narrowed.
‘It’s nice, no?’ Andre said.
Uncle Benito grumbled indecipherably, then dropped the magazine onto the table, scowled at them both, and marched away, back through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
Eighteen
The review wasn’t mentioned again and the next morning, Belle completed her final session in the pantry and at the prep station. Before she left the kitchen, Uncle Benito cast his eye over the clean, organised shelves, as she walked him through the system again and how to maintain it. He looked pleased, rewarding her with an uncharacteristic smile and a pat on the back.
‘Un lavoro ben fatto,’ he said, congratulating her on a job well done. While it pleased her to make him happy, she was disappointed that it didn’t seem to extend to her work at the prep station. Some mountains were just too difficult to climb.
It was already eleven, so she hung her apron, said goodbye to Uncle Benito and Andre, and left Valentina’s. She had the lunch shift off and needed to catch up on groceries and laundry before she was due back for the dinner service.
Later, as she was returning to the apartment with a basket of clean clothes, preparing to put them away, her phone rang. She rummaged through her bag for it and saw Andre’s name on the screen.
He sounded frantic when she answered. ‘Belle, it’s me. What are you doing right now?’
‘Putting laundry away,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘I think the review has done something.’
‘Done what?’
‘The trattoria—it’s busy. Everyone is asking for the con gamberetti.’
She gulped. ‘Really?’
‘Can you come in? I know you’re not working this shift, but Papà needs you to show him how to make it the way you did last time.’
She couldn’t help the huge grin that had spread across her face. Maybe some mountains weren’t so impossible. ‘I’ll come now.’
She left the basket of clothes on her bed, changed into her uniform, refixed her braids, and raced back across Piazza Navona. The sky was laden with clouds, threatening rain, and the air whipping up around the piazza was cold, but she hardly noticed it as she side-stepped the lunch crowd, turning quickly down Via di Pasquino and into the lane.
There was a group of customers gathered in the entranceway of Valentina’s, Leo trying frantically to seat them all. Belle excused herself politely, traversing around them to get through the door. Avery, Natalya, and Chase were running between tables taking orders, and Josh was behind the bar helping Andre prepare trays of aperitivi. Belle’s eyes widened at the sight. She could only guess as to how Uncle Benito was coping in the kitchen, for she had never seen so many people in Valentina’s before.
Andre glanced up as she approached the bar. ‘It’s gone crazy in here!’ he said. ‘He’s waiting for you in the kitchen.’
Belle nodded and strode quickly to the kitchen doors, pushing through them. Uncle Benito was furiously slicing lemons and chilli while pans of prawns sizzled and linguine boiled in pots of bubbling water.
‘Your con gamberetti,’ he called out, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his chef’s jacket. ‘It’s all they’re asking for!’
She dropped her bag in the corner near Andre’s backpack, collected her apron still hanging on the hook, and slipped it over her head. ‘I’ll take care of the sauce and prawns; you keep the linguine coming.’
Uncle Benito looked relieved as he left to roll more pasta, and Belle washed her hands at the sink before taking over at the stove. For the remainder of the lunch shift, they worked relentlessly to keep up with the orders, as noise from a packed dining room filtered in through the pass window and dishes of vibrant prawns and pasta left the kitchen. Time seemed both stagnant and turbo-charged, as an endless carousel of con gamberetti went out until finally, the last order left the kitchen, and Belle let out an exhausted breath.
As soon as lunch service was over and the last customer had left, Belle loaded the industrial dishwasher and scrubbed down the stove and countertops. Uncle Benito had disappeared into the dining room, returning twenty minutes later as she hung her apron on the hook.
‘The dishwasher is stacked, and all the surfaces have been wiped,’ she said. ‘And I’ve set out clean knives and chopping boards for you so you can prep again.’ All the prep containers had been bled dry after the surprise rush.
‘Grazie,’ he said, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘Except, dinner will probably be busier than lunch, no?’
‘Yes, it could be.’
‘Then you come back. You prep with me, then we cook tonight.’
Belle tried not to beam so obviously. ‘You want me to cook with you again?’
‘Si,’ he said. ‘But just for today.’ He wagged his finger at her with a smile. ‘No getting any ideas, eh!’
Dinner service was, unsurprisingly, busier than lunch. Word had got out about Valentina’s famous linguine and prawns, and it became the most desired meal on the menu. At the pass, all other dishes paled in comparison with its vibrancy, and Uncle Benito looked embarrassed at the grey carbonaras and uninspiring pizzas that left the kitchen.
The following morning, before she’d even wrestled her eyes open, her phone rang. She groaned, rolling over to collect it from her handbag then sitting up, seeing Andre’s number on the screen.
‘He wants to know if you can come in at eight,’ he said when she answered.
She rubbed her eyes, then sank back into her pillow, drawing the quilt over herself and burrowing down deep. ‘I thought I was only allowed to help yesterday.’ And she was still sleep-deprived from leaving Valentina’s at two, then talking to Andre on the apartment steps until sunrise.
‘He doesn’t want to talk about that,’ Andre said. There was a smile in his voice. ‘Will you come?’
‘Will you have an espresso waiting for me?’
‘A double, signorina.’
They ended the call, and she gave a small sigh as she kicked off the covers and ran a hot shower, trying not to think of the sleep she was missing. As Avery snored softly in the next room and life barely stirred on the corsia below, she dressed and left the apartment. It was October, and the morning air was brisk, the leaves crisp and golden. She walked quickly across the piazza, retreating into her warm jacket as her sneakers hit the black cobblestones.
When she reached Valentina’s, she found Uncle Benito sitting at a table in the dining room with the menu and a pen. She glanced at the bar where Andre was making coffee. He noticed her and smiled brightly.
She returned the smile and waved, then walked to Uncle Benito’s table. He rose, kissing each of her cheeks. ‘Boungiorno, Belle. Come stai?’
‘Bene grazie, Uncle Benito.’ She unwrapped her scarf and slipped off her jacket, draping both over the back of the chair. She dropped into it as Andre brought their espressos to the table with a plate of warmed cornetti.
